Carpe Regnum (Kingdom Trails Gush)

The MOAC folks had planned to spend the Columbus Day weekend up at Kingdom Trails in northeastern Vermont, near Burke Mountain. They'd rented a nice house to stay in. (Thanks, Andrew!) Originally, Aaron and I had decided that the big October release meant that we could not attend. Then, late in the game, we learned that there was still room at the house. We decided that the two of us would carpool up there after the deployment, early on Saturday afternoon. Well, Saturday early afternoon turned into late afternoon, then into early evening, then into full-on night and we were still here at work. Not only were we exhausted, but Aaron did not feel well. So we called Wendy and told her we regretted that we had to bail.

Sunday morning I woke up at 6:00, and started thinking about the fact that my car was sitting out in the driveway, packed with all my bike gear and a whole bunch of food, still in the cooler. "Look, you're going to be grumpy for the next two days if you don't go, so just leave," said my wife perspicaciously. So I did. At around 11:00, after a beautiful drive through the White Mountains, buying my $10 pass, and changing into my shorts, I pulled into one of the scenic Kingdom Trails parking lots where I was supposed to meet the MOACers. That's when the temperature dropped about ten degrees and it started raining and sleeting. Hard. Fortunately that was the low point of the weekend. It cleared up quickly and half an hour later we were riding in sunshine, albeit over somewhat slick downed leaves, roots, and mud.

I could talk for an hour about the experience, but the short version is that, based on my day and a half of riding, Kingdom Trails is everything it's cracked up to be. I had a blast. The only minor disappointment - other than my advancing age and associated timidity - was that all the downed leaves and the recent damp weather prevented me from riding things as fast as they're obviously meant to be ridden. Certain things stand out:

First and foremost, the location is just stunningly, breathtakingly beautiful. If you drove all the way over there only to stand in the field at the top of Darling Hill Road and look around you for fifteen minutes on a perfect fall day, the effort would be well worth it.



There are tons and tons of trails. Every one of them is well laid out and has great flow. They are all well marked - on paper and at every intersection.

You really feel like you’re with "your people," as Wendy says. Within ten miles of the place you start realizing that every other car has mountain bikes on it. The majority of riders are French-speaking, and there are way more women riders than we typically see here in Maine. I would say maybe a quarter to a third female, compared with 10% at best in my experience around here.

Certain trails are just totally unlike anything we have here: Sidewinder hurtles you down one steep side of a tight ravine and up the other side, like a half pipe with trees. (Andrew clipped one of these at full velocity at the bottom of the valley and was on the ground for a good ten minutes afterward. Do not follow his example.) Kitchel - apparently JUST rebuilt from the ground up - is like a roller coaster for bikes: smooth six foot high dirt berms alternating with tabletops, all descending. When Aaron rides this for the first time he's going to think he died and went to heaven. Then there is the little dirt pump track that doesn't take up much more room than a couple of tennis courts, which I had a blast playing on. Google any of these trails and you will find cool photos and videos.

Next year, going back for sure.

Things Wear Out

Sometimes things don't break, they just wear out. Look at this photo of a jockey wheel that has a couple years' use on it (left). It's a totally different size and shape from what it looked like when it was new (right). If only I could order replacement parts for ME from bikeman.com.

Last of the Fall Flowers

I picked more or less the last of the flowers. To say that the achingly beautiful stretch of weather we’ve enjoyed for a solid month now makes up for our sodden June and July is to miss the mark. Invoking a dubious fairness or balance in such things discounts the grace we’ve received. In the dry air, a sunny bank of black-eyed susans has persisted among the butterflies and grasshoppers at the bottom of our garden, seemingly unfading, week after week, against the always-blue sky and always-green grass. The mornings and evenings have gotten cooler, but in the diminishing center of every day summer still returns. Only when I went down with a pair of scissors tonight did I realize that in fact there were only a few really fresh-looking blooms left. I have not wanted to let go.

As summer progressed, the twelve-hour race at Bradbury became more and more the emotional focus of my riding life. I wanted to be in shape and ride well, but I didn’t let that desire take over totally. Maybe I should have. I didn’t ride every day, or even close to it. I never want to get to the point where a bike ride is a chore like taking out the trash or washing the dishes, but within those parameters I trained steadily. I didn’t have to take a week off riding for illness or bad weather. I did a good mix of road (for endurance and pace) and trail (for cornering reflexes, power, and braking practice). When the race came I was healthy except for two sore fingers, and I had spent as much time on the bike as I am ever going to be able to do with my philosophy, as long as I have a full-time job and a busy family. Trail conditions were excellent. I rode well. I had no crashes and no mechanical incidents. I pushed it, but stayed within myself. I don’t think I disappointed my team. I still ended up in the middle of the pack.

Now it’s a couple days later and I have cut the last of the flowers. There is a slightly let down feeling. With the rapidly increasing darkness and the inevitable deterioration of the weather, it’s all downhill from here in terms of ride frequency and fitness level. Bottom of the pack, here I come. On the other hand, I am thinking about what possibly was the most perfect day of this perfect late summer, on a road ride with Larry, Dave, and Dan, when we stopped for a swim in a crystalline lake. It was a Sunday afternoon, but no one was there except a woman walking her dog along the shore. The water was utterly still. I hesitated before wading in. I didn’t want to break the picture. It was as though everyone else had already given up on summer, but we hadn't.

I’m glad I got past the nagging selfish and small-minded feeling that stopping to swim was going to compromise the training benefit I got from that ride. I will remember that swim with my friends far better and longer and with more warmth than I would remember finishing in the lower upper middle of the pack.

Roadie Virgin No More

Joined my first ever proper roadie group ride on Monday. Real, card-carrying roadies with matching bib shorts and jerseys and slogans written on their butts. None of us MTBers posing around on skinny tires this time. (Except me, of course.) Intimidating before the ride, as hordes of people arrived for the start, apparently having stepped directly out of catalogs and magazines. Someone said 30-plus in attendance. Almost ran away, but steeled myself for a thrashing. I already survive a variety of humiliations; what's one more? First conversational exchange I had started off with a guy pointing out that I had hay sticking out of my helmet. He didn't mention the dried mud on my beat-up shoes, but I'll bet he noticed it. Very interesting cultural experience. Fun. Easy at first, then harder near the end as the novelty of serious drafting effects wore off and folks started turning up the heat. At one point as I realized I was working awfully darn hard all of a sudden, I looked down - very quickly, so as not to cause a disaster - at the cyclometer. 31mph on the flats! Good thing I didn't take the big ring off the road bike, huh? I didn't get dropped, though. I would do it again. Maybe wear the leg and arm pads next time, just to see what people would say.

Passed By

Went out for a road ride today, in the unaccustomed sunshine and dry air, sporting my new Bates jersey. Within the first ten minutes, two different riders turned onto my route ahead of me. The first one emerged from a side street about fifty meters ahead, Even though I had fresh legs I was unable to catch him in the course of two miles, before he veered off in a different direction. “Just as well,” I thought to myself. “Stupid to burn yourself out right at the beginning, trying to keep up with a stronger rider.” At this same intersection a different rider happened to join me. We waved and exchanged a couple of words. Then he put away his bottle and settled down into his aero bars and rocketed away before I knew what was happening. We were on a long straight with good visibility, and within the first mile I think he was about a half mile ahead of me. Sheesh. After a while I resigned myself to my middle-aged-guy-with-a-desk-job level of fitness and successfully gave myself a pep-talk about how nice a day it was and how I would be fitter at the end of the ride than I had been at the beginning, and never mind what other riders could do. In fact, I was feeling pretty good at about the fifteen mile mark. I was averaging about 19mph, which is very solid for me. There was not much traffic, and the brilliant sun was uplifting after our recent month of near-continuous rain and gloom. That’s when my loop started turning from north-east to south-east to south and ultimately south-west. This, as it emerged, was the direction from which a stiff breeze was blowing relentlessly, with brief intervals of fierce gusts. “Well, I guess that pretty much explains my pace on the outbound leg,” I realized with an inward groan, as my speed slowed drastically. For the next hour and a half I labored head-down against the wind. It felt like I was trying to ride through soft sand. Finally, as I neared home, at about the thirty-five mile mark, two twenty-something guys caught up with me and offered some cheerful conversation. “How’s it going?” etc. I muttered something about how I had been doing better twenty miles earlier. I think they were on the verge of saying something like “feel like a lift, old man?” As they started pedaling away in earnest, I made a last valiant effort to hang on the second guy’s wheel, hoping to poach a pull for the last couple of miles. I managed it for maybe two or three tenths before I fell back, quads burning. To add insult to injury, I looked up at the receding rider and for the first time registered the big polar bear and the single word “Bowdoin” emblazoned on the back of his black-and-white jersey.