Just a few days ago I embarked on a 3 day bicycling adventure with my father in law, David. Our goal; to ride across the state of New Hampshire on the newly linked Cross New Hampshire Adventure Trail. Having participated in the 3 day Trek Across Maine (twice, once with David), I figured (with a little help from my wife) it would be fun for us to continue exploring the New England landscape from our bicycle saddles. Not to mention that I'm currently in week 7 of an 8 week COVID-19 induced furlough and have nothing but time on my hands. So it was decided, we would set out and make our way across the Granite State.
Once we decided on a date I began looking at how to best outfit my mountain bike, Gonzo the Great, for the semi-bike packing-esque ride. I decided on my equipment, made a few purchases and carried on with my life. As the weeks passed and our start date neared, I found myself feeling less than excited about our adventure. A sense of apathy loomed over me. When I tried to internally investigate the cloud hanging over head, I came up empty handed.
This was not the first time I set out to do something hard. Like a lot of folx I know, I've done PLENTY of hard things. I've ridden further distances. I've carried heavier weights over more rugged terrain without the help of two wheels. I've done a lot of hard shit. Yet there I was, questioning why I was about to ride 80+ miles on an "adventure" trail and the reality was....I didn't actually want to. Despite my lack of motivation and excitement, I continued to prepare for the journey.
As I already mentioned, Gonzo the Great (my mountain bike) needed some gear. Cue the first kerfuffle. It needed a rack and some panniers to carry my gear for our overnight stay day one. So I did my research, found a rack that would accommodate my disk brakes and larger tire and ordered it. Then it was time to secure a set of rear panniers. A little more research on the internet and a few clicks and voila, panniers ordered and "on the way." Well the rack arrived pretty quickly, however, there was a pivotal piece not included that had to be ordered separately and with our start date on the horizon I was worried it wouldn't arrive in time. Lucky me, it came within the estimated delivery window and I was able to assemble everything. My luck with letter/package carriers would end there. The panniers never shipped so I borrowed a set from a friend and wouldn't you know....they weren't compatible with the rack. With a little creativity I was able to put a few dry bags and some para-chord to good use and create an improvised set of panniers.
Our start day arrives and I'm still feeling less than enthused but proud of my pannier problem solve. We get dropped off at the Vermont/New Hampshire State line and get underway. The first section of the trail takes you along the Ammonusuc River on a shared ATV route. Dodging dirt bikes, side-by-sides, gravel craters and dust clouds are all par for the course here. Luckily the terrain is mostly flat so holding my breath while moving through the dust bowls didn't leave my lungs screaming for air on the other side.
Given the constant jarring of the rail trail, I was skeptical as to how long my panniers would stay put. Turns out my the biggest hassle that first day was a slippery seat post that wouldn't stay put. Every few miles I found myself sitting so low that I felt like I was riding one of those squatty stunt bikes you see kids flip-flopping around on. Little did I know that this constant readjusting of the seat post coupled with the rough trail conditions was wreaking havoc elsewhere on Gonzo, unnoticed.
As the day wore on, the fog of apathy slowly lifted and I found myself feeling more energized and excited about our journey. As the trail transitioned from rough gravel to smooth blacktop and back again, I settled deeper into a cadence of normalcy. There were moments when I was totally immersed in the present, thinking of nothing else but the simplicity of riding a bike. The sound of revolving bike tires matched my breathing. Existing felt effortless.
As the miles for the day were winding down, I was snapped out of my internal utopia when I heard the sound of one of the dry bags rubbing against the back wheel. I stopped for a moment to fix the issue, thinking that the constant vibrations had caused the para-cord to loosen and that re-tightening would be the remedy. Except it wasn't.
It was true, things had certainly shifted. The constant jarring had caused one of the bolts attaching the rack to my seat post to not only come loose, but back entirely out and project itself into the great sea of crushed rock. When and where this great flight took place, no one knows. I walked a few yards back from the direction we came kicking at the ground, fully knowing that there was no hope in finding that tiny, camouflaged bolt. My entire rack, panniers and all, were loosely dangling by one bolt with a few more miles to go for the day. Frustrated and feeling naive in believing that my creative problem solving would actually last the 80+ mile ride I stood staring at my bike.
David, thankfully, chimed in to let me know that there was a bike shop in Littleton that was listed on the map and that we weren't all that far away. We could easily stop by on the way to the motel and it was likely they would have what I needed. I looked at him...back at my bike...back at him...back at my bike. That's when the para-cord on the panniers gave me an idea. I reached into my trunk bag and found the bag of extra cord I tossed in as a "just in case" measure. A few minutes more and I was able to secure the rack back to the seat post tightly enough that nothing was dangling precariously or rubbing the rear tire. I mounted Gonzo once more and we were on our way.
We found the bike shop and 10 minutes and $2 later Gonzo was as good as new. We headed to the Littleton Motel for the evening.
The next morning we enjoyed a leisurely start to the day. Sipping coffee and noshing on fancy pants toast at a local dive with the Ammonusuc River flowing in the foreground. My mental state had greatly improved in 24 hour's time. Excitement was building for the day ahead, mainly due to the 15 mile stretch of blacktop that composed the first leg of our route for the day. It would be a climb from Littleton to Whitefield along Route 116. With fuel in my belly and Gonzo in working order I was eager to get back in the saddle.
We set out under overcast skies and continued our trek eastward across the state. I wouldn't classify the day's route as difficult but there are several good climbs between the two towns. I've certainly gained more elevation on a bike before yet at the start of each climb I found myself doubting my ability to reach the top. Did I mention that these weren't actually that steep? Yet my mind continued to venture to dark corners, doubting my body's capabilities. Of course I was capable and I did make it each and every time. At the crest of each one my inner monologue was the same: HA! See there! You can do it! And of course we all know what goes up must come down!
Once in Whitefield the ride leveled out and I found myself back in my cycling utopia. Worried about nothing and excited to be moving through the world under my own power through a beautiful landscape. The sun began to shine through the clouds and we made our way toward the Pondicherry Wildlife Refuge to rendezvous with our lunch date and biking buddy for the afternoon, my mother in law Jill.
We enjoyed a short break while we ate lunch, chatted with a few other visitors setting out to enjoy the refuge and were on our way again. The Presidential Rail Trail, unlike the Ammonusuc Rail Trail, is for pedestrian and bike traffic only during the summer months. You don't have to worry about motorized vehicles and the trail surface is in far better condition for the most part. We were merrily pedaling along when I heard the loud sound of popping and snapping metal. Simultaneously my body slinks down toward the ground as I brake. I step off my bike only to find that the quick release seat clamp has totally busted. The only thing left on the seat post is an empty clamp....no bolt, no lever.
A search for the missing pieces quickly commences. All three of us off our bikes, kicking around on the ground trying to locate the carnage. I found the lever pretty quickly, a short distance from where I stopped. The little black bolt, however, was not to be found. While Jill and David rode back toward the car surveying the ground, I walked up and down kicking at the ground with my eyes constantly scanning. I just kept thinking, we've got to find it, we just have to. After multiple trips up and down the trail on foot and bike, it was time to acknowledge the inevitable; there was absolutely no way we were going to find this tiny small black projectile. There were 20 miles separating us from our second day's destination. How am I going to ride 20 miles on this with my knees hitting my nose every 3 seconds? That was all I kept asking myself.
Enter David, aka Macgyver, with a handy dandy pair of vice grips from the back of his car. His car that happened to be at the trail head because we happened to meet Jill for the afternoon. Within minutes of his arrival with vice grips in hand, Gonzo had a make-shift seat clamp. All we could do at this point was give it a try. I stood over the pedals as we continued, scared to put any pressure on the newly secured seat. After a few revolutions of the tires I gingerly sat on my seat, holding my breath, just waiting for the seat to sink down into the frame. I pedaled and waited...and waited....and waited. The seat held the entire 20 miles never so much as slipping, not even the tiniest bit.
We rode into Gorham a few hours later. I threw Gonzo on top of my Subaru and headed to the local bike shop in Berlin. 20 minutes and $12 later Gonzo was road ready once again.
Our third and final day was relatively uneventful as far as mechanical issues go. We set out a little earlier under cloudy skies in hopes to outrun forecasted thunderstorms. The air was thick with humidity and mosquitoes as we traveled down the Hogan Road. There were several places on that stretch that were slow going. The mosquitoes greatly appreciated the increase in carbon dioxide coming from my labored breathing coupled with my slow speed, I was an all you can eat blood buffet. Fortunately for me, their dining was short lived as the road leveled out and I was able to pick up some speed.
After about an hour we popped out on North Road, turned onto the black top and continued east. With only a few more miles to the New Hampshire State line, our trek was coming to an end. Sadly, I never saw a sign indicating we had crossed from New Hampshire into Maine. We hit Gilead, Maine and paused for a moment to enjoy a view of the Androscoggin River. Rain began to fall.
Dark clouds loomed over our shoulders but soon enough, rain gave way to beautiful blue skies and bright sun. We continued meandering through the Maine countryside, seldom passed by another vehicle. Sweeping views of the Mahoosucs waited at the top of each small climb. Within an hour and a half of leaving the Hogan Road, we stepped down from our pedals and dismounted our trusty steeds. Once more rain began to fall as we loaded the bikes on the car.
While we just finished our ride a little more than 24 hours of me writing this, I have to admit that I found myself reflecting on this journey from the very beginning. It started with trying to understand my apathetic attitude and lack of enthusiasm, and continued with each challenge that presented itself. In our world full of uncertainty these days, I am guilty of wanting to just throw my hands up, say the hell with it and hide in my home until this is all over. Sometimes these feelings are so overwhelming that I'm afraid to even begin, afraid to even try. Luckily for me, I'm surrounded by folx that encourage me (at times pushing , heels dug in) to do hard things. No, it wasn't the hardest thing I've ever done. Mentally however, it started as a real struggle that proved to stretch me in some really rewarding ways.
Resilience was a theme for my Cross New Hampshire ride. Shit happens (thanks Forest Gump). But it's all that poopy stuff that allows us to get really good at figuring life out. I may not have been eager to start this journey but once it started, I never wanted to quit. Each set back provided me with a unique opportunity to build my resilience and fueled my desire to persevere. The Sarah that stepped off Gonzo for the final time on this ride was not the same Sarah that saddled up at its beginning. While my life has not drastically changed and I don't look any different on the outside, my perspective and belief in what is possible certainly has.
Go...do something hard, even if you don't want to or don't think you can.
