The ride to Tolland

Friday, Sept. 24

I pulled out of 10 Tyler Way on the outskirts of Bristol, Connecticut early this morning. A woman on a Cervelo triathlon bike asked me where I was going.

"Massachusetts," I say, with no time to explain that after heading north I'm going to south again.

I start out at 950 feet above see level, and into downtown Bristol it's almost a straight descent. I coast at about 25 miles an hour down 600 feet, enjoying the ride but knowing full well I'll soon have to climb all that and more.

Canton is beautiful, and I wish I had a camera. It's a picturesque town worthy of Rockwell. There are dams, lakes, rivers and streams. The ride is pretty, but it won't last. I get to the Barkhamsted Reservoir and decide I know better than my GPS. I see there is a road at the north end of the reservoir that leads to Massachusetts. Why does it route me northeast when I want to go northwest?

I take a chance. I head towards the unnamed road northeast. It's another 600 foot descent. I see the road that I thought would be a shortcut. It's a dirt road with an orange fence surrounded by "No trespassing signs."

I'm pretty frustrated. I'm tired. I didn't eat lunch. Mistake. I thought I would be there by now. I take a deep breath. I start singing Bruce Springsteen's "Born in the USA" and it gives me the mental fortitude to climb the mountain I just descended.

I get back to where I need to be and there are more climbs and they just keep getting steeper. They make Glastonbury look like Kansas. I grit my teeth and keep pedaling. Suddenly I find myself at an intersection. There is a dirt road straight in front of me and the paved road I am on veers to the right. The dirt road appears to go downhill. Since I just did a major climb, I assume I'll just be coasting on the dirt road. This time, I follow the GPS.

Had I known the dirt road simply links up with the road I was on, I would have stayed on the road I was on. Instead, I'm on a very painful, rocky, sandy, surface. Just coasting takes a lot out of me. Suddenly I realize there is no dirt to this dirt road--it's just jagged rocks and said. I curse the hillbillies who go four wheeling, as well as whatever municipality even bothered to carve this road through the woods in the first place. I'm on this road for six agonizing miles before I reach pavement again.

I'm pretty washed out at this point, but I've only got 10 miles to go. Theoretically I should be at the campground in 45 minutes. Theoretically. I'm averaging about six miles an hour as I just pedal away in my granny gear.

I reach Route 57. It's not far now, I tell myself. The grades just keep getting steeper. I reach a summit, and in less than 15 seconds, I'm at a trough again, going five miles an hour as I climb another seemingly impossible grade.

Who the hell built this road? I ask myself, as I go around a curve. It seems like I'm cris-crossing the same ridge. Who in their right mind thought this road was a good idea--for anything?

I'm tired. My allergies are acting up from that rocky road by the reservoir. I'm exhausted from all these climbs. I have only nine miles to go, but at the rate I'm going I won't get to the wedding for another two hours.

Somebody sees me struggling as she drives home from walk and pulls up beside me.

"Are you okay she asks?"

I take a breathe.

"Yeah," I say, even though the washed out expression on my face shows nothing but exhaustion.

"Where are you going."

I tell here that I'm heading to a wedding just up the road.

"On this road?!" There is a hint of disbelief.

"Yeah," I say.

She asks how much further I have to go. She asks if I need help. She tells me she lives right up the road, and she'd like to get me some water. I say sure. She drives home and I follow her on the bike. When I get to her house, she has a bucket of ice water. I swallow it down in three gulps. She offers to give me a ride the remaining 8 miles. I pause to think about it.

"I'm an EMT," she said. "And you look terrible."

The Surly and The OCR Touring are reunited at last!

I was in no mood to argue with a professional, and I decide getting a ride in is better than showing up faint and vomiting. Her husband Bill attaches a trailer to her car and we all drive to Camp Kinderland.

"Thanks," I say, when we arrive. "Oh it's nothing," she says laughing. "You looked like you were about die out there!"

I hope it's just hyperbole.

Chris is a little upset that I took a ride in, but he too, rode in on Route 57, and understood.

"If didn't take the ride," I tell Chris. "I probably would have used my bike to kill Dave when I got here."

"It's a terrible road," he says. "How could it have existed without the automobile? If the horses didn't die of a heart attack pulling a carriage up these hills, they would surely be crushed by the carriages going downhill."

I laugh. I sit down and relax to get my bearings together. I hydrate with some water and drink some recovorite. I'm feeling better now.

Camp Kinderland.

And thus Caroline and Dave's wedding begins . . .