Today I woke up at 4:15 and unglued my eyes for a pre-work bike ride. I had planned a new route via Highway 113 to Sandwich Notch road up to Campton, then back down via Highway 49 and Perch Pond road, ending at SLA headquarters for a ripe, 9:00 am start. 42 miles, crazy hills(4,000 ft of elevation change), and all on a prayer: my brakes had failed on Perch a week before, and, after a tune, I was only 50 percent certain they would last me this trip. But, I like to bike.
113 was subtle. Riding along the coast of Northwest Squam in the morning before the semis and Tacomas shake the sleep out of their legs and come sprinting past you screaming bloody murder, tornado train screeches is nice. Quiet mornings are nice. The sunrise was orange in the sky and purple in the clouds. The night before called for rain, but the chances had settled into a light mist blanketing the slopes of Percival and Morgan to the North East. I like it when the clouds hug the mountains close. It only happens in the morning before the water vapor gets over cooked by the climbing sun.
Then, a left turn and we’re hitting gravel: sweet, crunchy, “dig it” gravel. I call it Dig It gravel because you can feel your tires groove on it when the knobby tread scoops it up in clumps and shoves the road back, all the while pushing you forward and up, always up. Your legs pump and your tail wags left to right above the seat and you actually start to taste the lactic acid in the back of your throat. The hills here are gnarly.
Sandwich Notch has what I call ‘features’. Most people call them potholes or ‘chuckholes’ up here in New England, I guess. They’re fun to dodge and dive into on a fast downhill. Before the summer is out, it’s highly likely someone is gonna find me a hundred feet down hill from one of those, specifically that 3 foot deep one on the downhill near Campton, my bike’s front tire still spinning without me, mouth full of dirt and my leg twisted in a W. But, hey, I like to bike.
Campton has the best coffee house in the state: Mad River coffee. I met a college PolySci professor there from SUNY with his dog, Scout. We ate blueberry muffins and talked about his mountain biking son and politics. He said that Democracy is illusory and I said, “ain’t these muffins good?”
Then, Perch Pond. I am the King of Perch Pond Road. Sometimes I get going fast enough down that road to tailgate the rich, old, retired people that drive their BMWs slow as salt up through there to the grocery store and back. It’s fun, but the road is quiet this morning. And, anyways, the old people always end up peeling off. I’m a menace on those two wheels, but my quadruple-chambered heart is no match for six red hot pistons of cold rolled Pennsylvania steel sucking Canadian fuel through Japanese manifolds, all designed by a zen mechanic in Munich. I’m single origin-just born, not built.
Then we bust through into Holderness on Highway 3 at Pemi Auto. I take 3, butt-clenched, waiting for one of those Semis to lean a little too far right because an overworked truck driver is too busy fitting a gas station hot dog between his two front teeth to notice a little old mosquito like me. But I make it to Shepherd’s Hill and, after 40 miles, I take it easy in low gear, just enjoying the hellos I get from morning joggers and dog-walkers.
The work day starts at 9:00, but I’ll bike any time. New Hampshire isn’t just any WHERE, though. New England is gravel bike central. New Hampshire is dope and Vermont is only a bike ride away. I love it here.
Logan is a half-year member serving with the Squam Lakes Association. Learn more about him here!