Green Mountains!

One should assume that the ice-capped mountains of the west are more difficult to ride through than the Appalachians. However, if one peruses on-line cycle-touring blogs (yeah, I'm sure you'll jump right on it) they will find that many experienced riders will actually claim the opposite. The Appalachians they say are the true leg-slayers. It's as if the entire Appalachian mountain range as a whole relishes in playing the under appreciated and disrespected step-child. The Rockys, The Cascades,  and THE SIERRA NEVADAS, are all so romantic and replete with their cache of writers that we're often brought up thinking that the only TRUE mountains are those topped not with majestic Oaks and Chestnuts, but with ICE, ROCK, SNOW. Manly things, you know, for manly mountains. Yet here the Green Mountains wait. Patiently. Quietly. Subtly. To destroy you. Oh, 4,000 miles ridden across this vast country? You think you can take on anything? Your legs are strong enough to handle the weight of your two-wheeled steed? HA! Think again, 'cause the Green Mountains are gonna throw 12% grades in your face. They're gonna make you walk (which I did for only the SECOND time on this trip). They're gonna be windy and narrow and force you to balance ever-so-gingerly between chewed-up pavement and a non-existence shoulder that (inevitably) falls off of a sheer cliff into a ravine 1,000,000 feet below,  far down into the depths of some rushing stream. The trees look so plush and soft. But underneath the thin, rocky soil are granite/marble monsters, contorted and moulded by over 450 million years of pressure and erosion. Thankfully, both the descents and ascents are much shorter than out west, for if I had to climb thirty-two miles up a mountain pass along Appalachian grades, I would literally die of exhaustion or go insane from frustration. Instead, the hill climbs in this part of the country relent JUST at the moment the situation seems to be dire, and down we go, coasting, at thirty-five miles per hour into a quaint New England village. Supposedly New Hampshire is worse....

I have yet to determine which side of the "mountain debate" I stand on. The length of the mountain passes out West make them extremely exhausting, yet VERY rewarding. The descents are always longer and the views, I must admit, are grander--there are fewer trees and thus greater vistas! The mountains in the east are definitely graded steeply (out west, you rarely see one over 6%), but the shorter climbs seem to alleviate some of the physicality of climbing a mountain on a ninety pound bike. What I have discovered is that riding over mountains on a really heavy bike is hard no matter where you're at (duh. I know.)

It's been nearly eighty days since Jamie and me set out on this excursion. We're now into our last four days of riding. It has yet to hit me how close we are to seeing my brother and my parents in Dresden, Maine. The monotony of a trip of this length lulls me into a frame of mind where I'm unable to grasp the "big picture" of anything. I know not the significance of this trip nor its point. And I'm not bothered. I never reflect on the physical accomplishment of this feat, even when EVERY person that I meet makes a comment about my physical strength and vitality. I have no concept of my future, even if it literally is only two weeks away. Right now I am living in the immediate present, concentrating on pushing towards the final mile, where I will find rest and reprieve and much-needed time for reflection. In the mean time, Jamie and I will be busy gliding (or grinding) up the granite-peaks of New Hampshire's White Mountains, bathing in fog as it rolls over the plump ridges, catching glimpses of the august blaze of maple trees turning red.