5:45am EST
Wake to the tap of my unkempt finger nails rubbing the chilly leniloulm of another cafetera floor. First thought: “This is it. Today we ride to the Atlantic Ocean.”
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7:57
Big ring final day doggie dares. 60+ miles in the tough guy gear ratio. I ride a 52x11 and crank down mountains- today, I give my quads a final hurrah!
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8:20
We ride as a pack (at least fifteen of us anyway). For the first time all summer instead of being surrounded by cyclists, I feel like I’m on a group ride. The big ringers follow up the rear- spirits gleem. Suddenly the landspave shifts from the backroad parkllke canopy of maples and oaks to the edge of a mornig commute and I realize we just passed through our last moments of peace.
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Noonish
Five of us break off into a line and race the final 30 miles. Hills become monsters as we grind the large gears, pushing each other to keep over 25. Cars snake of miles in gridlock between the seaside hamlets, we blow through with grace and gall.
Later, Papa Neil tells us that while he was unable to ride this section, he followed from the sag wagon and felt that watching us race through the streets was more a thrill than riding with all the traffic. Again.. You never know how fill the world on a bicycle.
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Moments later
I think they ought to make more county roads into state parks. 3.2 mles of state park land just after Gtizzlies Ice Cream shoppe, 2.2 more miles of state park roadway after Muddy Love Creek.
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No later than half twelve.
Gloucester is in a frenzy. We peel between lanes and crosswalks, whisking by onlookers and fair goers. There is a lobsterfest this weekend, the crowd is thick with weathered faces and accents as rich as the chowder. We cross a draw bridge, round a corner on the yellow light, up a hill, follow a yellow arrow- and it’s over. It’s over. The bicycle ride has ended.
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Til 1:30
Muddlement. What has been unyealdingly surreal from day one to 63, is now defenatly not making sence. Folks stand around, sweating in their lycra, hearts still racing. Loved ones fill the parking lot with their digital flash bulbs ablaze, still others are already changed and starting their departure with curt farewells and fast getways.
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1:31
The Gloucester police car starts it’s sirens and I’m waving my camera over head- struggling to gobble up the memory. We’re reciving a full escort with sirens, horn blaps, and hand claps, straight thru the lobster bake down to the seaside that swallows salors for Sunday.
It’s a silly pomp we’ve been expecting for days, a funny farewell to the destination we found a thousand miles ago buried within ourselves.
Everywhere around me my summer companions are beaming, laughing in ways I’ve never seen.
Bike cleats clatter against the rocky New England shore as some go to dip tires into the Atlantic. Others hoist their frames over their heads while still others rifle though the clattering digital cameras dangling from their wrists- racing to capture a dozen precious moments.
For me the ride has ended days ago. Not within a single swoop, but in the peaceful groves of maple though Vermont, in the wheatherd headstones of New Hamshire which stick from the earth like chiped tongues. Right now it’s just another eddy of Cycle America bliss emptyness that has come to puncuate our summer.
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6:40
Boozing in the Massacusets Bay. Closure to seal the end. Looking into the black waters of the Atlantic, I’m certain there are more goodbyes yet to bid farewell.
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