summertime and the livin' is easy
Sweltering, hazy heat last night, like the city was suspended over a tea kettle getting ready to whistle. Early part of that night called for slow, catnap music, heavy we-can't-move music so just put on something so that we can nod our heads until we've had enough drink and can build that buzz that get us moving. I started the set with "Summertime" as sung by Angelique Kidjo in her native Fon, this tropical Congolese language that is the root of Creole and somehow just so right for singing about the lazy ease of these humid days. Monday night at the club and all the talk was about what we did on the weekends, like we don't want to give up on the leisure quite yet. Music festivals in Connecticut, swimming in rock quarries on Cape Ann, everyone's getting their summer vacation in. My contribution was telling people about Jack.
Jack was one of the train conductors on the outbound commuter rail line to Fitchburg, and when he asked me if I needed a single or round trip ticket, I asked him if I could buy a round-trip ticket and use it for a return trip via Rockport. He looked at my bike, looked at me, then said, "wait, you're going to ride from Ayer to Rockport?"
"that's the plan."
"Well, good for you. And yeah, you can do the round trip no problem. Same zones and all. Good luck."
The distance between the two is 70 miles according to my maps. An hour's drive if you're lucky and speedy; which is already long for a car ride, much less a bicycle. It was long enough to encourage Jack to return to my car, pull down a seat across from mine and say, "I hope you don't mind my interrupting, but I was just wondering, is it a tough ride?"
I put my book1 away and told him about the plan to ride between friends' houses at the end of the month, and how I hadn't seen most of this territory yet, and needed to map it out. Somehow that got us to talking about the suburbs and residential communities, and Jack started telling me about how prior to running the rails, he used to be a loss prevention specialist for retail shops ("essentially", in his words, "a bounty hunter for places like Lechmere's and the Home Depot, tracking down shoplifters and disgruntled employees working some kind of inside job.") And from there he started telling me about how he got his degree in criminal justice and how that sparked an interest in laws and communities; and that segued into him asking where I was from.
"Canada," I said, and that got his eyebrows raised.
"Oh yeah! Multi-party parliamentary democracy! You guys have, like, five different flavors of liberal."
and I kind of snickered at that, and at the entire prospect of a train conductor who's got a secret life as a political systems hobbyist. Like it makes you wonder what secret passion lies within bus drivers. But Jack went on to talk about how he's as conservative as the next guy, but he can't ever listen to talk radio because it's so poisonous; and a healthy democracy needs comity and respectful debate, and that he always thought that multi-party parliamentary democracies were where it's at. I kind of nodded, and was about to tell him that we've got our own problems too. But the train arrived at our stop before I could get into summarizing the idiocy of the sponsorship scandal, and so I bid him a good day and thanked him for passing the time on an hour long train ride.
From the Ayer train station, it was six miles to eeyrg and crystain's house for a french toast breakfast and poring over maps to decipher the best route to Chelmsford and points east. On crystain's advice, I headed out on Route 40 and its gorgeous seven mile stretch of farmland and rolling downhills. It's like zen cycling territory out there, with quiet, peaceful roads that leave you to focus on nothing more than wind, sight and speed. My reverie was interrupted as I crossed a rough paved overpass into Westford, and found that I had lost my cycling computer somewhere in the last 100 metres. Dismounting and walking back, I scanned asphalt for it, and must have made an easy mark for dispensing directions as a Subaru station wagon pulled up next to me and a distressed old woman looked up and asked, "can you help me? I'm lost."
My maps are optimized for cycling and only cover certain backroads, so they were useless for her, yet as I tried paging through them to get our bearings, I could hear her continue.
"-- I have these directions from my daughter for a party. But I think they're wrong. And I think she gave me wrong ones on purpose. Maybe she doesn't want me to attend. It's like she doesn't love me anymore. I've been driving for a while now trying to figure out..."
"hold on, ma'am." I said as I started dialing eeyrg's number. " My maps don't show the street but I can call a friend."
"-- maybe I should just go home. I'm going to be late. It's not like I'm wanted there. I don't think ..."
"Ma'am! Just be patient for a moment. We'll get you sorted and then you can work out things with your daughter."
"ok."
It went like this for ten minutes, as eeyrg punched in various street addresses into Google Maps and tried to parse out directions, theUnlovedMother sat in her car, fretting, griping and alternating between hope and despondency -- frequently within the same sentence. I was starting to wonder if I was doing the family a disservice by reuniting them. Finally eeyrg assembled a sensible set of directions, which she fed to theUnlovedMother over the phone. She thanked us for the help, and wished me luck on my ride. I found my computer about five minutes later.
The combination of theUnlovedMother delay and minor detours meant that I was probably going to miss the 5 o'clock train from Rockport. I called synaesthesia and asked her when the next train would be leaving to see if I should try to speed up my trip or take my time. "7:30," she said, "plenty of time for you to have dinner at our place and a nice shower." It's easy to decide with an offer like that on the table, so I eased off on my ride, and took my time through Andover and Boxford.
It was in Boxford that my route started to take me past a string of placid, open ponds. It was hot, and I had already traveled 45 miles. A patina of sweat and road grime was starting to form on my legs and face, and fresh, unoccupied water glistened beside me in the high afternoon sun just a few yards away. I pulled over, took off my jersey and waded in.
I've never been a frequent pond swimmer. Most of my swimming time was done in schools and backyards, in chlorinated pools that are antiseptic and artificial, like camping on a golf course. Floating out there, in the middle of the countryside, feeling sun warmed water sluice the grit from my body, I reminded myself that I needed to do this more often.
Heading back to my bike, I saw a middle-aged guy with a golden retriever, standing by the shore and looking at me. "I don't suppose," he said, "that you'd be a resident here?"
"Just a visitor," I replied, "I don't suppose that'd be a bad thing?"
"Well, normally it is," he said, nodding towards the "No Trespassing" sign that I somehow missed on my wade in; then he took a look at my dusty bike and continued, "but in this case, you look like you earned it. Just don't go thinking you can avail yourself of someone else's property whenever you want to."
I was halfway towards saying something about him needing to fence off the water if he was so damned possessive, but I merely thanked him for the "loan" and went on my way. That passive-aggressive challenge had me a little flustered and made me forget to refill my water bottles with the travel filter that OlderSister bought for me a few years ago. I was down to half a water bottle, maybe two or three gulps worth and I hadn't seen a convenience store or mini-mart for miles. Bike maps are great for showing you quiet, secluded routes, but they're less useful for, say, showing places where you can get a candy bar or take a pee.
I was starting to worry as I crossed into Topsfield and finished my water. Twenty miles to go and nothing left for it. I considered stopping to check my maps and see about detouring to a city center.
Then, up ahead, I saw a little girl tending a lemonade stand.
"Mister! Mister! Lemonade?"
"how much, kid?"
"Ten cents for a cup."
"I'll give you three bucks if you give me your entire cooler."
"Really?"
"I'm really thirsty, kid."
"I'll have to go ask my mom."
"Tell your mom that I'll pay three bucks for a gallon of water if she can spare one."
She ran inside and a few moments later, she returned with her mom, a blonde, permed suburban creature bearing a Brita filter and a bright chuckle. She wouldn't take my money, but I insisted on giving it to her daughter as a lesson for the benefits of bulk discounting. I also bought a cup of lemonade just to be polite.
The rest of the ride was relatively nondescript, save for a running conversation with another cyclist on the outskirts of Essex. I made it to Rockport around 6:00, seven hours after leaving Groton, and was treated to more conversation over a grilled dinner and under terraced shade, feeling the sun set on an excellent summer day, and realizing that there would be more of these to come.
1 Edward Behr's The Artful Eater in case you were wondering. I need to brush up on my apple picking lore as harvest season approaches, and a fifteen page essay on the apple certainly sounds like worthy research material. And by 'worthy' I mean 'insane'. Fifteen pages! On apples! It's good and all ... but still! Supermarket varieties seem so pedestrian now.
Jack was one of the train conductors on the outbound commuter rail line to Fitchburg, and when he asked me if I needed a single or round trip ticket, I asked him if I could buy a round-trip ticket and use it for a return trip via Rockport. He looked at my bike, looked at me, then said, "wait, you're going to ride from Ayer to Rockport?"
"that's the plan."
"Well, good for you. And yeah, you can do the round trip no problem. Same zones and all. Good luck."
The distance between the two is 70 miles according to my maps. An hour's drive if you're lucky and speedy; which is already long for a car ride, much less a bicycle. It was long enough to encourage Jack to return to my car, pull down a seat across from mine and say, "I hope you don't mind my interrupting, but I was just wondering, is it a tough ride?"
I put my book1 away and told him about the plan to ride between friends' houses at the end of the month, and how I hadn't seen most of this territory yet, and needed to map it out. Somehow that got us to talking about the suburbs and residential communities, and Jack started telling me about how prior to running the rails, he used to be a loss prevention specialist for retail shops ("essentially", in his words, "a bounty hunter for places like Lechmere's and the Home Depot, tracking down shoplifters and disgruntled employees working some kind of inside job.") And from there he started telling me about how he got his degree in criminal justice and how that sparked an interest in laws and communities; and that segued into him asking where I was from.
"Canada," I said, and that got his eyebrows raised.
"Oh yeah! Multi-party parliamentary democracy! You guys have, like, five different flavors of liberal."
and I kind of snickered at that, and at the entire prospect of a train conductor who's got a secret life as a political systems hobbyist. Like it makes you wonder what secret passion lies within bus drivers. But Jack went on to talk about how he's as conservative as the next guy, but he can't ever listen to talk radio because it's so poisonous; and a healthy democracy needs comity and respectful debate, and that he always thought that multi-party parliamentary democracies were where it's at. I kind of nodded, and was about to tell him that we've got our own problems too. But the train arrived at our stop before I could get into summarizing the idiocy of the sponsorship scandal, and so I bid him a good day and thanked him for passing the time on an hour long train ride.
From the Ayer train station, it was six miles to eeyrg and crystain's house for a french toast breakfast and poring over maps to decipher the best route to Chelmsford and points east. On crystain's advice, I headed out on Route 40 and its gorgeous seven mile stretch of farmland and rolling downhills. It's like zen cycling territory out there, with quiet, peaceful roads that leave you to focus on nothing more than wind, sight and speed. My reverie was interrupted as I crossed a rough paved overpass into Westford, and found that I had lost my cycling computer somewhere in the last 100 metres. Dismounting and walking back, I scanned asphalt for it, and must have made an easy mark for dispensing directions as a Subaru station wagon pulled up next to me and a distressed old woman looked up and asked, "can you help me? I'm lost."
My maps are optimized for cycling and only cover certain backroads, so they were useless for her, yet as I tried paging through them to get our bearings, I could hear her continue.
"-- I have these directions from my daughter for a party. But I think they're wrong. And I think she gave me wrong ones on purpose. Maybe she doesn't want me to attend. It's like she doesn't love me anymore. I've been driving for a while now trying to figure out..."
"hold on, ma'am." I said as I started dialing eeyrg's number. " My maps don't show the street but I can call a friend."
"-- maybe I should just go home. I'm going to be late. It's not like I'm wanted there. I don't think ..."
"Ma'am! Just be patient for a moment. We'll get you sorted and then you can work out things with your daughter."
"ok."
It went like this for ten minutes, as eeyrg punched in various street addresses into Google Maps and tried to parse out directions, theUnlovedMother sat in her car, fretting, griping and alternating between hope and despondency -- frequently within the same sentence. I was starting to wonder if I was doing the family a disservice by reuniting them. Finally eeyrg assembled a sensible set of directions, which she fed to theUnlovedMother over the phone. She thanked us for the help, and wished me luck on my ride. I found my computer about five minutes later.
The combination of theUnlovedMother delay and minor detours meant that I was probably going to miss the 5 o'clock train from Rockport. I called synaesthesia and asked her when the next train would be leaving to see if I should try to speed up my trip or take my time. "7:30," she said, "plenty of time for you to have dinner at our place and a nice shower." It's easy to decide with an offer like that on the table, so I eased off on my ride, and took my time through Andover and Boxford.
It was in Boxford that my route started to take me past a string of placid, open ponds. It was hot, and I had already traveled 45 miles. A patina of sweat and road grime was starting to form on my legs and face, and fresh, unoccupied water glistened beside me in the high afternoon sun just a few yards away. I pulled over, took off my jersey and waded in.
I've never been a frequent pond swimmer. Most of my swimming time was done in schools and backyards, in chlorinated pools that are antiseptic and artificial, like camping on a golf course. Floating out there, in the middle of the countryside, feeling sun warmed water sluice the grit from my body, I reminded myself that I needed to do this more often.
Heading back to my bike, I saw a middle-aged guy with a golden retriever, standing by the shore and looking at me. "I don't suppose," he said, "that you'd be a resident here?"
"Just a visitor," I replied, "I don't suppose that'd be a bad thing?"
"Well, normally it is," he said, nodding towards the "No Trespassing" sign that I somehow missed on my wade in; then he took a look at my dusty bike and continued, "but in this case, you look like you earned it. Just don't go thinking you can avail yourself of someone else's property whenever you want to."
I was halfway towards saying something about him needing to fence off the water if he was so damned possessive, but I merely thanked him for the "loan" and went on my way. That passive-aggressive challenge had me a little flustered and made me forget to refill my water bottles with the travel filter that OlderSister bought for me a few years ago. I was down to half a water bottle, maybe two or three gulps worth and I hadn't seen a convenience store or mini-mart for miles. Bike maps are great for showing you quiet, secluded routes, but they're less useful for, say, showing places where you can get a candy bar or take a pee.
I was starting to worry as I crossed into Topsfield and finished my water. Twenty miles to go and nothing left for it. I considered stopping to check my maps and see about detouring to a city center.
Then, up ahead, I saw a little girl tending a lemonade stand.
"Mister! Mister! Lemonade?"
"how much, kid?"
"Ten cents for a cup."
"I'll give you three bucks if you give me your entire cooler."
"Really?"
"I'm really thirsty, kid."
"I'll have to go ask my mom."
"Tell your mom that I'll pay three bucks for a gallon of water if she can spare one."
She ran inside and a few moments later, she returned with her mom, a blonde, permed suburban creature bearing a Brita filter and a bright chuckle. She wouldn't take my money, but I insisted on giving it to her daughter as a lesson for the benefits of bulk discounting. I also bought a cup of lemonade just to be polite.
The rest of the ride was relatively nondescript, save for a running conversation with another cyclist on the outskirts of Essex. I made it to Rockport around 6:00, seven hours after leaving Groton, and was treated to more conversation over a grilled dinner and under terraced shade, feeling the sun set on an excellent summer day, and realizing that there would be more of these to come.
1 Edward Behr's The Artful Eater in case you were wondering. I need to brush up on my apple picking lore as harvest season approaches, and a fifteen page essay on the apple certainly sounds like worthy research material. And by 'worthy' I mean 'insane'. Fifteen pages! On apples! It's good and all ... but still! Supermarket varieties seem so pedestrian now.