In the morning I ride up and over the mountain just as the mist from the previous night’s rain is beginning to burn off under a rising sun. I pedal up and over the mountain at least one morning each week; it’s one of my three preferred morning routes, and generally the one I choose when time is tightest because I like how it compresses two mountain sides worth of climbing and descending into less than an hour. And I like how the road twists its way through the forest, which is predominantly hardwood – maples, mostly, but also the occasional birch and beech, with an ash or two thrown in for good measure – and how each of those curves has its own particular character, the sharp ones, the shallow ones, especially the ones that force me to the height of the road’s crown on the descent so that my speed doesn’t carry me into the ditch. I’ve seen what happens to people who end up in that ditch. It’s not pretty.
I love riding bicycles. I love riding anything with two wheels, really, and I have for as long as I can remember. I currently own four bicycles and two motorcycles, which is three bicycles and two motorcycles more than I need, especially given that it’s only one bicycle I ride 95% of the time, anyhow, and most of my motorcycle time involves me cruising back and forth along the dirt roads of my town, not really going anywhere. Then again, not really looking to go anywhere, either.
I bought that one bicycle off Craigslist a bunch of years back; Rye and I picked it up on our way to a Drive-By-Trucker’s show in Burlington. It’s a nice bike but it’s old and was missing a few parts, so I got it cheap and I suspect part of the reason I like it so much is that I feel a bit subversive when I ride it. Which I think is partly because I got it cheap, but also because that’s just the way bicycles make me feel. Like I’m getting away with something.
One of my favorite things about riding my bike are the random social interactions it confers. Not so long ago I was humping up the hill to Flagg Pond, and suddenly there was Kyle’s father, Ricky, emerging from the woods at the side of the road, carrying his chainsaw, not yet 7 in the morning and probably already a solid 90 minutes into his working day. So I stopped and we chatted about basically nothing, and then I rode on, and I hadn’t gone a quarter mile when suddenly there was Michael, pushing an empty baby stroller down the hill, preceded by his two huge Newfoundland dogs. So I stopped and we chatted about basically nothing – not even the fact that he was pushing an empty baby stroller, which took some restraint on my part, let me tell you – and I rode on, as happy as if I’d just had tea with the queen. Happier, probably. And thinking about how much can be said when you chat about basically nothing with someone who loves a place as much as you do. That’s the key, I think: The love for a particular place, because that’s what you’re actually talking about when you’re talking about basically nothing. It’s the subtext for everything, the point of connection that can endure any difference. Or any difference I’ve come across, anyway.
I don’t have any fancy bike clothing with the exception of a pair of shoes that attach to my pedals. Usually, I ride in an old pair of jeans, because usually I ride in the morning when it’s still cool. I don’t have anything against fancy bike clothes, I just don’t own any, and I’m probably not going to buy any anytime soon. Sometimes I wear a helmet, and sometimes I don’t, and I don’t have any particular method for deciding when to wear one and when to go without. It’s just a mood thing.
This morning when I got back from my ride the cats were waiting for me, each perched atop one of the big stone steps that leads to my front door, basking in the early sun. I leaned my bike against a tree and walked up the steps past the cats, who looked to me with lidded eyes and then turned straight back to the matter at hand.
Ben Hewitt 
Poppy’s loved riding since she was a toddler; now she’s strong enough to stick with the local woman’s mountain and gravel team members. I tag along in the back, loving the view of my 11 year old ahead of me. The climbs are painful, but flying back down makes it worth it – same feeling I had when I was 11.
Thank you! I’ve missed your writings so much. I’m glad you have put pen to paper (ok, fingers to keys) and brought us back into your life – like an old friend we haven’t seen in awhile. Ride on!
A simple pleasure to have you back, Ben
Bicycling was my main mode of transportation for most of my 20s and early 30s. Through the streets of Kentucky then Kyoto. I have an old tag sale beauty that I love but just last week, I moved it from the breezeway so I could get at it fast, to the garage where the tires will likely go flat from disuse. Too many people on the road looking at their phones and — I’m afraid of falling off and breaking something. At 65 – that would be life changing. You captured all the sweetness of riding and it makes me wistful.
Thanks for sharing! It is always a treat to see a post from you in my inbox.
Thanks also for turning me on to Jason Isbell a long time ago. He’s playing in the background as I write this.
God bless the busted boat the brings us back.
Nice read! Keep truckin’ 🙂
Nice to see that pen in your hand again, which also helps to talk about basically nothing.
I’m glad to see that you’re back at it, sharing your thoughts through the daily events of your life with us after the long break.
I was in Lyndonville last Thursday, made trip the The Gun Shop in East Haven, and thought about dropping in on you, but decided that would be a bit too presumptuous of me, so I got on I-91 and went back south to Hanover. In retrospect, I should have stopped at the Miss Lyndonville Dinner for a piece of hot apple pie with a scoop of vanilla ice cream and cup of coffee, but I didn’t think to do so until I was a good 10 miles down the road and by then I felt committed.
You seem to be doing well ‘hope that Fin and Rye are doing equally well wherever they are in the wide open west.
A beautiful picture. I first read Home Grown five years ago when my kids were preschool age. Now they’re almost 10 and 7 and we’ve been homeschooling with the exception of one year. Some of your stories have stuck with me and have become good companions as I wade through the murky waters of parenting.
You described observing your relatively young sons dress their wounds from working with their swiss army knives. I’ve thought about that one a lot when my kids get hurt. It’s helped me not helicopter so much.
The story about finding (or being found by) a mentor for your sons, somebody who wound up hunting and building shelters and doing things that didn’t require the college degree he’d just earned because he realized it hadn’t taught him much that is actually useful. That’s probably a bad paraphrase but it’s how I remember it. My son recently read My Side of the Mountain and proceeded to build a ‘furnace’ in our outdoor fire pit with a bunch of old bricks lying along our fence. We let him start fires there if we’re in eyeshot (he’s the almost 10 yr old) and he tended it ALL day. He set up the tent as his shelter.
Letting your kids hammer nails to build a shed even though you know they won’t go in straight. What it means to let them REALLY help. That one has reconfigured me. So very hard in the moment.
When I read the part about your son’s helping chop wood regularly I thought ‘man if his kids can do that I probably have the strength to chop wood too’. So I went to Ace and bought the largest ax I could find. I indeed was able to split some logs. Very satisfying. We’re in a subdivision though and we have a gas fireplace. So the only thing we use chopped wood for is the fire pit outside and we have to buy the wood we chop. Our parcel is a whole half acre and the 5 trees on it should stay vertical. All that to say I haven’t developed the skill much.
Both our kids were born at home so that part of your stories resonated too.
It’s a bit breathtaking when I think of the work I’ve stumbled on over the years. What is has meant, what it means. How it continues to underwrite my capacity for ambivalence and the vitality that results. Stephen Jenkinson. Martin Shaw with those stories. Bayo Akomolafe. Gabor Mate. Tyson Yunkaporta. Daniel Schmatenburger. Tom Cowan. Tony Hoagland. Katie Bowman with her biomechanic lense. Sam Thayer. Akiva Silver and Trees of Power. Daniel Vitalis – how I stumbled on your work. Dan Siegel and mindsight. John Holt, John Taylor Gatto, Pam Larrichia and learning outside of School. Daniel Quinn. Mr Money Mustache and undertaking discomfort voluntarily for its own merit. Ben Hewitt and the work of life that includes going along but only if you’re trying to recognize when that’s what you’re doing. Many others too, most of which my limited memory can’t recall.
I’m grateful you and others make the effort to offer your ideas and submit hard questions. I don’t read this blog often but when I need something short that is generous and rooted and utterly free of advertisements I come see if you’ve something new.
Take Care.
I really enjoyed reading your comment and could relate to a lot of it. I recognize a lot of those names; thanks for the introduction to the ones I’m currently unaware of.