August 21, 2009Burke, Vermont

Warning: the focus of this article was nearly taken hostage, prior even to its own creation, by the sheer rudeness and paranoia of America (more specifically their border guards); however, my train of thought will remain unwavering: that’s right this is another article about cycling. What could be better than a cycling trip? A cycling road trip is the only correct answer, my friend.

So off we go to Burke, Vermont in the world’s sexiest traveling vessel, the Chevrolet Venture. Two guys, a dog, and a painting brought back from Vietnam. The aforementioned border guards apparently found my person suspicious and felt compelled to search our car. An empty ski box was violated, dog food was discarded like bio-waste and stern scowls were thrown around like Michael Jackson references a few weeks ago. It was like being in Super Troopers but without the hilarious laughter and mustaches.

So I zip back up my pants and in a few tender moments we arrive in East Burke, Vermont. Picture a mountain biking Mecca, wrapped in quaintness and baked goods, surrounded by lush New England mountains. Are you with me? Now add Ben and Jerry’s ice cream. Yeah, pretty sweet, I know. Roll into the parking lot and brace yourself for copious amounts of spandex, COPIOUS amounts, with a symphony of shaved legs and squished up man-junk wherever you look. Sort of like walking in a rich neighbourhood, but without the Ugg boots, vintage sunglasses and attitude.

So we jump on our bikes and head up the hills. 100 miles of singletrack whisper sweet nothings into our spokes as we grind our way through the trails. Ever so often we are ejected from the dense forest into these enormous grassy plateaus above the town. From the beautiful vantage points you can count every yellow house for miles around. I would have done it too, but my riding partner wanted nothing to do with the idea. I counted three. We rode until our smiles hurt, until the sweat burned our faces, until the law of diminishing returns crept into my mind (and my lactic acid-filled muscles). There was the next day after all.

So two guys slept in the back of a small van on a mattress together- what? We may have accidentally spooned, but he started it. I regret nothing. In the morning you try to stretch out all the sore muscles and do it all over again. Like other pleasurable activities, the second time around you are tired, sore and frankly a little scratched and bruised, but man does it feel good to do it again. You can’t forget to use protection though; otherwise you can have an accident and damage your head, ahem. Back at the parking lot the ocean of lycra ebbs and flows, but we manage to make our way to the bakery where a chocolate mint brownie gives us the strength we need to drive back home in one piece.