The Quiet Man 300: a Successful Disaster

How do we determine whether a cycling event we undertook was successful? Is it by whether we finish in one piece and get the time we wanted, or is there more to it? This is a question I ask myself in the wake of last weekend. Because, while the Quiet Man 300K was the longest brevet I've completed successfully, it was also the most disastrous bike ride I've ever had the misfortune to embark on.

Please bear with me, because I am not sure how to approach describing what happened. But I better do it now, before too much time passes and I find a way to smooth out the contradictions into a neat narrative that never was. Such as it is, here goes.

I learned about the Quiet Man roughly a month ago - a 304km (189 mile) brevet in County Mayo, on Ireland's West Coast. After last summer, I honestly had no interest in doing any more brevets. And anyhow, I thought the distance too great to tackle so early in the year. Nonetheless, I was attracted by the Quiet Man's location and description. Without explicitly intending to, I found myself cycling as if I were training for it - or at least testing the water to see whether it was even feasible to do so in 4 weeks' time after a winter of very minimal roadcycling. I also mentioned the brevet to my friend Keith, who has raced bikes for 30 years but has not done audax events before. If I was going to try that kind of distance again, and in unfamiliar territory at that, I wanted to ride with a buddy. Keith was cautiously interested. He too would do some testing-the-water training and see how that went.

Amazingly, as the weeks passed things fell into place and the 300K began to seem attainable. I did not put any pressure on myself as far as training. I simply rode my bike along hilly backroads in the Roe Valley and the Sperrins, increasing distances when it felt right. When I completed a 120 mile ride in 11 hours and felt fine the next day, I knew that I could give the 300K a try. Keith had been training differently, doing shorter, but faster rides to get his form back after a winter off the bike. But he too felt ready. Just days before the brevet, we signed up, secured accommodations, and prepared to go. I planned to ride my Seven roadbike, supplemented with a handlebar bag, fenders and LED battery lights (more on the setup in a separate post). And I loaned Keith my Honey CX bike, which he found more comfortable than his Giant TCR.

The brevet's start in Westport, Mayo was a 4 ½ hour drive away, so we left our corner of Northern Ireland on Friday evening and stayed overnight. The drive down along the West Coast wound through scenic stretches of counties Donegal and Sligo, teasing us with hints of the views we'd see on the bikes the following day.

But when the following day arrived it became apparent that views might not be on the menu. We rolled up to the 6am start in low cloud and drizzle, which the forecast predicted would stay with us for a good part of the day. Another thing that became apparent at the start is that I had managed to become sick. The symptoms were stomach-flu-like, with cramps and nausea and overwhelming lethargy. But I looked at the couple dozen hardened men adjusting their bikes in the town square nonchalantly, and decided to attribute my symptoms to nerves and the early morning hour. "You'll ride it off," I told myself.

Alas, my symptoms were not due to nerves or the early start. I had caught a legitimate stomach bug that grew progressively worse throughout the brevet. You will forgive me if I do not go into details. But suffice to say, I was too miserable to be upset that the very views that lured me into doing this brevet now mocked me behind a veil of thick fog. Here an outline of a gaunt brown mountain could be discerned; there a sliver of a gray lake. Through heavy use of imagination and visual memory, I could reconstruct the invisible scenes that spread out before me. And, through gritted teeth, I entertained myself with this task for the first 50 miles in steady rain, as I guzzled water and tried not to vomit at a rate that exceeded its consumption.

At this stage of the ride, I met several nice gentlemen who tried to ride next to me and chat. I apologise to all of them if I seemed less than gregarious, and hopefully the above explains why! I should also mention that I finally met David Bayley (astride a JP Weigle bicycle), the brother of John Bayley and chairman of Audax Ireland. It is a small, small world.

Despite my comically bad form, it did not occur to me to abandon the brevet. And I think this was not so much from any kind of stoicism, as from fear that getting off the bike would actually make me feel worse. At least the pedaling motion was distracting me. At least holding onto the bike was holding me together. And besides, at this point things could not get any worse.

Ah, but they could, dear readers, they could. Around mile 60, I discovered that I'd gotten my period (womenfolk, can't take them anywhere!!). It was uncharacteristically off schedule, so I had nothing with me as far as sanitary supplies or tablets for the pain that shortly followed. And we were now in the middle of nowhere, with no shop or pharmacy for dozens of miles. Again, I will spare you the details of the physicality of this situation. But yes, I kept cycling. I admit I did experience a moment of wavering. But then I said to myself: "Girl, you live in Northern Ireland now. You're supposed to be hard as nails. Stuff some leaves in your shorts and get going."

Things got a bit better after that. Yes, I was bleeding like a stuck pig and sick with stomach flu in the middle of nowhere in County Mayo. But I'd come to terms with all that now. And the rain stopped, giving way to the sort of cold but dry-ish overcast day that fills me with energy and optimism.

And besides, I had Keith for company. With a wife and two teenage daughters at home, he was completely unfazed by my lady troubles. Thankfully, neither did he try to comfort me, feel sorry for me, or suggest at any point that I should quit. He just acted like everything was totally cool. Like hey, this stuff is par of the course and you never know what a bicycle ride will throw at you. We're doing grand! A few more miles and we have this thing cracked anyway.

By mile 120 we were two thirds of the way through and still feeling strong on the bikes. By this point we'd passed through the ominously named stretch of the route called the Windy Gap, which involved the longest climb of the brevet, followed by a horrendously steep hairpin descent. Surprisingly, this part of the ride turned out to be rather benign, and as we set off to finish the last 60 miles we could hardly believe the worst was behind us.

But of course, silly us - it wasn't. Shortly thereafter the headwinds began, growing more brutal by the minute and plaguing us nearly till the finish. On flats they were bad enough. But on the long uphill inclines, things grew so dire that I began to laugh at the effort it was taking me to push even 12mph. Keith kept telling me to clamp myself to his wheel and sit super close or else I'd blow up. I did my best, and we managed to pick up the pace, riding the next 30 miles silent with effort and suppressed frustration. We had been doing well for time so far, but the wind was sapping our strength.

Darkness fell slowly, starting at 9:30 and growing pitch black by 10pm. For this last stretch of the brevet we would be on fairly big roads with white dotted lines and reflective strips along the center and sides. This made riding in the dark a non-issue; I used only one of the 3 headlights I'd brought along and it was perfectly adequate.

Under the calm cover of night, we got into a good rhythm, as if having come to some sort of agreement with the wind: "We work hard, and you lay off a bit." But with 25 miles to go, I began to feel acutely sick again, and, for the first time during the ride, to get sore and tired on the bike. My worst moment was around mile 170, when I felt especially ill and the headwind picked up at the same time. Luckily, just then we passed an open pub, where we stopped to get water. I hung around a bit, and something about the atmosphere inside felt invigorating enough for me to suddenly feel okay again once I got back on the bike.

The final miles went by in a hypnotic daze. I was so uncomfortable and exhausted, that it hardly mattered anymore. Keith too admitted to being "a bit tired." What he was really feeling I will never know, as he is one of those people who keeps cool and doesn't complain no matter what. But in any case, there was no feeling of elation from either of us as we made the turn into Westport and rolled up to the town square. In fact there were no emotions at all. We got our cards stamped at the adjacent hotel and discussed, matter-of-factly, the logistics of changing into our street clothes and commencing the drive home.

We had set off at 6:00 in the morning and arrived at 12:45 at night, completing the brevet in 18 hours and 45 minutes (the time limit being 20 hours). In the course of this we stopped at 5 control checkpoints, had two sit down meals, and took countless short breaks for food and water purchases, toilet use, etc. We had no mechanical issues with our bikes. We did not at any point go off course or struggle with the route. My fitness level for this brevet was borderline, in that I was strong enough to complete it, but not strong enough to relax and feel confident that I would do so. My bicycle felt surprisingly comfortable through mile 189, and aside from a small bruise from the saddle I did not suffer any injuries or pains. On the other hand, I arrived home with a case of stomach flu so bad, it required an immediate course of medication and 2 days of bed rest, making me miss the Tour of Ulster I had so looked forward to. It was a miserable, disastrous weekend. It was the worst time I have ever had on a bike. And I still have almost no idea what County Mayo looks like.

But I do have a vague memory of the drive home with Keith, when, with curious detachment, we discussed the possibility of organising a brevet series out of the Roe Valley in Northern Ireland. And he such a quiet man. It must have been the stress talking.

Of Miles and Mountain Vistas: A Spring Initiation Ride

Having told myself I would not stop until at least ten miles in, it worried me that I was already tired so early into the ride. But when I rolled into the center of Burnfoot - with its view of the Pointy Mountain and its titillating village shop selling 60p sausage rolls - I saw it was mile 15 already. Somehow the time, or the distance, or both, flew faster than I realised. So far so good for the first big ride of the season. With my piping hot sausage roll and electrolyte-laced water, I sat by the stream and took in the landscape that spread out in front of me. It looked far. And it was where I was headed. 

I've tried not to whine about it too much. But, as far as road cycling goes, winter in Northern Ireland was disappointing. Because it rarely snows here, I hoped to ride year-round without breaking stride. But the powerful winds put a damper on that. From mid December through a good part of March, I was lucky to get out once-twice a week, and even then for 20 or so flat miles at a time. I had not done any significant hills or milage since before the winter holidays. When finally the weather turned enough for proper cycling to commence, the expression "Two steps forward, one step back" came to mind. I panted up climbs and panicked down descents that I had come to think of as easy by last summer's end. Good thing I did not start with the intermediate ones!

Last spring I worried about working up to longer rides and even put together a training schedule. This year I did nothing of the sort. The feeling of readiness happened organically. One day I just knew: Tomorrow. I sat down and planned the route, a meandering 60-odd miles along the shoulders of a couple of local mountains, through the villages of Drumsurn and Garvagh. The route would begin with some flat miles, followed by a warm-up climb, then two long climbs and descents, before turning flat again for the final stretch home. I designed it mostly along back roads and to maximise mountain views. The climbs were a side-effect of that, rather than the objective. Still, I saw this ride as a sort of jump-start to the season, as a shot of adrenaline, as something to shock my system and jog my body's memory, to establish a reacquaintance with the miles and the climbing. As part of this spring initiation rite, I accepted that, along with the beautiful views, some degree of pain and misery awaited me. 15 miles in and already tired, I braced myself for what was to come. "This will be difficult. But get it over with, and future rides will be more enjoyable."

But as flat roads gave way to rolling hills, which gave way to the first real climb, I began to feel better, not worse. Somewhere from deep within, an energy emerged, as if out of winter hibernation. The energy did not come in bursts, but seeped out in measured doses, at once calming me and waking me up. The eight mile climb along Legavallon Road wasn't difficult. It just Was. It didn't hurt or feel miserable. It was merely slower than a non-climb. And this slowness was a welcome one, affording plenty of opportunity to study the valley that spread out to my left more dramatically with each foot of elevation gain.

They call this part of the country the Legavallon Pot. Cycling up a mountain ridge in Drumsurn rewards with a dizzying view of a round gap, green with pastures and milky with low cloud, like an enormous bowl of matcha. Interestingly, the official observation point does not show off this feature of the landscape particularly well. But the stretch of the road that does is awkward to stop at. The best way to observe it is from the bike itself, rolling through the view.

In addition to the natural landscape, the country roads that criss-cross these hills are full of fascinating oddities. My favourites are the mysterious murals in the middle of nowhere. 

Here a boy dangles a giant spider over a group of other children and one green alien, who respond with an impressively realistic variety of emotions. Some look amused by his antics. Others are terrified. Others still appear aloof, or saddened by being on the sidelines of the game rather than at its center. I thought it a nuanced portrayal of child group dynamics. The tree house and mural were not near any sort of residence or child care center, as far as I could tell.

The village of Garvagh is an old one and deserves a post dedicated to it exclusively. While tiny, it boasts a surprising number of attractions - including a forest, a museum, its very own pyramid, and a history of vampirism. But on this occasion, I was more interested in its eating establishments. I stopped at a fish and chips shop and ate a late lunch as school children in their uniforms descended from buses, staring at my bike and attire with undisguised curiosity. Allowing for the school run traffic to die down, I set off for home. 

The second big climb was on the return leg and steeper than the one before …which, when I noticed this fact, made me think of Pamela Blalock and her signature rides. She is known for, shall we say, throwing in some wake-me-up hills at the end of a long ride. And while at first I dreaded this, eventually I not only got used to it but began to look forward to it, feeling disappointed if a ride did not feature a good so-called Pamela Climb at the end. 

With a mental salute to my friend, I cycled up the mountainside appreciatively. My legs, however, were now growing heavy and I could sense the wilting point on the horizon. It also grew unseasonably warm, and soon I was sweating under my jacket. But seven miles later the descent came, and with it the cooling rush of breeze against my face and chest. The mountain views ahead grew dense and layered, like overlapping bits of construction paper in subtle shades of slate blue and lilac. Of course during the beautiful parts I was going too fast to want to stop for pictures. But seeing this landscape I made a mental note to return here via a more direct route soon, specifically to photograph it.

The descent went on and on. And to think that I had almost forgotten over the winter that dream-like sensation of falling. Now it came back to me in full emotional force. Miles and miles of plunging down a mountainside. On descents like this, the bike becomes something other than a bike. A flying carpet?

A day and a short recovery ride later, I still feel buoyed by the sensation of that last descent, by the rush of following the curves of the road while staring ahead at those layered hazy mountain ridges. That sort of descent really does feel like a dream. Or like a long swoon. The 60 miles and the climbing and the feel of being out of shape are not what I remember after this ride. Perhaps that is why I want to keep going further. 

Spring O'Clock

Did you know that Daylight Saving Time begins on different dates in different parts of the world? In the US, the clocks went forward an hour on the 9th of March this year. In Ireland and the UK this happened on the 30th of March. With the timing of my recent visit back to Boston, I got to experience both. 

It felt odd to have the clocks go forward twice. But it also seemed fitting. So reluctant and fitful was Spring's progress that it begged for a second chance, a restart. And a restart it got. You know how some years, after a watery March bleakness there is suddenly this one day when you go outside and are shell shocked by the explosion of green? 

The day the clocks went forward, this happened. And I found myself on the bike, tripping out of my mind at the sight of this colour burst and its accompanying scents. 

Starting off with one of my usual winter flat routes, I found it hardly recognisable. Where flooded brown fields used to be I now flew past carpets of buttercups and swathes of whin hedgerows, past clusters of fledgling fruit tree blossoms and pastures of freshly cut grass dotted with daisies. At first my eyes, unused to such splendor, kept averting defensively, reluctant to accept such a feast after a months-long famine. "Don't take it in all at once after a winter of colour-starvation. You'll make yourself sick!" 

But I don't care, I want to eat it all up. I let my eyes open wide, and I stare, I take it all in - already knowing that these images will flash and replay in my mind as I try to get to sleep later that night, after a day shortened by the time change.

A gentle 15mph crosswind pushes at my shoulder playfully, as if to show how friendly and benign it is. As if to say, "Remember all those times this winter I tried to knock you off the bike with 40mph gusts? That's all in the past now. I am a changed wind, honest!"

Do I believe him and head for the hills for the first time since December? I go for it. The backroads that twist their way up and down the Roe Valley look rejuvenated since the last time I'd seen them, like a friend after returning from holiday - fresh-faced and healthy, glowing in their breezy jewel-tone resort attire. 

Amidst the greenery and the sunshine and the road's seductive undulations I get lost in the moment, and that moment turns into hours. 

Finally turning up the farm lane toward home with the waning still-warm sun at my back, I inhale the dizzying scent of cut grass one more time. And then I wave an eager good-bye to that grim, wind-battered, teary-eyed ordeal known as Winter Cycling. It took two clock changes. But spring has gotten a reboot, and so have I. 

An Unwanted Companion

Go. Go I said! Can't you tell I don't like dogs? I'm sure you can tell, you're supposed to have a sense for these things. Now can you please stop jumping all over me? And licking my hands? And looking at me like that? No really, come on now. You're in my shot. I am trying to take some photos here!

Right, here is what we're going to do. Come over here, and you can stand next to me  - if you're quiet and don't jump on me, okay? Good. All right. Shoot, wait, what's this you're doing now? Oh no, come on! 

Look, I'm flattered you trust me enough to show me your tummy. Really, it's a nice tummy. A fine tummy. Here, okay, I'll scratch it a little. Happy now? Okay, one more time. And then we part ways, yes? 

Listen, it's nothing against you. I am just not a dog person. You're a nice dog, but go back to your farm now, okay? Look, I'm getting on my bike now. I'm going to pedal away. Take care!

For goodness sake, how can you run alongside me so quickly? I must have been nearing 20mph down that hill. Don't follow me, I'm cycling home. Now you go home too, you hear me?  

Look, I am not racing you, okay? If anything I am trying to go slow in case you run out in front of my wheel. Do you have enough sense not to do that? I don't know you, so I've no idea you see - I have to be careful not to hit you. So don't look so smug as you stand there panting and waiting for me! And why do you keep waiting for me anyway when I've told you a hundred times to go home? Just how far are you planning to follow me?

Okay, seriously. We are nearing the main road and this has gone far enough. We are stopping and I am taking you home. You don't have a collar, so I can't even grab you, darn it. Do you want to go in the basket? No? Okay then, I am going to cycle back where I found you and return you to your owners. Are you ready to run along? Gosh, but you sure can go fast. And to give credit where it's due, I guess you do have enough sense not to run out in front of my wheel. Should I trust you and pick up some speed? Okay, race you to that bend. Go-go-go! Go-go-go-go-go!!! Okay well maybe this is kind of fun. You are one fast dog, let me tell you. I'm panting more than you are! Here comes the bend. Go-go-go! Go-go-go-go! And ...it's a tie! Although wait, did you let me win?! 

So... Here we are. I guess this is good-bye now? God, I hope your owners didn't think I stole you. You really shouldn't follow random people like that you know. I mean, I could have been a dog-thief or worse. What's that? Oh, you knew that I wasn't? Well aren't you clever. And what else did you know? Oh really, that I'd like you once I got to know you and would play with you if you insisted long enough? Smarty pants. But okay, look... I do like you. And I had a good time. And you did look kind of cute running beside me, with the wind in your ears. So I'll see you around, okay? And yes, I will be on my bike again. Maybe I'll even win next time. 

Last Ride Out of Castlerock

Moves can take place in stages, and as I moved from the village of Castlerock to the village of Bellarena some miles to the west down the coastal road, there was a period defined by a constant stream of going back and forth - of moving things into the new house bit by bit while working to make it livable. Sometime in the midst of this, I made the mental switch and began to think of the new place as home. It happened not the first time I spent the night there, but on the day I brought over my roadbike - by means of riding it from the old house to the new.

Setting off from the small seaside cottage where I had stayed - with its beige pebbled walls, its slate shingle roof and its cramped front yard - I felt a keen awareness that this would be my last ride out of this place. This stunningly beautiful, windswept place I could not wait to leave behind. Clipping in, I took one last look at it all as I pushed off into the wind that never seemed to subside.

The tiny house was an old one - built as a residence and not as a holiday cottage, unlike most of the others nearby. And unlike the others, it was built at a slight angle to the road, with complete disregard for the sea that spread out across it. Of all the windows, only a single one in the livingroom faced the water. And mystifyingly, the layout of the room was such as to discourage its occupants from facing that window - the fireplace on the wall opposite serving as the focal point. Stranger still, even should they turn around to look through the sea-facing window, their view would be mostly obscured by the fence enclosing the yard out front.

On countless occasions I've wondered why the house was built this way - almost willfully snubbing the dramatic seascape that ought to be a home-owner's dream. Could it be for the same reason the scenery made me uneasy? Could it be for the same reason the relation I'd been house-sitting for had picked up and left abruptly after less than a year there? Some believe that places can have a "bad vibe," and that is an apt description for what I've felt here. I felt it not from the house, but from the area. The house's layout almost seems like evidence that the architect had felt it too, and tried to protect the inhabitants from it. 

For some, to say that you live in Castlerock has a certain caché to it. It is a "posh" place - the village center dense with old Georgian houses, the train station almost toy-like with its wrought iron latticework. The local coffee shop - its atmosphere chic and worldly - is said to be among the best in Northern Ireland. The butcher shop next door delights passers-by with its old fashioned window display. There is one pharmacy. There is one small grocery store. There are two pubs - one with a weekend disco. There is a fish and chip shop with a mural of a grinning fish serving customers. There is a pedestrian culture, with tweed-clad residents strolling up and down the hilly lanes as ocean waves crash picturesquely in background. Crowds of young surfers flock to the beach in vans covered with sponsor logos. 

In comparison Bellarena is perceived as isolated and rural-rough, my delight over moving there often met with some bewilderment. But there are those who understand - those who shake their heads and even let out a slight shudder at the name Castlerock. "I could not live there either," they say simply, and we leave it at that.

To describe the daunting feeling of cycling "out of" Castlerock toward the main crossroads is to concede there is a strong psychological side to going out on the bike. There is a heavy, dead sensation to that barren 1 mile stretch that separates the village from the main coastal road and the network of mountain roads beyond it. This sensation can only partly be explained by the fact that this stretch is entirely uphill and nearly always supplemented with headwinds. But this alone cannot fully explain the overwhelming tediousness of it, the emotionally draining effect this mild ascent has on me by the time I reach the crossroads. As I stall my bike waiting to turn right onto Seacoast Road, Castlerock feels like a led blanket I am desperately trying to claw my way out from underneath of. The knowledge that this awaited me at the start of every ride, dampened my enthusiasm for roadcycling more than I would have thought possible. 

Some time after I moved to Castlerock, a policewoman friend told me the story of the murder at the 12 Apostles - a row of refurbished stone cottages scenically situated at the edge of the woods. Some years ago, a man who lived there and his mistress - each married and with many children apiece - made a pact to kill their spouses. They went through with the plan and got away with it, until, two decades after the fact, the man walked into the local police station and confessed to it all, unable to live with the guilt. This was all over the local papers at the time, the Castlerock population shaken. To think, that for all those years the pair was living here, harboring their secret. As I make my way past the cottages, I cannot help but remember this. 

The village of Bellarena is not really a village as such, but more like a scattered rural settlement on the Magilligan Peninsula - on the other side of Binevenagh Mountain from Castlerock. The best way to get there is via the Seacoast Road that runs along the mountain side. The first part of this route is ludicrously scenic - a seemingly endless sweeping descent with postcard views of the sea framed by tall cliffs and the famous silhouette of Mussenden Temple. No matter how many times I cycle along this stretch of road, I have never been able to warm to this descent and this view. It feels unreal, in the cold detached sense of the word. It feels as if it's designed for paintings and postcards rather than real-life enjoyment. The view cannot be connected with, it can only be observed from a distance - as if it's meant to feel unattainable. 

As I plummet past the picture-perfect sight, I feel a rush of relief at the next, comparatively monotonous stretch of the road. I cycling along the steepest part of Binevenagh Mountain now - a vast cliff streaked with occasional slender waterfalls. To my left, this horizontal wall of rock creates perpetual shade, while on my right the sea is becoming obscured by fields and clumps of woods. I should feel claustrophobic here, but instead I feel pleasantly sheltered. And I feel as if I've crossed some invisible border that separates the stark, gloomy aura of Castlerock from the cozy, bright one of Bellarena, which I continue to cycle toward.

As the road curves along the Magilligan Peninsula, the mountain on my left grows less steep and more colourful with the remnants of Autumn foliage and heathery clumps. On my right, miles and miles of farmland spread toward the sea - which is about to narrow dramatically and become the Lough Foyle as I pass the peninsula's tip. I can see this happening in the distance, along with the hills of Donegal looming beyond. This last stretch is completely flat now, and I pedal at the highest cadence I can manage along the main road, vigilant so as not to miss the hidden narrow lane that will take me across fields toward the house where I'll now live. This was my last ride out of Castlerock and I breath a sigh of relief - overcome by a sense of escape. Escape from the stunning, cold, haunted beauty of a place that is not for me.

The Forest Shortcut

"You'll not find much there!" 

I am intensely focused on picking and consuming blackberries at the edge of the woods and the elderly voice behind my shoulder startles me. The man, in his 80s, leans on a walking stick and shakes his head sadly. 

"Two ladies just come through with big buckets you see. Took every last one so they did."  

The blackberries had indeed been suspiciously sparse that evening. But I could still find those juicy few that evaded the buckets, some high up, others hidden deep in the hedge. Quickly I grab a couple and reach my hand out to the man - nearly tripping over my bike in the process, which I forget I am still straddling. He shuffles toward me and critically inspects, then accepts my offering. 

In the lingering twilight, we now stand side by side facing the hedge. I scan the vines for remaining berries, then point to them so that he can pluck them himself. He is smiling now, satisfied, although still shaking his head and muttering "buckets" under his breath, in disbelief over the ladies' behaviour. 

"You get all sorts coming through here." 

You do get all sorts coming through here - most recently, me. There is a forest and a series of smaller wooded clusters that start down the road, stretching along the side of the mountain. What started out as a shortcut home soon turned into dedicated rides with deliberate detours. And so within a week's time I went from "not needing" a mountain bike, to suddenly being unable to imagine myself without one. 

The local forest is like an amusement park, where you get to select your desired level of difficulty or excitement. There are tame trails, with only some mud and loose gravel to challenge you. There are steep up and down stretches with tight turns, the surface all slippery rock with sleek autumn leaves strewn on top for good measure. There are marshy parts. There are flights of uneven stone steps carved into cliffs god knows how long ago and now crumpling. There are lakeside singletrack loops requiring precise control and a bit of luck to not end up in the water. Choose your adventure. 

In many ways, I feel like I'm back to where I started when I was first writing this blog: out of my element, hardly knowing how to ride the bike I am on, and understanding very little about it. Once again, my cycling style is a two-wheel equivalent of a stroll. "Shredding" I am not. But oh my god, I can ride through a proper forest, and it is gorgeous here, and I feel like an explorer in a new land on an indestructible all-terrain monster of a vehicle that is also silent and pleasant and moves at just the right speed, and I'm so happy to be on it. Am I "mountain biking" or just riding through the woods? Honestly, it doesn't matter. 

Tracing the Tangles

In theory, cycling on Cape Ann - with its miles of rocky beaches and its quaint villages - should be idyllic. In practice, it is all main roads, devoid of shade and dense with traffic, along a largely hypothetical coastline. The water views are obscured by developments and the sea is strangely scentless much of the time. Add to that the crater-sized potholes, the unyielding drivers, and the mosquitos immune to insect repellant - and frankly I don't find it so idyllic at all.

But stubbornly I persist: the same old 45 rolling miles, from Rockport to Ipswich and back. There is exactly one stretch of backroad along my route, and I anticipate it as one might anticipate a tart fruity filling in an otherwise bland pie.

There is only one stretch of backroad, but this stretch has a little of everything: climbing, quiet, overhanging trees, wooden bridges over saltwater marshes. And the part I look forward to most are the twists. The narrow road loops abruptly to the left, then to the right, then to the left again, then - who knows. It twists haphazardly - not so much a series of hairpins, as a mess of tangles.

As a young girl I once found a stray length of golden chain in my grandmother's garden. It was thin and delicate, the kind of chain meant to be worn with a pendant. But now it was dirty and torn and missing a clasp - not really of use to anyone. I remember standing there and spilling it back and forth from one hand to the other, fascinated by the curves and tangles it made each time it settled on my palm. I would trace the tangles with my eyes and it was an act of meditation.

This memory comes out of nowhere as I now trace the twists of the road on my bike. Or rather, it is the bike that traces them. I merely hang on and take it all in, savoring the experience. The bike leans dramatically left, then right, then left, then ...who knows. And I relax and lose myself in the meditative feel of it, my hands keeping clear of the brakes. I can't tell you how I finally learned to corner. It just happened one day. It emerged from a tangle of experiences, memories, emotions.

To Know a Mountain

The mountain is impossible to ignore. I see it from my window first thing in the morning and last thing before the light fades - nearly at midnight on a summer's night. I see it when I ride to and from town, and when I ride in loops around the countryside. No matter where I go and what I do, the mountain is always there, an enormous living, breathing thing, looming over the landscape.

At 1,263 feet, Binevenagh (pronounced "be-NEvna") is actually quite small. But it cuts a dashing figure on the Limavady landscape. It stands alone, outlined crisply against the ever-changing sky. Seen from the seashore, it resembles a crumpled old hat (or the snake that ate the elephant drawing from the Little Prince). From other vantage points, a jagged edge protrudes. Steep on all sides, it is topped with a large lumpy plateau, covered with forests and meadows.

Gazing at the mountain everywhere I went, all I could think of was climbing it. I hesitated at first. It felt so special I did not want to rush it. But finally one morning I woke up and knew it was time. The atmosphere was festive.

The road up Binevenagh starts directly from the house. But a friend suggested I take a detour - swinging around the coast, then turning onto another road to give myself a bit of a warmup before the climb. "Even with that frying pan of yours, you'll need it!" He was referring to the 11-36t cassette my bike was decorated with.

The ascent is relatively short and steep: 1,045 feet of climbing over 3.5miles. It is continuous climbing, much of it at a 10%+ grade, the road steepening, letting up, then steepening again. Right off the bat, the pitch was tough. I went at a good rhythm, but after a mile stopped to take a breather at a crossroads. Most of the mountain continued to tower ahead; I had hardly chipped away at it.

But when I turned around, the evidence of the mile I'd already done was in plain sight: A sharp dip, and the hills of Donegal spread out behind a shimmering sliver of water. Still narrow from this vantage point, the Lough Foyle is a saltwater inlet that separates the western part of Northern Ireland from the northwestern tip of the Republic. The border between the two nations is rather picturesque here. Climbing Binevenagh, the view becomes more breathtaking with each push of the pedals. And the sheep become more frequent.

How to describe this climb... The pitch was doable in my low gears. But the continuous steep grade made it tiring. I switched between my 3-4 lowest cogs and stood up occasionally (something I've finally learned to do), and tried not to get overwhelmed. I ignored my legs and focused on the scenery, aiming my eye at the top. As I kept going, the sheep were like loyal spectators. They looked at me with sympathy, understanding, encouragement. I was not miserable on the climb; it was a peaceful and oddly calming experience.

For some time, the sheep were my only company. Until, out of nowhere, a man in blue pulled up next to me. Even as I spotted him in my peripheral vision, I knew he was a Cyclist. Slender and agile, he moved so fluidly, it looked like liquid pouring uphill. Riding next to me, he matched my pace effortlessly as we talked. He lived nearby and loved to train on this mountain. He was an endurance cyclist, and rode in the Race Across America last year. Before we parted ways at the top, he introduced himself: Joe Barr.

I watched him disappear down the other side of the mountain, as beautifully as he climbed. Later I learned he was a retired Irish pro-racer.

The top of Binevenagh... The plateau covers a large area, and the highest point is somewhat uneventful. A painted bridge over a stream, a scraggly meadow with Queen Anne's Lace and buttercups, a forest in the background, and lots of sky with very distant views of water. From here on, there are several options for descending. One starts right away and is fairly steep and twisty, consistently throughout. Another is further down the plateau. It is longer and gentler most of the way, until it ends in a sudden, sharply winding vertical drop to the sea at the very end. 

To start with I chose the first descent. The steep, narrow, winding road pushed my comfort zone. I was in control around the bends, but had to work on myself to keep calm. I did breathing exercises to keep from shaking and destabilising the bike. Descending on the left side of the road felt intuitive; my brain had already switched over.

This descent was a heavily shaded one, winding its way through a forest.

But after every bend, a view opened up, each more beautiful than the next. If it is possible to feel both cautious and relaxed at the same time, that is how descending this road felt.

Cars passed me up the road occasionally, the drivers waving, friendly  - something I am still getting used to here. Toward the bottom, one driver was trying to communicate something urgently, which I did not understand - until I saw a row of pointy brown ears up ahead. Quickly I stopped, dismounted and clambered up the side of the road to let the herd of cows pass. 

The final winding stretch dumped me onto the coastal road unceremoniously. Feeling sad it was over, I repeated the loop, then crawled home, spent and drunk on mountain air.

Several days later, I climbed Binevenagh again to try one of the other descents. The road along the plateau offered wide open views of both the Lough Foyle and the North Atlantic.

I rode through a dreamscape of hot-pink sheep grazing upon neon green grass, as the sun came out over the hills of Donegal.

At the far end of the plateau stood "the boat man," as the locals refer to him. He is Manannán mac Lir, a god of the sea - a new statue the local council has erected just in the past week. Facing Magilligan Point (entrance to the Lough Foyle on the Northern Ireland side) - the mythical wood-carved figure spreads his arms over land and water of the bordering nations. 

Standing there, I remembered being at Magilligan Point, at the ground level, and looking up at the mountain from there. Some form of symmetry had been achieved. 

The descent was long, tame and idyllic, rolling through farmlands. But at the end came the stretch I had been warned about: This section winds tightly, down a steep grade. I was advised to either walk or ride the brakes once I saw the crumbling rocks sign. Over the course of two loops, I tried both methods. Riding slowly with good brakes is actually a bit easier than walking the bike. 

After some S-bends, another sharp bend follows before a vertical drop onto the main road across from the water.

The spot is Downhill - defined by the magnificent view of the Mussenden Temple - a round structure at the edge of a cliff, which a nobleman had built for his niece... with whom he may or may not have had an affair with. The niece died before the temple was finished, infusing the story with an extra air of tragic poeticism.

I looked back at the road I had come down. I was not as shaken as I thought I'd be by the descent. But with the rush and the beauty of it over, I felt lost - so much emotion can build up along these stretches, and it has nowhere to go. Maybe that is why the cliffs looked especially beautiful in the evening light. And maybe that is why I put all my remaining energy into the 10 miles home along the flat coastal road. Big ring, small cog, setting sun, burning legs, cold air, sprays of water, and Binevenagh towering over it all. Turning the pedals madly as I raced home, I already longed to be up there again.

Floods and Flowers

A ride that starts with mild rain, luring me out, ambushes with a downpour. I am too far out now to turn back. Might as well keep going.

This is all right. My tires slice through puddles.

Rain, rain, pouring rain. Drumming against my helmet. Dripping from my visor. This is okay. This is rather peaceful. The roads are all mine.

Meadow, meadow, forest, farm. Farm, farm, forest.

But darn, what's this. Country road, traffic backed up around the bend. I pedal carefully along the shoulder.

Endless line of cars, deep puddles, feet clipped in, water pouring down my face off the soggy visor, thinking "This is crazy," feeling calm, humming to myself.

A woman driver in a pickup rolls down her window. She points to my bike, then points to the back of her truck. I half-raise my hand in a half-wave like "I'm good, thanks." She shakes her head and smiles. I pass her in traffic.

Pedal, pedal, pedal. Rain, rain, rain. Cars, cars. Honking. Brake lights.

Two teenage boys in a Jeep roll down their window and lean over. "Cool bike! Cool braids!" Thumbs up to me from the teenage boys.

There is a soggy book on the grassy side of the road. Tossed by a kid out of a car window? Kittens on the cover. Bloated, wet kittens.

Let's see, what is going on at the front of all this backed up traffic...

A broken light. A ditch at the intersection filled with deep water. The bigger cars rolling though it slowly. The smaller cars frantically flashing their signals, making U-turns.

I pass them all and turn right. No one else wants to go there. What's wrong with right?

No matter. An end to the chaos. A silent empty road. Trees, trees. Darkness at noon. Streams of water across the pavement. Rain.

This is okay. This is all right. This is rather peaceful. The road is all mine. My shoe touches water on the downstroke.

And then I smell the flowers. A deep, heavy scent, almost an odor. The raindrops carry it, like perfume oil. A low-hanging branch of blossoms. I grab it and pedal home.

My bike is upside down in the kitchen. My flower, my prize is on the table. The rain has stopped, like none of it had ever happened. But water droplets glisten on the petals. And on the pedals.

More Thoughts on Tandem Riding

I hoped that I'd get over my tandem fever by now, but instead I have only grown more curious. So when local tandemnist Matt O'Keefe offered to take me on an early morning ride, I was there with bells on. Matt and his wife Susi have been riding tandem for years. They have one for the city and one for sport, both of which Matt - production manager at Seven Cycles, and welder at Merlin prior to that - built himself.

A former mountain bike racer, Matt's attitude to cycling is "the less pavement, the better." When we set off, he suggested we do an unpaved loop instead of going on the road. I had no objections.

I was actually very interested in the logistics of how a tandem would work where we were going. The thing about dirt roads in the Boston suburbs, is that they are more like trails: For the most part not technical, but quite narrow - at times claustrophobically so, with a path through the woods just wide enough to fit a single bike. They can also be twisty. I was curious how a tandem could be wrangled around corners through some of the trickier spots.

But neither the tight turns along the narrow parts of the path nor the sharply zig-zagging boardwalks across bogs were a problem: Matt steered the long machine with precision through gravel, dirt, mud and sand, over ruts and ditches, and around tight corners. Tandems really can go anywhere! The experience from the stoker's seat was fantastic. All I had to do was pedal, and the huge bike did all this cool stuff under Matt's captaining.

In this vein, I keep mulling over the idea that tandems are a great way to expose cyclists to styles of riding they are not yet comfortable with on their own. They could be a tool not only for couples and friends of disparate abilities, but also for cycling clubs and various organised events. For instance, I can imagine a club event where experienced tandem captains offer stoker spots for tours through gorgeous but tricky terrain. Or a tandem race, with stoker positions open to cyclists who would not race on their own. Just a thought, but it could be great fun... Then again, it could turn out like this. Either way, I am in!