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| always sit where you can see your bike |
It was his last day of a weekend furlough in my neck of the woods,
Cambridge Jct. Named so from a time gone by when the
Burlington&Lamoille RR connected with the St. Johnsbury RR, history has it that the train would stop for passengers, freight, and water.
Sometimes the locomotive would change direction on the massive
turntable powered by local school boys pushing the great lever that moved it. An old cross-roads and special place in my heart.
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| Cambridge Jct Trolley House, my farm in way back right of frame 1920's |
It is a vintage main-street, home to all manner of local needs and still
feels that way. A mile and a half away, across the river, my side-hill farmstead is situated on
the southwestern fringe of the North East Kingdom where life is pretty
slow on a Sunday morning. There would be time enough to enjoy a proper breakfast at a local eatery.
No need for leathers in this prime July weather; we dressed lightly to eat at 158 Main from the 7Dayzes fame in a pop-culture newsy. It was a treat for him as he'd never been. The server appeared on the porch, ready to scribe our order: crab cakes Benedict for me, farmers breakfast with french toasted baguette wedges, that took a steak knife to cut, for him. They make their own bread here; a legendary feature on their menu. While we waited for our meals, I pondered out loud, "do you have time for a short run, 90min or so, to a special place with an extraordinary view..." I proposed a trip to the rock.
"It's off a local road, just resurfaced, along the river, near the end we'll take a left and go up... it's doable on a motorcycle... it's been a while for me, I used to take my kids up there from the bottom trail... but a bike can make it up to the trail-head... we walk in from there... I'll need my poles though..." He gave it some thought, then he agreed to fasten my trekking sticks under the saddlebag top flap.
Post-breakfast, we made for my house to grab said poles and then mounted up for the short roll to our low altitude, summit views. It's a mere eight miles to that wilderness turn off. Eight miles of winders, sweepers, and twisties along the ribbon of water called Lamoille River...Abanaki for "the marrow of the bone....life". It is a motorcycle enthusiast's delight and perfect for a Sunday morning quickie. Empty accept for us, gliding effortlessly, 2Up past rolling pastures and long-lived farms.
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| the Hogback Road along the Lamoille River |
A casual 40mph brought us to our up-hill lane; a left hand departure
from the velvety Hogback Road joining my town with nearby Johnson VT. This morning, it was traveled by only us as I basked in reverent solitude and appreciation for his indulgence this pristine morning. Anxious to navigate his way, with his confidence in GPS more so than my faded recollection; it was validating to find Prospect Rock Road right where it should be.
I smiled with anticipation as we entered the modest paved lane before eased onto well maintained dirt; sparsely settled with residential houses, then camps, then tent sites among the dense hardwood forest. At each transition in road surface, he would stop his bike, turn to me and ask; "how much farther?" "A few hundred yards, maybe?" my too casual reply.
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| a maintained mtn road - ish |
Onward still, to the next downgrade in road-top, "how much farther?" Now I was
feeling his concern too, if not for a different reason. We hadn't been riding together for very long; we were still learning how to trust each other's strengths and talents,
our expectations and limits. I was acutely aware that this was a
powerful but gorgeous bike. It cost a pretty penny and it was his pride
and joy. Not exactly the kind of ride one would take on this worn down, gritty road.
Was I pushing my luck with increasingly inaccurate replies?
the view would be worth it...
"just a 100 yds or so; it's been a long while since I came up here... in my car..." Now his cruiser was bouldering on a class 4 dirt road, trolling past a sugar house set back on a grassy drive. Our only way forward disappearing into the forest, with no level landing in sight. His concentration redoubled, his focus was on balance and the perfect blend of throttle and clutch control. I was certain of the progress of our ascent, that we were near-ish of the landing, grateful it was dry, no mud. At least we had that going for us; then we hit the water bar. The lane had become a logging road as I was shuffling through memories of better road conditions here in my past experiences, not that it mattered now. He could not find comfort in my visual memories.
His impatience was palpable, "how far?" "100 yds maybe." my standard answer to his valid request; each time halting any forward momentum as he leaned over his shoulder to inquire. His conviction to conquer this ride was certain as we always resumed the climb.
Hill climbing on a Victory Vegas, now that's a story to tell... Nothing but washed out road ahead, "how far?" "...couple hundred yards" I noted to myself
better stretch the measure now, I don't gage distance very well; I depend on landmarks, fat miles or thin tenths; I don't think he believes me anymore... while he pushed on with his shiny red, candy cane bike. Fourteen thousand dollars of chromed-out cruiser going up a road made for an ATV; barely fit for this sexy motorcycle.
Imagined by Victory's lead designer, Michael Song https://vimeo.com/19880822, it has a graceful top line that evokes silky roads of smooth tarmac not a back-country wood road. He persevered; in 30 yds the level landing emerged, lodging some parked cars and the rough-rock trail-gate; we made it.
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| the only bike in the cramped landing, beautiful against the woodlands |
He mastered the wilderness road to trust my promise of a good walk to an extraordinary view. He galvanized my confidence in his driving skills. I most likely maxed out his trust in my divined directions. But we both breathed easily facing the comparatively level trail in front of us. "How far..." he asked, "to the view?" I smiled. "Not sure" says I, "...a fat quarter mile maybe, good trail, doable..."
It would test my walking strength, but no way I was gonna give up after that ride up. Grabbing my hiking poles, I began the steady march around rocks, over stones, through water bars; thinking
it's a rough enough foot path that I shouldn't even consider getting his motorcycle out here... view or no view... even though it would make a stunning picture...
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| the rock looking westerly toward the Sterling Range |
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| following the Lamoille River west and south |
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| looking south-easterly |
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| a worthy view |
It did take more than 90min, just barely. Vermont harbors many secret roads and splendid views requiring fearless travel and skilled technique. In this short quest, I affirmed my desire for those places and found the fine line in our riding styles.... I
divine directions, he maps out destinations. Blending the two will take some thoughtful braiding of philosophies.
peace ~ resa
The day was barely in progress and there was still gas in the tank evoking my driver to visit a favorite bike shop in Jonesville; a pleasant twirl from Stowe. We didn't see many other bikes out yet and the roads were still heavey from winter frost lifting from the ground. I was grateful these passenger pegs allowed me to rise up a bit, when I saw the bumps coming, easing the jolt as they were met by the wheels. Gliding down the mountain road, we diverted to the scant boro of Moscow to avoid the bustle of Stowe village. "Troll this one at 25mph" I warned, "the town constable takes her job pretty seriously... ready to pounce on errant speeders." Onto rte100S, navigating the season openers of road construction; we were detoured at almost every junction. Nice to see them get these crossings upgraded... 
An hour later, sufficiently warmed up, empty-handed of the desired nut (it really was a unique design for a unique purpose), he recommended a shop not too far from my address. Our day was growing short as we saddled up, ready for the final leg going home. Back through Stowe and Morristown too, until we picked up another less traveled lane back to my neighborhood. Enjoying the quiet road home, he took a soft left turn to poach one more route, closed to the winter plows, with wide enough gap to sneak the bike onto the covered bridge lying a fat tenth of a mile from my farm. An apropos way to end a rule-bending day.
