The morning sun shines early over the lush hills in Ash Grove, sparkling off the expansive green lawn surrounding Lisa and Tony's farmstead. A bit too bright for a guy who was up til 1 am the night before uploading trip photos, with only help from Sonny, one very furry, callico pussy-cat.
After one final round of strong, boilerplate coffee and the ritual topping off of tire air pressure, it's farewells around and the 5 mile glide downhill to Cambridge and east on SR 313 toward Vermont. Arlington, Vt. is traditional New England: old money displayed in expansive estates, rows of mature maple trees lining the streets, cemetaries of aged headstones, most slightly cocked and surrounded by beds of lillies, hostas and roses, and tight and orderly downtowns of red brick buildings full of quaint eateries, craft shops and lawyer's offices. We turn north on historic Rte. 7A and reach even-richer and more oppulent Manchester. I'm sure many important events from 225+ years ago happened right here where I now stand, per the number of Historic Markers and statues of dead heroes around us. The town was very, very neat, and I feared that my dog might soil the local green, but she held.
Ellen has been fearing the climb up and over the Green Mountains and the Bromley ski area, and I have done my best to assure her that nothing in cycling is hard, only that some days are just slower than others! So, after more reassuring, we slug uphill for 2 hours, keeping the pace out of her "red zone", and reach Peru, another old town with lots of important piles of stones, for a pizza carb snack, before moving on. Lots of roller coaster hills and dales all afternoon, which were more way more tiring than the Bromley climb, before the long downhill runout to end our day in Chester, after 58 miles.
All in all, Ellen handled the hills very well, even tho she readily admits to absolutely hating them. A fine bottle of Argentine wine at dinner erased all memory of the day's pains and I trumped that with a pint of , and no kidding, "Flying Dog Tire Bite" local ale.
Luckily, none of those kinds of canines appeared today from out behind one of those estate buildings.
After one final round of strong, boilerplate coffee and the ritual topping off of tire air pressure, it's farewells around and the 5 mile glide downhill to Cambridge and east on SR 313 toward Vermont. Arlington, Vt. is traditional New England: old money displayed in expansive estates, rows of mature maple trees lining the streets, cemetaries of aged headstones, most slightly cocked and surrounded by beds of lillies, hostas and roses, and tight and orderly downtowns of red brick buildings full of quaint eateries, craft shops and lawyer's offices. We turn north on historic Rte. 7A and reach even-richer and more oppulent Manchester. I'm sure many important events from 225+ years ago happened right here where I now stand, per the number of Historic Markers and statues of dead heroes around us. The town was very, very neat, and I feared that my dog might soil the local green, but she held.
Ellen has been fearing the climb up and over the Green Mountains and the Bromley ski area, and I have done my best to assure her that nothing in cycling is hard, only that some days are just slower than others! So, after more reassuring, we slug uphill for 2 hours, keeping the pace out of her "red zone", and reach Peru, another old town with lots of important piles of stones, for a pizza carb snack, before moving on. Lots of roller coaster hills and dales all afternoon, which were more way more tiring than the Bromley climb, before the long downhill runout to end our day in Chester, after 58 miles.
All in all, Ellen handled the hills very well, even tho she readily admits to absolutely hating them. A fine bottle of Argentine wine at dinner erased all memory of the day's pains and I trumped that with a pint of , and no kidding, "Flying Dog Tire Bite" local ale.
Luckily, none of those kinds of canines appeared today from out behind one of those estate buildings.
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