West Point, NY --> Litchfield, CT --> Sturbridge, MA --> Boston, MA

JULY 16, 2016

The four day break felt heavenly. It also made getting back on the bike really difficult. To add to our sluggishness, our departure from West Point looked to be a repeat of clouds, rain, and climbing.

When we went to get our bikes, we found them wiped down and the chains newly lubed. Adam, who had already been up late the night before preparing to teach new incoming instructors, got up before us that morning just to help get our bikes ready before starting his own early day. He must have known we needed the pick-us-up. As we loaded up, Karen, Ali and Henry all buoyed our spirits enough to get us on our way. Thank you so much, friends.

With the rare cool air brushing our cheeks, we rocketed down the mile long 12% grade that is Stony Lonesome Road, made one last loop around the Plain and snuck into Grant Hall for quick provisions before slipping out the front at Thayer Gate. It was an anticlimactic exit. But then again, it didn't need fanfare. We had the chance to say thank you, and that was enough. Our memories of this place and the journey we started here will stay with us forever.

We spent the rest of the morning tracing the Hudson down to the mouth of Route 6 at the Bear Mountain Bridge (the same "Grand Army of the Republic Highway" that we rode across parts of Nebraska, Illinois and Indiana!) and back up toward Cold Spring, before turning East into the last remaining strand of the Appalachian Mountain range. The long rest had done our muscles good; we steadily plucked away the hilly miles and got lost in the beautiful wooded surroundings. Literally lost.

We didn't check a map until it was too late and found ourselves between Kent and Warren, much further north than we needed to be. It was as much riding to retrace our steps as it would be to keep going up and over another mountain ahead. But we were wary of New England traffic on the highway we missed, and so opted for the extra mountain. What was another 2,000 feet anyway?..

Needless to say, we were thrilled when we finally showed up at Christian and Lynn's place, a lovely old horse stable converted into a handsome home. They already had a dinner of roasted chicken, potatoes and salad waiting. Yum.

The next day we awoke to whole wheat pancakes (double yum) and got on the road. The main stretch of the day was a hot muddle of sun, heat, humidity and cars. It wasn't our favorite. Once the day's temperatures eventually broke, we got in a stretch of peaceful evening riding on the rural forest roads before spotting the Massachusetts border.

I whooped and hollered the whole quarter mile up to the sign and caused a stir among the neighborhood dogs. made it from Seattle to Massachusetts!!" From somewhere behind a house someone whooped back. "Woooo Hoooo!!!"

We wound our way through the rest of the woods north to Sturbridge, punctuated with a short but scary jaunt on highway 20. There was no shoulder and it was getting dark. Thankfully our reflective gear and lights were enough to spare us and we pulled into town in time to grab one last night of burgers and beer before the final leg into Boston.

The morning of July 16 was bright and sunny. With the last of the hills behind us, we expected only a small portion of climbing ahead. What we didn't expect was the huge gash that glared up at us from Ben's tire. Somewhere on our hectic highway sprint Ben hit something on the road that tore through the rubber casing of his tire. Thankfully the fine-weave threads were still intact to protect the air tube below, and there was a bike shop three miles away. We had now officially replaced every tire once on the ride.

With only 60 miles between us and Boston, we set out in earnest. Perhaps it was the strain of getting back on the bikes again after a much needed break, the string of muggy hilly days, the unreal realization that the epic journey was about it end, or some combination of everything, but after 48 days of traveling we somehow managed to have the biggest fight of our entire ride. I remember feeling anxious about our late start on the day, something we never managed to change over the trip, and Ben slamming his breaks in front of me, a rare display of his agitation by my frustration. I barely missed his back wheel. There was a fuming exchange of words and we spent the next hour riding yards apart.

Then a humorous moment. A flooded road forced us to ride shin-deep through water and hopelessly soaked our feet. I yelped as I plowed across the little swamp, determined not to fall off into the algae midway. Ben smirked as I flew past him to hide the laughter that was already unseating my anger. A few more miles and we both gave up and sat down in the grass to peel off our squishy socks.

We decided take the last leg to the water through South Boston. The broad lanes and arcing canopy of trees over VFW Parkway seemed to bid us welcome, and as we crested a hill we saw the iconic Prudential Tower peek into view ahead. Boston. The sudden familiar surroundings caught us off guard. The cross-country voyage became, in seconds, oddly, just a ride around the block.

WHEELS. UP.

Waiting on a light in West Roxbury, four burly men straddling Harleys yelled at us to move out of the way. In a few blocks the bike lane disappeared as the potholes and traffic became more pronounced. We made a few more turns through the row house neighborhoods, crossed a highway and rolled down some crooked sidewalks squeezed between little league baseball games. There was another street crossing and a short set of steps through stone columns. The beach was crowded and the harbor view closed in; you would only know there was an ocean here if you looked at a map.

My reaction was actually no reaction at all. I looked over at Ben who seemed to be allowing himself to take in the moment, the tears brimming at his eyes. Perhaps it was all happening so quickly. We strolled down the length of the beach toward the quieter southern end, slipped off our shoes and gingerly stepped over the shells into the water. A couple of gracious passersby helped us capture the memory-which still hadn't hit me-and we wandered up to a grassy spot to sit awhile.

At least 30 minutes passed, filled with people out for another summer day. A party of 20-somethings playing volleyball in the sand, their laughter floating on the air between their jokes; a beautiful older woman lounging comfortably nearby on a blanket with her middle-aged daughter; on the shoreline, a pregnant mom trailing her husband and two little toddlers. A young man awkwardly rode an undersized bike down the sidewalk.

I laid back on the ground and nestled my head in the nook of Ben's underarm, staring up at the sky. My mind flashed back to a day, exactly 7 weeks prior. I had also been staring through this same sky on that day, but I was staring down instead of up; down on the bay outside of Boston, quite possibly down on this very beach. I remembered the anxiety in my stomach, the tingle in my legs, and the overwhelming intimidation I felt as I thought quietly, "with any luck, there is only one way back." The bikes in the belly of the plane were our way home.

And in going back to the beginning, I finally realized the end. It was as if a latch had been sprung open and a reel of memories unleashed. I felt again the fear as rain dripped off our helmets on the ride out of Seattle, the knee-aching grind of climbing mountain after mountain and my repetitive terror of plunging down the other side. I saw in rapid motion the sweeping panoramas of a changing American landscape, from desert canyons to the western prairie and from the seemingly endless flatland to the surprisingly hilly terrain of Iowa nestled between the Missouri and Mississippi Rivers. I winced to think of the traffic swirling from Chicago and felt again the calm, irreplaceable peace of the summer evening suns that had stretched and carried us across the farms of the Great Lakes and into New England.

While we rode, our fatigued minds had disassembled the journey down to day-by-day and, at times, mere 5 mile-increments. There was no time to put the pieces together. Now, sitting at the water's edge and unable to go any further, the long road behind us melded slowly, silently into one memory. It became, in the golden light of reminiscence, whole again.

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