The World on Two Wheels

Between April and October, when the weather is good, I take my bike out three or four times a week for a spin through the western suburbs of Boston. Usually it’s a 20 to 30 mile ride that begins in my home town, winds through Dover and Sherborn and then, depending on my mood, continues through either Medfield or Millis and Holliston, before turning back for home.

I keep up a pretty decent pace for a guy my age, but it isn’t about the speed. I stop every 10 miles or so, usually in the same spots, to admire the hay fields and the tree line, to listen to the crickets, watch the hawks, and just generally enjoy the natural beauty that still exists not far from the big city. There are places around here that look every bit as rustic as Vermont – old stone walls and sheep filled pastures -- it’s just that they don’t go on and on the way they do further north. Sometimes, regrettably, just around a bend that looks like a picture postcard of New England is a new subdivision that looks like it belongs in a calendar called “New Jersey Life.” But, all in all, there’s some very pretty riding in these parts.

Every February my wife and I have our annual “why do we live here” discussion. As we peer out at the dull gray sky and the dirty snow along the roads, I try and remember the ride I took on the first 70 degree day in spring, or the unseasonably warm and brilliant day in late October when I rode through canopies of golden leaves and inhaled the unique woody scent of fall. On more than one occasion I’ve said to my sometime riding buddy, Bill, that people pay good money to visit places that look like this.

I don’t think about much when I ride, and that’s part of the pleasure. I ride for the physical exercise, and because I enjoy the rural roads, but I also ride for my mental health. Riding, for me, is a chance to erase the hard drive for a little while. And, every once in a while, I find inspiration while I’m out on the bike.

While riding on a hot day a few years back, a couple of cyclists hailed me down. They were trying to give directions to a truck driver but were unfamiliar with the roads. As I slowed down, I noticed that both riders were a good deal older than me, and after the truck driver drove away (still lost) we chatted for a few minutes.

One of the riders was 73 and the other 78. One of them had recently had quadruple bypass surgery. They were about 13 miles out on a 26-mile ride. They weren’t on fancy bikes – indeed, one of them didn’t even have toe-clips, let alone the more modern clip-in biking shoes, on his pedals – and they weren’t in a hurry. They were clearly having the time of their lives.They told me they ride regularly, choosing different routes in the area. And, when they’re not riding, they’re hiking in the White Mountains. These two men, with more than 150 years between them, had not surrendered, mentally or physically, to their advancing years and as I rode away I wondered whether I would still be out here when I am their age; indeed, whether I'd ever even be their age. For now, I'm counting on it.