60 Mile Bike @ Newfound Lake
August 2006
PhDs take on the forces of gravity.
Phds; not all of whom went the distance
It was Dave’s turn to choose a PhD excursion to commemorate his upcoming 60th birthday milestone. Unfortunately for those who were destined to join him, he had become an avid reader of an ill-conceived magazine known as “Geezer Jock”. As a result, his brain had been filled with stories about duffers who refused to age gracefully and who set out on tortuous endurance events at a time in their lives when they should have been comfortably seated in their easy chairs with the remote in one hand and a lite beer in the other.
A story had caught his attention about an unstable old timer who marked each passing year by completing a bicycle ride whose length in miles that was equal to his age, (and perhaps also to his IQ). Thus was born the idea of the PhD bike quest with the goal of riding 60 miles. Due to scheduling difficulties, a year had passed since the inception of the 60-mile ride idea. During this time, Matt had begun to approach his 50th, so Matt and Dave tried to come up with a joint activity. With some considerable mental effort, both realized that a 110 K route would not be much different than a 60-mile route, so the 60/50 Tour-De NH was born.
Dave approached the quest with confidence and an air of nonchalance. His prior bike riding experiences had barely tested his capabilities but he was sure he was more than up to the challenge.
Matt prepared in his usual way, preferring not to trouble himself with knowledge of details that would only serve to make him uneasy.
Because of painful memories of a mere 25-mile bike done on a clunky fat tire mountain bike in 2005, Tom went on a spending spree buying a slick new road bike with skinny tires, and special bike shoes that made him walk funny. 
Borb, being a man who knows his limits, devised the latest in a long series of abbreviated versions of our trips, and reluctantly agreed to ride a paltry 25 miles.
Charlie was the most experienced and proficient rider of the bunch, but had been laid low by a gimpy knee. He was actually only weeks away from having his remaining original-equipment knee joint replaced with an artificial one, (made by Brand X Company). He was physically limited and would join us for a short celebratory ride near the finish line.
It was agreed that the route should incorporate a stay at Borb’s newly acquired vacation home in NH. We settled on a route that made a sixty-two mile circuit through west central New Hampshire, starting and ending near Newfound Lake. Some concerns were raised about the elevation changes along the route, but fearless Dave would suffer no wimpyness amongst his comrades. Nothing was known about the amount of traffic or the condition of the roads. We were blissful ignoramuses.
On the day of the ride the weather couldn't have been more perfect except for a perpetual headwind. Four would start, five would finish, and three would shoulder the load.
Just before the start of the 60/50 Tour De-NH, Dave, Tom and Borb passed the tire pump around; each pumping their tires until the "ideal" tire pressure was attained. Opinions were offered, comparisons made, test rides transacted. All the while Matt stood by, his tire pressure remaining at typical bike-storage levels, clueless as to the importance of this activity and without any prompting or informational support from his so-called buddies.
An aversion to pre-planning was evidenced by actually resorting to a last second coin flip to decide whether to go north or south as we started out. South won out and Dave, Matt, Borb and Tom set off. Borb suggested a short warm up lap around the neighborhood of his new place. Tom complained loudly as Borb led the group onto a bumpy rocky dirt road that was incompatible with his skinny high-pressure tires.
Borb reversed direction and led the pack out onto main road. The first few miles were a downhill roll, a specialty of Borb’s. Just outside of Bristol, the road flattened out and an uphill stretch appeared before us. Coincidently, Borb chose that exact moment to announce that he was reversing direction and heading back home. Borb’s parting words were, “Call me when you get to Rumney” but some of us thought we may have heard a great big “I QUIT”.
The remaining three riders pushed on, feeling confident. We surmounted a series of moderate hills and, after about two hours of pedaling, came to a corner store in the town of Danbury. We stopped in to grab a drink and a snack. Tom took out a copy of the route map to assess their progress. Optimism dimmed, as we realized that we were a mere quarter of the way into the ride at best.
An aversion to pre-planning was evidenced by actually resorting to a last second coin flip to decide whether to go north or south as we started out. South won out and Dave, Matt, Borb and Tom set off. Borb suggested a short warm up lap around the neighborhood of his new place. 
Tom complained loudly as Borb led the group onto a bumpy rocky dirt road that was incompatible with his skinny high-pressure tires. Borb reversed direction and led the pack out onto main road. The first few miles were a downhill roll, a specialty of Borb’s. Just outside of Bristol, the road flattened out and an uphill stretch appeared before us. Coincidently, Borb chose that exact moment to announce that he was reversing direction and heading back home. Borb’s parting words were, “Call me when you get to Rumney” but some of us thought we may have heard a great big “I QUIT”.
The remaining three riders pushed on, feeling confident. We surmounted a series of moderate hills and, after about two hours of pedaling, came to a corner store in the town of Danbury. We stopped in to grab a drink and a snack. Tom took out a copy of the route map to assess their progress. Optimism dimmed, as we realized that we were a mere quarter of the way into the ride at best.
Road conditions were less than ideal. In some places there was no shoulder at all and steady traffic whizzed by at high speed. Motorcycles seemed to be everywhere. This is where not “staying the line” takes on real consequences. We pushed on through the New Hampshire backcountry, through the town of Grafton.
This was the real NH, unfettered by flatlander notions concerning home maintenance, where a man could be left in peace to breed goats and arrange rusting vehicles on the front lawn. We passed countless trailers, bucolic scenes of hay-tossing machines, and many places where a yard sale appeared to be a full-time occupation. The ambiance of the region was made complete when the group pedaled past a dirt bike motorcycle race in progress. A true cross cultural experience!
Dave spotted a bucolic lakeside spot for a lunch break. Dave and Tom broke out their snacks while Matt mooched granola bars. About this time, Dave began to crave carbohydrates and started fondly describing his favorite candy bars. The intrepid crew pressed on, eventually pulling into Canaan where they stopped for another break at a small lunch place. Sadly no candy was available. After rehydrating we set off toward Dorchester, the highest point on the route. Views of Mount Cardigan opened up across open fields as we pedaled along and the traffic diminished. The road rose steadily ahead. Lower and lower gears were needed to make progress. The inexorable uphill grind continued on for miles. The grade actually steepened as we entered the town of Dorchester. Maximum effort was needed as we made the final push to what we thought was the top of the pass. Dave and Tom pulled to a stop to wait for Matt who had receded out of sight, a sure indication of diminished happiness on his part. Sure enough, as he appeared out of the distance, the now classic grumpy face was clearly evident. Believing we had reached the top of the pass, we started off again anticipating the reward of a gravity-powered glide down the other side. Hopes were dashed when we rounded a corner only to see the road rise again. Everyone geared down again and continued to grind it out. Too stubborn to quit, a final push was made up the actual final uphill pitch. Tom was trying mightily to keep his focus and maintain forward momentum, when Dave began calling out to him. “Tom…Tom…” Fearing that Matt had finally perished, Tom reluctantly stopped to help with whatever emergency caused Dave to call out at such an inopportune time.
“Did you see that sign”? Dave asked.
It had to be admitted that sign was pretty funny in a 13-year-old kind of way, but not really worth stopping everything to discuss it right then and there. Prominently displayed in the front yard a large white sign nailed to the side of a tree, with handwritten black lettering read: “Hoe for Hire”. Dave named this piece of the trip “Hoe for Hire Hill”.
The long anticipated and well-earned downhill run had finally arrived. This side of the pass was even steeper than the part we’d just come up. The speed was too much for Tom, as he wimped out and began braking on the steeps. Dave rocketed by with wild abandon. Matt slogged along behind suffering from chronic low tire pressure. As he brought up the rear, he smelled Tom’s overheating brakes and couldn’t fathom why you’d try to slow down when gravity was working for you – faster down the hill, Matt thought, means faster to the finish. The descent went on for miles until it flattened out in the town of Rumney. We turned on to route 25 and headed toward Plymouth. This proved to be the easiest going of the entire trip; smooth road, wide shoulder, and a steady slight downhill grade. It seemed we would come to the end of our journey on a high note – a gradual downhill for miles and miles ahead….or at least that was Matt’s fantasy at the moment – he was even noted to be grinning ever so briefly at that point. Dave’s carbo carvings switched from candy to ice cream. He found an ice cream stand and ordered a cup with all the fixings. Matt took it upon himself to berate him for his food selection, having slaved over dinner variations to make sure he wouldn’t get too much fat.
It was time to call Borb and let him know where to meet up with us for the last leg of the ride. Unprepared as usual, we realized that nobody had Borb’s phone number. There was nothing to do but set off again and hope that Borb would find us based on time and distance estimates. We were feeling pretty sure that we were actually going to finish the ride in good shape. We turned on to route 3A in West Plymouth with only about nine miles to go. Piece of cake! As we traveled by the entrance to Tenney Mountain ski area, the words “mountain” and “ski area” should have given us a clue that our hill climbing wasn’t over. Another steady climb presented itself, this time with muscles depleted and reserves dangerously low. This hill was a particularly cruel one, getting steeper the further along it went. Tom had to get out of the saddle and stand on the pedals to make any headway at all. As the crest of the hill came into sight, there stood Charlie, making encouraging comments and congratulating us on our fortitude. At the same time, Borb chugged up from the other side to join us at the summit. The best news of the day was that Charlie didn’t have his camera and couldn’t take the picture of the dismounted Matt pushing his bike up the big hill on foot after having figured out that that was faster than try to pedal it up the hill.
The five PhD’s completed the final few miles to Borb’s place. Charlie exhibited some of his superior riding skills of old by leading the pack. In a display of encouraging camaraderie, Borb informed the exhausted long haul riders, “Now I can beat yez”, and set off down the hill, (a specialty of his). Tom felt compelled to disprove this notion by summoning up his last reserves, leaving Borb in his wake at the base of the hill. Dave and Matt followed close behind. No injuries, no horror stories, no real delay compared to our estimated time to complete, just about as we all had imagined. A real bitch! The first (and last) 60/50 Tour-De-NH was history.
Back at the house, Charlie looked for his digital camera that he swore he had brought from home and must have left on the roof of his car. But it wasn’t anywhere to be found. It was lost! No, not lost, he was convinced it had been stolen. The rest of us were skeptical. “You musta forgot to bring it. Your brain is fried ”. Dismissing Charlie and his camera problems completely, Borb, Tom and Dave went for a refreshing post-60/50 Tour-De-NH swim in Newfound Lake. In the mean time, to divert attention from his fried brain, Charlie concocted a camera theft story with details of thieving neighbors and a shady yard sale. Tom bought it hook, line and sinker.
For appetizers, Dave’s salmon swirls were uncharacteristically unique and tasty. Matt prepared an outstanding seafood dinner with corn saffron cream, (with a lighter version for Dave), cooked in the Swiss borbaque pot. The Fifth Annual PhD Awards Banquet was priceless. It is noteworthy on this occasion that there were prizes for the “Best Award” and the “Worst Award”. These were contrived without rhyme or reason, with prizes being handed out for these categories. The only one that made sense was the “Best Award” in that Charlie got this for having braved the snowshoeing adventure on a newly implanted metal and polyethylene knee. Bravo! For this, he received the coveted Red Sox bottle opener prize – see notes below).
The next morning Borb arose early and went on a solo kayak paddle around the lake. He then prepared a warffle, strawberry, and whipped cream breakfast – eventually. Both Matt and Tom had been awoken in the wee hours of the morning by Borb, who heard Matt’s blackberry chiming in e-mails from afar (the knucklehead forgot to turn it off before turning in for the night). This led Tom to insomnia for much of the remaining night. We were then awakened to the sound of the bottle opener that Charlie had won as a prize. It played recordings from 2004 Red Sox ALCS and World Series game seven glory days when activated. Charlie giggling like an idiot with Borb egging him on. Borb then proclaimed that we should all rise and shine because the warffles were ready. We found out that nothing was actually ready, but that’s a topic for another time.
Post breakfast Bob tried to muster some sort of manly activity for the morning but the 3 major participants of the Tour de NH were too depleted from the previous days’ activity. The group finally decided on a motor tour of the lake and out to “Sculptured Rocks” which is a notable glacial rock formation. After inappropriately discarding some camera batteries and touring the formation, Charlie decided to drive us on a new adventure of one of NH’s fine dirt roads. Apparently signs proclaiming “bridge out” are only there to discourage tourists. Three more quick stops on the way back: • Photograph the notable POW-MIA encampment roadside. • Photograph Matt’s staged fall at the site of his actual fall in Hebron the previous year during the NH marathon. • Find & pick-up Bob’s sunglasses lost the previous day during the final 7 mile leg of the Tour de NH. (No problem for eagle-eyed Matt) Then back to Bob’s house for lunch.
Charlie, Dave and Borb went orf to Thornton to check out Dave’s house and Tom and Matt stayed behind to begin lunch preparations. Tom instructed Matt in the fine art of tearing Cilantro, mint leaves and other-as-yet-undiscovered PhD food items. Quite a production. When the others arrived, the food was nearly ready, with the charcoals blazing and hoisin sauce flowing.
Tom’s robust Asian chicken and beef borbaque lunch was more than enough to add back the pounds dropped on the hilly byways of the back roads of New Hampshire. The ride home was quiet, with each PhD coming to grips in different ways that yet another year has fallen off into the dark abyss of time, never to be seen again.
Someday for sure we’ll reminisce: “Remember that stupid 60/50 Tour-De-NH! What the heck was Dave thinking? We coulda died!” The other notable quote was “I will never put my butt on a bicycle seat again” – any ideas who that mighta’ been?
“Those were the day’s my friend, those were the days!”