Mile Markers #3: A Site for Sore Thighs

First, I see horses. There, at the end of a long gravel driveway, a pair of Appaloosas graze in a lush meadow. I ease past them, into the driveway, and lean my bike against a boulder. The air is cool; the shadows are long. And my day, at last, is done.

At the main office, a stoic woman checks me in. I fork over my credit card, and she hands me a map of the property. She draws arrows in Sharpie, then an X.

“I put you by the water,” she says in a thick New England accent. “There’s nobody down there, so it should be real quiet.”

I thank her profusely, then push my bike down a long hill. Campers and RVs surface from the foliage. I relish the scent of woodsmoke. With the exception of a few belligerent bumper stickers pasted to pickups, the atmosphere is sublime.

I set up my tent and rip open a can of noodles. My Dahon Curl folds into a neat square. I buy a bundle of split logs from the general store, and within minutes I’m warming myself by a crackling fire. Breeze eases through the branches above.

When all else is done, I open a cardboard cylinder and draw a single Snickerdoodle. The cake and chocolate chips dissolve in my mouth. I amble down to the pond and stand on the edge of a bobbing pier. The sun blazes on the horizon, and clouds are stained violet.

The edible—purchased just a few hours ago from a roadside dispensary—works its magic. THC seeps into my brain, and minutes stretch infinitely. The sun becomes more than a sun. The smell of algae is vividly alive. Each spark of the campfire pirouettes into the ether. I douse the fire, savor its sizzling demise, and descend into layers of sleep.

On a bike tour, this is what a perfect night looks like. I couldn’t hope for better.

If only they were all like this.

The Bikepackers’ Dilemma

Three nights ago, I was knocking back beers with my friend Courtney at a slick Boston brewery. We joked and gossiped, making up for all the time that COVID had stolen from us. I outlined my plan—to take the ferry from Boston to Provincetown, then cycle the length of Cape Cod and South Coast, until I arrived back at my front door in Rhode Island.

“So, I used to bike to work,” Courtney said. “And I like biking. But I couldn’t even imagine doing one of these multi-day trips. Like—how do you even plan for something like that?”

Courtney is no slouch. She has a doctorate and has worked for several Ivy League colleges. I’m just grateful that there’s one thing I can do that impresses her. But I took a minute to consider her question. My parents groomed me to love cycling and camping since my earliest days, and cross-country bike trips are now second-nature to me. In many ways, I feel more comfortable on the road with a pair of loaded panniers than I do driving to work.

But then something occurred to me.

“Finding places to stay,” I said. “That’s by far the hardest part.”

The conversation was timely. My full route is about 130 miles, or—for me—three days of riding. The first segment was easy; a popular rail-trail curves along the hook of Cape Cod, and the map is dotted with campgrounds. I picked September to travel, at the tail end of the busy season, when prices drop and social distancing is easier.

But once the trail ends in the town of Barnstable, my ride will be much harder. South Coast is webbed with roads, and their conditions worsen the farther west you go. Beyond the Cape Cod Canal, I can’t expect to find manicured bike paths or prim campgrounds. This part of Massachusetts is largely devoted to commercial fishing and heavy industry. Of all the places to bike-tour in New England in early fall, South Coast is among the least likely.

“So where are you staying?” Courtney asked.

“The first day, a campground,” I said. “The second day—not sure.”

A Place to Hang Your Helmet

Serious cross-country cyclists approach this problem in many different ways. The solution depends a lot on budget, attitude, and risk aversion.

In Bicycling with Butterflies, author Sara Dykman writes eloquently about camping wherever she can. She is repelled by the idea of people owning land, much less whole estates. Dykman spends much of the book pitching her tent in dubious places—and facing off with landowners and law enforcement.

I’m not nearly so brazen, and I’d be horrified to see someone sleeping on my front lawn. But Dykman touches on a serious problem: Where can humble cyclists rest their heads? Sure, we avoid paying for gas, tolls, insurance, and parking, but do we then have to blow all our savings on a room at the Wyndham, because that’s the only place we’re allowed to sleep?

Yes, the vast majority of riders use hotels or campgrounds. Having pushed my filthy bike over waxed lobby floors, I know from experience that hoteliers frown on cyclists—but will happily take our money. Motel managers never seem to care, since plenty of guests at the Super 8 are grungy and transient anyway.

Yet a simple campsite can be hard to secure, especially in coastal New England. RV parks are common, and you can find a smattering of “family” campgrounds, with swimming pools and rec rooms. But the window for camping is brief, usually May to September, when vacationers flock to the nearest KOA, where barbecues and outdoor movie nights abound. A typical bikepacker needs far less—maybe a patch of grass and some fresh water. Ironically, such humble needs are much harder to find.

In short, you’d be unwise to set up camp in Southern New England and hope nobody minds, the way you can in many parts of the country. There is no sprawling wilderness, like in Utah or Alaska, where you can bivouac anywhere. You won’t find wood shelters every few miles, like you will on the Appalachian Trail. Each acre of South Coast is well trafficked, and most land is privately owned. Few management areas allow overnighters. Homeowners are protective of their turf, and stealth camping is flat-out dangerous. On occasion, I’ll spot tents near the bike path or under a bridge, but their owners don’t look like adventurous travelers; they look genuinely homeless.

None of this should matter—except that South Coast is an established part of the East Coast Greenway. I am following the route you’re supposed to take. You don’t have to ride this way; there’s an inland route through Worcester. But if riders want to see Cape Cod, they have to pass through South Coast as well. And ‘round these parts, you have to plan carefully. Where you stay determines how far you’ll ride each day.

In my case, where I will stay is the Dartmouth Motor Inn, just off of a busy suburban highway. It’s the only safe, open, affordable place I could find. And it’s 62 miles away.

New England at Its Finest

The bike path ends, and I pedal down a succession of country roads.

What I didn’t expect are the sidewalks—or are they bike paths? They run along the motorways, separated by raised curbs. But instead of concrete panels, they’re paved with smooth blacktop. I rise and fall over gentle hills. The landscape is a parade of hedges and trees and wood-shingled cottages. Vintage tractors and hand-painted signs beckon from either side.

By noon, I reach the canal. An immaculate rail-trail runs down both banks; barges rumble down the wide waterway. A handful of cyclists ride in the opposite direction, drawn out by sun and crisp air.

My only hiccup is the Bourne Bridge, a masterpiece of steel girders that spans the canal. Cyclists are permitted to cross, and a special catwalk is designed for us. But to reach this catwalk, I have to maneuver across a multi-lane rotary; an endless flow of traffic holds me up for nearly ten minutes. There’s no signal; no crosswalk; no indication that this intersection connects a major bikeway to the only bike-accessible bridge across Canal. And much to my chagrin, this intersection is a sign of things to come.

Rough Patches

One thing I have always appreciated about cross-country cycling is the honesty of the land. You can’t hide wealth or poverty. Drought and pollution are as plain as day. You immerse yourself in the truth of a place; houses change, people change, road surfaces change. The history and values of a place are written on its terrain.

The handy sidewalks vanish. The pavement is suddenly cracked and covered in debris. As I drift into the gutters, my tires roll over litter, dead leaves, and shards of broken glass. Billboards loom all around, advertising fast food restaurants, then attorneys. Luxury cars are replaced with rusty trucks. Gone are the picturesque lawns and vine-covered trellises; now I pass auto shops, strip malls, and salt ponds.

Strangely, the drivers are nicer. All along Cape Cod, Audis and Porsches pulled up behind me, then accelerated noisily, even screeching tires, to express their impatience. Along Buzzards Bay, Jeeps and pickups gave me plenty of space. Despite my odd little folding bike, with its purple frame and 16-inch wheels, no one taunts me, or even honks.

To be honest, 62 miles is a long distance for me to ride in a single day. This middle-aged father doesn’t have much time to train, much less tour, so I usually cap myself at 50 miles. The rolling hills don’t help matters; the climbs are long and slow, and traffic coughed up clouds of exhaust. If I could stop sooner, I would. But as I told Courtney, accommodations are everything. Any campgrounds are closed for the season. I don’t want to pay exorbitant prices for a meager bed and bathroom. All I need is the Dartmouth Motor Inn. It’s the only option that made sense. And if I have to push 62 miles to reach it, that’s just what needs to happen.

Lonely roads morph into suburbs. The sun faded as I cross a bridge into New Bedford. The town is famous for its maritime heritage and top-notch Whaling Museum, but this part bears no resemblance to Moby-Dick. I pass row houses and stores, until I finally reach Route 6, a commercial strip on the outskirts of town. With its glowing signs for Applebees, Target, Olive Garden, and Taco Bell, this was arguably the same strip I’d find on the outskirts of every town.

I lean my bike against a concrete wall. Behind a protective shield, the manager barely says a word as he shoves my key-card through a slot. I wave my thanks and slump over to my room. The door falls open; I find exactly the stiff bed, thin carpet, and cheap furniture I expected.

It’s perfect.

There’s No Place Like Home

I kept thinking about Courtney’s question. How do you even plan something like that?

This was not the trip I’d hoped to make. Like millions of people, I canceled my travel plans in March, 2020. My two-week bike tour down the Danube River went up in smoke. Instead, I biked the length of Rhode Island, followed by a three-day ride through Connecticut. I traveled close to home, crisscrossing local states any way I could.

When my son received his second vaccination, I let myself board a train to Boston with my folding bike, then the ferry to Provincetown. By the fall of 2021, even my super-cautious household felt confident about a week in Massachusetts. I’d still prefer a far-flung expeditions; but if you have to play it safe, you might as well get the most out of your own backyard.

I spend my third day pedaling from Dartmouth to Providence, a stretch of land I barely know at all. Every mile I ride is comically close to where I live—at most, thirty-five minutes by car. And yet, it’s all new to me. I’ve never seen these roads or crossed these bridges. I coast into Fall River, a battered old factory town overlooking the Taunton River. I’ve passed through Fall River dozens of times, bombing down the interstate for points unknown, but I never so much as stopped for gas. This time, I untangle the knot of streets, past taquerias and pawn shops, feeling my way toward the Veterans Memorial Bridge.

The day is sunny and hot, and all at once I roll into my home state. By the time I turn onto the East Bay Bike Path, I recognize every rock and tree. The Providence skyline emerges in the distance, along with the windmills and lighthouses I know so well. The last miles go by in a daze. Before I know it, I’m opening my own gate, walking across my own lawn, and unpacking gear in my own garage.

But now I know. My body has traced the contours between my house and the Cape. I’ve pieced the puzzle together in my mind. South Coast doesn’t make for glamorous bikepacking; but the process of bikepacking makes almost any geography worthwhile—even hardscrabble suburbs by the sea. I’ve learned my home just a little bit better. And tonight, I sleep as soundly as I ever have.