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For most Americans an expedition into nature involves seeing little more than a glimpse of a rare owl in their backyard, or a crow’s nest squirreled away behind a neon sign at the shopping mall. If we’re lucky, we might catch a glimpse of deer in the fields as we whisk past in our cars.
I’ve decided to slow the pace a bit. Even now, my bicycle slides across the blacktop as smoothly as a puck on ice; gravity has forgotten me. As I ride out of the shadows on little Station Road and pedal across U.S. Route 9, the temperature jumps a degree or two—a small but remarkable difference. Trapped under a roof of maple leaves, the chillier breezes of morning linger on back roads all day long, while the naked sun and the fumes of cars blast Route 9 with the intense heat of summer.
I wait for a gap in the line of traffic, then kick back at the gravel, gliding across the road. A horn honks. Briefly, the grumbles of the wind are drowned by whining engines. This roar of traffic rises sharply in pitch to the south, then sinks into a growl as cars, pickup trucks, and semis streak past me—a classic example of the Doppler effect. Quickly, I click up a gear and reenter the quiet, shady forest on the other side. The road narrows to a dimly lit tunnel of trees…
A magazine once printed a survey of what bikers think about while riding. Sex topped the list; contemplation of physics wasn’t even mentioned…
For my own peace of mind I began one year to ride my bicycle to work and to the grocery store, observing nature along the way. Since I lived six miles out of town, the daily ride was not exercise per se, just a chore that needed doing. An enjoyable chore, it turned out.
Quickly I learned to endure the hills with a gallon of milk, a bag of apples, and a loaf of bread on my back. I even explored new routes through the low-hanging trees. Who needs a car?
Then, alas, it rained.
I succumbed to the occasional use of an Oldsmobile...
Excerpted from
North to Katahdin
Chapter 11, “Bicycles and Bagpipes,”
by Eric Pinder
To read more, click here.
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