RIDE REPORTS
Wednesday, 7 November 2018, Twisted Butterfly rides
Ride Leaders: Clyde Kessel (expertly assisted by Everett Briggs) & Tom Allen
37 or 27 miles, 10:00 am start from Great Brook State Park Visitors’ Center, Carlisle, MA
Riders – 37 mi (22): Clyde, Bernie Flynn, Beth Rosenzweig, Bob Wadsworth, Chuck McWilliams, Dan Krechmer, Everett Briggs, Frank Hubbard, Jack Donohue, Gerry Sheetoo, Judith McMichael, Kaz Zelny, Larry Davis, Lindy King, Marc Baskin, Maria Noya, Ray Komow, Rich Taylor, Rochelle Holman, Stan Kay, Steve Carlson, and Veronica Vedensky.
Riders – 27 mi (14): Tom, Arthur Teepe, Bill Widnall, Bob Wilson, Don Mannes, Doug Hobkirk, Gardner Gray, Patrick Ward, Peter Shaw, Richard Fortier, Robyn Maislin, Roy Westerberg, Susan Sabin, and first-timer Ann Bower.
Present at lunch: Helen Greitzer and Mike Hanauer.
Normally, this ride leader composes the ride report in his head and then types it into an email. This tends to lead to a rather terse report. Fortunately for you, the reader, this ride did not turn out normally and you, if you read on, will have the pleasure of reading a rather longer story.
After my bike exploded, I asked “Is anyone willing to take over as leader for the rest of the ride”? You could hear a pin drop in the ensuing silence. That is until Everett spoke up and took over.
Thanks very much to Everett.
Report by Clyde Kessel.
The Twisted Butterfly riders converged in the sunny parking lot of the Great Brook State Park Visitors’ Center for two rides: a long of 37 miles, as well as a not-so-long of 27 miles. They flew in from points north, south, east and west. Most arrived in their four-wheelers; quite a few, determined to “save on parking fees” (as one rider confessed), the cost of gas, or medical fees (“a couple more miles never hurt anyone, right?”), “remoted” from homes as far away as Groton or Cambridge-on-Charles.
At the appointed hour, the leader’s leader, Clyde, called for order: “You don’t have to show respect, but please show courtesy.” The attendance roster was confirmed, followed by the requisite presentation of road cycling safety issues and a route overview.
Wasting no time, Clyde rolled out of the parking lot shortly after finishing his remarks, ready and rearing to get on with the long ride. By the first turn, right (north) on to Lowell Street, the riders were already well spread out. Without a cloud in the sky, everyone quickly settled in to enjoy a rare, late autumn day, cycling with friends. The Twisted Butterflies were headed on a figure eight route to New Hampshire and back.
But ‘twas not to be as carefree an occasion as we all would have hoped. Crossing Main Street in Westford (mile 5.9), Clyde’s bike fell apart. The rear axle broke, his wheel came free – tethered to the rest of his bike by chain alone. Without missing a beat, Clyde stood up (he rides a recumbent) and led his mortally wounded steed to the shoulder on the opposite side of the road. Discussing the breakdown we had just witnessed, we (those of us who were right there when it happened) agreed that it was one of the most bizarre mechanicals we had ever seen. We were all grateful that it did not happen on any of the long descents that were still ahead of us (the first and longest of which was only 0.2 miles ahead!).
For those who do not know, AAA now provides a bicycle and rider pick-up service. Someone asked Clyde whether he had a AAA membership. “I have a spouse,” he said, matter-of-factly. It was clear to all of us that a spouse is infinitely more useful than AAA. Nothing more was said. We all knew Clyde would be just fine, even if his steed was done.
I volunteered to take up the leader’s mantle for the rest of the ride and it wasn’t long before our motley (i.e., colorful) flutter of cyclistas continued our charge toward the frontier. Briefed by Clyde before pushing on, I kept the migration going to our first rest stop, the Dunstable Town Hall (mile 14.5). En route, we had one brief detour at mile 8 on Oak Hill Road. Road construction forced our caravan left onto Forest Road. We regained the designated course exactly one mile later, turning right onto Groton Road and then left onto Russells Way.
Much to Marc’s chagrin, group photos were taken (thank you Jack and Maria) before we left the town hall. (Marc was chagrined because he really wanted at least one more photo taken – the rest of us were ready to roll again and refused to pose any longer.)
The next leg of our journey would take us into New Hampshire on roads that had been carefully chosen to avoid border patrols (federales and civilian posses alike). In spite of the more challenging terrain, we wasted little time on the 7-mile loop that would bring us back for a second quick regrouping at the aforementioned town hall. At one point we climbed a 9% grade on the aptly named High Street. It was there, at mile 20.1, that we lost another rider. The leader – that would be yours truly - hearing shouts that there was a problem behind, another Twisted Butterfly grounded, went back to investigate. A rear derailleur, deciding the climb was too much, threw itself off the fellow’s bike. The unlucky rider informed the leader that he, too, had someone – presumably someone as trustworthy as a spouse – to come get him. Clearly, he was on his own anyway, as no one in their right mind – and everyone who witnessed his “mechanical” was clearly in their right mind – would have stopped on that steep climb to help him. It was everyone for themself (sic) on that section of the ride. Besides, we had crossed back into the Commonwealth by then, so we were sure our friend would be okay.
The following miles unfolded over undulating terrain, through mixed forests, past an odoriferous pig farm (I think it is pigs– though I have never hesitated there to investigate), bridging swollen streams and skirting a couple of sparkling lakes. Not hearing otherwise, and having no reason to think it was not so, I believe we all reminded ourselves repeatedly how lucky we are to live where we do, with the unique cycling opportunities New England affords us and our fellow WW friends.
But the fates were not done toying with the Mariposas Torcidas yet. At the end of Keyes Road, just before crossing Groton Road, a shout of dismay was raised and heard again. I pulled over at the Westford Tire & Auto Center. Lindy appeared, looking uncharacteristically beside herself – I do not believe I have ever seen her pushing her bike. “I never get flats,” she complained as she approached those of us waiting. Thanks to Bob Wadsworth’s tire changing crew, Lindy’s tire was changed and we were all rolling again in record time.
By now people were clearly focusing on lunch or getting back to their cars and on with other adventures planned post-ride. There had been a fluttering rumor in the group that the monarch Clyde, upon returning home, had retrieved another bike from the dark recesses of his cellar and was now on his way, flying the route in reverse, to finish the ride with us. Sure enough, I believe it was while winding along on Stoney Brook Road that his unmistakable gestalt appeared, kicking up a flurry of fallen foliage in his wake. He glided by going the opposite direction, but was soon at my side again. I thought he was ready and eager to resume his position as the de facto ride leader. “No!” De lo contrario. He wanted to arrow! That made sense – that way he could greet all the riders again and assuage any concerns anyone might have had that he was not still marooned off in the hinterland. Lindy said adios to us a few minutes later.
As far as I know, there were no other mishaps and everyone else finished the ride in fair season.
The final chapter of this ride – from my perspective – ended at the intersection of Lowell Street and Proctor Road. Rather than stop and arrow the turn onto Tuttle Rd, a turn I missed, I stationed myself at the next intersection to direct folks left to lunch or right to return to the start. Clyde was not far behind me and did what a true leader is supposed to do. He stayed the course, took the final arrow and did there what I was doing some 300 yards down the road. I saw a few folks who, already having been directed back to the start, no longer needed my services.
I regret missing the opportunity to thank those who continued to lunch directly for being part of a memorable ride on a perfect November day. With so many participants, it was fun to mix periods of focused cycling with interludes of more relaxed riding, punctuated by conversations with so many of you. That’s what Wednesday Wheelers is all about, right?
Thanks to Clyde for hosting this ride. Thanks also to the many who cheerfully took their turn – in some cases, multiple turns – at arrowing. Finally, a special thanks to Jack for sweeping and for the attached photo.
Report by Everett Briggs.
I was joined by about a dozen riders for the short version of the "Twisted Butterfly" ride (or, as abbreviated by Lindy's GPS device: "Twisted Butt"). The day was perfect, especially in contrast to recent weather, and the route very lovely. Thank you, Clyde.
Coming upon a road closure at about mile 8 we debated taking the detour per the signage, but with the permission of the traffic officer on duty we were waved on through. We made a brief re-hydration stop at the Tyngsboro Fire House and continued on up Scribner Hill. The porta-john stop on Nutting Road (where the photo was taken) was timely and welcome.
Thanks to Roy for sweeping. Roy and another rider were victims of an arrowing failure, where an arrow was not placed, probably on the assumption that the group were all together and an arrow was, thus, not needed. A phone call quickly resulted in directions to get them back on track.
Lunch at Chelmsford Pizza, formerly Omega Pizza, provided generous portions and tasty sandwiches. It was a pleasure to see Helen, Mike, and Bill at lunch. Bill rode from his home in Lexington, putting in enough miles to be given credit for having done our ride.
Final note: Several riders expressed gratitude that there was a short ride option available to suit their capabilities and stamina. The leader's moving average speed was 12.8 MPH, which is pretty much the WW standard.
Report by Tom Allen.
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