Three more states added and some notes for May

Since the middle of last month, I've added three new states (Texas, Ohio, and West Virginia) to my quest to run at least a 10K in all 50. I haven't had time to write up the runs in detail, but will soon, as each had its own profile and there's a lot that I want to record for future reference.

For now, the page that tracks progress in this pursuit (see the link at right) is updated with basic info. After a little more than a year, I'm already up to 14 states, and not just easy close-by ones, either. Just three more, and I'll be more than one-third done!

Will try to pick up North Carolina later this month; also Maine/Massachusetts/Vermont this summer if chances occur. In September, a silent film gig in Iola, Kansas provides the chance to pick up some combination of Iowa/South Dakota/Nebraska, and possibly Oklahoma as well. And a quick trip to Seattle at some point in the next months might add the state of Washington to the trophy list.

In terms of other quests: After a winter of no progress whatsoever, I intend to start adding conquests to my ongoing quest to run a minimum of a 5K in every city, town, or unincorporated place in New Hampshire. I have to keep reminding myself that my self-imposed deadline to finish this project is May 14, 2016. I have something like a hundred more to go, so I better get busy.

In terms of actual races, Hill and Brookline are coming up in the next month or so, but after that it looks like a pretty dry season for new towns. So all the more important to embark on 'do-it-yourself' 5K runs to start filling in the gaps. I expect this will be the first year 'do-it-yourself' towns will outnumber official race towns.

With the nicer weather, I've been out on the bike quite often, and also running with our dogs, so my fitness level is trending better, I think. I've also been going through a process of moving away from all processed foods and trying to limit my intake to whole foods high in nutrition and low in processing. While driving out to Ohio and back this last weekend, I noticed just how rare it is to find real food along the way, but that's a whole separate post.

Anyway, back to the bike: Feels good to ride again, and it's a necessary joint-friendly aerobic counter-balance to all the pounding from running. Speaking of which: all the two-leash running around the neighborhoods, with dogs pulling me in every direction, has made a noticeable difference in my upper body. Another incentive to keep doing it! :)

On the bike, I hope to do several long rides this season. 1. White Mountains loop up and over Kanc, Bear Notch, Crawford Notch, Franconia. 2. From York, Maine over new Memorial Bridge and all the way to my driveway in Bedford. 3. Lake Winnipesaukee loop, from my house. (That's about 120 miles. Doable but would take all day.) 4. More rides out through New Boston/Francestown to hill region of southwestern New Hampshire. Harrisville for lake swimming, or perhaps to my old stomping grounds of Charlestown/Claremont.

Swimming and biking will provide the base for at least one triathalon this summer: maybe a longer one rather that the "sprint" one I did last July, if my swimming allows for it.

And then there's the long-stalled challenge to run on every street in my hometown of Bedford. This remains about half-finished. One reason: I've always felt I should always start/finish at my home, and I've done all the reasonably close streets. So I might have to modify the rules to include remote starting points. We'll see.

My next physical is in June, about six weeks from now. We'll see if any progress has been made. :)

Saturday, July 14: Surry (#137) plusparticipating in my first-ever triathlon

Notice I called it "participating" rather than competing. You'll see why when we get to the results. And yes, this included swimming. And thus opened up a whole new world of endurance activity in which I can strive to not place last.

But first, first things first. Yes, I did participate in an actual triathlon, my first-ever. The "Give Peace a Tri" Triathlon was held on Saturday, July 14 in and around the Surry (N.H.) Mountain Recreation Area. And it was fun, if you count flailing about in brackish lake water while being crashed into by other swimmers as fun. And I guess I do.

My entry was due to the unlikelihood of ever getting the tiny town of Surry any other way. So, as part of the price for coloring in Surry as completed (Town #137) on my N.H. running map, I also had to bike eight miles and swim a quarter mile.

And so I found myself on Saturday morning, after paying the $48 registration fee, standing in line for "body marking." This consisted of a woman writing the number 2 5 0 on my left forearm and my right calf — presumably to identify my remains, I thought.

But no — of course it's just to keep track of you as you swim, run, and bike in various states of undress. Hot and humid conditions meant less clothing than usual, too, for the many entrants with bodies worth exhibiting.

One reason I entered the "Give Peace a Tri" triathlon was that I'd never done anything like it before. What would I discover? Well, here's a handy list:

• Triathlon is not spelled "TriathAlon."

• Things to bring next time: sandals, towels, a light-colored shirt to reflect rather than absorb heat. (What was I thinking?)

• When swimming, even floating to rest consumes considerable energy. And people really do crash into you!

• During the swim, avoid swallowing water because it affects the biking and running later.

• Make sure your bike is in a gear appropriate for the starting grade.

That last point was a key one, for in my enthusiasm to start pedaling, I pulled a muscle on my left leg and ankle. More on that later.

In my corner as "pit crew" for this adventure were Dan Szczesny and Meena Gyawali, who proved very helpful and I'm glad they came along. (The photos were taken by Dan.)

Above: Me pretending to listen to Meena Gyawali prior to the start.

For once I arrived with enough time to get situated. Home base was Surry Mountain Beach, part of the Surry Mountain Recreation Area, itself the result of a U.S. Army Corps of Engineers flood control project from the post World War II era. I remember coming here as a kid.

That thing around my left ankle is the timing bracelet. Throughout the swim, I was concerned it would come off, meaning I'd owe the organizers $30.

And here I was, age 48 — still a kid, just older — taking off my shirt, pulling on a plastic yellow bathing cap, and inserting wax plugs into my ears, which amounted to all my advance preparation for the swim. (This did not include any actual swimming.) About 200 people had entered, as we all stood listening to final instructions, a beach gathering of some weird fringe political party, the yellow-headed people. Hey, we've got the Free Staters here, so why not this?

That's me in there, the whitest person not actually wearing a white t-shirt.

The start was 9:30 a.m., and they launched us in waves every two-and-a-half minutes. First came the 20-29ers, then the 30-39s, and then my people. Knowing that I wasn't going to set any records, I followed everyone into the water, which was as warm as what you'd find in a bathtub. I took a position at the rear, consoling a guy who had the bad luck to step on a giant splinter just before the start. (He was okay.)

When it was our time, people just started walking into the lake until the depth felt right to fall forward and start swimming. I took my time on this, but before I knew it I was in the churned-up water doing the breaststroke — or about 10 repetitions, anyway, before I started feeling bored and tired. Wow! Maybe this wasn't such a great idea after all...

The course took us in a semi-circle around a set of buoys. For most of the distance, I found the only way I could make progress was to float on my back and kick. Soon most of my peers had pushed ahead and I was blissfully left to myself, until I noticed a frothing wave advancing on me from behind. The next wave! Sure enough, I was soon engulfed by the frantic first line of the 50-plus crowd, and they were taking no prisoners. I tried to move out of the way, but more than once got mowed down by someone's arms or legs as they windmilled into me.

With the water all chopped up, it was only a matter of time before I swallowed some and came up coughing. Sheesh! The water stayed in my trachea, somewhat, for the remainder of the event, and I think did affect my performance on the bike/run segments.

After this, I took a second to look around. Here I was, out in a lake, not even half-way done! I tried counting buoys but couldn't see them all from the angle I was at, so didn't have that crutch to lean on. Was this really going to work? Would I conk out? Finally, I had to stop and talk myself down, which allowed me to keep on floating and kicking until I rounded the corner buoy and headed for the beach.

At this point, with the beach and the exit chute getting nearer, I found I could touch bottom, which I gratefully did, even though the bottom was covered with about a foot-and-a-half of slime. I've never been so grateful to stand in slime! Thus did I avoid a heart attack, at the same time emerging from Surry Lake like something from the Black Lagoon, except lacking a tan.

Dan was right there, bless him, to give me my shirt and guide me to the bike. I ran it up to the starting chute, eager for an activity that was more familiar. Unfortunately, the bike course began on a moderately steep upgrade, and my bike was in mid-gear.

Off to sprain a leg muscle!

I thought I could handle it, but nope. Trying to push down on the left pedal, I wrenched a muscle on the corresponding leg — something between my ankle and mid-calf. Charley horse city! I managed to get started, but I could feel something was wrong down there, and so would search for a chance to stretch it out.

Well, that didn't happen. Having fallen so far behind in the swim, I found myself among the plodders on bikes. So I quickly began catching and passing people as we wound our way up Route 12A and back — about 25 in all, which boosted my sagging mojo. I also was on hand at exactly the right moment to see the leaders (on their way back) miss a turn into the finish because the woman signaling them was blocked by a large truck that just happened to drive up the road at that moment. Ooops!

As I biked, I found myself recovering from the aerobic deficiency brought on by the swim, even as I coughed up lake water. By the time I was in the final mile, I actually felt strong. As I approached the dismount area, I spied Steve Hooper, a photog and former colleague of mine at the Keene Sentinel, and gave him a big flashy confident smile. (Alas, no coverage in Sunday's paper. Steve! Steve!)

And then I stepped off the bike. Ouch! Dan was there to take it from me and urge me over to the road race course, and I tried to run, but the tendons around my left ankle were killing me. Reluctantly, I dialed it back to a walk, and kept going while I considered my options. If I ran, would I seriously injure myself? Was it really that important to finish? It was getting hot, too and I was feeling under-hydrated. At the same time, I was so close.

So I kept walking up the entrance road to Route 12A, and then I tried running again — slow at first, my "old man" gait, just to test the ankle. It hurt. Wow! But something kept me from reverting to a walk. Instead, I just kept going. At least it was in the shade, mostly.

I kept this up for about 1.5 miles up Route 12A (passing a freshly killed skunk along the way), to the point where I started picking up the pace, even as I plodded through a sunny stretch that really heated things up. At the turn-off that put us back on local roads to the finish, the pain was gone, even though my fatigue was growing.

I stayed at a moderate pace through a water station (where they were rationing cups one to a customer, prompting me to refill mine from the jug), and felt even stronger in the last stage, which was on level ground. For the final stretch, I was able to run full-stride down the bike incline, then down a rocky dirt road to the finish chute.

So fast into the chute that I'm blurry. And looking a little like Avery Schreiber without the mustache.

My overall time: 1 hour, 21 minutes, 6 seconds, good enough for 154th place out of 183. To break it down into segments:

• My swim took 13:42, which was 177th out of 183. That's pretty bad!
• Biking was better: I took 32:45, which was good enough for 131 out of 183.
• Running was particularly lousy for me: 34:41, or 148 out of 183.

I should note that five people were listed as DNF, which means Did Not Finish. Of them, three took longer than me on the swim, but even if you include them, I'm still in the bottom 10 swimmers. Room for improvement!

Overall, it was a good experience and a nice way to stretch myself, even if at the same time I also pulled something in the process. (The good news is that it's fine the day after.) I'd probably do another, just to try to improve on the swimming results.

Judging from Dan's photos, though, I have a long way to go before I could be regarded as any kind of an "Ironman." A more realistic goal is to stop looking like the Pillsbury Dough Boy.

Sunday, July 8: 88 miles on a bike!

Click the image to enlarge, and yes, that's us, about to enter the covered bridge between Greenfield and Hancock, N.H.

Well, that was something! Something like 88.6 miles of something, at least according to Google Maps. That's the most I've done on a bike in a long time, and maybe the most ever. I'll have to ransack my addled brain on that, and see if anything else measures up.

But the nice thing about this long haul, which took 10 hours altogether, was that it not the result of any big crusade or detailed planning. It started because I wanted to do some lake swimming in advance of my first-ever triathalon on Saturday, July 14.

And the best place to do lake swimming I knew was Harrisville Pond, on the shores of which my family spent our summers when I was a boy, not the big kid I am now. The town beach is a fine spot to wade in an actual lake and thrash about, which is about as technical as I can get with swimming.

Toward the end of last week, Sunday was looking to be one of those great summer days we sometimes get in New England — sunny and warm but not HOT, and dry rather than humid. Maybe a breeze! They don't happen too often, but they're ideal for doing anything outside. (Except yardwork and household chores, that is.)

So instead of just driving out to Harrisville (about 40 miles one way) for a swim, why not take the bike? After hours of pedaling, nothing beats jumping in a lake. And my wife could pick me up for the drive home. Sure!

But as the weather forecast morphed into certainty, I couldn't see riding to Harrisville one-way. No! The weather would be too good. Conditions would be too perfect. The Granite State landscape was in full summertime glory along my chosen route: rolling hills, verdant bogs, quaint village centers with white steeples, local stores amply stocked with Gatorade.

I had to do the whole round-trip. Plus, coming back from Harrisville would be mostly downhill, and afternoon winds would likely be coming in from the west, promising a fun return leg.

On Friday, I outlined my plan to two friends, Dan Szczesny (pronounced "sez-knee") & Meena Gyawali. (Pronounced, er, just the way it looks...) They surprised me by saying they might want to join in! No problem — an ambitious ride such as this should not be savored alone, I thought. Plus, if I disappeared, they might have at least an idea of where I went missing. Another bonus turned out to be that Dan brought his camera, and I didn't, so we at least got a few pictures. I've included them as part of this post with his kind permission.

So on Sunday at 7:15 a.m., I bade my wife goodbye and pedaled down my driveway, bound for Harrisville Pond, some seven towns and 40 miles distant, and probably 1,000 feet higher in elevation. (Actually, I just checked, and Harrisville's official elevation is 1,335 feet. Bedford, N.H., where I live, is 309 feet. So the gain is more than a thousand feet!)

The first leg: North on Route 114, from Bedford into Goffstown, where I met Meena at the junction of Mast Road. (Dan was driving out to Francestown, the half-way point, and would meet us there.) Meena and I set off first across Goffstown, then peeled off on Route 13 to follow the Piscataquog River to New Boston. With the roads mostly flat, these first 12 miles are a piece of cake.

It's after New Boston (elevation 469 feet) that the hills begin in earnest. Following Route 136 out of the village, the road immediately begins climbing through a classic up-country New England landscape: meadows and marginal farms (some actually still in business!), horse properties, weed-choked bogs, and stone walls just all over the place. Through it all the road climbed and fell, gradually rising until just before Francestown's town center (elevation 831 feet), which it attains via a final murderously steep climb.

Meena and I savor some time off the bicycle seats in Francestown.

Dan was waiting here, as planned, and he joined us on a mild stretch of 136 to Greenfield (elevation 840 feet), where we had a unicycle sighting, then along back roads and mild downgrades to a covered bridge that spans the Contoocook River. This stretch brought the trip's one mechanical mishap: I overenthusiastically shifted into high gear, causing my chain to come off. A few moments of fiddling fixed it, leaving my fingers (and, soon, my bike shorts, and later, my face) smudged with black gear grease.

Over the river and through the bridge...yes, I know that's not how it goes.

After taking photos at the bridge, we began a steady climb to Hancock's village center, at 876 feet the highest point so far. We stopped there in front of the John Hancock Inn (serving guests continuously since 1790 — presumably not the same ones) to reconnoiter prior to the final push to Harrisville, whose town center is located a whopping 500 feet higher than where we were pausing.

Unfortunately, the assault on Harrisville (via Route 137 south, initially), begins with a ridiculously steep downgrade, a dangerous curving slope seemingly straight down that loses perhaps 100 feet before finally bottoming out as it crosses a small bog. Great!

And only then commences the great uphill battle, which is fought not at a steady pace, but in short intense bursts due to the way Route 137 was engineered. The plan seems to have been to follow the path of least resistance, with no effort being made to smooth out any grades. So, on a bike, you'll go for a short level stretch, then encounter a terrificly steep pitch, often on a curve, with the road working its way up and out of the valley one jump at a time. This happens again and again, and never lets up until you cross the border into Harrisville and Route 137 finally passes through a level boggy area. Finally, there's one more rise before we turn onto "Hancock Road."

Meena schleps along a rare level stretch of road somewhere between Hancock and Harrisville.

As I neared this rural junction, I was alarmed to see ROAD CLOSED signs set up at the intersection. After all this way? A closer look brought relief: road WOULD BE closed for bridge replacement starting Monday, July 9. Tomorrow! What luck — we'd chosen to take out journey on the last day possible before a crucial bridge would be removed.

Down we went, the rough and narrow surface (just about one car wide) leading us into a network of back roads that would take us to Harrisville's town center. I never remembered it being very steep, but the upgrades kept coming, though at a milder rate. (Funny how important these things become when you've been on a bike for nearly four hours.) But shade was plentiful, the air was cool, cars hadn't been invented yet, and the pace was slow enough so that all the forest sounds came through as if I was walking quietly without any kind of bike at all.

While stopped at a junction to wait for Meena and Dan to catch up, I checked the time. 11:20 a.m. So we just might get to Harrisville Pond at the time I expected: between 11:30 a.m. and noon. Nice! Soon the grades stopped, and we were riding along the rambling road that follows the north shore of Lake Skatutakee (fire up the spell-checker!), which is lined with ramshackle cottages and get-away cabins from another era that have somehow endured into the 21st century, many unchanged since I was a boy.

Meena rounds a bend on the shores of Lake Skatutakee, among humble cabins unfit for the glitterati.

No one-percenters buying up lakefront properties here! And that's a good thing, I think, for what amount to entirely personal and quite selfish reasons. For I take solace in passing through this landscape, which I knew as a boy and which hasn't changed much since. I'm glad it still looks (and smells and sounds) the same, even as the whole world around it has changed, including me. Everyone should have a Harrisville to go to once in awhile, I think.

Meena tackles the last of many, many hills leading to Harrisville. That grade is a lot steeper than it looks, folks!

And then the final this-is-really-the-last-one hill, and there we were: The Harrisville General Store, where we stopped to catch our breath before a short ride over to the town beach. I forget what Meena's mileage counter said at that point, but Google maps had my mileage then as 42.5. Not bad in four hours, considering the rise in elevation, and all our stops for water, photos, and chain rehanging.

Meena and I (far right) on the Harrisville General Store porch.

After noshing on fare that included a blintz for Dan (at the Harrisville General Store? Where they once had a grimy pot-bellied stove and rat cheese? I guess some things have changed...) we checked out the picturesque red brick town center, inadvertently riding through what turned out to be a memorial ceremony (oops!) being held on the small bridge near the library (I thought it was a wedding reception, with future brides straining to catch the bouquet, but it was a family placing flowers into the water.)

An image of the ceremony on the bridge in Harrisville's center, taken at a respectful distance.

We then made our way to the town's public beach, where we parked our bikes — no locks, of course. I then waded in and discovered that yes, I remembered how to swim, and also that there's nothing as pleasurable as wading into a lake on a summer day.

Harrisville Pond as seen from the town beach, with yours truly in the water not drowning, but attempting to wave.

We stayed just long enough to realize that if we stayed any longer, we'd never leave. So, hopping on the bikes, we made a quick exit from Harrisville, but then commenced climbing (more!) on the worst road of the day (lots of pavement cuts filled with gravel) to the next town to our south: Dublin, elevation 1,453 feet.

Believe it or not, Dublin supposedly has the highest town center in New England. I'm not quite sure I do believe that, but still it was good to know it would be all (well, mostly) downhill from here. And it was! Taking Route 101 to Peterborough, with a westerly wind behind us, was a Mr. Toad's Wild Ride of steep downgrades and flying through dangerous intersections and columns of passing trucks and all manner of obstacles, including a bridge under construction and a rotary that's located very inconveniently at the bottom of a long steep downgrade into Peterborough, elevation 718 feet and Mile 52.7 of the day for me.

Meena and I posing for pictures in Peterborough. I'm the one who's not the small dark-skinned woman.

We stopped at the Peterborough Diner for a snack (a club sandwich for Dan & Meena, a piece of blueberry pie for me), and then steered north on Route 202 to find Route 136, which would take us back to Greenfield. I didn't know this road, but we were all pleasantly surprised to find it devoid of any intense hills. And before we knew it, we were back in Greenfield and headed toward Francestown. (Mile 65.2.)

Once there, Dan decided he and his rebuilt Schwinn would continue, and so would Meena, and they'd pick up the car later. So back we went to New Boston, propelled by a brisk west wind and zipping down slope after slope. It almost seemed effortless, which either meant I had gotten strong enough to handle a ride of this length or that I had lost all feeling in my body.

Before I had time to ponder that, I was in a controlled descent on the long grade down into New Boston, where Dan and Meena and I bade goodbye. On my own, I then cruised back though Goffstown and Bedford, arriving home at 5:15 p.m. Total mileage: 88.6. And other than a little saddle soreness, I felt pretty good! (And a day later, I still do.)

Dan and Meena continued into Manchesterat their own pace, with Meena adding extra detours along the way so the miles would pile up. Finally, by going up and down their street on Manchester's West Side, her odometer flipped over to triple digits. In one day, 100 miles for Meena! Very impressive.

And the best part of it all: the lack of careful planning, which added a nice sense of serendipity to the day's activities. Did we really do that? Yes, we did!

As Mr. Kurt Vonnegut wrote in his novel Cat's Cradle: "Peculiar traveling suggestions are dancing lessons from God." Today's version of that would be: "Peculiar biking suggestions are dancing lessons from God."