In which I ride to the Seacoast for a once-a-year fried clams ritual

A destination worth pedaling for. An image from www.yelp.com a few years back; the date is repainted every season.

On Sunday, Sept. 2, I rode my bike to the Seacoast to get fried clams. But not just any fried clams—no, these came from Ceal's Clam Stand, a modest shack on Route 1A in Seabrook, N.H. that serves the best I've ever had. Seabrook is also home to our state's only nuclear power plant and several of the co-conspirators in the infamous Pamela Smart murder case; more on that below.

Back to clams: Trouble is, Ceal's open for business for only a short window each year, from Memorial Day until Labor Day. With this Brigadoon of roadside seafood closing for the season this weekend, I resolved to get out there and get my share before the 2012 season came to close.

(I usually only allow myself one visit a year, for as good as the fried clams are, I know they're not actually good for me. But several chances to stop out there this summer didn't happen, leading to this last-minute steeplechase.)

I left the house in Bedford, N.H. at 12:30 p.m. under cloudy skies and headed east. The afternoon wasn't as warm as I expected, and in some places along the way I actually felt chilly. The route to Seabrook (46.2 miles, according to Google maps) took me past places with personal connections, making the whole thing a kind of two-wheeled Proustian journey.

For example: Barely two miles from home, and still in Bedford, I pedaled past Hawthorne Drive, where my mother recently moved into an assisted living place after 84 years of residency in Nashua, N.H. Thinking I should do something, I waved!

Then it was across the Merrimack via the new Airport access Road bridge, then along the southern perimeter of Manchester-Boston Regional Airport, where I saw not one but two Delta aircraft take off. (My dad was employed by Northeast Airlines, a precessor of Delta.)

With parents taken care of, I wound my way to Route 28 and headed south into Derry, joining the route not far from where my wife and I adopted our beloved dog Holly, who passed away in 2009. At the same time, I was close by the place where we take our current three dogs for daycare and servicing.

The ride into Derry is pretty non-descript, with Route 28 an odyssey of industrial buildings, billboards, swampland, crumbling pavement and aggressive drivers. After picking my way through a stretch of construction as the road entered Derry, I turned onto Tsienetto Road, passing by the start/finish of the first 5K I ran after developing adult onset Type 2 diabetes in 2000. (And near a nursing home where my wife once worked!)

Shortly after, I went through the condo development where Pam Smart had her husband Gregory murdered, one of the big stories when I was a working reporter. (As opposed to what I am now.) For years I've been planning to create an opera based on this incidident, and it still might happen.

And on and on. After swinging around the Derry traffic circle with relative ease (just get right behind a car and it works fine), I turned onto the Hampstead Road and found myself in the less frenetic area of East Derry, childhood home of astronaut Alan B. Shepard and also the location of a surprisingly long upgrade that I never noticed before.

I ground up the long hill until reaching the store at the top, where I stopped for water. (I had two bottles in my pack but decided to keep them for emergencies and otherwise follow the "buy as you go" plan.) Just after 1:30 p.m., so I was sticking to my usual pattern of one-hour intervals, it seemed.

We interrupt this increasingly long post with an image of our final destination, complete with big red garbage can near the food pick-up area. Now that's confidence! (And actually, convenience.)

Moving on, the Hampstead Road is a quiet stretch with a few big ups and downs, but the road isn't in the best of shape, so it's no picnic. Just after the Hampstead line, I turned right onto Main Street, and a whole other set of connections kicked in.

Just up the road was the house of a former co-worker at the Nashua Telegraph (we're talking like 25 years ago now, folks) and fellow Nashua native. Nearby was a cemetery where his first wife was buried after she succumbed to leukemia in 1990. And so on. With so much to think about, the miles flew by, up and downgrade.

As I neared Route 111, I swing left onto Emerson Road, and remembered that this was the exact spot of a road race I ran in Hampstead in maybe 2003. It was notable because of the hundred-plus races I've participated in since 2000, the Hampstead one had the second smallest turnout: a total of eight of us, each carrying a numbered popsicle stick so they could record our times at the end.

After some uncertainty about when I would hit Route 111, there it was: the biggest highway of the day, with long straight-aways, moderate grades, and a generous shoulder. Alas, an easterly breeze had picked up (a sign I was getting close to the coast), so it took some work to maintain speed on this section. And then I realized I had biked this exact road before—in 1985, when I rode from Nashua to Exeter to visit a girlfriend who was enrolled in a summer program at Phillips Exeter Academy.

Route 111 joined with Route 125 outside Kingston, but I soon turned onto less-travelled Route 107, which would bring me almost all the rest of the way. With 111 and 125 so flat, I figgered the rest of the route would be a piece of cake, but no. East Kingston, Kensington, and then Seabrook are full of hills, some of them quite long and steep.

Hadn't expected that, and it was enough to prompt me to make my second stop of the day (about 3 p.m.), at Jones General Store on Route 107, hard by the main railroad line connecting Boston to Portland, Maine, here just a single track even with 10 daily trips by the Downeaster passenger train.

More connections: East Kingston was notable for the road race some years ago in which a local cop started it by firing an actual gun in air!

I figgered I had less than an hour to go, but the ups and downs in Kensington made it the toughest part of the ride. Nice road, though—not much of a shoulder but solid and smooth and not crumbling at the edges. At one point, I topped a grade and looked around at an agricultural vista that stretched for miles. (But still no ocean.)

I didn't know this road, but I remembered that Kensington was the home of James MacQuarrie, a Pan Am pilot who was captain of the ill-fated Flight 103 from London Heathrow to JFK, which was destroyed by a bomb in the cargo hold a few days before Christmas, 1988. I tell you, I'm full of delightful trivia.

Funny how town borders can mean big changes. Kensington is a beautiful area, full of historic homes and older stately farms that have worn the years well and are now largely owned by horse people and other people of means. Things noticeably change when you cross the line in Seabrook, a much more—well, down-to-earth place.

The first big landmark is the former Seabrook Greyhound Park. (I always wondered where that was.) It's all simucast racing now, and maintains a "casino room" offering all kinds of gambling that I thought was illegal in New Hampshire. Roulette, anyone? Those heading to the tables this Labor Day weekend had to drive all the way across a massive empty parking lot (left over from better days, I presume), part of which was so grown up with grass that it looked like a sod farm. The whole place had the air of an old mall from the 1970s that had lost its anchor stores.

Then it was up and over Interstate 95, after which Route 107 dead-ended on good old Route 1, the coastal highway, this stretch of which is chock-a-block with strip mall developments, auto service centers, and fast food restaurants. However, luck was with me as I hit all the intersections on green lights (yes!), and in some cases even outpaced the slow-moving traffic! Fried clams at Ceal's will do that to you, and I was closing in.

After picking my way through the weird traffic circle just before the Massaschusetts line (Hey! Different political signs!), I followed Route 1 into the Bay State for a short distance until reaching my final leg to the coast: Route 286. This modest two-lane road swung back over the border (at the point where it crosses the sadly abandoned rail line between Portsmouth, N.H. and Newburyport, Mass.) and then makes a virtually straight shot over the marshes to the actual end of land.

As soon as you clear the trees and enter the marshes, you know you're getting close, as the slightly sour tidal scent of the sea fills your nostrils and deeply embedded memories of exciting childhood times at the beach starts the adrenaline pumping.

But that's countered today with a vicious headwind coming straight off the Atlantic, prompting me to gear down just to keep going, even though the road is dead flat. For a time, we're on an isolated causeway that's New Hampshire's answer to the Everglades. Far on the left, the nuclear power plant's dome comes into view. Ahead, far ahead, across the open marsh, is the actual seaside, with its dunes and driftwood and promises of civilization and skee ball and yes, fried clams.

Yet one more obstacle looms: it seems the Seabrook Fire Department is operated an "MDA Toll Booth" up ahead to support the annual Labor Day telethon to raise money for Muscular Dystrophy research. I'm not opposed to donating, but the light changes and the firefighters wave me through with a smile.

Then it's a left onto Route 1A, the real Main Street of New Hampshire's honky-tonk seaside, and a short distance north until I round a bend and at least Ceal's comes into view. Yes! I pull into the parking area, lean my bike against a Coke machine, and get in line. (There's always a line, even at 4 p.m. It's that good.)

There it is, the now requisite "bike made it there shot," taken by me with the cell phone, as this time I totally forgot my camera.

So 3½ hours to do 46.2 miles. Not bad. I keep it simple, knowing that I will have to pedal at least part of the way home: a single small order of fried clams and a side order of cole slaw, $16.95. I'm number 82. It takes awhile for the food to come up (they cook everything to order), but at 4:20 p.m., my number is called and I receive my cardboard box with beachside culinary nirvana: fried clams in a white wax paper box with red stripes (the only proper container), and coleslaw packed into a styrofoam coffee cup with a lid on it.

The meal, photographed via cell phone prior to consumption.

And, in a last-minute save, I realized that the picnic table at which I was sitting was downwind of the "sweet waffle" scent from a nearby ice cream business, which was completely wrong for fried clams. I quickly moved to the other side of Ceal's and all was right.

I will not attempt to describe this meal to you or how deeply satisfying it was. For one thing, I'm not Gordon Ramsey (I don't have his vocabulary), and for another, this post has gone on long enough. But I will say that I was worried, because since a "fried clams safari" on the Maine coast two summers ago for a newspaper story, I had lost my appetite for fried clams. Having five meals of them in one day, no matter how good, will do that to you.

But Ceal's, ah yes.

And, in another stroke of perfect timing, my wife called just as I was finishing the last clam. She was leaving work in Salem, N.H., and our plan was for her to drive up Route 111 to the coast until she found me, then give me a life home. (I didn't think I was up to getting all the way back on my own: 90 miles!) I began pedaling back, and with a tailwind, made it all the way to Emerson Road on Route 111 in Hampstead in 90 minutes (much further than I expected), where I got my ride and got saved from extra-sore ass cheeks.

More adventures loom for this month, but 67.6 miles on a bike is enough for now. I'll check in with other goals and plans (including a "50-state run" coming up later this week) next time.

In which I actually ride my bicycle up and over Kancamagus Pass — twice!

"Instead of staying on the couch for a lifetime, and letting this precious time go by, why not be bold? Be fiercely bold and go out and chase your dreams."

—Endurance swimmer Diana Nyad, 62, on Tuesday, Aug. 21, 2012, after unsuccessfully attempting to swim from Cuba to Florida during the prior weekend.

Well, unlike Ms. Nyad, I didn't get stung by any jellyfish. But on Sunday, Aug. 19, while she was in the middle of her swim, I did succeed in riding my bike the entire length of New Hampshire's mountainous Kancamagus Highway, out and back, for a total of 68.4 miles. It took me 6½ hours, gaining (and losing) about 2,200 feet of elevation each way.

I've been planning to try this for several years now, and never got a chance to make it happen. But after a few longer bike rides this season, I felt ready if the right opening came along, maybe this month.

My first shot, I thought, was Saturday, Aug. 11, but the weather stayed wet that day. Saturday, Aug. 18 looked good, but I had to stick close to home. But then on Sunday, Aug. 19, I found myself putting the bike in the car and hitting the road for the 90-minute drive north on Interstate 93 to my starting point: Elvio's Pizza in Lincoln, N.H. (Elvio's is one of the great culinary treasures of New Hampshire, as they make the best thin-crust pizza I've had anywhere, including New York City. Seriously! What better incentive could I have to make it back?)

Conditions were perfect New Hampshire summer weather—low humidity, temps in the 70s, light breezes at most, and later a thin high overcast to cut down on direct sun. There would be, could be, no better day.

So, not knowing quite what to expect, there I was, unloading my Giant Defy road bike in Elvio's parking lot. Next thing I knew, I was on Route 112, heading east through Lincoln's commercial clutter and into the heart of the White Mountains. My pack was full of water bottles and gad, the pedals felt heavy. What was I in for?

(And one note right from the beginning. I carried a camera with me, but only pulled it out a couple of times, making for a dearth of images to go with this tale. Hey, I can't do everything!)

At first I got faked out by the bike paths that run along Route 112 in Lincoln. Should a long-distance cyclist use them? I didn't know, so erred on the side of caution and took the first one. Mistake! They're narrow and twisty and have erratic surfacing, and the one short stretch I tried featured needless up-and-down grades while traffic zoomed by on the nicely paved highway below. First chance I got, it was buh-bye bike path, hello highway.

But then I was confronted with a new obstacle: a big sign shouting ROAD WORK NEXT 8.1 MILES. Road work? You've got to be kidding! But it was only last year when parts of "the Kanc" were washed out by the remnants of Tropical Storm Irene, so I guess I should have expected it.

On I pedaled. The first few miles are pretty level as the Kanc enters the White Mountain National Forest (LAND OF MANY USES!) to begin its winding journey up to Kancamagus Pass, about 12 miles ahead and 2,000 feet up, and then down into the Swift River valley and eventually to Route 16 in Conway, my turn-around point.

I thought of how often I've traveled along this road, always by car. It was only opened in the late 1950s, making it still fairly new when I first encountered it during family trips starting about a decade later. In more recent years, I've scouted its bike worthiness, and it seemed doable. And now here I was, at age 48, trying to conquer it solely by pedal power.

Keeping to a modest pace to conserve energy, I reached the Lincoln Woods trailhead sooner than I expected, but then the serious grades began. For the next six miles or so, I faced a climb that was steady, but not murderous. Surprisingly, I came upon and passed a bicyclist early on in this stage, the only time that happened all day. He was an older guy and seemed to be just out for a lark. I envied him.

To tackle the grade, I simplified, gearing down to the lowest setting and just grinding away. Breathing was key: I kept to an aggressive in/out cadence to keep the blood oxygenation going. I rode mostly in the shade, for which I was thankful, but soon the road began doing its twisty thing, in and out of the sun, and down came the sweat. Eventually, each breath would blow a healthy amount off the end of my nose, again and again, each time sparkling in the sunlight. I felt (and sounded) like a human steam engine.

I soon encountered the "road work": a multi-mile section of pavement that had been treated with an asphalt/gravel base coat in prior to the final coat, presumably coming soon. It was Sunday, so no work was in progress, but the base coat surface was much rougher than regular pavement. Well, coulda been worse.

This went on for several miles, until the Otter Rocks Rest Area, just before the highway starts its back-and-forth curving up to the pass — the Granite State's answer to Lombard Street. I wondered what it would be like coming down on this stuff. (I would find out soon enough.) It was a relief when the rough stuff ended and I was back on regular pavement.

Even so, the Kanc does not feature a generous shoulder, and the road surface is often broken up on the edges. This makes it necessary to concentrate all the time to avoid any unexpected holes, which doesn't exactly make for a relaxing ride.

This wouldn't be too bad except the Kanc is also a busy road, and never more so than on a nice summer Sunday. Though it was never wall-to-wall cars, traffic was constant and motorcycles were especially present — really loud ones in particular. Anyway, it's hard for us all to share the road when there's not really enough of it to go around. And the result is that biking the Kanc is not only a physical challenge, but a mental challege, as you really can never stop concentrating.

A solitary bike through one of the largest wilderness areas in New England? Forget it! Not what I found.

Still, all the traffic has a way of keeping you going (kind of like spectators at a road race), and I soon reached my first big milestone, the hairpin turn and the Hancock Trailhead. Time: 11 a.m., so only an hour! Time for my first stop. After draining a water bottle (I don't like trying to drink while pedaling) and chatting with a friendly police officer who may have been gauging my sanity, I resumed the climb, which now entered its steepest section: the final three miles to the pass, which boast an average grade of 9 percent.

So up I went, the excitement of attaining the pass spurring me on around the bends and up over the patchy pavement. Because the shoulder remains narrow and traffic is constant, there aren't many chances to admire the scenery, which is highlighted by some dramatic rock ledges and an expansive view down the valley back toward Lincoln. I was more interested in not getting killed, and I'd seen the views before, so I kept my eyes on the road.

I did notice the roadside trees were definitely getting shorter, which added to the drama of the climb. That, coupled with the distant vistas, makes it feel like you've entered a place where you're bigger and more imposing than usual. For someone who stands a hair over 5-foot-8, that's a plus!

On one of the last stretches, two guys on bikes came whizzing downgrade, heading the other way at somewhere well above 30 mph, I'd guess, and riding well into the traffic lane. A taste of what was to come? It didn't exactly comfort me.

But I did feel strong, even as the sun was beating down and a steady flow of sweat was now running down my nose. I had plenty of water in my backpack — about two gallons. The Kanc offers no services for its 30-odd miles, meaning my usual strategy of traveling light and visiting wayside stores wouldn't work.

Even so, it was a little surprising how soon I reached the top of the pass, which divides the watersheds of the Merrimack and Saco rivers. In no mood to lallygaggle, I just kept going, and soon found myself careening down a grade that quickly became alarming.

Really. I had expected to enjoy the long coast down into the Swift River valley, but it didn't turn out that way at all. Unsure of my bike's stability or handling at high speeds, I started riding the brakes almost immediately to cut down my speed, and continued to do so almost all the way down.

Perhaps it was just too much of a contrast after 90 minutes of low-speed uphill climbing. I don't know. But I was on my own and wasn't about to push things, so I rode the brakes.

The result was that my hands and arms quickly became fatigued, much more so than I expected, but I had no choice but to hold on and keep a sharp lookout for potholes and pavement problems that could easily send me flying. Some joy ride! At one point, a fellow biker also heading downhill whizzed right past me kamakazi-like, at a ridiculous clip, quickly disappearing around a bend. What was that all about?

This whole section was mildly frightening, like being on an amusement park ride that you're not sure is really safe, but the thing has started and you can't do anything about it but hang on. That, coupled with the need to concentrate on the pavement and traffic, turned what I thought would be a prolonged lark into a nerve-racking experience.

Signs gave me some hope. At the top: 7 percent grade, next 4 miles. Then, sometime later, next 2.5 miles. Then, finally just next 1 mile. Phew! Almost over!

I was ever so glad when the grade finally bottomed out, and the Kanc then progressed in its march across about 10 miles of flat terrain. I got as far as the junction with Bear Notch Road and stopped for another break: 12 noon on the dot! I like this part of the Kanc because you're in this kind of hidden valley, surrounded by mountains on all sides and nothing else.


At the junction of Bear Notch Road, looking eastward. One of the few places on the Kanc with a generous shoulder.

It feels almost prehistoric — that is, until a gaggle of Harleys comes roaring past you. I swear some of them rev their engines as they pass just to frighten the bicyclist. So I pedaled eastward on long straight stretches, noticing occasional light breezes from the east, a rare direction. Well, that would be some help on the way back, I thought. Piece of cake!

But not a very tasty cake. I got my first hint of further trouble when the Kanc began following the Swift River as it twists and turns its way to meeting the Saco River in Conway. This involves a long steady downgrade, which was enjoyable to cycle (finally!), but kept leading to thoughts along the lines of "What's it going to be like to go up this?" I wasn't as familiar with this side of the Kanc, and the size and length of this downgrade was a little surprising, even as I sailed down it. Uh-oh.

One consequence of approaching the eastern end is that you run across more places for people to visit by car. On such a fine weekend day, swimming holes along the Swift River were mobbed, meaning vehicles were parked everywhere, and there was constant turning in and out, adding stress to this part of the journey. Still, I felt strong as I crossed the National Forest boundary and pedaled the few remaining miles to Route 16.

And there it was! A conveniently timed traffic light allowed me to cycle right up to it and make a U-turn around a traffic island, and I'd done it. Yay me! I stopped and found that once again I'd gone for one hour: it was now exactly 1 p.m.

It felt really good to have made it this far: 34 miles out. But now it was time to head back, and I began to seriously wonder what I'd gotten myself into. It was warmer at this lower elevation, and the sun seemed hotter. What was I in for?

I had planned to be back at Elvio's at about 4 p.m. for pizza with Dan Szczesny and his entourage. Just to be safe (and while I had a phone signal), I texted him to make it 4:30 p.m., giving myself a half-hour.

I then started back, and almost immediately I felt something less than spritely. Who added the lead to my feet? Then I realized the breeze was now coming from the west, and I was heading into it. How did that happen? It wasn't constant, but was enough to make things seem more difficult than they needed to be, even on a level grade.

Soon I began climbing the curves back up along the Swift River, not really with any abundance of energy but keeping to a steady pace. At one point a little girl down with her friends on the rocks called up to me "Hello Mr. Bicycle Man!" but otherwise I must have gone into a defensive trance, as I hardly remember anything from this section of the ride, other than it seemed to go on and on.

And then one last really tough incline, and I achieved level ground. Yes! I pushed on for another 10 minutes and found myself at good old Bear Notch Road, so stopped for water. Time was 2 p.m. Somehow, my internal clock still seemed geared for me to take a break every hour.


Looking west at the Bear Notch Road junction. Steep grade ahead.

I spent maybe 15 minutes resting this time, knowing that the worst was coming up: the long climb back up to Kancamagus Pass. And yes, my legs and butt were already saying "Ouch!" So I hopped (gingerly) back on and hoped that it just wouldn't be too bad.

And it wasn't, until I hit the Pine Bend Trailhead. At that point, the road starts up a good stiff grade, and it just doesn't let up for four, maybe five miles. I geared down immediately and settled into a very slow pace, just enough to keep my balance, climbing steadily and breathing hard. Thought of 'The Little Engine That Could' came and went.

This is where the adventure devolved into pure sadism. It wasn't any fun, but I had no choice to keep going, and so I did. Another curve, another curve, always a grade, and sometimes a Peter Pan bus to nearly run you off the road as you try your best to stay level and straight at a ridiculously slow speed and push on and up.

Thankfully, a high overcast was moving in, which cut down on the direct sun. And the higher I climbed, the cooler it got. But still, it was no fun. How to get through it?

I found myself thinking of those "7 percent grade" signs I saw coming down. On the way up, they would now be markers of my remaining agony. I had been pedaling uphill seemingly forever, so I must have missed the "Next 1 Mile" sign, which would have been facing in the other direction. Okay, but I ought to be seeing the "Next 2.5 Miles" sign soon, which would mean I was at least half-way up the slope.

And there it was! A sign with its back turned to me, yes, but ready to give me a burst of encouragement that would come with reaching the halfway point in my climb to the pass. As I approached it, I found enough energy to push into a faster cadence to celebrate the milestone.

And then I passed the sign so I could actually see it, and was shocked that it read "Next 1 Mile." What?! I had only gone one mile up the slope? I still had all that to go?

This was seriously disappointing because I wasn't enjoying the ride at all and 1.5 miles had just been added to it. I kept going, though, afraid that if I did actually stop, I would never be able to get moving again.

Without a clear sense of how long it actually took, I eventually passed the "Next 2.5 Miles" grade sign, meaning I finally was at least half-way up. Still, I kept going, until finally I reached an unpaved clearing on my side of the road, and almost as if by instinct, pulled in and stopped. I just had to.

Time was 3:15 p.m. I found a patch of grass and took the next 15 minutes to cool off and stretch out as traffic screamed by on the pavement nearby. God, I thought — it's so much easier to traverse this highway, and these hills, with just a foot on an accelerator. I guzzled water, surprised that I still had two full bottles of it in my bag — bottles that I'd already hauled all the way up this hill once today, and was now doing it again!

Then, even more gingerly than before, I once again assumed the position and began pedaling, just slow enough to maintain forward motion. Up, up, up: a curve, a straightaway, and then finally a distant glimpse of the shelter that's part of a rest area near the crest of the road.

With the shelter now in intermittent view, I began to recognize the contours of the road, as recalled from the first terrifying minutes of the morning's descent. Here a curve, there a straight section with a guardrail and a view, and then what I thought had to be the finalcurve before the top — and it was.

My pace picked up as the adrenaline began flowing again. Never was a so glad to see a scenic view rest stop! But I pedaled right past it, intent on making it to the actual top, still a short distance away and up.

And finally, the road began to level out, and there was the sign marking the top of the pass: ELEVATION 2,855 FEET. Having no companion, I contented myself with photos of the bike leaning against the sign.

It was now exactly 3:45 p.m. Let's see: 45 minutes to cover the 12 miles to Lincoln? Okay, I thought, bracing myself for another out-of-control toboggan ride.

Proof that I made it, or at least my bike did. Notice the complete lack of a paved shoulder on this part of the road.

But I pushed off down the slope, and it wasn't that bad. Maybe I was just used to it, or completely desensitized, or something. But the miles sped by at a good clip, and at first I found I barely had to pedal and rarely had to brake. Nice!

However, even as I tried to sneak a few glances at the vistas I'd worked so hard to witness, I did encounter one last obstacle that at the time seemed very alarming. Once I stopped pedaling and began coasting downhill, both my thighs began to throb with a kind of deep and intense pain that I'd never felt before. And it was growing, like something was seriously wrong. I tried holding my legs out in different positions (while still maintaining balance), but that didn't help. I tried stretching them when I could, but that instantly made things worse!

The pain was continuing to build and it was beginning to affect my ability to concentrate, and just as I was hitting that stretch of road with the half-completed paving job. I seriously thought about stopping and calling Dan for a ride back, because at this point I wasn't sure I could stay in control of the bike on the downgrades.

And then I tried something that seemed to help. I started pedaling again! I didn't need to as gravity was now my friend, but it seemed to dull the pain, so I kept doing it. Although the pain never truly went away (until later), I was able to keep going.

I think what happened was that during the long hill climb, a good amount of lactic acid had accumulated in the muscle tissue of my thighs (a natural way of causing one to feel fatigue), and as soon as the muscles stopped moving, I began to receive signals that all was not well in that area. In short, I had essentially poisoned my tissue with excess lactic acid. Resuming the pedaling movement somehow short-circuited the pain signals, even while the lactic acid was dissipating because I wasn't actually working the muscles.

Anyway, that's the best explanation I have. Other theories are welcome. All I know is that it was another unexpected scary thing to encounter, especially when screaming down long grades at maybe 30 miles per hour. Soon the grade bottomed out at Lincoln Woods, and I found the adrenaline carried me the few miles left to Lincoln and the parking lot at Elvio's, where I arrived at 4:17 p.m.

Wow! It took me maybe 75 minutes to climb to the pass from Lincoln, but only 32 minutes to return down. On the last stretch, that's an average speed of...22.5 miles an hour, which seems about right. For the whole ride (68.4 miles), the average speed was a little over 10 miles per hour, which also seems about right.

Parting thoughts: While the Kanc is supposed to be a remote wilderness road, I was surprised by how little actual wildlife I encountered. The grand total: a flock of three turkeys crossing the highway, and one overly plump chipmunk that I surprised because I was so quiet. Also, mid-August must be butterfly mating season, as I encountered colorful (and large) Monarch or Viceroy butterflies throughout the ride.

Speaking of quiet: Yes, I traversed a few stretches where it was just me and the bike and the road. But for the most part, I found biking the Kanc was a joint exercise with (and against) my fellow man as much as anything.

That's a good thing to know about biking the Kanc. Yes, it's doable and worthwhile and I'm glad I did it and will probably do it again, perhaps one-way as part of a longer loop around the White Mountains. But one needs to understand that it's not the exercise in solitude one might have expected.

Still, it was worth it — and at least I didn't get stung by any jellyfish.

Coming up in August: More races plus I attempt to bike the Kanc

It's Saturday, Aug. 4 and I've been going through a busy period with little room for running, biking, or anything else that keeps me sane. That's a shame because I was doing so well through mid-July. So I need to pick things up again.

Every year this seems to happen: I get halfway through the summer, and something seems to interrupt it.

Last year, I developed problems with my left Achilles tendon and that shut things down in August. In 2009, I was hiking to one or more 4,000-foot summits every weekend until my company unexpectedly started a newspaper in July.

Well, it's now August, and I need to break the pattern, even though I'm as busy as ever and it's now getting dark as early as 8 p.m. But whatever. I'll find ways to fit it in. I'll have to.

So here's a list of what I plan to accomplish before the month is out:

- Bike the Kanc: a 64-mile round-trip up and down a mountain pass both ways, on a road with no services. Done in two segments: Lincoln to Conway, rest and restock, then reverse. First leg starts with 12-mile climb up about 1,700 feet to Kancamaugus Pass, with last three miles at average 9 percent grade. Piece of cake! Very tough cake, that is.

To do this, I need to make at least one more longish preliminary run, and then have my bike serviced. The tires are well beyond their expected life, and the last thing I want is a blowout on the Kanc.

So if the weather is good tomorrow (Sunday, Aug. 5), I may go for the big prelim ride in the morning. I'll take the bike in for service on Monday, Aug. 6, and get that out of the way. And then, I have a 5K race scheduled up north (in Rumney) early on Saturday, Aug. 11, so that might be the day to try the Kanc, if the weather holds.

So tomorrow, I might try getting down to Nashua early, and then going over to Lowell, then following Route 28 back up to Manchester. We'll see...

- Add six towns: One casualty of July was the quest to run a 5K or better in all 234 New Hampshire communities. I only did one, and that's not going to cut it if I'm going to make my self-imposed deadline of May 14, 2016.

So this month I resolve to complete at least six towns. I have road races in two of them: Rumney and Boscawen. So that leaves four others to do. If I complete them in pairs, then that means two days of 10Ks somewhere on the map, filling in back-to-back communities.

- Get back on the 50 states wagon: I haven't done a "state" run since Maryland back in June. So I better get cracking and figure out a way to fit in one more state this month. I think a likely candidate is Connecticut, as I'll be driving down there for a meeting at some point. Just gotta bring a change of clothes. (September will bring Arkansas and Oklahoma and Missouri as possibilities.)

- Another triathlon? I really enjoyed my first-ever triathlon last month, and so doing another isn't too crazy. There's a good one tomorrow in Concord, N.H. (the swim portion is in the Merrimack River!, but I'm not ready for it.

To prepare for more of these, I really need to start swimming regularly, something I don't do. So I need to start looking at options to do that, other than driving up to Harrisville and swimming in the pond.

- Keep at it in general: I need to make time during the day for some activity somewhere. A good way (until recently) has been biking to my mother's house in Nashua (to get rents, etc.) and then back, a 25-mile round-trip or so. Each day should have enough room for some kind of activity, even if it's hitting the gym for an hour. I could get some reading done there, too!

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."

So far in July: little running, lotsa biking

Keeping things organized here to keep the progress going. Let's see...

• This morning was a road race in the tiny town of Langdon, which I missed! They'll do it again next year, I believe, so I'll catch it then. The reason I missed it was because I've been having foot problems: the tissue that makes up the upper part of each foot seems swollen and painful following exercise, and stiff when I get up in the morning or even after being sedentary — say, driving for an hour or more. My wife says I need to stretch it more, and she's right, I think. But in the meantime, I've been avoiding any running, including jaunts with the dogs around town, which are now just walks. They don't seem to mind.

• To compensate, I've been adding a lot of time on the bike. This past Wednesday, I took a moderately long round-trip to Nashua, to visit my mother's property and then my mother (in a skilled nursing facility), and then took the long way back, along rural Route 3A up the opposite side of the Merrimack River. It's a good ride for a warm evening, light traffic and mostly flat — enough for me to stay in the highest gear I have for the entire time I was in Litchfield!

• There was also a shorter ride from Henry's Auto Body in Manchester to my house in Bedford, but challenging because of the need to negotiate the eastern end of the new bridge over the Merrimack River that's part of the $180 million airport access highway. Turns out there's no way to get on the dedicated bicyle path from Brown Avenue other than lifting your bike up and over a four-inch granite curb. Some planning!

• After a spell of sticky stuff, the next few days will bring fine summer weather to New England. So tomorrow I'm going to attempt an 80-mile out-and-back ride to Harrisville, N.H., and then another good ride on Tuesday or Wednesday. Plus I'll start aggressively stretching and getting the new running shoes broken in in advance of the big triathalon on Saturday, July 14.

No White Mountains running just yet; we'll see how the feet feel after a week of stretching and shoe breaking-in.

Note about planning for July

I'm suddenly faced with a lot of opportunities for staying active this month. Here's a quick attempt to stay organized.

- After yesterday's (June 30) successful bike ride from Portsmouth to home in Bedford, I'm eager to keep the motivation going in advance of this season's attempt to pedal the Kanc. So, next Sunday, July 8, I will try to pedal from home to Harrisville, N.H., on back roads through New Boston, Francestown, Greenfield, and Hancock. It's about 40 miles, which is less than the 50 miles from Portsmouth, but there are more hills and more elevation gain. The goal at the end is to jump into Harrisville Pond at the town beach, then get a ride home from the wife, I hope. Other bike rides might be tried as well, but I'm getting close to where I feel ready for the Kanc.

- Saturday, July 7 brings a roadrace in the rare town of Langdon, N.H., which I'm sure I can bring one of the three dogs to.

- I'm supposed to go up north on Friday, July 6 and then again on Monday & Tuesday, July 9 & 10 for business. So I might just try to squeeze in some back-to-back 5Ks in uncommon towns at the end of each of those days. Let's see. I could legitimately pick up six towns this way, if my foot holds out. Still wondering why I'm feeling pain in my right foot. Hasn't stopped me from running, but it's encouraged me to take it easy.

- Okay, and then on Saturday, July 14, it's my first-ever triathalon at Surry Mountain Dam out in Surry, N.H. This will be a new adventure and I'm still wondering how I'm going to fit in some swimming practice before the big day. I may have to literally just jump in.

- After that, other commitments creep in a bit, but I hope to remain active nonetheless. No thoughts just yet about July's contribution to the "50 states" project, but that might come into play sooner than later...


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