Entries I neglected to write: Beach Biking ’07

It was a total of 40.6 miles, from my house to Brant Rock, and back home again. On my ’01 Haro Revo. In bright sunshine. In the mid-80s.

It was glorious.

NOTE: This entry is more for my own memory than for public consumption. Trust me, it won’t be interesting.

The plans had been set a few days in advance; I wanted to ride my bike to the beach, something I had never done before because, well, the beach is about 20 miles from my house. So for no real reason except to prove to myself that I could, I told my mom I was going to the beach on my bike. She flipped out, saying I was stupid and going to get hit by a car, and so forth. I pretty much ignored her and walked out the door, equipped with a wife beater, pair of jeans, $6, a paycheck, my house key, and the key to my bike lock.

My first stop was the bank; I had to deposit my paycheck. I arrived coated in sweat; the teller didn’t look pleased to accept my sweat-dampened paycheck. After that, I headed through Rockland and past the Rockland Garden Center, where Chris called out to me (one of his jobs is at the Garden Center). We briefly talked, and then he had to help a customer, so I took off. Through Rockland I went, following Route 139, which would take me to the Marshfield shore.

After some nasty hills, I got to Hanover Center and rode past the horse stables. I stopped off at the fire station; the guy at the desk was pretty friendly. He opened the door for me before I even could hit the buzzer and let me use the water cooler. We talked a bit and then I took a run through the lawn sprinklers that had turned on, before setting off again. Everything’s pretty nice until 139 banks right by the CVS and Citizens Bank; after that, there are no sidewalks for a long time, and that’s one of the busiest stretches of 139 around. It was pretty scary to ride on the road (there’s no shoulder, either) with two lanes of cars on my left. I was going along with traffic, so if someone were to have hit me, well, I wouldn’t have even seen it coming.

Right before the Pembroke line, there’s a big downhill that ultimately stops at the bridge over the North River (which is so beautiful—there were boats tied up along the banks and tall, thick grass lining the river) before it turns into a long uphill. In Pembroke, I stayed on Route 139 (another nice downhill) and felt the first sting of tiredness right before the onramp to Route 3, near the Stop & Shop. It was another uphill. But I made it, and kept on past the ramps for Route 3, which was really congested.

Continued on 139 through Marshfield, getting all the way to Pacini’s Italian Eatery before I decided to take my second break. The girl behind the counter was very friendly, as well, and got me a huge cup of ice water, which I consumed in the parking lot before heading off again. Soon enough, I was riding by Winslow Street, past Fieldston, past The Fieldston, and—yes, I see it—the ocean came into view. I reached Brant Rock and rode along the sea wall, and decided that now was a good time to call home, to let my parents know I wasn’t dead yet.

I stopped at the fire station in Brant Rock, but the fireman claimed the phone didn’t make long distance calls, so I had to find a pay phone. I rode around Brant Rock itself for a while, and finally settled at Brant Rock Market, where I found a pay phone to call my dad, who was of the same opinion as my mom and called me stupid for riding all the way to the beach.

I debated continuing on to Duxbury Beach or Green Harbor, but decided to stay at Brant Rock. I locked up the bike, took off my shoes, rolled up my jeans, and walked along the beach to the jetty. The ride was as low as it gets, so the jetty was fully exposed, and I was able to walk out a remarkable distance. At the end, there was no one; just me, all alone with the waves of the sea rolling up against the seaweed-covered boulders.

There was a giant ship in the distance; I wasn’t sure what it was. It was too high off the water to be a barge or tanker, but it wasn’t shaped right to be a ferry or some passenger ship. Lots of sailboats were charting the waters closer to shore; small motorboats were zipping by, some with fishing lines hanging out the back.

I stood out there, on the very tip of the beach, disconnected from the land and the people and everything but the rocks, the water, and the pair of jeans I was wearing. It was beautiful. I stretched my arms out and tried to catch all the sun’s rays, bring them closer to me, hug them so tight that they’d melt into me. It was bright, so bright, and I just felt such a peace with the world. Not that I don’t usually. But this moment was special.

The ride home was much more frustrating and uncomfortable than the way there. I only made it to Santoro’s before I had to take a break and get some more water; the girl behind the counter there seemed reluctant to give me water, pointing to the fridge with bottled water, until I said “tap” or “sink”. She looked kinda grossed out, like, why would this kid be drinking tap water? Either way, she filled up a pretty heavy green and blue mug with cloudy tap water and I drank it on the curb outside.

My ass was really starting to hurt now; two hours on that little seat and things were starting to get pretty sore. As well, I think I was developing some kind of dehydration, because I pretty much stopped sweating by the time I reached the Marshfield police station. My incessant shifting on the seat wasn’t solving the pain in my ass (haha, literally) and so I decided to stop at the Dunkie’s by Marshfield Center. I got a toasted bagel with nothing on it, handed over a precious dollar, and ate it in the parking lot before setting off.

Around the Veterans Memorial park in Marshfield, I slowed down to a crawl and my legs started to burn. I felt like passing out; I lost my balance for a bit and had to, kind of, smack myself to get back into motion. It was time for some more sustenance.

Next stop, Wendy’s. Unfriendly counter staff gave me a Frosty with nary a word spoken. I downed it, dealt with the brain freeze, and set off again. The Frosty seemed to put me in a better mood, and I continued on until I reached the long stretch of 139 in Pembroke, which is all ridiculously uphill. My legs were killing me by the time I reached the top of the hill, but I had to press on. I was now back at the stretch with no sidewalks, and navigating that intersection was pretty crazy.

In Hanover, I got a drink at the police station and then washed myself in the sprinklers of a religious school. I got a lot of weird looks from people driving by. I made it through there with no problems until I strained my left quadricep and had to massage it for a while to get back in the rhythm of the ride. I kept pumping through the rest of Hanover, and made it most of the way through Rockland before I had to stop on the sidewalk to take a break. I think Rob Howlett drove by in his Mustang.

After a short break, I picked up again and made it home by 7:00. I drank a crapload of Gatorade and water and then had lots of food. Then I just sat there for a while, before showering to get the layer of dried salt off my body.

The results? Some strained leg muscles, minor dehydration, and a crazy sunburn that eventually peeled and is now leaving skin flakes all over my room. But you know what? I biked this:

Fuck yeah. Mission accomplished.