![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
The Minuteman Commuter Bikeway is a sweet, shady stripe of asphalt that used to be a railway. Over 10.5 miles, it slips past backyards, forests, football fields, meadows, parking lots, firewood stacks, back alleys, and lakes; it zips over highways and under streets. Bike shops and a Trader Joe's open onto it, and every here and there a tempting trail leads off into a wildlife preserve.
I followed one of them, and took a loop on foot around Arlington's Great Meadows, a woodsy, marshy reservation filled with birds and tall grasses and wildflowers. I wished my bug spray were more accessible, but otherwise had a fine time. Just after the Meadows, I detoured a quarter-mile to visit the thoroughly Masonic National Heritage Museum to see Jim Henson's Fantastic World. It was pretty fantastic — all the walls were covered with Jim's early sketches, posters, art projects, storyboards, and notes, with Muppets and props in plexiglas cases in the middles: notably Kermit, the Skeksis' finger-implements from The Dark Crystal, and Cantus (and his pipes1) from Fraggle Rock. Cantus is a sort of totem spirit for me; I took it as a good sign.
At the north end of the Bikeway is the Bedford Depot Park, which offers benches, bathrooms, water fountains, bike racks, snacks, and a vintage diesel rail car — a good place to rest before zigging to the right and continuing north on the Bedford Narrow-Gauge Rail-Trail: quieter, shadier, and covered in crushed stone (like Acadia's carriage roads). I got off at Fawn Lake and, creeping like a burglar, followed a half-abandoned trail through the woods that suddenly spat me out at the end of an unassuming cul-de-sac in suburbia. It was like opening the door in Oz, only the other way 'round. The next ten miles were a return to junior high — 99 restaurants, old farmhouses on manicured lawns with backyards that turned into tangled woods, dusty grid-warrens of one-way streets. A swaybacked chestnut gelding cropped grass behind a barn that had started life as a schoolhouse, complete with bell and cupola.
I stopped for lunch at Lester's Roadside Bar-BQ, where my brisket was a little fatty but got to be on TV anyway: Channel 5 was filming a segment on summer dining. I was shaky-legged and sweat-soaked at that point, and drank three refills of cola, Pep-Up, and lemonade before I felt competent to continue. For the last three miles, I was startled to find myself on a proper highway (MA-125), but there was plenty of shoulder, and I was too exhausted to spare much thought for worrying. (Too late to turn back, anyway!) I rolled into my campsite about seven hours after I left home, and was made to feel welcome by a chorus of frogs, and unwelcome by a squadron of geese.
A great weight pinned me to my sleeping pad after I got my tent pitched. I was wiped. All in all, including detours, I rode about 75 miles over two days (Friday and Sunday). That might not sound like a lot, but it was 90°, and I had about fifty pounds of gear strapped to my bike and my back — when I first set out, my bike was wallowing, and even after I got used to steering like a cow I really struggled going up the hills of suburbia. I rode my bike to work yesterday, with nothing on it but me and my Camelbak, and it was like riding a gazelle. My bike leapt forward as soon as my foot touched the pedal, and picking it up was like picking up the bones of a hummingbird.
1 They were made for him long ago by "a mysterious and invisible...a mysterious and invisible...." "What?" "I don't know. It was so mysterious and invisible."
I followed one of them, and took a loop on foot around Arlington's Great Meadows, a woodsy, marshy reservation filled with birds and tall grasses and wildflowers. I wished my bug spray were more accessible, but otherwise had a fine time. Just after the Meadows, I detoured a quarter-mile to visit the thoroughly Masonic National Heritage Museum to see Jim Henson's Fantastic World. It was pretty fantastic — all the walls were covered with Jim's early sketches, posters, art projects, storyboards, and notes, with Muppets and props in plexiglas cases in the middles: notably Kermit, the Skeksis' finger-implements from The Dark Crystal, and Cantus (and his pipes1) from Fraggle Rock. Cantus is a sort of totem spirit for me; I took it as a good sign.
At the north end of the Bikeway is the Bedford Depot Park, which offers benches, bathrooms, water fountains, bike racks, snacks, and a vintage diesel rail car — a good place to rest before zigging to the right and continuing north on the Bedford Narrow-Gauge Rail-Trail: quieter, shadier, and covered in crushed stone (like Acadia's carriage roads). I got off at Fawn Lake and, creeping like a burglar, followed a half-abandoned trail through the woods that suddenly spat me out at the end of an unassuming cul-de-sac in suburbia. It was like opening the door in Oz, only the other way 'round. The next ten miles were a return to junior high — 99 restaurants, old farmhouses on manicured lawns with backyards that turned into tangled woods, dusty grid-warrens of one-way streets. A swaybacked chestnut gelding cropped grass behind a barn that had started life as a schoolhouse, complete with bell and cupola.
I stopped for lunch at Lester's Roadside Bar-BQ, where my brisket was a little fatty but got to be on TV anyway: Channel 5 was filming a segment on summer dining. I was shaky-legged and sweat-soaked at that point, and drank three refills of cola, Pep-Up, and lemonade before I felt competent to continue. For the last three miles, I was startled to find myself on a proper highway (MA-125), but there was plenty of shoulder, and I was too exhausted to spare much thought for worrying. (Too late to turn back, anyway!) I rolled into my campsite about seven hours after I left home, and was made to feel welcome by a chorus of frogs, and unwelcome by a squadron of geese.
A great weight pinned me to my sleeping pad after I got my tent pitched. I was wiped. All in all, including detours, I rode about 75 miles over two days (Friday and Sunday). That might not sound like a lot, but it was 90°, and I had about fifty pounds of gear strapped to my bike and my back — when I first set out, my bike was wallowing, and even after I got used to steering like a cow I really struggled going up the hills of suburbia. I rode my bike to work yesterday, with nothing on it but me and my Camelbak, and it was like riding a gazelle. My bike leapt forward as soon as my foot touched the pedal, and picking it up was like picking up the bones of a hummingbird.
1 They were made for him long ago by "a mysterious and invisible...a mysterious and invisible...." "What?" "I don't know. It was so mysterious and invisible."
