Why Biking in the Dark Offers Rewards Over Daytime Riding

It’s late November, a cool time of the year. Temperatures chilling, air drying, leaves nearly all fallen, holidays on the horizon. Snow usually has not yet shown itself yet at this time of year.

In other words, late November is the perfect time for outdoor activities like hiking and biking.

The only problem is, there’s not much daylight. Once we set those clocks back to accommodate our weird and futile ritual of Daylight Savings Time, we only get about nine hours of natural light within the 24-hour cycle. For us working folks, that’s about enough time to prepare to go to the office in the morning and spend the day there.

By the time we’re heading home, it’s nearly dusk. If we do want to bike or hike, our only option is to do so in the dark.

Light Up

For a couple of reasons, pastimes like hiking and biking are not typically done in the dark.

For one thing, there’s the safety issue. Biking at night requires some precautions – at least a raised visibility and bright lights – that daytime riding can skip. And in order to hike at night, you should probably be familiar with or knowledgeable of the trail so you don’t wander unknowingly and dangerously near a precipice.

But safety issues can be overcome with good headlamps and bike headlights, with backup batteries and lights.

Nighttime activities can be a little spooky for some people. You simply can’t see as much, and that unknown factor alone raises the hairs on some people’s necks. The woods have a different feel at night, different animals scurrying about, different sounds and feel.

And cycling solo at night can be eerie. No kids at the dimly lit playground…creepy. Not as many people walking about, and very few other bikers on bike paths. For some that’s a positive. Others are spooked by it.

Into the Desert Night

I hadn’t taken a real bike ride at night until recently. When riding my bike across the United States in May-June-July 2021, I faced a 111-mile crossing of the Mojave desert. It had to be done in one day because there’s nothing out there, and the early July forecast projected 107 degrees. Not a place I wanted to camp.

My heat-avoidance strategy was to take off riding into the desert at 2 a.m. in relatively cooler temps. It was 90 degrees when I departed from Parker, Ariz., into the Mojave. And very dark.

Mojave desert sunrise
After three hours of dark riding, the sun peeked up in the distance behind me.

I had been nervous about the ride, especially riding alone into the desert at night. I had my superb headlight illuminating the road, two blinking taillights, reflectors on my rear-facing panniers and a highly reflective jersey. I was visible to the rare trucks ambling by on the road, I could tell by the way they backed off the gas several hundred yards behind me, signaling that I had entered their field of vision. No doubt I appeared as a strange apparition in the desert night, not something they expected to see. But it worked.

What I discovered in those few hours riding through the pitch black Mojave before the sun peeked up over the eastern hills in my rear distance, is that riding at night is a wonderful experience.

The feeling is so distinct from daytime riding that it’s like a whole different sport. The air is cooler, of course, but also stiller and more serene. The night is calm and peaceful in a way that the bustle of day can’t offer.

If I were to do that night ride across the Mojave again (which I probably won’t, for several reasons not including the enjoyable night ride), I would likely take off earlier, like midnight, in order to extend the pleasant night ride.

A Whole Different View

Ever since my night in the desert, I’ve been much more open to riding in the dark.

Recently I took another night ride. Here in November, it’s a wholly different sensation than a steamy summer desert ride. But it’s still serene and peaceful. Everything takes on a different visage in the low light. You see your hometown in a completely distinct way.

Of course, it’s colder at night, and in the Northeast in November it can be in the 20s or 30s. So extra layers, head coverings and gloves are a necessity for a pleasant experience.

I also wear my eyeglasses at night instead of sunglasses. They allow me to see more clearly and provide some eye shield from the cold wind.

It can take a mile or so to warm up. But once you do, the cool night air offers a refreshing balance to your body heat. The quiet and stillness envelops you and the lack of long views can create a sensation of floating. In remote areas the only thing you can see is the beam of light in front of you created by your headlight.

That’s where you’re going. Everything else is shrouded in a blanket of black. Except for the sky.

If you’re fortunate enough to be a in a rural area riding at night, be sure to look up. It may be cloudy and somewhat obscured. But if it’s a clear night, you are treated to a dazzling display of the billions of stars and planets that are always out there but only visible to us during night hours.

Into the Night

I encourage anyone with a bike to venture out in the night. It could be early evening, midnight or pre-dawn. You’ll get a perspective you haven’t had before, and it’ll likely surprise you. You might see people and sights you’d never see in the daytime.

No matter what, you will definitely get a fresh perspective.

It’s short-term adventure at its finest. Some challenge, a little risk, a new way of seeing things.

Take a ride. Into the dark.

Why Some of Us Venture Into the Unknown

The unknown is an important aspect of adventure. Taking on the unknown, braving the unknown, learning new things about the world, about yourself and other people, that you didn’t know before.

I recently ventured into the unknown in the form of a hiking trail I’d never been on before: the Taconic Crest Trail (TCT), which skirts the border between New York and Massachusetts at the south end, and Vermont toward the north. I opted toward the southern end in Petersburg, N.Y., just over the border from Williamstown, Mass.

Venturing into the unknown can be scary because…well, you don’t know what can happen, what lies ahead, what might await you. On the other hand, it can be exciting for the same reasons.

Crossing a stream on the Class of 33 Trail, an offshoot from the Taconic Crest Trail.

As survivalists, not so far removed from our hunter-gatherer forbears, our human minds jump to self-preservation when entering unknown circumstances. We anticipate the dangers ahead, the forces that might threaten our survival. Animals that may want to harm us for their own or their offspring’s self-preservation, or perhaps a meal. Slippery slopes and cliffsides that could hasten a fatal fall. Strange plants and roads and people and shapes all converging into a spooky, forbidding landscape ahead.

For some, it’s enough to deter going forth into the unknown at all.

For me, it’s always a wonderful opportunity, to see and experience new territory, smell new smells, discover angles of the sun streaming through forest that you haven’t exactly witnessed before.

Heading into unknown territory, I remain aware of the potential hazards. But as an optimist, I also anticipate the upside, the possibility of amazing new sensations, fresh perspectives and different ways of seeing the world. I welcome the ways in which the unknown experience ahead might change me by broadening my purview.

Slip-sliding Away

The Taconic Crest Trail isn’t a particularly challenging path and, thankfully, isn’t littered with threats and dangerous obstacles. Still, it’s a ridge path, and offers numerous side trails off the ridge. One, called the Class of ‘33 Trail, takes you down off the ridge at a precipitous angle. At this time of year, the trail is blanketed in dry dead leaves, creating an effective slide for hundreds of feet that could quickly turn dangerous as speed picks up. Climbing, side-stepping and scurrying down about a thousand feet, there were at least a dozen times when I came close to slip-sliding down the mountainside, but my footing held.

The trail also included a few brook crossings, one or two of which were precarious. With lower water these water crossings are easily navigable but the water happens to be flowing robustly and covering most the small trail rocks that would serve as foot stops. A quick balancing act on tiptoes worked fine, but a less dexterous, or unlucky hiker might have found himself stepping knee deep in freezing water, or worse, slipping off a rock and flopping body wise into the drink. From there, with later-afternoon cool setting in, hypothermia could become an issue.

The section of the TCT-Class of ‘33 Trail loop that I hiked ran almost eight miles and climbed about 2,300 feet total. This is not like Vermont’s Long Trail with its steep climbs, or the New Hampshire Appalachian Trail through the Presidential range with constant rocky scrambles. This is a trail more resembling a fire road for much of the way, with rounded, undramatic hill peaks. Climbs are straight up and straight down – no switchbacks here – but never very long.

Into the Unknown

The TCT is 37 miles long from its northern terminus outside North Pownal, Vt., to the southern terminus on Route 20 right at the Massachusetts-New York border west of Pittsfield, Mass.

Every year features a one-day thru-hike along the entire trail. I will miss the date of next year’s thru-hike as I set out to thru-hike the Appalachian Trail. But I’m enticed enough by my first foray on this trail to take on my own thru-hike, possibly in June. This is a muddy trail, however, and June’s mud plus bugs (not to mention humidity) may form a formidable double obstacle to overcome.

Hiking 37 miles in a single day (likely about 19-20 hours) is no small achievement. It would be my personal record.

More unknowns. What is the rest of the TCT like? What is the water supply along the trail? What provisions are needed for a thru-hike? And always, how will my body/mind perform on such an endeavor?

My problem is I want to discover answers to these questions. I want to follow the path around the next bend. I want to find out what it feels like in places I haven’t been. I need, always, to see what lies just ahead.

And so I go. Into the unknown.

Why Don’t More People Do This?

A Hike in the Rain
October 30, 2021

It was raining. All day. No sign of letup. And I wanted to walk and hike.

So I did. Good decision. It was a Saturday, after all, and I’d been needing and looking forward to hiking all week as I gazed out my office window. A little rain – or a lot of rain in this case – wasn’t going to stop me.

But as I tromped through the woods, my hiking pants soaking through, streams of water ski-jumping off my nose, I couldn’t help wonder: why don’t more people do this? Why aren’t those who love the outdoors out here exploring these wet forest trails too?

Is it only about the water? Or is there perceived danger in rain hiking? (There was no lightening accompanying this day’s rain.)

I definitely should have worn rain pants, not sure why I left them home. But it didn’t matter. I was as happy trudging through the rain-streaked forest as I would have been on a perfect, sunny day. Okay, maybe not as happy, but not too far off.

Yet I didn’t see a single soul for two hours. This was on Mount Tom, one of the most hiked areas in the entire Pioneer Valley. And this was mid-afternoon on a Saturday, prime time for hiking. Not a single other hiker.

That was okay, it amped up the adventure feel, to be alone in the woods for hours at a time, a bank of fog below every precipice, clouding the view of humanity below. Still, I wondered: where is everybody?

Safety Concerns

Of course, there are some practical reasons for not wanting to hike in the rain. Rocks are slippery when wet, and descending some sections on stone-strewn New England hiking trails can be treacherous.

And certainly, I would never recommend hiking amid a lightening storm. I was once caught off guard atop Mount Greylock in a hail storm with lightening, one crack booming ten feet over my head, according to my hiking partner. I know from experience, a mountaintop or any elevated ground is not where you want to find yourself with lightening exploding around you.

Also, depending on where you’re hiking, there can be a danger of flooding. Especially in desert areas, you would not want to be caught unawares anywhere near a canyon when a torrential downpour sets in. It can create powerful walls of water that will sweep away unprepared hikers.

Even in New England, trails often trace the paths of stream beds, and during a rain storm these chutes can fill up with rushing water. Being caught in one can be dangerous. At the very least, it’s not very comfortable trying to hike when every step is plunging your shoe into half a foot of water.

Hiking in the rain can be muddy too. Mud isn’t really dangerous, just uncomfortable. Sometimes to the point of sinking your foot up to the ankle in a soft slog of muck, sucking your shoe off when you step out.

But the biggest practical threat to hiking in the rain is the danger of hypothermia. If the temperature is on the cold side and you get saturated with water it can start to pull down your core body temperature. If it gets too low – such as south of 97 degrees Fahrenheit – your body starts to shut down some functions in order to protect the most vital organs’ operation. Blood flow to the brain slows down and your decision-making and response times can become impaired, further endangering your safety. It can go downhill quickly.

What’s a Little Water

So let me be clear: when I advocate the pleasures of walking or hiking in the rain, I’m not talking about doing so in conditions that would include any of the above dangers.

I’m talking about a steady, day-long rain of the type that we often get here in New England in the spring, or sometimes mid-autumn. Such as was the case on this day.

By the time I finished my two-hour hike I was ready to get out of the rain. Perhaps that’s the moment I most closely recognized other hikers’ reluctance to head out in the rain. It’s chilly when you stop moving. It’s soggy and sloshy. It’s a little uncomfortable.

Still, it’s well worth the moderate discomfort to be on a hike in the woods if that’s an activity you love, rain or not. Hearing the spatter of drops hitting leaves and the ground adds a layer of distinction to a rain hike. The feel of the forest is altogether different. Animals move differently, squirrels scurry more hurriedly, only the hardiest of birds sing, and you’re more likely to see deer without throngs of people on the trails.

I highly recommend the experience. Next time it’s raining (but not too cold, and without lightening), consider a walk or hike in the woods with proper rain gear. You’ll see a side of the forest that might surprise you. Maybe I’ll see you out there.