Author: Eric

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10 Tips on How to Eat Holiday Treats Without Feeling Guilty

Food and eating are essential components of adventure. And adventure is significantly impacted by what we eat.

Not only can preparing, cooking and eating a meal or snack be an adventure in itself. But any adventure we take (unless, I suppose, it’s an adventure about fasting, which is sort of about food – the absence of it – too) includes food as a necessary and often appreciated companion.

So for us adventurists, giving thought to food as the fuel with which we propel our adventures is an important part of planning and maintenance.

Sweets Everywhere

The problem is, this time of year, smart and healthy eating – the kind that is optimal for adventuring and aging – becomes threatened, or at least more difficult. Because, starting at around Halloween and running nearly half a year all the way to Easter, we’re inundated with sweets and treats, delectable desserts and scrumptious confectionaries that wreak havoc on our waistlines and steal away our energy. Kids bring home shopping bags’ worth of candy bars, sugary pieces, sweetened assortments and saccharine niblets.

A few weeks later Thanksgiving arrives, the one day of the year when gluttony is celebrated. (Pumpkin and pecan pie!) Then the assorted holiday cookies and goodies start to arrive. And there’s Valentine’s Day and Easter treats, all conspiring to thicken us up, slow us down and make us crave the couch, a blanket and Netflix.

Smart Ways to Eat Sweets

Look, the treats aren’t going away, and neither are our natural appetites for yummy eats like cookies, chocolate, pie, cake and other pastries. No one I know is perfect, and few people are able to resist these fattening temptations one hundred percent of the time.

But sampling these irresistible food options doesn’t have to result in guilt and self-flagellation. There are ways to have it all, to partake in eating sugary goodies and enjoying them while remaining physically healthy and retaining your adventurous, ready-for-action mindset.

Here are 10 tips for eating those holiday treats without the resultant guilt and lethargy.

  1. Give yourself permission. You know you’re going to eat that treat. It’s sitting right in front of you. You might as well try it. But before you do, grant yourself permission to eat it, and decide you are not going to judge yourself or feel bad because you do. You are going to enjoy it to the fullest.
  2. Eat it slowly. Instead of wolfing down that bonbon or that slice of cake, slow down and savor every bite. Eating sweets is enjoyable, so make it last a while. Make yourself chew it longer than you normally would – at least 20 chews for each bite. And set down your fork or spoon or the uneaten morsel between bites.
  3. Focus. This is related to #1. As you slowly chew that treat, focus your attention on the way it tastes, the joy of the sweet flavor concoction dancing on your tongue. Feel the textures and notice the consistency of the bite, how it changes as you savor it and how it satisfies when you swallow it.
  4. Document how it feels. This is a good practice in general. But when you have a treat, make a note of how it feels to eat it, and how you feel right afterward. Then set a timer for half an hour later and jot down again how you feel. No judgment, just an honest documentation of how you were affected by eating that treat. What do you notice? What do you learn from this exercise?
  5. Be grateful. Once you’ve finished enjoying that delicious consumable, and even while you’re enjoying it, be mindful of the joy it’s bringing to you. Be aware of how lucky you are to have the privilege of eating this sugary gift. You could even say “Thank you” aloud or express your gratitude in other ways. It will enhance your experience.
  6. Move. Have your treat and enjoy it. When you’re finished enjoying it, make a plan to move. Outside or around the house, it doesn’t matter. It also doesn’t have to be a lot. Some yoga stretches. Some light calisthenics. Maybe a quick game of Twister with the kids. Engage in some kind of movement to encourage digestion and blood flow, and start to burn some of the sugar you just consumed.
  7. Count it. Eating sweets is one of the joys of life. But over-indulging on sweets, or anything, is rarely a good choice. Many of these tips will help you avoid over-indulging without noticing it, but to push the point, count the treats you eat so that you are aware of the quantity. If you want to be disciplined while enjoying holiday treats, set a quota ahead of time. Allow yourself a certain number of treats per month, say, or per week. I’ll leave the number up to you, but try to stick to the number you’ve set. (Even if you don’t stick to it, that’s fine; just counting will likely help you cut down and avoid over-indulgence.)
  8. Balance. You’ve just taken in a high dose of sugar. Ideally, the best way to help digest that sugar is to have eaten a snack of protein and fiber before the treat to offset the effects on your body of the sugar and avoid a blood sugar crash. If not a healthy meal, try a handful of nuts, especially pistachios, an apple or a hard-boiled egg.
  9. Drink water. During and after indulging in sweets, it’s important to flush the sugar through your system, convert the excess into fat and avoid a dump of insulin to re-stabilize your blood sugar. Too much sugar in your blood can over stress your nerves and brain. Drinking water can also help remove sugar caught in your teeth and gums and prevent tooth decay. The worst thing you can do is wash down a sugary sweet with a sugary drink!
  10. Time it wisely. If you’re going to eat something sugary, the best time to do so is after having eaten a healthy meal with protein and fiber. Sugar in limited amounts can help give us energy and assist us through a droopy afternoon. Taking sugar after a workout can help restock muscle. Eating sugary snacks (ice cream anyone?) late at night is a common but not advisable practice. It can interrupt good sleep and contribute to an upset stomach that’s working overtime to process the sugar. It can also lead to acid reflux, another potential sleep disrupter.

Go ahead, enjoy that dessert. Just do so wisely, mindfully and with a few practices that won’t allow your sugary indulgence to make you feel lousy and douse your energy for adventure.

Bon appetit.

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How to Stay Calm in Rough Seas Filled with Large Sharks

Black tip reef shark

I’ve been scuba diving for about 20 years. Most of my dives have been in the calm, tropical waters of the Caribbean, on the massive reef running alongside the coast of the Yucatan peninsula near Cozumel, Mexico.

For several years I made an annual dive trip and fell in love with Cozumel and the Palancar Reef. Ideal for diving. Visibility for a hundred feet. A full rainbow of colorful coral and fish, and warm, relaxing water. Currents can be strong but they’re usually steady. And in my experience, the sharks have been small – mostly nurse sharks no more than four feet in length, and keeping their distance.

On Thanksgiving Day of 2021, I got a different diving perspective when I dived a couple of tanks with my son, Elliot, off the coast of Big Pine Key, Florida. We boated about an hour south from land to check out the Looe Key Reef. The sun was shining but the wind was blowing, making for a rough, undulating, bucking ride out to the dive site on our 18-foot catamaran-style boat.

The water’s surface was frothy and choppy as we dropped the six feet into the sea off the side of the boat and did our checks before submerging. More challenging, the strong current was fitful, like the wind. Strong splashy waves followed by a couple of weak laps, so that you let down your guard a bit. Then another, stronger wave splashing seawater in your face.

Salt water slopped into our eyes and noses as we checked on each other, our heads bobbing just above the surface. It was time to get down. We bit on our regulators, took a couple breaths of air-gas mixture, then deflated our buoyancy compensator vests and descended under water.

As we dropped to 10 feet, then 20, clearing our ear pressure, the surface current eased and we got a clear view of the billions of gallons of ocean spreading another 20 feet beneath us. This would not be a particularly deep dive, 40 feet at the deepest. But that’s plenty of depth in which to float and flit along with the fish.

The Largest Shark I’ve Ever Seen

After about 10 minutes of floating and swimming through and over coral mounds, enjoying the plethora of vivid colors and fish – parrot fish, lion fish, barracudas, groupers – I spotted the largest shark I’d ever seen while diving. He or she circled about 20 feet away. Nurse shark, we figured, but larger than those I was used to seeing in Mexico. This one at least 6 feet.

Our shark maintained its perimeter but continued circling, a large 180 around us. I kept my eye on it, not because I was alarmed or worried about an unlikely attack, but because I was mesmerized. These ancient creatures are the kings of the sea. They’ve adapted over 450 million years to become a relatively intelligent predator at the top of the food chain. And as long as you don’t threaten them or their offspring, they are not likely to attack.

We floated for a while longer when Elliot pointed off to our 3 o’clock. I looked and peered through the dim haze of water and saw nothing. I looked back at Elliot and he pointed again. Again I looked and saw nothing. I gave him a big shrug, letting go of the moment. We turned and continued swimming.

Then I saw it. At least eight feet long. And fat. About five feet below me, a Black Tip Reef shark (we determined this later). It was hovering against the sea bottom, then suddenly curled on itself and swam away from us.

Now I got it. He was pointing at this sizable shark. And despite the unlikelihood of a shark attack on a diver, I would not have come so nonchalantly close to this beast if I had seen it. One doesn’t want to spook them.

Astronomical Odds

A few statistics learned over the years helped me stay calm so close to a shark that outweighed me by more than 150 pounds.

For one thing, even if a shark decides to come after you, there’s little you can do to avoid it if you’re in open water. It definitely won’t help you to panic and try to swim away, that may be the worst thing you can do because it might prompt the shark to pursue. In the event a shark does show signs of aggression, it’s better to hold still and maintain eye contact, or better yet, start swimming toward it. At that point it will likely swim away.

More importantly: A scuba diver’s chance of getting bitten by a shark is one in 136 million. It almost never happens. Sharks are curious to check out divers, but once they see these floating, bubbling animals they move on to less threatening prey.

Sharks primarily eat smaller fish and invertebrates. Some larger sharks may prey on seals, sea lions and other mammals. In other words, sharks don’t want a fight, and they’re not looking to eat humans.

Surfers, and to a lesser extent, snorkelers, are more likely to be attacked by a shark because the shark mistakes these surface splashing creatures for seals, one of their favorite meals. Still, the odds of anyone getting attacked by a shark remain low – about one in 17 million. And we humans are much more likely to die of heart disease (one in five), cancer (one in seven) or stroke (one in 24) than from a shark attack.

Comforting, I know.

A perfect Thanksgiving sea rainbow spotted on our way back from diving.

A Long, Wet Slog

I regard encounters with sharks as I do run ins with bears, snakes, moose, drug kingpins and other predatory animals. Keep your head down and move on. Most likely, these animals are not interested in attacking you unless they are threatened.

A while after our shark encounter, Elliot and I emerged on the surface and spotted our boat a good five hundred feet in the distance. We had a long, slow swim against the current to get back, and our air was running short.

Back on the boat, headed for shore, we agreed: that last slog to the boat, fighting the strong current the whole way, was more harrowing than anything we saw under water…including 8-foot sharks.

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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.

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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.

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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.  

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A Road Trip to Florida

A landscape view of the sea and a small island from Rowell's Waterfront Park, Key Largo, Fla

I’m always up for a road trip. There’s no feeling quite like hitting the open road in a car, the excitement of rolling miles away, the escape out of town, the change of perspective, music playing, scenery changing and open, endless road stretched out in front of you. There’s something about a road trip that inspires contemplation and a fresh view on life.

Now, some people might not label a road trip to Florida as much of an adventure. And, relatively speaking, it’s not that exotic.

Still, it checks the boxes for my definition of adventure: it’s an activity out of the ordinary; it holds a degree of risk (if you’ve driven on the Florida freeways, you know what I’m talking about; it certainly involves movement, literally in this case; and it includes a modicum of overcoming challenge.

Like some of the best adventures, my most recent road trip to Florida was borne out of necessity and urgency. My son, Elliot, who lives and works in Key Largo, was the victim of a hit-and-run rear-end car accident (his car was rear-ended; see above re: Florida drivers). As an unfortunate result, his old car was totaled; that is, not worth the expense of the body work it would take to fix it. So he needed a car, and his mother happened to be considering buying a new car anyway. So I volunteered to drive her Nissan down to Florida for Elliot to use.

This was an impromptu trip, and I opted not to take time away from work in order to do it. That meant I had very little time for the trip. Now, From Western Massachusetts, where I live, to Key Largo, at the very bottom of the state just where the string of keys begins, is about 1,600 miles. At a good pace, you’re talking about 24 hours of driving.

To avoid heavy Northeast traffic, I opted to leave at 7:30 p.m. on a Friday and drive through the night. It was a good move, as I whizzed through New York City and New Jersey, buzzed by Philadelphia, and cruised along the Washington, D.C. beltway, I-495. The drawback of night driving is the sacrifice of any scenery. It’s just you and the dark highway with shadows of trees and the moon’s glow keeping you company.

I crossed the border from Virginia into North Carolina at around 5 a.m., ready for a nap. I pulled into the first rest area I saw. Thankfully, I was piloting an SUV that had plenty of stretch-out room in the back, and I came prepared with my well-used sleep pad and sleeping bag. Slumber came quickly and lasted a solid hour and a half, all I needed to invigorate more hours on the road.

Six more hours of friendly, rural daylight driving (minus gas and food stops) brought me to the Georgia border with Florida, and a sign that let me know, to my disappointment, that I still had six more hours to go to the keys. Florida is a long, flat state.

The details of driving through Florida are murky. At some point along these straight, flat roads shooting due south, you glaze over the reedy, swampy inlets of swamp. Now and then the view is gorgeous, like when you catch the open sea off to the left and it beckons you. But you don’t want to become too enamored with these drivers speeding dangerously past at 90 miles per hour.

I navigated through Miami highways in mid-evening, hopped happily onto Route 1 out to the keys, and arrived at my son’s place in Key Largo around 9 p.m. Exhausted, but, thanks to caffeine, ready to take him out for a beer at his choice of venue.

I spent Sunday with Elliot and flew back Monday. A compact adventure, and mission accomplished.

Along the way I learned a few things, as one always does during adventures big and small. I learned that, for me, it doesn’t matter what mode of transportation I’m using to go from one place to another. Car, truck, bike, walking, hiking, running, boating. It’s all good. The movement is the key factor, and for some reason I am happiest when I’m moving. I can’t be the only one. I’ll continue to study this phenomenon and write more about it.

I also relearned, as I do every time I travel across this country, that the United States is diverse, often beautiful, and vast. One of my favorite aspects of traveling is observing the gradual and sudden changes in terrain, landscape and culture. Seeing how and where people live.

I returned from my road trip to Florida with freshened perspective, renewed energy and a few memories. That’s why we take adventures.

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All for 15 Minutes Atop Mt. Greylock

Bike to Mt. Greylock summit, Massachusetts

Ride: Easthampton to Mt. Greylock summit, RT
123 miles, 9,000 feet climbed

Some goals aren’t about the goal. Some goals are about everything surrounding the goal: the planning, the anticipation, the work, time and travel spent achieving the goal, and the return from that achievement.

Cycling from my home in Easthampton to and up Mt. Greylock, the highest point in Massachusetts at 3,500 feet, was an all-day endeavor. It’s about a 50-mile ride just to get to the base of the mountain on the southern side, and that’s if you don’t take any wrong turns or waste valuable time blindly following your nav’s direction into a rabbit hole of mountain bike trails for which you’re not equipped.

As it is, riding from Easthampton to the Greylock base in Lanesboro is 3,700 feet of climbing up out of the Valley. Your mph isn’t going to be optimal even without the mountain bike trails.

I headed out my driveway at about 7:20 a.m. The day was perfect, about 60 degrees to start, a few clouds and clearing up. I made good time, as one may, to Williamsburg. Then the climbing started, up Route 9, five miles uphill to Goshen. From there, up and down to Cummington and a requisite stop at the Olde Creamery. Four miles beyond the Creamery, my nav suggested getting off Route 9 onto Main Road in West Cummington. I was eager to try an unfamiliar route, so I followed as the roads began climbing steeply, then narrowed, then turned to gravel, then dirt. Finally, I found myself on a single-track muddy suggestion of a path littered with bowling ball-sized rocks and stream crossings testing both my riding ability and my gravel bike’s endurance. My bike, True, who, after all, recently took me across America, was plenty tough enough. It’s just that, I was spending a lot of time and energy traversing this mountain bike trail, and I wasn’t close to Mt. Greylock.

When I finally found my way off the mountain bike trail, nav again suggested a turn and I took it, eager to get back on track. I rode a mile in and the road, now gravel, abruptly ended. There may have been a path there through the woods, back sometime in the 1960s? But little sign of anything trail-like now. So I begrudgingly turned around and headed back to the main road, cussing the entire way.

I came to Route 116 and realized it would take me to Adams and toward the north side of Greylock, not where I wanted to be. (The north road up Greylock is much more difficult than Rockwell Road on the south side.) So I opted to add about eight miles to the route, and take the time to head back down through Cheshire and work my way over to the south base of the mountain. Again, gravel roads, and my phone carrier now loosening up so that my phone fell out onto the road at one point.

Was I suspecting at this point that my Greylock trip was in jeopardy? Yes. Did I consider for a few minutes bagging the entire goal and trying another day? Yes. Sometimes it’s the smart move. Unfortunately, I too often ignore such omens and push through, which I did.

By the time I got to the Greylock Visitors Center on Rockwell Road, I’d ridden 63 miles and climbed more than 3,700 feet. The summit, my goal, was still eight more miles away and 1,700 feet uphill. After a break and a snack, I started up the steep road.

Reaching the summit of Greylock was a spectacular triumph. The weather was about as good as it gets and the views were/are stunning.

For 15 minutes. Ironically, I determined that the climbing of Greylock wasn’t as difficult as the ride to get there.

I’d have gladly spent longer up on Greylock, but because I’d taken wrong turns and pretended I was a mountain biker on the trip there, I’d lost too much time to dally at the top. I still had 60 miles to ride back home. And anyway, I’ve been atop Greylock many times, and will be many more.

The ride home was 1) grueling, 2) long, 3) a rush in places, and finally, 4) a relief. In brief, the climb out of Pittsfield up to Windsor on Route 9 was brutal. My back was killing me as I plodded along literally in my lowest climbing gear. Again, climbing up from Cummington to Goshen, hard and slow.

But once I reached Goshen, I knew I was golden with about 22 miles to go. I turned on the speed, 5 miles back downhill, Goshen to Williamsburg in 10 minutes, 30 mph all the way and loving every second. Then an easy jaunt on the bike path all the way home from Haydenville back to Easthampton. I rolled in at 6:45 p.m., dusk setting in.

This was a goal on my list since last spring, a big one. I set my personal records for one-day mileage and climbing. As I relaxed later that night, I couldn’t help thinking ahead to more, bigger goals. Could I make it from Easthampton to Burlington, VT, in one day?

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August Adventure Month: Day 31

I declared August 2021 Adventure-a-Day Month (yes, I can do that)! Every day of August, I embarked on some type of adventure, 31 days, 31 adventures, some big, some small, some physical, some mental. It’s my way of making adventure part of everyday life. I write about each adventure below.

Dusk bike ride

It’s not easy coming up with and executing an adventure every single day. That’s what I attempted for the month of August. Not every day’s adventure has been notable, and some days it’s been a bit of a stretch to even call them adventures. But, I argue, every day of August I did something out of the ordinary, at least a little risky, usually with travel involved, and some kind of challenge – all the elements of adventure, by my definition.

My final adventure was by no means my grandest, and really, my August Adventure Month ended with somewhat of a whimper. It was nearing dusk. I’d spent a long day at the office. I was tired mentally. So, with barely a thought about it, I hopped on my bike for a contemplative, relaxing ride around Easthampton, thinking back on this interesting month of daily adventures. I wended my way through Nashawannuck Park and along the streets near downtown, watching people enjoy the waning days of summer. I enjoyed the ride; not much of an adventure, but perhaps that’s a fitting way for a month of daily adventures to end: quietly, without unnecessary fanfare, a silent, unhurried homage to those that came before it, and their meaning not as individual achievements, but as a totality of lessons learned, about imagining, planning, pursuing, achieving and pondering adventures. This is life. An adventure every day.

Adventure: One-hour bike ride at dusk.
Distance traveled: About 14 miles cycling.
Challenges: Getting on the bike and completing this month of adventure.
Risks: Traffic and other cycling risks.
Difficulty scale 1-10: 4
Highlights: Riding through town at dusk, savoring the final days of summer; the feeling of accomplishment from completing a month of adventures every single day.

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August Adventure Month: Day 29

Bike atop Mt. Sugarloaf, Sunderland, Mass.

Day 29: Sunday, August 29
Bike to/up the 3 Valley mountains with paved roads: Mt. Tom, Mt. Holyoke, Mt. Sugarloaf

This was a goal on my list all summer: ride to and up the three Valley peaks with paved roads in one continuous ride. It always sounded daunting, as much for the long ride in between the mountains as for the climb up each one. I’ve climbed each one separately at different times, but combining them all into one long ride (a 66-mile loop climbing 3,500 feet) was a whole different prospect. Mt. Tom was first because it’s close to my house. I rode out my driveway, as I always do, and headed over to Mt. Tom, which I’ve now climbed about a half dozen times. It gets easier each time, and today’s was not difficult, though exerting. Leg’s warmed up I traveled along the ridge road to the park’s west entrance and took off down back down the mountain on Route 141 back into Easthampton. I rode into town and caught the Manhan Bike Trail into Northampton, then linked up with the Norwottuck Rail Trail to cross the Connecticut River into Hadley. Then over to Bay Road and to Route 47 to Skinner Park, home of Mt. Holyoke and the Summit House at the top. This is never an easy ride. The road starts with a steep 3/4-mile climb – always a leg waker-upper – before it flattens a little where it passes the New England Trail. Then the steepness picks up again with several hairpin turns and 8-10% grades as you near the top. Low climbing gears and standing necessary. The payoff of the Summit House is always awesome with great views north, the Valley and river below. After blasting down the road, I turned east on Route 47 toward Granby, hooked up to Route 116 and made my way up over the notch, legs starting to feel the day’s ride. Down into South Amherst, still on 116, I worked my way up the long hill into Amherst Center. I delighted at the Amherst Town Common carnival as I rode past, remembering taking my kids to this annual event when they were little. Then I cruised through downtown Amherst to University Drive, straight through the UMass campus, bustling with students (I also apparently pissed off one of them in his honking car), and down into North Amherst, winding back out to Route 116 toward Sunderland. Finally, after 16 miles since Mt. Hokyoke, Mt. Sugarloaf was in my sights, and I crossed the Connecticut River again then climbed up to the access road. Climbing Sugarloaf is moderate at first, for about 3/4 of a mile, before it turns sharp right and picks up to an 8% grade for the last 1/3 push to the top. Awesome views are the reward, with a different view of the river, Sunderland and UMass in the distance. Relieved with the three peak climbs accomplished, I headed fast down the road and started my long ride back home. Goal achieved.

Adventure: Bike to and up the three Valley peaks with paved roads: Mt. Tom, Mt. Holyoke, Mt. Sugarloaf.
Distance traveled: About 66 miles cycling, 3,500+ feet climbed.
Challenges: Long endurance ride; three tough climbs up mountains; keeping hydrated and fueled.
Risks: Cycling risks: traffic, slipping/falling; risk of losing control when riding 45 mph down a mountain;
Difficulty scale 1-10: 8
Highlights: Spectacular views from the tops of Mt. Holyoke and Sugarloaf; the feeling of real accomplishment from having achieved a tough goal.

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August Adventure Month: Day 25

Atop Mt. Sugarloaf, Sunderland, Mass.

Day 25: Wednesday, August 25
Bike ride, Mt. Sugarloaf

This was my first time bike climbing Mt. Sugarloaf, the knob of a mountain in Sunderland, MA. The road is about one mile to the summit. It starts out with a moderate up the side of the mountain for about two thirds of a mile before you take a hairpin turn to the right to start the steep climb to the top. Once you make that hairpin turn things get more difficult, and it’s down to the lowest gear to manage the very steep, one-third-mile climb to the summit. This climb is distinct from Mt. Holyoke and Mt. Tom – the other Valley mountains with paved roads – in that it saves the steepest climb for last. It’s not the hardest Valley paved-road climb, Mt. Holyoke is longer and has a steep beginning and end. The view at the top is well worth the effort with a sweeping panorama of the northern Valley, the town of Sunderland and the Connecticut River wending below. Then the reward: a mile-long fast coast back down the mountain road!

Adventure: Bike climb, Mt. Sugarloaf, Sunderland, MA
Distance traveled: About 32 miles RT.
Challenges: A long ride on Route 47 with very narrow shoulder; a rigorous climb up the mountain with a very steep finish.
Risks: Traffic on Route 47; running out of energy on the steep climb toward the top; losing control on the fast, winding descent.
Difficulty scale 1-10: 7.5
Highlights: It’s always a triumphant feeling to come out on the top of a mountain, having conquered the climb. Today offered a wonderful, clear view. And the ride back down the mountain road was fast, exciting, a little scary, and invigorating.