Memories of the old barn in Pomfret

I was thinking about barns on today's ride. I remembered our barn in Pomfret Connecticut when I was only about 8-10.  We purchased an old farm that was located off Rt. 100 and Carter road by Wolf Den park. It was a huge barn, by my standards as a kid. It was weathered brown and had a main level very close to the road with enormous doors. There was also a  small door you could enter. It was directly across the street from our tiny farm cottage that had not been touched, but for paint since the early 1800s. The floors were covered with slightly newer planks to keep you from falling through rotted sections. You could not go all the way to the back as the floor became rotty to non-existent. My friends and I used to jump over the holes where there were missing slats. The good part of the barn had stacks of every National Geographic, Sears, Saturday Evening Post and Mongomerey Ward catalogs on shelves. Issues reaching fairly deep into the last century when Sears would sell guns, car engines, tires, bras, corsets and wagons all in the same catalog. By the large row of flat-stacked magazines there was a bench with a layer of tools scattered with screws, nails in cofee cans, cigar boxes, and jars of rusty nails of every type. It was as dark, I don't think we had electricity. There were steel jaw traps hanging on the wall, and a grappling hook that I adopted and had a really good time playing with around the trees outside. Sometimes I'd pull it and it would not have connected. It became a dangerous projectile on the end of the rope hurling toward me. Below the main tool area was a crawl space where my mother went with a flashlight. She found Silver Candlesticks and some China that was dated to before Revolution. We later learned that British soldiers came down this road, sacking all the farms. I guess the person hid their valuables under the barn in the dirt and never came back to get them. As I think back, we should have taken a metal detector down there. Who knows what else there was?

At the opposite end of the barn, to the right of the doors, there was a wooden ladder up to a loft. The loft was dark and toward the back of the barn somewhat away from the window, so you could only see what was in it with a Flashlight. In the loft was a tangle of metal farm parts and tons of screws etc. falling out of wooden boxes. I think there was an engine up there of some old tractor or car. Someone had told us that there was also a complete surrey wagon kit there that was delivered minus the wood. Below the loft and the main floor there were steep steps down to a basement level entrance out the bottom of the south side of the dry stone foundation. There were milking pens for the cows on the back, and a couple horse stalls on the right. The milking pens had cement floors so it must have been added later than the rest of the barn.

This was an incredible place for a kid to explore as much of this stuff had not been touched since the 1800s. The woman we bought it from was an only daughter from the people who one house up the street. She was in her '90s when she sold the acreage and property to my parents, and had not lived in the house since she was about 30. She moved into her parents house when her father died and pretty much left this house, which was given to her, the way it was when her parents, parents had given it to them. There was no power initially, and a hand pump for water in the sink that had to be primed. It had a huge cooking wood stove in the kitchen that was rimmed with 4-inch nickel-plated edges. When we got the stove up to temperature the kitchen could approach 100 degrees, while the rest of the house stayed around 40-50. I have no idea why we went there in the winter. I was miserable as a kid. But summer was a different story. I had a three wheel mini-bike, a bb gun and about 40 acres to explore. I'd find farm tools on the walls, and more leg traps in the streams. My dad and I dammed up part of the stream and made a great swimming hole. My dad was like I am in a lot of ways, especially with his love of the outdoors and being in the woods.

Inside the tiny two bedroom house there was a desk drawer that had lots of foriegn money in it, and I thought we had struck it rich! But they were only WWI-era german dollars and worth fractions of a cent. My parents bought it fully furnished. I remember thinking it was like stepping back in time.  The basement was scary and I don't remember much other than a dirt floor and ancient rotting canning jars on shelves on the walls going down there. There large fields around the property and beautiful stone walls around the fields. There was a "back-field" across the stream far out in the woods. I found a brilliant green Vine snake back there that was almost tame from the time I caught it. It had a blue tongue.  Sadly, it fell out of my shirt pocket into our outside bucket well when I was leaning down over it to get the bucket.

But the old barn was the thing we thought was the coolest. My dad put a new roof on it to preserve it. I don't know if it worked. I've been back to the area a few times since I was a kid, and never found the property, house or barn. Maybe I just don't recognize it, or maybe it was leveled for a development. I don't know, but it is a magical image that comes back to me in my dreams as part of my house. I feel frustrated in my dreams that I never had time or money to fully restore it. Sometimes there's beasts in the basement milking pen, kind of like malevolent Eors or something. Not sure its a dream. But a good dream as it reignites my memory of that really cool structure with so much history.

Changing

Nobody wants to go to a funeral. Nobody wants to plan a funeral. Or to write their child's Eulogy. Or share in details the most painful, vulnerable moments of your life. 

Today I was changed through the power and transparency of a eulogy from a woman I do not recall ever speaking with. And I was given a task. We were given a task. To be more compassionate, and treat those you love as if you may never get a chance to tell them how much they mean to you. And to treat strangers the same way, as everyone has or needs someone who cares about them.

I woke up this morning to the usual yelling. Dogs barking to come inside, ‘Where’s my shoes?” “Who at the last piece of cinnamon bread?” etc. I said to myself, I’m not going to the funeral today. I told my wife, I wasn’t going. I thought I’d be taking the seat of someone more deserving to be there… But my wife said, "You didn’t go to anything" (I missed the candle ceremony as I had a bad stomach, and the wake due to taking Evan to a Celtics game). Then I saw my son looking polished and determined with his tie on, his pants a little too high due to yet another growth spurt, and I thought to myself what kind of example I was setting for him. With 20 minutes left before leaving, I showered, picked out a shirt, changed that shirt, put on a suit, got out of the suit, found a black shirt, my dad’s old blue suede sport jacket, and went with that.

In better times, Mike, Ethan’s dad, and I chatted comfortably in town and on social media about many things. He always took an interest in my Mountain Biking, as I did his competitive running. over the years from the sidelines of sports, a guac party his family threw every summer, and through many mutual friends, etc. 

I got to the church alone as Mary Beth had a busload (well SUV full) of Evan’s friends who's parents had to work. As I drove past, I saw a boy alone in a white shirt and tie in the bright sun and 20 degree morning chill, looking up at the steeple. He was 2 hours early. He is on my son’s basketball team, my mountain bike team.  The boys and my wife skipped the trip to the coffee shop and saved me a seat in the white austere congregational church behind my son and his friends and an hour or more to go before the service. Evan was seated in a row of freshman girls, beautifully dressed and in makeup, but most still looking more girl than young woman, as the first year of high school is not far removed from 8th grade. His closest friends were in front of him. At this point Guilford freshman still seem to silo their deepest friendships by elementary school. Everyone was chattering and playing with their phones. Many people walked in with coffee and water, something I wasn’t used to seeing, but this church was different. I understood quickly that judging was not in their line of business. I mentioned to my son’s friends mom that it had a comfortable “feng-shway” I am as sure of how to spell it, as I am to pronounce it. She understood, pronounced it correctly and agreed. I felt more comfortable than expected and a little antsy. I knew I was not going to cry today, just as sure as I thought I would not go to a funeral. I noticed the iced tea I had brought into church had left water drops on my tie. I wiped them away so nobody would think they were tears as I was not going to cry. 

At 10:00 the Song family walked into the church. I saw Mike. My eyes began to leak before I felt anything. Was I crying for his loss, or the feeling I might have if my own son was taken?, I wondered. I was not alone in leaky eyes. Tissues were distributed down the isles. Ethan was in my son’s class last week, but would not be attending. He was the reason the church, foyer, balcony, and every bit of space there was was packed with all the faces of Guilford and beyond. I looked at the young men in front of me. The freshmen were still recognizable as the boys who played sports, came over to our house to zip-line, or play basketball or jump in our pool. The seniors, who were once my oldest son’s friends before sports, social circles, personalities and interests spread them apart, were less recognizable without looking close. I tried to remember each of their faces as the boys they were, now in suits, shaving. Embarrassing as some would say “Hi Mr. Ghoreyeb” and I wasn’t quite sure who they were in the moment. The ceremony was opened with two young girls singing a song in harmony. I’m not sure what the song was.

Kristin, was Mike’s wife and Ethan's mother. I don’t think I ever spoke with Kristin. Not for being un-friendly, but the opportunity never came. She was always surrounded by so many friends, and we seemed to head in different directions at pickups and drop-offs. We share the same groups of close friends. We have boys the same age and we share the same community. Of course without ever speaking, we’re parents of all these kids in Guilford, and of course we’re friends as a result. Then again, maybe I have spoken with her. As I get older, I’m less sure of anything. For me, there are fewer absolute truths. 

Kristin approached the altar and stood alone shaking in front of the hundreds of people in the church. She looked as if she hadn’t eaten in days. But she was determined. She stared a moment at the hall full of people, the chairs in the foyer. There were also speakers in the basement and filled chairs there as well… She stammered shakily “I can’t do this…" Once again, then a third time, I thought I heard Mike say to her “We love you". Then she took a breath and began. I was transported from the church in that moment and found myself with her on the morning of the worst day of her life. She brought us with Ethan to have his braces removed. It was a big day. Like a great mom (what I say), she decided to “skip” school and celebrate. They went for breakfast. They shared an unusually deep discussion about Ethan’s life, about his dreams and aspirations, and how many children he planned on having (7?). That breakfast conversation, that day, was a gift, Kristin said. It was, in a way, preparation for the grief that would shake her life and our town.  As she brought us along through her day, she wandered to recount her son’s wit, intelligence, flaws and forgetfulness. Ethan didn’t wear shoes the day they were taking the ferry to Block Island, what was he thinking?. She wandered through life with her boy, weaving memories, then returning to lead us further through the moments of that horrific day. She let him walk his friends house. She heard the first responders race past toward the town docks. Then she saw the police grim at her door. The moments that followed were much darker. 

On a bright morning, in an austere yet beautiful church on the most beautiful green in Connecticut, on a sunny yet cold Monday, Kristin Song showed us her heart. She opened her soul and brought us to where we thought there were no words. No words to describe the horror of our shared loss… no words to make the pain any less or to give purpose to such a loss... No words to bring Ethan back, or provide comfort or closure...  Kristin, bravely, intelligently and beautifully gave us those words... Somehow shaping them around the unimaginable loss of her youngest child. She showed us a beautiful life through the lens of a loving mom. She shared with our community the treasure she lost, and asked for our care and love to be shared beyond the Songs. She said in Ethan’s memory, we could help make a better world by extending the kindness and love our community shed on their family. She asked to refocus our love for her family and youngest child among all of us in attendance, and not just to share it, but to live in a more forgiving, empathetic and loving way.  She wove memories of the horrific day with her best moments with Ethan. She shared his passion for animal rescue, his remarkable heritage, close friendships, favorite things, finally tying it neatly with an unexpected quote from the Lord of the Rings: 

“Pippin: I didn't think it would end this way.

Gandalf: End? No, the journey doesn't end here. Death is just another path, one that we all must take. The grey rain-curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass, and then you see it. Pippin: What? Gandalf? See what? Gandalf: White shores, and beyond, a far green country under a swift sunrise. Pippin: Well, that isn't so bad. Gandalf: No. No, it isn't.”  

Those were the words she she used to bring us gently back into our pew and conclude her youngest sun’s eulogy.  It was clear to me. These were the words; these, and the words before them. They are what we, (I was) searching for when we said (and wrote) “...there are no words". These words shared the pain, a path toward healing, and most importantly, shared intimately the life of Ethan Song, all tied up with a quote that carried more weight than the author may ever know. And words that Ethan would love. 

..But maybe this is just my perspective. I’m not really sure of anything anymore… Maybe I was alone in feeling like this was most powerful thing I may have heard. I question this because my son and his friends said they thought the most powerful moment was when dad Mike sang "Let it Be”.  I feel like I have perception issues, I talk too much sometimes without listening enough, or so I’ve been told... Or maybe I got filled up at that point emotionally and could not feel anymore… 

The rest of the service alone, without Kristin’s part was an incredible service. It was a powerful, sad yet joyful celebration of Ethan. It was a testament to this family blessed with so many gifts and cursed with one horrible misfortune. It was a memorial service faced by group of cousins, siblings and parents who rallied for their family and their grief. Flags of Korea, Israel and the Untied states, flanked by a Guilford sports jersey were displayed at the alter symbolic of a colorful and faceted family.  

The service offered emotional recollections from their daughter.* Her thoughts and words were heartfelt, clear and powerful; showing the love a big sister has for her littlest brother. I have an older sister. I remember when she left for college.  I get that close bond.

Ethan’s brother, also in high school, recounted his disdain for his sibling just as my oldest son feels the same frustration with Evan. Always late, effortlessly charismatic, less serious yet somehow living life effortlessly… And still yet the terrible loss he felt. Who would say “I love you” to their little brother after all? Nothing should ever happen where you would need to in the first place... It’s an unwritten law of sibling-hood! It was clear to all how much he loved his little brother.

Ethan's closest in age of many cousins tearfully recounted their adventures as a family who often skied and vacationed together. Now he would be the youngest cousin. His uncle, Kristin’s brother, recalled the horrible sadness he felt at the moment Ethan left the earth and later called his sister only to hear the voice of her minister on the other end of the cell phone. 

There was a moving tribute from pop star Nick Fradiani, our local celebrity, who sang a moving rendition of Hallelujah with his dad. Famous or not, he’s part of our community. We celebrated his American Idol win, and cried together for our loss here today.  

Ethan’s grandmother is a holocaust survivor, who recently gave Ethan her “Jude" star from the death camps, that he kept as a badge of honor. She bravely read a letter from Ethan which was delivered to her the day after his passing discussing his mid-term results and his empathy for Anne Franke with his grandmother. She wanted us to hear his words and see his colors. Her poise and close relationship with her grandson were quite moving.

Mike Song is a well known and successful motivational speaker. I was sure he would have crafted some words to sum up the service. But he probably (rightly) knew his family and wife in particular had said it all.  He said, “ I prepared nothing. There’s nothing left to say”. I wondered if Mike's Grandfather, a Korean war veteran, was also buddhist; as Mike chose a song which despite mentioning Mother Mary, felt to me in spirit to resemble a Buddhist chant. He sang "Let It Be". He sang for/to his son.  He was accompanied by his acoustic guitar and the voices of our community. When there were no words left, there was a Song. 

However, nothing for me was as moving as Ethan's mom. Kristin found the missing words, the energy she shared and the care in which she offered them, was to me the greatest gift. Today I cried. I didn’t go to a funeral. I went to a celebration of a life.  Thank you Ethan. It was a pleasure to meet you and share the love you felt from your wonderful family with myself and the world.

*Correction was made: Emily, who spoke so touchingly, is a nursing major at UConn and the Song's oldest child. The screenwriter for Disney is Mike's sister Elena, who of course was in attendance.

The best of rides the worst of rides...

It was the best of rides.

"I'll be back in around an hour or so." "You can go for more than an hour" said my wife. 

Most of my rides are an hour or slightly more of solitude. Just me, my playlist, my Strava (as a motivator), and my bike, (which must be tuned flawless or I hate it). 

I drove into dunk rock past the usual rider circus at the lower lot, to my customary spot in seclusion at the top of Dunk Rock. I wondered if those were the people on the blogs that came from towns hours north to tell me they read that I shouldn't park at the top  for reasons they didn't remember or got wrong. (23 years parking in my spot and I'm not moving until I get towed)... 

I don't use pads right now, cause I'm riding too much to fall at the moment… (Noticing that I never realize when I haven't been riding enough to know to wear pads and escape injury). But today I know I'm okay. It was supposed to rain. But it's nice and a little cool. First weekend of October. The leaves are starting to turn but not overwhelm my slightly wimpy (for westwoods terrain) X-king knobbies I bought for racing. They will be gripping the first layer of leaves and sliding all over the ledge rock in a week or two.

I unload and pack-up . The wide dirt trailhead feels like home as I put in my earphones and clip-in to my pedals eager to dip into the woods. I usually start my rides with a jump off the rock at the trailhead…if my back isn't too sore…But there are other riders…

Will they complain where I parked? I pull my ear plugs…. 

"You can ride with us if you want"  - Some guy with a beard said… I think he was in a race with me earlier this year… I think I know most people I meet…. But I'm usually wrong. I say, "Want and Can are two very different things…   I hear collective laughter… 

They stop and name names. I get Brad, another Tom, Todd, Vin (I think)…. That’s all I remember… There were 8 riders, I count… I say "I'll do my best to keep up but don't miss me if I break off the back."  Nobody hears or cares, and someone says "c'mon".

Suddenly I'm riding with a group!

A rare occurrence due to an aversion to planning, busy kid schedules, and being spoiled by being minutes from Westwoods.

Not sure if I'm gonna like this… Groups are too fast or slow or spend too much time taking pictures of each other, offering advice I already know, or choose trails I hate. Or get flat tires or sticks in the gears…Or I do.

We bank right off the blue trail onto the smooth concave green ridge trail toward the green square trail. I know it well, smooth to start, progressively more rocky tech as we crest the ridge and drop down toward the swampy green trail, and the pace is fine.

When we hit the rocky downhill to the green square dirt-road type trail, everyone seems to accelerate and drop into the tech downhill faster than I think I can manage, but somehow I do. Sometimes slippery tires act like skis on roots and leaves. I'm starting to like the group. Not too much talk, except for occasional obnoxiously funny one-liners. Good pace. Covering ground.

The slime planks lead west

We all cross the stream on the green trail over a tow board bridge then bang a right onto the orange trail. Soon we’re in the massive indian cliff/caves…

I love/hate this trail lately. Great green mossy swamp on one side, Massive rocky cliffs on the other and in between a rooty wet slimy rock goat path.

I went over the bars in the winter on it and it is just too eroded for my overinflated slippery/soapy brand spanking new 2.2s as the guys in front on 29ers rip it up.

One of the rider in the back comments to me, "those guys are really good riders". I like to think I’m a good rider but I’m getting spanked in this section. After a substantial bit of gnarly rooty rocky eroded wet single track, we come to the 200 yard two-plank bridge. I hope we will ignore it and go up the hill… 

Instead we go right into the swamp mist onto the slimy bridge. It's wet and greenish as if frogs clean off the old slime on the planks…

I'm second. The first guy is pushing with his foot and balancing through the fog… 

I see slight slips on his track on the bridge where his tire slides slightly with each foot push. It's that slick. He rode the entire rock garden orange no sweat, so I feel some sort of redemption cause I'm the only one pedaling at least part of the green slimy planks. The X-king treads are suprising me here with slick traction.

We end up at the bottom or the white-dot trail on the west side of the swamp. 

There are hikers with Appalician Trail member patches sewn on their farmer jackets, binoculars and a map…

The group doesn't notice them. The group is amped to be off the bridge. One guy on an older carbon frame yells "Hit that shit" The AT jacket people smiled nervously and searched their map.

Each of the eight slams his rig into a cliff edge either levitating like ghandi smoothly up and climbing the 200 yard steep over rock and root,  or like me, just smashing rings and splailing legs way out as we clumsily reverse back off it.

One guy shouts rapper sound effects like "Ping Ping Ping"… I didn't quite get it, but his delivery cracked everyone up and punctuated the entire ride.

Seemed like everyone is loving the ride so far.  

We get to the top of the steep hill and they can't decide left or right. There are layers of trees down on this hill from the various blights.

Old rotten evergreens, newer oaks and some fresher ashes. The hurricane last year helped add to the mat of sticks and twigs around the trail.

The ground under and around the trail is amazingly rocky and lacks topsoil due to cycles of hard rains that are stripping off any hint of smoothness.

I didn't like that bridge back to Westwoods main system. Unsafe and slimy. But I'm thinking hopefully about the west side of Moose Hill Rd.. Im thinking we don't have to risk our lives on that slimy foggy swamp again.

While the group is undecided I offer the trails West of Westwoods, (which is still Westwoods, but is also in Branford somehow). 

But I'm fairly honest and say I cannot guarantee a loop. I only know out to route 146 or out and back. Some guys vaguely remember a loop. 

Everyone wants to go to there... 

The abdomonizer

We hammer left up the more technical up hill section. I'm leading now, not in skill, but knowing the trails. One guy in a Bern helmet is testing my lungs on my wheel.  We pull out onto Peddlars trailhead. At the brief stop we attempt to jump, and resultantly defile an abandoned abdomonizer that sits in the trailhead on Peddlers. Forks flex and plastic flies as the abdomonizer flails towards cranks and derraileurs. After it has been sufficiently defiled, we head tout on the road towards West of westwoods.

When we hit Pedddlars I notice the significance that there's a little dog with us. I noticed before, but he was a great trail dog, so not in my face like my labs who are no longer allowed to go for rides… But good dog does not so much have a sense of the road. Not his fault. 

I tried to be nonchalant,  but when cars came, I'd ride into the middle to slow them down and frustrate the drivers so they'd slow down just out of paranoia for the lil white jack russell looking thing, who seemed to be doing the same thing for us. 

As we approached the entry road to West of Westwoods, I talked with a guy who got his blur off of ebay for $700. I love ebay. Nice bike.

As we turned onto the road to West of Westwoods I asked Brad if he was in any races this year that he looked familiar. 

He looked like a guy who rode with the Berlin High school XC team… Maybe a teacher...

He said that he hadn't raced for a long time, but I looked familiar too. Must be the common trails.  (chuckles)

Meanwhile a couple of the guys were riding wheelies  for the entire road.

The real ride had not even started yet. 

We dipped in and shit got fast. We climbed and headed out at an extreme pace. We waited at the hill tops for some guys to catch up  and then catch their breath then hit it again. 

The trail starts like Westwoods main, steep narrow and technical. But it opens up wide and rocky after the first climb.

There are less trees and general foliage, but more bigger rocks. The trail shape is firm and fast.

Now my wheels are spinning fast… finding the notches between the rocks at speed. I'm riding faster than I normally would in some of this gnar.

Some of these guys are riding as faster, yet effortlessly hitting shit with style…. Improvising off random rocks to launch over downed trees in the way of the trail … Random drops into piles of sticks that would snap my der in a flash. 

- all stunts on-site and in the moment…. 

Now it narrows into rocky techs. There are stone mounds made from settlers, indians and quarry diggers.

There is an active quarry in the distance. 

The weather is getting better. 

We start to seek a loop back, but are in no hurry to turn around.

The lost loop

I say I would love to uncover a loop to Moose Hill, but each time we come to a likely candidate, I say "nope. I tried that one". After a while, I doubt myself and we try routes I've tried before…

We cannot find a loop and keep heading toward the south trail. We realize the little dog will not do well on Route 146 so we must head back. 

We cross a field that has overgrown and rips my shins with raspberry prickers. We then turn around and rip back through it.

We spend a lot of time chasing dead ends not facing the fact we have to head back entirely the way we came but there is a good deal of stuntry and banter 

to make the trip back relaxed. Good riders. Loud as the only people on earth, as we often feel deep in the woods. 

This is a special part of Westwoods as well. I don't know these guys, but I'm really having a good time. 

As we start our descent there's more delays. My tire keeps softening. I hit it with CO2 tire viagra… Some of the guys in the back seem winded. I ride in the back at times and the front, but we stay together pretty well.

The hot dogs at the front are good at waiting as well as flying. 

No matter where you ride with these guys, the pack is always together.

But now it takes quite a while to return to the Moose Hill Parking lot. 

Back in Westwoods at Moose Hill

Brad says he has to get back soon and asks how far we are. I offer that we can take a fast downhill or a windy tech trail that takes about 15 minutes longer…

For those who know Westwoods and Moose Hill - I'm thinking Pink to Purple to Yellow ridge vs. the Blue DH from the Moose Hill straight to the Dunk Rock parking lot. 

Everyone defers back to me and says they'd like the extra 15 minutes if its more fun… I remember staring at Brad and wondering if he's gonna come or not. I think I know what he's thinking….

But I then hear my wife "You can go for more than an hour"

He says "let's just go"

I get a second burst of energy and head off to "sink the pink" - trail that is.

We hammer it pretty tightly and the fast guys don't make the steep climb up the rock before the purple cutover.

All the guys toward the back kill it. Brad makes everyone look like amateurs with his climb up and to the right leisurely pedaling at the top. 

We cut to Purple and do the remainder of the DH route without incident in a tight group. Those who can / want to hitting the drops.

There's some confusion at the left up the ridge. A few guys overshoot the turn to the steep cliffy ridge trail. We call them back up the hill. 

My favorite trail

Though they know Westwoods, nobody in the group has done this trail before, and I'm thrilled I get to show them my favorite trail. 

We bang the left up the yellow hill and start out. I worry a little about the dog because the immediate right of the narrow trail is a 100+ foot cliff drop, but dogs are better than humans at avoiding that type of stuff.

Now I'm thinking about the great riders at the front of the group and I want to hit my lines as hard as I can and somehow attempt to get close to one tenth of their skill level…

There's a tough corner that can be taken from an all out drop to a tech wheelie drop to a wide roll. And soon after another that does not prepare you for a quick scamper up a hill, that you need to be ready to spin up.

They are off the back a few seconds, but as I glance back they are finding their own lines, between the cliffy boulders, on-sighting lines impressive than my own practiced routine…  (not suprisingly), I move aside at a quick steep climb I never have the wind or power to make so they have a shot. One rider on a 29er hardball  makes it another on a 29er does not. I push up the lip and we continue to the top of the ridge to wait for the rest of the group.

One by one they show up. I am amped for the DH part of this trail and can't wait to see these guys tear up the roller from Yellow to Green.

Now all but two are at the hill top. There's calling back. No answer. I notice I've been gone for over three hours. 

I hear my wife "You can go for more than an hour"… But three-ish with a lot to do that day is pushing it…

While one guy goes back to see what happened to the other two, I call my wife. She's not entirely happy with me. 

About 5 minutes later the rider returns and says that Brad is not feeling well and its the same thing that happened last week. "I gave him a power bar and he felt better."

Each of the guys said they were going back to wait with Brad. "Your wife didn't sound happy Tom, you can break off if you want" I agreed, but I said somebody had to come with me to find out how to get back to the green trail. If they didn't find the unmarked right, they'd follow yellow trail back up the ridge and add about 30 minutes to their ride.

Vin, (I think his name was, they guy with the Bern helmet and little dog) said he would follow. We hit the last stretch of loose steep babyheads and washout with a vengeance, and even though he needed to get back, he said it was a great stretch. 

I got home and was tossed into parenting stuff for the remainder of the day.

That night I got on Strava and checked my ride. It was a long time, with only about 2 hours 20 minutes moving time. 

It was the first group of riders that held a decent pace and the only real holdup was my soft tire, other than the guys at the end of the ride.

I drink about 4 Sea Hag IPAs and fire up the laptop...

I added a note to the Strava map saying how great a ride it was and what great riders I rode with.

This should be the happy ending. 

But Wednesday night I read on Facebook in bikerag "Who was that rider who died in Westwoods on Sunday?"

Hahaha what a coincidence, I thought… I replied I was in there with a group of 8 and didn't hear anything, but there was one guy who didn't feel well at the end….

"Sounds like him" - reply

I delete my posts and shut down. Fuckers were joking about it. 

Not funny anymore.

I could not sleep that night. Called the police the next morning from my cell while driving to work. 

Dispatcher said it sounded like my story matched the witness statements, but I'd have to come in for a report.

Instead I looked in the obits for Wallingford. There was Brad staring back at me, minus his helmet and bike.

His obit was as vague as they all are but mentioned Guilford and mountain biking. 

It was the worst of rides.

Thursday, I could not get through the day at work. I leave early.  Like that movie (Shawn of the Dead I think) where the main characters solve all their problems by going to the pub. My problems are solved by riding in Westwoods.

I rode when my dad died. 

I rode when my unborn twin baby girls died. 

Whenver I got a pink slip, it was waiting in my car while I rode before telling anyone. 

How do I deal now?

When what I am trying to forget is  so close to what I use to forget? 

When my favorite place holds the worst reality and scene my imagination could conjure up.

I thought about Brad. Fuck it.  I re-rode that ridge trail fast and flawless I'm sure he would have been  right behind me if he could be. 

I rode more too. I rode until my lungs burned. 

My thoughts moved to the dozen or so spear points and arrowheads I found throughout the Guilford woods over the years. I found my first one in the patch of woods not far from where Brad left us. 

I think if there are spirits, there would be spirits of those who made those points who hunted and lived and died there.  

I thought that if there are spirits of the woods,  Brad would be part of them, and I will think of him each time I ride my favorite trail.

I continued to ride hard on some slick rock tech, and found myself at lost lake as the sun was getting low. 

I took a picture that everyone who goes to Westwoods takes off that rock over lost lake.

It 's a long view across the lake. You can see the railroad trestle in the distance. 

There's a canal like series of rocks that leading from the stream below to the island.

The water is still. The tide is high so the air smells fresh with a hint of salt.

I didn't know Brad for more than a couple of hours. But I'm pretty sure he would have liked the view. 

Balancing out of balance

I am disturbed by an odd proliferation of rock statues... Lord knows, I'm no fan. But I was actually happy to see the grotesque overbuilding and dismantling of old walls for self-congratulation in recent weeks...

Pics on this page show ancient rock piles in various states of moss covering.
Most appear to be placed, or piled intentionally or removed out from somewhere else. But if these piles are gone, so too will be the clues they may have held, and the wonder they provide to those that care to look.

Maybe the builder seeks attention from the local paper. Maybe there's an army of subculture's, balancing every loose and otherwise rock they see. Maybe its my own fault. I confronted a rock balancer several weeks ago. But later apologized, and just requested moderation and care. Maybe its their revenge. Or maybe its a new natural fad.... Geo rock balance caching... or whatever... Whatever the reason, whatever the cause, it has spread through Westwoods like poison ivy, or a new blight. Leaving the landscape out of balance once again in its history.

I fell through one as it was built on top of a rock jump we've been fond of for the past ten or so years. It felt almost good to smash through it... Sent me off course somewhat... The stick cutting my leg didn't feel as good as I was veered off course into a dead hemlock. I hope that's the worst injury that comes of these...

.. Not that I care if the builder gets sued, (legally he/they can be)...

...But I don't want to see any kid hurt because somebody craves attention this badly... Now I'm not one to exaggerate, but I counted well over fifty along the blue trail last Saturday. Maybe more than one hundred. Each rock helped anchor in soil, was a home, artifact or held some other minuscule role in nature and or history. None are significant alone, but subracted by conscription into an army of rock balancing statues their abscence in the forest floor may be felt...

Rock balancers remove choice rocks from the trail, loosening a vital component of the firma "terra firma", (or maybe its part of the "terra"... Anyway the dismantling of old walls, and other "natural or prehistoric" formations in order to say "look what I can do," used to bother me...

Someday this may be the only record of these old stone piles. And that's fine if its only me that sees something valuable in their existence.

As I said before, I'm glad its getting so prolific. Now since whomever is doing it, seems to be totally out of balance, I'll wait until they piss enough people off with their over the top messing of the natural scenery. Those who care and make rules, will have to add a provision to the land trust bylaws that includes dismantling or disturbing rocks to the reluctant list of rules, by sheer preservative necessity. Yay, more rules! Thanks stone dude[s].

More boring old moss covered rock piles

These rocks were piled for some reason, (maybe important, maybe not so), long ago [ancient rock balancers?]. So long ago, that many are fused with layers and variety of lichens and mosses.


Just Tear them up and balance them.... yay.

Anyway, its beyond me... I resign to riding and preaching "non-skidding"... (of course, after making my case well heard in this post).
I will let others decide when too many stone walls, rock piles, ancient graves, and not to mention the anchors of soil to the trails themselves are disturbed and destroyed.I'm grateful to have the woods to ride through. I'm not the one to decide what is out of balance for all.

... But the proliferation of self-grandiosing rock balancing sculpture numbering near one hundred in about a quarter of a mile, then also everywhere else...

To defend the practice again, I can see how one or two special rock balancing locations might be fun. Even better would be a secret zen rock garden...
Recycling the smoothest of rocks and arranging them for hours at a time...slow down! But, now we have hundreds of balanced obstacles to site and bike, in our face everywhere in Westwoods. It seems like a lot of rocks displaced to me, (but not so bad as when I was a quarry Westwoods sighs)...

Enough Pontification

As a simple bike endowed creature of the forest. I will continue to clear inconvenient trees from my favorite trails, break up flooding where it overflows streams, or does not serve my trails by draining, but other than that, I prefer to co-exist with the woods and disturb as little as I can.

I'll watch the frenetic stone pile building, until this chapter too runs it's course. I'm just sad to know that my kids may not get to wonder at rocks like the moss covered mounds and piles on this page. They will know that these rocks were moved by those with an innate need to see newly man-made objects everywhere...even deep in nature.