Home by Another Way

Someone always knows another way to get you where you’re going. It’s always shorter, faster, less “trafficky,” or in some way better than the route you foolishly chose.

In our most recent example some people at a party in Bridgewater – nearly all flatlanders*- knew a way through the woods that would get us back to our campground in Plymouth more efficiently than the boring, albeit paved, way that had gotten us there.

At the end of the party or rather, at the point when my party gene receded, we made our good byes and humored our hosts by attempting to find the suggested road. We did this in spite of mention of a five-way intersection and promises that “you can’t miss it.”

We missed the five-way intersection; unless a couple of abandoned logging roads count. The road twisted up through a stand of hardwoods and narrowed as the height of the grass at its middle increased. At the top of a steep incline the road leveled and widened a bit and the land that abutted it changed to pasture.

Our headlights caught a pair of eyes and I came to a quick stop that drew a cloud of dust around the car. A large doe looked at us from where she had been feeding at the base of a gnarly apple tree. Across the road from her, another smaller deer bounded into the pasture and disappeared into a flash of white. The doe, transfixed by our lights, looked in our direction for a few seconds before leaping a small ditch and disappearing in the opposite direction.

We started up again and a few minutes later, the road became paved.

“This is a good sign.” I said to Renée who agreed.

Shortly after that, the road became gravel again.

I was beginning to suspect we would spend what remained of the night exploring the maze of roads that checkered the woods between Bridgewater and Plymouth. At about the point where suspicion was turning into despair a cemetery appeared at the right side of the road.

“I know where we are! That’s Coolidge’s grave.”

“I think you’re right,” Renée answered.

Buoyed by the landmark we continued down the road that I knew intersected Route 100 and that would take us to Coolidge State Park and our camper.

“Gives new meaning to the phrase “Keep cool with Coolidge,” we agreed.


*Anyone not from Vermont – even if it’s Colorado. This is only relevant because in this case the flatlanders were, for the most part, transplanted from New York or New Jersey, capital of the “another way” school.

Track Days

John sometimes jokingly refers to himself as “Racer John.” He was truly a racer in his youth, racing small motorcycles on dirt courses wherever his more practical wanderings took him. These days there is a hint of irony in the phrase as he no longer races competitively.
John keeps his hand in by attending something called “track days.” There are organizations that sponsor these events at racetracks around the country. At some point since the moto-cross days, John switched to superbikes so he usually goes to New Hampshire Motor Speedway in Loudon New Hampshire. This is a paved track. Among other things, it hosts two NASCAR races annually. It is a serious venue.
Track days are not competitive in the sense that anyone gets a trophy; however, riders are taught how to improve their times. For an additional fee there are various options like electronic timing and video cameras that attach to the motorcycles so the rider’s performance can be analyzed. Participants range from serious racers familiarizing themselves with the track or new equipment, to middle-agers whose partners gave them the day for their birthday. While they do not race each other, they all go as fast as they dare or, for the brave, the equipment will allow.
Recently I joined John for a couple of days at the track. On these occasions, my duties are simple and few: help lug tools and unload the motorcycle, time a few laps, help free him from the protective suit. (The suits, each costing hundreds of dollars, are a requirement. They are made of Kevlar, synthetic canvas, and hard rubber. Drivers conform to them rather than the other way around and, depending on the design, can be difficult to get out of.)
This time it is hot and sunny so I spend a lot of time under the cover of the garage. I am not alone as classes based on experience divide track time. As a result, only a third of the riders are on the track at any moment. For every rider there are also one or two people playing roles similar to mine. There are girlfriends and wives in the mix and there are an increasing number of women riders.
I tend to notice the women because – well I’m a guy – but also because they are a minority in this male dominated sport. One of the things I noticed is that the younger women, who invariably dress for appeal, seemed preoccupied and bored. By contrast the (relatively,) older women are involved and in many cases ride when their class is called. In one family the riders are in different classes, apparently by design, as they have two pre-teens that they take turns supervising.

I spent a fair amount of time speculating on the differing reactions of the women but came to no conclusions. It may be so simple as the relationships that last, last because the partners adapt to the interests of the other. There are almost certainly successful relationships in which the disinterested partner stays home but that is its own adaptation.