It was supposed to be a weekend for baseball, sightseeing and cycling - and not necessarily in that order.  Vermont, however, was going to deliver much more than I’d bargained for.  It started early, at 5 a.m. on Saturday.  I was riding in near pitch black and within the first five minutes I realized I’d made a mistake;  I didn’t have the right equipment.  My gears were completely mismatched for the terrain - I wasn’t even on a hard climb yet and I was already suffering.  Daylight began penetrating the thick mist some time around 6 a.m., and I could occasionally see mountains looming in the distance.

I passed over numerous bridges which spanned picture postcard streams, their bottoms lined with solid rock, polished smooth as marble by years of water flowing over their surface.  Despite the relatively warm late August morning, the air was heavy with the smell of creosote -homes along the valley roads were still burning wood.  It reminded me of the place where my father had grown up, his boyhood home tucked safely on the side of a ridge in the Appalachian Mountains.  The recollection was so vivid, I expected the house to appear out of the mist at any time.  My thoughts drifted to my Dad and his father - growing up at the tail end of the Depression, my grandfather had sacrificed a great deal to provide for his family.  The cost for my Dad and his father was the most precious commodity of all:  Time.   The bittersweet memory lingered long after the ridge had disappeared behind me.

White picket fences appeared in the tiny towns that nestled right up to the side of the road.  More homes than not were adorned with American flags that dwarfed the front porches.  People waved at me over their cups of coffee, one of them asking if I’d like to take one for the road.  Considering the warmth of the smile, I was certain the offer was genuine.  I would later be impressed by the sincerity and genuine warmth of the people in the area and I wondered if the unique geography wasn’t responsible.  The mountains which surround Burlington are beautiful yet imposing, giving the inhabitants a forced perspective about their place in the order of things.  Few homes ventured more than thirty yards from the roadside, any further away simply became impractical.  The route I’d chosen passed many roads, their paved surfaces giving way to gravel, then dirt before being swallowed up by the vegetation and the sheer steepness of the terrain.  I was struck by the futility of these challenges to the mountain;  even the roads which did make it all the way across some of the “gaps” were only hollow victories - most were impassable in winter, and the few that were kept clear weren’t recommended for anything but the lightest of vehicles.  Anything but gossamer, I passed over the first obstacle - a ridge which peaked near 2,500 feet.  The descent, where I’d hoped to recover, was filled instead with moments of exhilaration and sheer terror; misjudging corners more than once, I almost sailed into steel guardrails lining the switch-back roads. 

The valley floor below provided a brief respite, but the mountains were ever present - in every direction, mammoth formations of rock bided their time.   The knowledge that I would have to ride across them again to get home was a sobering thought.  The road side here was dotted with cemeteries, some with monuments dating back to the early 18th century, others with thousands of tiny American flags offering up tribute to recent fallen United States servicemen and women.   Hopelessly inadequate page wire held back sheep, cattle and other livestock I passed along my route.   These animals weren’t stupid; they knew they were in God’s country and didn’t present a flight risk to their owners.

That first ride, nearly five hours long, ended all too quickly.  My only regret?  Not tucking a camera into my pocket - but that’s why they invented “next time”.

I’m extremely pleased to report that baseball is alive and well outside our corner of the world.   As suspected, Ottawa is somewhat of an aberration in this sense.  Centennial Field is an absolute marvel, a gem tucked away in Burlington but accessible to all.  The stadium is a throwback to a simpler time, and it conjured up memories that my son had never had (if that makes any sense), memories he’s acquired through movies and books of a time nearer to the turn of the century.  The tantalizing smell of oil frying everything from dough to potatoes was everywhere.  Children (and the occasional parent), ran excitedly along the concourse.  Our exceptionally knowledgeable guide, proudly detailed the finer points of the stadium - the dimensions of the field, the unique history, the fact that one of the field’s neighbors could sit closer to homeplate than the centrefielder.  They have much to be proud of (and the neighbor story turned out to be true - not that we were checking), and like Ottawa, the front office staff is exceptional - five minutes with GM C.J. Knudsen were enough to know that he’s a “true believer”.  Clearly, minor league baseball is in good hands in Burlington.  It was an evening of pure small town Americana located on a few acres of land, and I’d wished it had never ended.  Like the geography it’s nestled in, Centennial Field is a wonder which is positively vibrant.

The French have an expression for the effect the mountains can have on people - “Cela vide la tete”.  Literally meaning you have an “empty head”, and despite how it sounds, it’s not a bad thing.  It explains the occasional little pink house or row of tie-dyed mailboxes dotting the landscape.  Indeed, my short time in Vermont has left me with a clarity imposed by the landscape, the people and my experiences.  Certainly, there’s always the danger of romanticizing vacation spots - after all what’s not to like when you’re on vacation?  Admittedly, we’ve fallen hard for a few places like Savannah, Georgia and (without shame) Orlando.  And I realize that this may sound like an ad, paid for by the Vermont Board of Tourism - but I assure you, we’re critical enough to acknowledge visits to locations we hope never to see again.  Such is not the case here.  Indeed, I hope to return soon - to resume battle with the mountains, and partake of the ice cream and baseball.  Most importantly, I will empty my head again.