The morning was lazy. We made pancakes and sat by the river. Around noon, we rolled out of Jackson with a third cyclist--Chris had the day off from work and decided to tag along on his hybrid for awhile. (Note: "tagging along" actually means kicking our asses on the climbs, where Chris enjoyed the advantage of hauling no gear). After awhile, Chris turned around to go home, leaving just Piper and me to tackle the White Mountains. But it wouldn't be entirely accurate to say that we tackled the Whites; rather, it would be more fitting to say that the White Mountains slaughtered us. But then, what is beauty without suffering?
We chugged along 115 until we entered the little town of Bethlehem, New Hampshire, home of the White Mountain School. This school of less than 100 students served as my home for four years of high school. I lived on campus and spent a lot of non-academic time in the great outdoors. The White Mountain School gave me my first taste of riding a road bike.
I arrived on campus and it immediately began to rain. It was a Friday night, and the campus was dead. Most students and teachers were attending a White Mountain School student theatrical production in town--The Laramie Project. I gave Piper a tour, showing him the apple trees I planted, the sugaring shed I worked in, the garden and composting center I helped to build, the mural I painted, and the dorms I once lived in. But we were very tired from the long day of climbing, and went to bed early.
