Fun with fractions!

 Half the fun of going is getting there, or so the saying says, but what portion of fancy is allocated to the return trip? Is it equal opposite? If so, is that negative fun that wipes the joy of going from our equation, or is it equal fun just in the opposite direction? Of course, that wouldn't leave any fraction of the whole for pleasure whilst actually there, unless a trip is more than 100% fun. It is possible that the base assumption of ye olde saying is false, and we're best enjoying any and all moments as they come.

Wow, you're still reading, kudos to your tolerance!  So the triumvirate recounting of my wanderings north continues with my finishing trip south. Trusting weather forecasts though I don't, Sunday offering the most appealing launch for a window of wetless weather. After various trials with share of errors, I've decided route 153 south from Conway is my preferred beginning both for degree of traffic and degrees of angle in climbing slopes. I'll say, "It's a nice ride," even with knowledge of the hubbub of Winipisacki in wait.

The town of Eaton was once described to me as "the poor man's Jackson" and I like the ride down through it, and bonus yay for recovering memory post TBI when I recalled the name of King Pine ski area as I approached, even if the facility itself isn't much to remember.

Of course, all joys must end, and so does 153 at route 25, but maps showed a local road continuing and angling southwest in a more direct line than the combination of a right on 25 to a left on busy, busy route 16, but I've learned wariness of straight lines on the maps in mountains, as they often lose linearity in three dimensions. They climb.

But off the map and back in reality, straight across 25 showed no more than a gentle rise, so that option with likely less traffic won, and I'm glad it did. Yes, the probability of fewer vehicles was confirmed, but I wasn't expecting the bike traffic of Andy on his early 90s Technium (gush, gush, love!) who greeted me with a compliment of my ride-wide pole and flagging. I returned the equipment praise by noting his snazzy ride and letting him know I own three Techniums, only one of which is broken (dropout that I hope to eventually learn to replace)! 

I would've liked Andy regardless, 

but he gets extra credit for riding one of these.

So the next hour and a half, maybe more, of riding with company and local knowledge of best route options began. Andy has twelve years on me, but I started young enough, especially with a handful of road races, that we were possibly even at a few of the same events decades ago, as much of his racing came after a civil engineering degree and a stint on a navy submarine. Fun semi-parrallel, one of my first racing supporters, the owner of the Pig Iron bike shop in my home town was a former Navy submariner who eventually completed his architecture degree, which is almost more like civil engineering but with pretty pictures substituted for the numbers.

A enjoyable, long day of solo riding it would become, so disruption of my internal monologue was wonderful, and Andy, as we said our farewells, told me he'd intended a twenty mile ride, but was already at 25, with maybe a ten mile return trip home (which we'd passed) to make for his longest ride of the year. Yay bikes, yay company, and yay inspiring that company to ride their bike a bit more! Everybody wins.

Winipisacki, it was there, somewhere to my right, maybe even briefly in view, but that route down its east side was far more benign by bike than the left side, and just like that, I was past the corner of the water's tip and headed toward Manchester. It was a ride, neither especially good, nor at all particularly unpleasant, and a friendly ice cream scooper at a roadside stand even filled my water bottle, nice and cold!

Manchester, I rode through it years ago on another trip, and I do want to explore it more, but on that Sunday, I was more inclined to avoid most of its busy byways, and the most direct route had me crossing the Merrimack five miles to its north and angling through back roads of a sub-suburban sleepy community. Bonus, I discovered the bicycle route spanned the river on a older structure, shunning the rather imposing bustle of the motor vehicle bridge. Again, yay!

Ride, ride, ride, and ride some more, I did, with a blip of unpaved rail trail that would've enticed me with attractive camping options overlooking the river had it been two hours later. Making good time I guess, and enjoying more unofficially good spring water in New Boston, I pedaled until finding the Greenfield town forest, with no prohibition of camping on its information kiosk, which also showed a trio of ponds about a mile into the woods via old roads and trail. Good things come in three, right!

My photography isn't good,

 so it can come in twos,

 and out of order.

After a recon of the upper pond, the middle was my choice for the night, as it offered the larger, less swampy rinsing option as well as a lovely high knoll for my actual sleeping, and even a perfect crevice between rocks to secure my bear proof food canister should any furry friends try frisky investigations at night.

I slept well, no noisy neighbors that I needed notice nor fend off, and even the morning bugs weren't too big a nuisance as I nibbled my nosh of oats.  I bumped out of the woods on the trail section I'd skipped the the previous night and confirmed, yes, I preferred the middle pond, although I did make note of the ramshackle shelter at the lower one should I ever need to shield myself from rain in the area.

When departing the White Mountains, I guessed two days riding to southern New Hampshire, but twelve hours of go with very little stop on Sunday, had put me very near my intended disruption to the trip: Mount Monadnock. Through Peterborough, which added a little food to my belly and a bit of water to my bottles, I closed on the mountain and almost caught a glimpse of it...

...although not quite.  It seems spotting the peak is easier done closer to my home in Massachusetts.

But hiking the peak, that's definitely better up close and personal. It may have been a nearly decade since I was last up the side of that hill, and I'd forgotten just how special a romp it could be. Through the years, I've amassed a collection of fond memories on Monadnock, including a story I recounted at the memorial service for legend John Jenkins. I want to return and trying running it, although I doubt that my "run" will be much more than fast hiking pace.

Hike hiked, and bottles filled, there was the final stint to cover between there and home. When riding for the sake of riding, I like to wander, directed by little more than "that looks good" and a sense of direction, but touring often has a destination, typically outside the range of my local knowledge, which decreases the likelihood of wandering hitting the intended mark. But wandering home, that seemed more possible, as heading the right direction, I'd eventually reach something I recognized and could correct my heading as needed.

It worked! Maybe two to three hours in a general west by southwest direction (yes, truer southwest could have been better, but the roads never seemed to go quite that way) and I arrived in familiar Winchester to turn south on route 10, not an all together bad outcome. And it was possibly even a good outcome, with me arriving home by evening, but before need of lighting, well satisfied by a good trip on bike, with friends old and new. One more yay!