Picture this: a bright, early morning with a chill vibe, perfect for a human-powered adventure around Lake Champlain. Joining me on this 180-mile journey, featuring over 8,000 feet of elevation gain, was Joe—a seasoned cyclist who had conquered this feat before. Joe, the elder statesman of the cycling world, was ready to show me the ropes, or rather, the roads. Little did I know that this ride would be my furthest yet, and I was about to discover the true meaning of “pain in the butt.”
We set off with high spirits and a naive confidence that only comes before a grueling physical endeavor. My main concern was not whether I could handle the distance, but how my backside would survive ten hours on a tiny bicycle seat. Spoiler alert: it didn’t.
Our first significant milestone was Port Henry. Fun fact: this place was initially set aside by the British Crown for veterans of the Seven Years’ War. Although a mill was built in 1765, other European-American settlers didn’t arrive until after the American Revolutionary War. Apparently, they heard about the challenging bike routes and decided to wait it out.
After a quick history lesson and some much-needed hydration, we pushed north with our eyes set on Rouses Point. Now, Rouses Point is a charming village along the 45th parallel, home to 2,209 people as of the 2010 census. Named after Jacques Rouse, a French Canadian soldier who fought with the Americans during their war for independence, it sits on the western shore of Lake Champlain at the source of the Richelieu River. It’s practically on the Canada–United States border, which had me considering a quick detour to escape the impending doom of the remaining miles.
As we approached Rouses Point, Mother Nature decided to play a cruel joke. A brutal 15-20 MPH headwind hit us head-on for a solid 25 miles. Imagine trying to bike through a wind tunnel while someone pelts you with invisible dodgeballs. This was undoubtedly the hardest and lowest point of the journey. Even Joe, with his infinite wisdom and experience, looked a bit winded. We cursed the weather, our bikes, and anything else we could think of, but we pressed on.
Finally, we turned south, and the headwind became a tailwind. It was like the universe felt a bit guilty and decided to give us a break. However, the relief was short-lived—we still had 60 miles to go. My rear end had officially filed for divorce, and my stomach was in full rebellion after being subjected to an onslaught of carbohydrates. Delirium set in, and I activated damage control mode. Joe, the cycling sage, offered words of encouragement and the occasional “suck it up, buttercup.”
Finally, we turned south, and the headwind became a tailwind. It was like the universe felt a bit guilty and decided to give us a break. However, the relief was short-lived—we still had 60 miles to go. My rear end had officially filed for divorce, and my stomach was in full rebellion after being subjected to an onslaught of carbohydrates. Delirium set in, and I activated damage control mode. Joe, the cycling sage, offered words of encouragement and the occasional “suck it up, buttercup.”
As the sun began its descent, painting the sky with hues of orange and pink, we raced against the encroaching darkness. There’s something oddly poetic about chasing a sunset on a bike, even when every part of your body is screaming in protest. We finally rolled back home in 10 hours and 9 minutes, utterly exhausted but triumphant.
A hot shower and a hearty meal never felt so good. Joe and I exchanged stories and laughs, knowing we had shared an epic adventure. This ride wasn’t just about physical endurance but also about mental fortitude and a healthy dose of humor. I came out the other side with a sore butt, a wealth of historical knowledge, and a story for the ages. Plus, I now have a newfound respect for Joe and anyone who’s brave enough to tackle the Great Lake Champlain Bike Adventure.
Cheers,
Hunter