Back on the Bike, Into the Ballast

A long stretch away is enough for a bicycle to start feeling familiar and foreign at the same time.

I knew that before I ever left the driveway. The bike still fit. The controls still made sense. My legs, on the other hand, had clearly spent the last few months negotiating a different contract.

The ride started in Augusta with a simple plan: follow the route, see what was out there, take photographs when something caught my attention, and try not to turn a comeback ride into some grand test of fitness. That lasted until the first little hill started kicking my ass.

I was downshifting early, then downshifting again, and getting reacquainted with the big end of the cassette much sooner than my pride preferred. It was a good reminder that fitness does not care what you remember being capable of. The legs have to earn their way back.

A Bank Stop and the First Reality Check

Not long after leaving, I made a quick stop at the bank to deposit a check. Not exactly heroic expedition material, but that is part of what these rides are supposed to be: real life stitched into miles.

Then the terrain started becoming more interesting.

The first rough section reminded me exactly what loose gravel can do to a bicycle. Deep rock grabbed the tires, pushed the front wheel around, and made every pedal stroke feel less like forward motion and more like a negotiation. At one point the bike nearly went out from under me. I managed to unclip fast enough, get a foot down, and avoid turning a ride story into an injury report.

That section was too loose to pretend otherwise, so I walked the bike through the worst of it.

The Unfinished Redbud Corridor

Off Diamond Road I reached what appears to be the unfinished continuation of the Redbud Trail corridor. The contrast was obvious. One direction showed the smoother, established trail system. The other looked like a rail-trail idea still waiting to become a trail: brush, loose ballast, uneven surface, and a corridor disappearing between trees.

Naturally, I had to see where it went.

The farther I rode, the rougher it became. There were places where old rail ballast had settled into something barely rideable and others where it had not settled at all. The bike wandered. My speed dropped. My legs worked harder than the numbers would ever explain.

Then I reached a wire gate stretched across the corridor.

There were no obvious “No Trespassing” signs on the stretch I had ridden, and the gate was held with a simple latch rather than a lock. I documented it, crossed carefully, and re-secured it behind me. That section eventually brought me back toward the smoother public portion of Redbud Trail.

Whether every foot of that rough corridor is formally intended for public passage is something worth researching before I ever present it as a route recommendation. What I can say is what I saw: unfinished trail, deep ballast, brush, a gate, and evidence that other bicycles had passed through before me.

That little adventure absolutely wrecked my average speed, but average speed was not the point. I was riding, photographing, exploring, stopping, and learning what was actually there.

The Turtle Delay

Later, another very important trail user forced a stop.

A box turtle was sitting directly in the path. I brake for turtles, apparently. I took a few pictures, picked it up, and moved it safely off the trail in the direction it was headed.

The turtle did not look particularly grateful. It looked more like I had interrupted an appointment.

Road Closed Apparently Means “Go Look”

The ride eventually delivered another invitation to investigate: pavement ending, barricades, road-closed signs, and warnings about the bridge ahead.

The bridge itself was still standing, but the deck looked like somebody had either prepared it for major work or given an overenthusiastic kindergartener several cans of orange marking paint. The surface was covered with lines, circles, and reference marks around damaged areas.

From the bridge I could look down over the highway and toward the Andover exit. It was one of those odd little places that probably means nothing when you drive past it at speed, but becomes memorable when you arrive under your own power and stop long enough to look around.

Creek Stop

Later I crossed Prairie Creek and doubled back for photographs. It was the kind of quiet, shaded creek scene that rewards stopping for five minutes instead of treating every pause like wasted time.

I also noticed what looked like a catfish line tied beneath the bridge. Curiosity won. I checked it. Nothing was attached to the end, so no accidental fishing adventure was added to the ride.

It made a good water stop anyway.

Twenty Miles In

At roughly twenty miles I was around two hours and twenty minutes elapsed. By then my legs hurt, my ass definitely hurt, and the rough roads had taken their share out of me.

One final climb on ugly rock had me shifting all the way into the 52-tooth cog. That is the gear reserved for moments when dignity is less important than reaching the top without walking.

The hill still kicked my ass.

But I made it over, rolled onto SW Dike Road, and finally got a downhill where I could coast, breathe, and let the legs recover.

For a first real ride after roughly several months away from regular riding, I was tired but still feeling surprisingly good.

That mattered more than the average speed.

The Numbers Tell Only Part of It

Strava recorded 22.83 miles, 2:08:53 moving time, 2:34:15 elapsed time, and 531 feet of climbing. The planned Ride with GPS route was almost exactly the same total distance.

Those numbers are useful, but they leave out most of the ride.

They do not show the deep ballast that almost threw me. They do not show the unfinished Redbud corridor, the wire gate, the turtle rescue, the bridge covered in orange markings, the creek stop, the catfish line, the bank deposit, or the fact that a 52-tooth cog can still feel too damn small when your legs have been off duty for months.

That is why I keep doing this.

A ride is not just a line on a map. Sometimes it is twenty-two miles of rediscovering what is close to home — and rediscovering what your own legs remember how to do.

And on this one, both the road and the rider were a little rough around the edges.

Explore 17 more photographs from this ride

Photographs by Butch; ARI-assisted image beautification. Previously edited photographs from the ride’s Web Ready Images folder are reused here. Original files and prior derivatives remain preserved. Near-duplicate portraits are consolidated, and an unrelated office photograph is excluded.