Circumnavigating Marthas Vineyard
Showing an old yellow bike the island it inhabits.
It's not the bike I'm worried about, says the bike mechanic, quickly following up with "I'm not too worried about you either. You seem confident enough." I had come down the dirt road into the bike yard to have him glance the bike over. My primary concern is the loose crank shaft. Upon hearing my plan for tomorrow, the mechanic concernedly darts his eyes between the bike and me more times than necessary. "Let me make sure this guy doesn't kill himself, and then I'll be right with you," he tells the guy with a flat tire who'd obviously arrived before me. Did you hear what happened today? He said it to no one in particular. "A tourist got killed on a moped over on Beach Road." I don't think he said this to frighten me. On an island like Martha's Vineyard, news travels fast and feels personal. As if reading my thoughts, he follows up with the statistics of moped and bike deaths on the island. About 1 every 20 years or so. With the bike up on the rack, he seems a bit more excited about the idea and assures me that the wobbly crank shaft was going to be annoying and inefficient but not dangerous. Thats enough for me. We chat a bit longer, admiring the vintage bike as we top off the tires with air, oil the chain, and replace a missing screw on the bike rack. I am still not entirely committed to the journey I only hours ago conjured for tomorrow. Only while sitting on the saddle does the idea of biking the 60 or so miles around Marthas Vineyard on a 50-year-old rickety bike sound appealing. Once back in the comfort of a couch, the desire grows more distant. The evening thunderstorm does not help. Not wanting to be the one to rob myself of an adventure, I leave the decision to morning me. But just in case, I make sure to have some water and snacks ready to go.
I wake up naturally with the sun and lay in bed searching for some reason not to get back on that bike. I don't find one compelling enough, so by 7:00 I'm packing up the side pannier with water bottles, sunscreen, and protein bars. Immediately after raising the kickstand, I am glad for my decision. In perfect weather, I ride from Vineyard Haven south through Lamberts Cove and North Tisbury. Like a metronome, the chain clacks against the shifters, pausing only when commanded to switch gears (which it does often and without trouble). I ride until the Manemsha Creek blocks my way forward. As luck would have it, just as I arrive, so does Sean, the bike ferry captain. "You looking for the bike ferry?" he asks. I respond yes, and if he knew of it. "I drive the boat," he says as he continues to unload some gear onto the pier. It's supposed to leave at 9, but I can take you over in just a few minutes. I would have happily waited the half hour, but thank him and tell him what I am doing. To this he pauses, looks at me hard, and says, "In sandals?". But like the bike mechanic, once he hears no doubt in my voice, he takes more interest and begins examining the bike. It seems people have an affection for vintage bikes of this sort. I am riding a 1980s Univega Land Rover Sport mountain bike, painted dark yellow with what appears to be stock tires. The bike belongs to a friend of my dad's who inherited it from her father. Other than the crank shaft being loose, the bike is in great shape with minimal rust and lots of life left in the tires and brakes. Sean especially appreciates the cantilever brakes. The shuttle service has been operating for almost as long as this beautiful yellow bike has been alive, charging $5 to visitors and $1 to residents for the quick journey across to Aquinnah. Sean accepts the only $3 I have, ties my bike down, and starts the engine. Just as I sit down, we approach another two bikers on a different pier. I jokingly ask if we've arrived, to which he responds in earnest "yes." The journey is a laughable 60 seconds. Sean says maybe see you later and repeats that if I need a ride back, its no issue and I should just ring the bell. I say I hope to not see him later but thank him anyway.
The ride through Aquinnah is delightful. It reminds me of Hilo, Hawaii, or northern Croatia. Relatively humble homes at the end of twisted grass driveways surrounded by trees and shrubbery. Even when not seen, the ocean's presence is known. Before I know it, I've completed the loop through Aquinnah and see the signs welcoming me to Chillmark. Not long after, I pull over in West Tisbury beside the popular Alley's General Store for a bite to eat at 7A's. It's been about 30 miles of riding so far. I order a breakfast sandwich, coffee, and lemon bar. I sit there eating and listening to others conversations for half an hour. A mother and daughter discussing the daughter's partner. She wishes he were more social and easier to talk with. He says work is making him this way. Three girl friends watching a debate of some sort. A young man and his older friend catching up. The younger man in white tennis shoes turns to his friend in weathered boots and says, "You know, John, I like spending time with people. You can always get another piece of food, bicycle, or car. Things aren't special. People are special. People are truly irreplaceable." For a brief moment, all is right. I feel gratitude. For people of all types. For the people I have and lost. For my time alone. I sit a few minutes longer, enjoying the moment, before placing the rest of the lemon bar in the pannier and heading off.
The next part of the ride to Edgartown is on a busier road and sketchy without a shoulder. I'm relieved to reach the bike path that runs along side it, through the trees. As the roads become better paved and houses more manicured I know I've reached Edgardtown. Compared to the greenery in Aquinnah, the large grass yards seem foreign to the land on which they grow. Still beautiful. I don't stop in town as I thought I might because, at this point, my legs have really warmed up and the bike is cruising. Just beyond downtown, the bike trail picks back up and carries me along the coastline, through Beach Road, across Jaws Bridge, and into Oak Bluffs. I think of the moped driver who spent their final day here yesterday.
The rest of the ride is familiar, and I'm no longer following my watch's directions. A quick few miles through East Chop and again on Beach Road before I've crossed the bridge back into Vineyard Haven. I stop my tracker and read the screen. 55 miles, 4 hours, and 44 minutes.
