3 Favorite Journeys on a Bike

Doreen Carvajal; Agnes Dherbeys for The New York Times; Stewart Cairns for The New York Times

Left to right: the Great Western Greenway in Ireland, an evening Fat Tire Bike Tour in Paris and a trail near Burlington, Vt.

For many cyclists, riding a bike is a kind of heaven. You're simply a body breathing clean air and having very few thoughts. That's the meditative side. It does not hurt that the sport is kind to the knees. That's the non-load-bearing, exertive side. Then there are the fans who like to mosey, the leisurely bike riders. No spandex or clocking speed for them. They don't pay attention to the miles. It's just the wind in their faces, and the tranquillity and peace that they feel. With the advent of fall, three writers tell us about their favorite bike journeys, from a beloved route along rolling fields and Lake Champlain in Vermont and upstate New York to a ride in the wild green countryside of western Ireland and a night ride in Paris.

'Road Closed'? Not to Me.

A "Road Closed" sign is always a gamble on a bike ride. Ignore it and be rewarded with miles of tranquil, car-free riding. Usually the road damage is passable on a bike. Then there are the days when a dead end forces a retreat and a detour.

That was the choice we confronted in the lush foothills of the Adirondacks in New York. The sign blocked a scenic alternative to miles of riding on the shoulder of State Highway 22. Beyond it, a smooth dirt road passed beneath a ceiling of maple and hemlock branches that tinted the summer light green. After a brief consultation with my friend and riding partner, Sean Luitjens, we wheeled around the sign.

"I hope we don't regret this," I said.

Even without this hiccup, our trip around the midsection of Lake Champlain, which separates Vermont from New York, involved more logistical wizardry than usual. It would take three ferry rides to complete the seven-hour, 78-mile loop that began at my house in the college town of Burlington, Vt.

We started the ride cycling south, past suburban housing tracts into hills carpeted with hayfields, punctuated by the occasional McMansion and Vermont clapboard farmhouse. A swoop down to Lake Champlain and across the wooden slats of an 1870s-era covered bridge brought us to a ferry connecting quaint Charlotte, Vt., to the little lakefront town of Essex, N.Y.

A few miles north of Essex, Highway 22 kicked up for three strenuous miles. As it flattened, we came to Highland Road and that "closed" sign.

Stewart Cairns for The New York Times

Bicycles at rest on a trail near Burlington, Vt.

Once past it we rollercoastered up and down hills through a smorgasbord of classic views: a wooded pond, farmland and meadows with Lake Champlain in the distance, a weathered barn leaning on a massive, gnarled maple tree, and a cemetery with a sign declaring it open since 1812.

We reached the damaged section that prompted the road's closure. A chunk of the road had fallen into a creek, but more than half the pavement remained. Our gamble at the sign had paid off. We strolled across the gap and remounted our bikes. I pedaled away with extra verve, thrilled at having successfully thumbed my nose at the warning. As we reached Highway 9, there was another reward: a dizzying view of Ausable Chasm, where the Ausable River roars over a series of waterfalls. We skipped the advertised float trips and rappelling, taking it in from a bridge spanning the gorge.

We then sped down the flat highway, reunited with Lake Champlain and steered into Plattsburgh, a town of 20,000 that's home to a state college and a paper mill. That's where we lost our second gamble. We had planned to eat there. But on a Sunday at 11:30 a.m., the downtown looked abandoned. Sunday brunch apparently wasn't a popular meal. We resorted to a diner on the outskirts of town, where the hash browns resembled elongated Tater Tots, and the pancakes came with corn syrup — a crime for any self-respecting Vermonter.

The dining disappointment was rinsed away on a ferry ride under a blue sky to Grand Isle, one in a chain of long, narrow islands in northern Lake Champlain. My legs now aching, we headed down the island's western flank on a dirt road smooth enough for our narrow-tired road bikes. We passed vacation cottages, farmhouses, a winery and beaches. Soon, a steady flow of cyclists streamed by the other way. We were approaching the final boat ride.

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3 Favorite Journeys on a Bike

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