If you haven’t had a chance yet to contribute, please visit this page (and thank you). (Don’t make me ride twice!)

And please share this!

More about Nashoba Learning Group, and why this is one of the best investments you will ever make, follow the trip report below.

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Christoph Strasser once rode a bike 637 miles in a day. Kurt Searvogel once averaged 208 miles a day for a whole year. Transcontinental riders swept along by prairie winds easily top the century mark. Ironman triathlon competitors bookend 112-mile rides with two-mile ocean swims and a marathon.

I am not these people. But for a good cause, anything is possible. So last Saturday I rode 112 miles from Hyannis to Provincetown and back.

Cape Cod is one of the most beautiful places on the planet. It’s not dramatic — no jagged peaks, vertiginous waterfalls, or crystal-blue waters. It’s a liminal space between reality and dreams, a constant swirl of dunes, weather, and water. Scrubby oaks, rosa rugosa, and tiny businesses hang on, like barnacles on a hull swinging to a strong tide. A week ago Nan and I were at the Art Institute of Chicago, where we saw Edward Hopper’s “Nighthawks”. (Hopper was inspired by the Cape.) “Nighthawks” is a vibe.

The Cape is a vibe.

I meant to start at dawn, but a five-hour Friday evening crawl to get to Hyannis Port sapped me. So I started out at 6, after some coffee and an English muffin.

I rode east along Route 28. This stretch could be called the Tour de Kitsch. It’s a rough ride, and a zoning disaster, but I like it. Metaphorically it’s a beach where all kinds of lives have washed up. Astrologers and pet groomers live alongside accountants and lounge singers and ballet teachers. It’s not Route 6a, which runs along the north side of the Cape and is a national treasure. But if you’re in a contemplative mood, wondering about paths not taken or maybe still ahead, at the dawn of a long day it fuels a productive, mileage-eating distraction.

Soon I approach Chatham. I salivate as I pass Marion’s Pie Shop. I want all the pies. And the scones. To wash the pies down of course. But, fortunately — for the ride would have ended there with my eyes rolled back into my head in a happy glycemic shock — the shop hasn’t opened yet. On I go, rolling through the pleasantly empty streets, toward my first milestone at Chatham Light.

I love it here. You can look out (instead of looking within) to three thousand miles of emptiness.

Now the long push north begins. The first part, up through Orleans, features ponds and bays opening into the Atlantic. Small craft bob happily at their moorings. So picturesque! But eventually you hit the Route 6 rotary, and it gets real. Four lanes, heavy traffic, crap on the road shoulder.

And rain. The showers bring up the oil in the pavement. The skinny 25mm tires inflated to 110 psi on my 35-year-old Trek aluminum bike (about whose frame imminent failure was predicted a decade ago) do not like this. They start to slip, I begin to wobble. At 20 mph, slipping and wobbling are no bueno. My body has several reactions to no bueno. The adrenaline surge is the one that’s shareable in polite company.

Fortunately, like the beacon Zoot uses to lure Sir Galahad to the Castle Anthrax in Monty Python and The Holy Grail, Laura and Tony’s restaurant in Eastham promises fresh baked goods and the cleansing powers of cold-pressed (whatever that means) juices. Thirty-eight miles in, shivering, I pull over.

I order the Stress Banquet (my name, not theirs) — pancakes with syrup and butter, eggs, bacon, toast, a scone with the density of a neutron star, coffee, and a kale-ginger juice for my conscience — and I ponder my options. It is raining hard. I am cold and the road is wet. The logical angel on one shoulder says, “Cesar, your friends supported you for the cause, not because they wanted to see you suffer and die.” The devil on my other shoulder knows them better, and laughs.

The food is awesome, the rain lets up, my spirits lift, so I press on. I figure I’ll go slow, maybe just another mile, see how it goes. Further up toward Wellfleet, past the drive-in theater, Route 6 narrows miraculously to two lanes with a broad bike lane. Now if I crash at least I have a few feet between me and the trucks. Avanti!

The rain sort of passes, the road mostly dries, and it’s a smooth pull to Truro. I jump onto 6a there, artists’ cottages and Cape Cod Bay to my left, and roll slowly into P-town. Lucky for me, it’s the weekend for the Blessing of the Fleet! Lots of flags and music and wonderful food smells. Pedestrians and cars crowd Commercial Street. I crawl toward my turning point at Provincetown Light.

Proof Of Life for anyone thinking I hired Strava mules or edited the .gpx file… (You know who you are.)

So excited! I turn south, this time onto quieter streets. My tire goes flat.

Sigh. I begin repairs. Not a big deal, it’s only the front. I am prepared for this, with both equipment and experience. In fact, I even swell with a certain pride, that some (@Nan) might even call… smug. I am further encouraged by sympathetic passersby. One even pats me. Such a friendly town. Of course, my ancient Zefal pump decides at this of all moments that it only kinna give me 20 psi. So, I find The Real Ptown Bikes on my phone and do the Walk of Shame. Fresh spare (to replace my spare) and CO2 cartridge (so modern) in hand, I finish up, and off I go.

Truro Vineyards (can recommend), heaves into view. Raiding cafes is a Tour tradition! Visions of an Adirondack chair and a glass of pinot materialize in the thought bubble over my head. I approach the bar. Strangely, I am told to “See the hostess”. She tells me, “The bar’s around back.” I peek there but can’t see it. I consider my look — soggy-sweaty-stinky — possibly not what they want in a guest. The extra effort, beyond what I’d budgeted to flop down in front of a fire pit, breaks the spell. I’m not mad or disappointed (I love this place), more concerned about the lactic acid pooling in my thighs. One rueful last glance at the rows of vines, and I’m away.

Now south, into the gusting wind. Another flat, the rear. No quiet side street and encouraging strangers this time. Just a narrow road shoulder. Again with the rain.

“Adapt and overcome.”

Eighty-seven miles: Rock Harbor, Orleans. We once saw an awesome fireworks show here when our triplets were little. I remember fireflies.

I hit Orleans Cycle at the Rail Trail junction to restock spares. Finally, I’m off the busy roads, and onto the quiet path. Now I dodge not 18-wheelers, just 6-year-olds.

But not dogs. Ahead where the trail is briefly interrupted by a short stretch of street, a vicious hound charges me, unleashed, with monstrous fangs and flying spittle and red glowing eyes. Two old men chatting on the lawn nearby deny ownership. Somewhere from behind a hedge I hear, “Cujo, where are you, did that damn dog get loose again — will you stop that damn barking?” The owner’s calls stop, but Cujo doesn’t. I pedal slowly, clipped in, averting my gaze, with no chance of escaping my calves’ imminent shredding.

But Cujo loses interest. As I think back on the encounter, it’s possible the fangs weren’t that monstrous. There may not have been spittle. “Charges me” might be a bit strong. But he (she?) did bark. And my adrenaline did surge again.

Back on the path, it’s beautiful, but now my challenge is more physical. I’m not winded, just… wiped. The century mark buoys me though — I’ve done the hundred miles I committed!

Back through busy Hyannis, and now onto the shore road in Hyannis Port, and finally home. 112.16 miles. Victory!

PS Actually the bike-a-thon is on Sunday, Jul 20, 2025, but I have plans to race that weekend — that’s me at the far left, last year — so I got my ride in early this year.

PPS For fun, some writeups of past rides: 2023, 2017, 2015, 2011, 2007

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More about Nashoba Learning Group:

• Great cause: we serve some of the most significantly disabled people among us
• Great outcomes: following scientifically proven techniques, our members hit 97% of their goals set by their teams (including school district and family
• Great organization: highest teacher retention rates in the sector, highly efficient, founded and run by an HBS alumna / former Monitor Group partner who (like Nan) is also a Board Certified Behavior Analyst, and whose son also attends NLG.
  (Here’s NLG’s most recent annual report.)
• Impact way beyond its members: publishes research in leading journals and provides an online community with training resources
• Crucial time: While much of our funds come from governments, public sector support is under pressure. It’s now essential to support highly effective programs like NLG.

As many of you know our son William was one of the very first students when we opened in 2003, and we now serve over 200 people. He has thrived there. Each day he wakes up and asks to go to NLG, and his teachers are his best friends. Nan has served on the board for NLG since its founding in 2002, and I serve on its advisory board. It’s a central part of our lives.

We know you have many worthy causes to help, but we are so very grateful for your past support and hope you will consider us once again! You can give here by credit card, or you can send a check to the address below, and we’ll recognize you (as you wish).

Nashoba Learning Group

Attn: Development Office

10 Oak Park Drive

Bedford, MA 01730

We would also especially value any introductions you can make to foundations that might like to hear our compelling pitch. They are a very important part of our funding mix, and I promise we would do you proud!

Thank you!

“Blow winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage, blow!
You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout
Till you have drenched our steeples…”
-King Lear, Act 3 Scene 2

I crashed a little after 34 miles, riding west through Lincoln. Crossing wet tracks not quite right, the front wheel slipped on a rail. My head hit the pavement, but with the helmet I was dazed only for a beat. I heard bells, saw gates closing, and moved into the brush. Moments later a train rushed past. Ask not for whom, indeed.

I took stock. Some bruises, road rash — just a flesh wound. The bike was fine. I rode on.

Summers in New England are precious. Weekends are tightly-scheduled. I get tunnel vision trying to make the most of each one. Today was bike-a-thon day, baby, come Hell or high water!

Both, in fact, arrived. Embracing the suck, grateful for the cool, I rode at dawn into a steady rain. Four miles in, my phone sounded a tornado warning. At least, I learned later it meant “tornado”; in my waking fog, I’d thought “Amber Alert”, because yeah, even though I’m out in a monsoon, at six a.m. that seemed right.

At least I wasn’t swept into legend, like Almira Gulch:

The roads from Weston to Waltham are smooth. But rain adds danger downhill. Early in the ride my old Trek’s brakes answered well to careful nudges — a little firmer on the rear, the slightest of touches up front, bridling the momentum, drawing carefully through the curves. However, by the second twenty-five mile loop, the oil and dirt from the road began to mess with the rims. Slowing was rougher, stopping less certain.

The worse the braking, the more I had to anticipate. Sundays make that hard. In Concord center, old men started into a crosswalk. I slowed. They balked. I pedaled. They walked. Somehow, with shouted sorting from both sides — very civil, actually — I threaded through the Abbey Road fever dream:

Lincoln, late in the ride. I’m tired, and sore from the crash. To the left I see sheep in a meadow. Throughout the ride, thoughts would drift to work, which these days has something to do with AI. Now, an AI thought bubble: Philip K. Dick wrote a book called Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? Later, it became Blade Runner. Famous scene, with Rutger Hauer and Harrison Ford:

“I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe… Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion… I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate. All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain… Time to die.”

Time to die, for sure. But wait… livestock, galactic war… just ahead lay Codman Community Farms. In a pen at the back lives the Codman Porker, a truly massive hog. I’m obsessed with him: “Big Bacon”, “All Of Lincoln”, “Porcine Eclipse”, “The Lord Hamongous”. Small objects orbit this planetoid of pig-ness. Maybe I too can get a gravity assist to slingshot me home!

Last mile. Adrenaline perks up. Feeling heroic (if stupid). Hero… Odyssey… Ulysses! Ulysses. But only remembered not because I’m fancy but for Judi Dench’s reading in Skyfall:

“Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.”

Until next year!

Receipts:

THANK YOU and covfefe to all our friends who supported us once again this year!

Here’s a link to support us in 2025:

https://nashoba.app.neoncrm.com/forms/cesars-ride-for-nlg?campaignId=1348

In the morning of the ride he woke and saw that the sky was clear and the air was cool and wet. The Pilar and the boy were still asleep but with the first steps on the wooden floor the boy also woke and thus so did The Pilar. The Pilar said, “You must go,” and he agreed this would be prudent.

He went out from the house to the shed where the bicycle was. In its youth the bicycle had been stiff and light and very blue. It was still stiff and light but now the paint had chipped and like the rider the bicycle was brittle in places from the oxidation of its decades. Because of this he had taken it to the mechanic Daniél in the shop of the man called Landry. Daniél had said many things about the bicycle. But all he could remember of his words were “frame” and “failure” and “imminent”. He wondered at their meaning.

He carried the bicycle across the grass to the car which also was old and blue and rusty. The mechanic Lorenzo had told him he was a fool for keeping such a car. His cheeks burned with the shame of returning to the garage of Lorenzo with it. But there was nothing to be done as the brakes often needed repair.

He drove to the start of the ride. At the breakfast cantina he met his comrades. There was La Roja and her sister La Otra Roja and The Tall One who was now the husband of La Roja. They looked at him. La Roja said, “Hey,” and The Tall One nodded at him and he touched his helmet in reply to them. They continued speaking and laughing with each other in the ways of newlyweds.

The rider turned to La Otra Roja the sister who was his niece and wished her a good morning. She answered buen día and asked for the pump he had promised to bring. He went to the old and rusty and blue car which had brought him such humiliation before Lorenzo and returned with the pump and inflated the tires of her bicycle to the correct pressure because he was fastidious about such things. The young woman thanked him and he returned the pump to its place in the car and went back to the breakfast cantina.

If he had remained at home he would have prepared the eggs and the bacon and the strong coffee and the onions from the gardens of Doña Katerina or perhaps eaten the cheesecake his friend Benjamín sent each year for such occasions. But there had not been time for that and so now he considered the options of the cantina. There were the round loaves with holes in their centers and fruit and boxes of coffee and he made of them what he could. He asked for Gauloises but the comrade volunteer Emilia explained they had no more as the other riders had taken them. He reflected that it did not matter since he did not actually smoke but still.

Soon the leaders Doña Elisabeta and Don Juan of the hacienda where the ride would begin and end called for attention. They did not speak loudly as they were lean and sure and their authority was clear. They pointed to the maps and told of the special markings that would be on the roads until a place called Lancaster where the markings would not be and so he knew he would be lost as he had been several years before in the heat and without water. In that year the comrade volunteers Maurena and Estéban had come for him with bags of intravenous fluids and adrenaline syringes and the cooling suppositories and he had regained consciousness in the trunk of their car within the hour so it had not been so bad in the end.

Now the ride was underway and he felt as if he were running with the bulls. But soon this thrill turned to fear as he had been trampled once by the old bull they called El Toro Viejo. Or possibly he had not run with this bull but it was an allegory for a high school football practice at which he had been crushed by a much larger boy. One moment there had been sun and the next an eclipse and then darkness.

As the riders went ahead he was alone for some time and other thoughts came. The thoughts were trivial and stupid like those of the bulls but this was not unusual for him. He looked down. The device on the stem of the handlebar of the bicycle showed the numbers which said he had not gone very far and that he had covered this short distance only slowly. Which he knew was somehow why he had not gone very far. His friend Teodosio had explained the mathematics of this but the symbols confused him and so he had thought of other things then as he did again now.

Doña Elisabeta came upon him and they rode together briefly. After fifteen miles the flat road went into the hills of the town called Hudson. He put the bicycle into its lowest gear and turned the cranks with effort and climbed. By contrast the señora seemed to float away and soon grew small in the distance. His thighs now burned and his breath came short and he showed his weakness and the dogs barked at him for this or for some other reason which only dogs could know. With no breeze on his face the wine of the night before came through his pores and shrouded him like a wreath which even the flies refused. It had been an angry young Spanish red made by the man named Charles and bought in the mercado of the trader called Joe. He had been warned not to drink it for it was not the sort of wine which experienced cyclists drank on the nights before long rides. But the rider was not such a cyclist and he did not listen to this thing and now it was too late.

He set aside his discomfort as far as was possible and pushed up a steep lane toward a minor col of the route. Soon with the fatigue of the ascent came hunger. He looked along the roadside for signs of the iguanas which he liked spit-roasted when early in the days of the Revolution (or the college in which the Revolution was discussed) he and his comrades would sing songs of pain and loss and trips in Volkswagen campers. But this was Massachusetts and he remembered that here such lizards were only to be found inside glass tanks in the suburban estancias of the great capitalists. In his pocket he found the biscuits of power which he had taken from the breakfast cantina. He unwrapped one and through his labored breaths he ate it and tried not to choke. The liquid in his water bottle was less angry than the night’s rioja and so while it did not bring the memories of lizards and songs of pain and loss it was enough to wash the biscuit down.

Thirty miles further the hills were not so steep but this and many other things no longer mattered because there were only the fires in his thighs and the soreness of his telo. He grunted and again the dogs barked at his weakness or at the other things only dogs could know. He thought he heard the mocking laughter of his brothers but it was only the bleating of goats in a pen nearby. He looked up and there were clouds but very high and through his agony he marveled at the buzzards circling with their wings spread as the capes of the matadors before the kill.

After fifty miles the hacienda came into view and soon he was under the shade of its trees. The Pilar was there and she brought him no Gauloises nor beer but a sandwich of beef and a kiss which he later admitted were better. The boy also came to him and said he was the singer called John Lennon and asked to sing in the microphone together. And so he laid the bicycle on the grass and they sang but not of pain and loss.