40:1

A few years ago, on an uncharacteristically warm, late February day, a group of us went for a bicycle ride visiting sugarhouses in northern Vermont. For those of you unfamiliar with sugar houses, they are the shacks, buildings, modern structures that distill maple sap into maple syrup. Sugar season begins in late February and early March when the nights are cold and the days are warm. The houses are alive with activity, for once the sap begins to run, the process of turning 40 gallons of sap into one gallon of syrup is a 24-hour job. At night, the shacks glow and steam pours out of the vents at the top the building. It is one of the signs that the winter here will soon be over, and the rebirth and wonders of spring is just ahead.

Sugar season came later this year, and on a Saturday in late March, four of us rekindled the tradition started years ago. My landlord runs a small sugar operation at the back of his workshop. On a good year he may put up 10-15 gallons of syrup. His 60-gallon tank had filled up the day before and he and his wife had a busy day ahead boiling sap and filling jars. I stopped by and filled a small container with fresh, hot syrup, grabbed some spoons and rode to meet the crew.

Our group and their bicycles were as diverse as all the sugarhouses that dot the landscape of Vermont. Carl brought his fixed gear Centurion for the hilly ride. Melanie, who rides every month, rode her trusty Trek, James, a gear fanatic, rode his ultra-light Cannondale (I miss his Colnago), and I rode “Butter,” my 25 year-old, down tube shifting, brake cables exposed Puch. The day was crisp, almost warm, and spring clouds filled the sky.

We toasted the ride with spoonfuls of syrup and rode toward the lake. We headed west, as the sun tried to break through the clouds, and tried to keep up with Carl, his legs moving as fast as his “fixie” would go. Melanie hung back, her usual place early in the ride. I got my obligatory gear chat with James out of the way early and then took my place in the back with Melanie.

Almost to the lake, we turned north onto a quiet, Vermont back road and into the wind. It is spring, but the remnants of winter still hang on. We rode through a covered bridge and past an apple orchard, the harvest long gone last fall, but the trees wait. Soon, when the warmth exceeds the coolness, the apple blossoms will flower and fill the landscape with color and sweetness. We head east, toward home and Irish Hill. Irish Hill is never a really easy climb, especially in the early cycling season. However, today, we each remarked that the climb didn’t hurt as much we all expected. Maybe it was the short stop for fuel at the country store, or maybe it was the lure of the next stop, Palmer’s sugarhouse.

Rounding a corner we caught a glimpse of Palmer’s classic wood sugar house, steam pouring from the vents. The driveway was filled with cars, and folks of all ages streamed in and out. Inside, the place was toasty from the evaporator filled to the brim with sap boiling away. We ate sugar on snow (syrup on crushed ice served with cider donuts and pickles); maple steamed hot dogs, drank hot chocolate and coffee, and tested this year’s still warm syrup from paper cups.

We timed the sugar stop so it was less than 4 miles from our starting point, and although the sugar high helped us sprint partially up the last hill, we all doubted that we could have ridden many more miles. Our stop also allowed us to avoid a short rain shower that wet the road and caused our bikes to become dirty. Peddling the last few miles, we were tempted by 2 more syrup operations, but we all had had our fill….for the time being. Maybe pancakes tomorrow.