Sunday, 2 AM. A bunkmate in the hostel dormitory was snoring: the sound of Boeing 747s taking off from Newark Airport rousted me from a sound sleep. I took my bedding to sleep on the floor down in the common room. At 6 AM, I shook myself awake and got in gear. By 9, I slipped the shooting brake’s clutch, and we left New Hampshire, Craftsbury bound.
Craftsbury Outdoor Center looms large in my life. From the late 1980s to the early part of this century, I’d drive to Craftsbury for their 50 km marathon, and usually returned in March for the Spring Fling. When our kiddo entered our lives, I cut back the travel and racing and seldom ventured further into Vermont than Prospect Mountain.
