We set off carefree around 10 am, after indulging in a hearty breakfast. The planning for this first day resembled our preparations, close to nothing. A stop in Chambly was necessary to acquire new saddlebags. Having not experienced them much, they detached from the rack with every bump, quite impractical. Once past this initial setback, we enjoyed our first lunch in Saint-Jean de Richelieu, located 40 km from Montreal, intending to check how much distance remained. For our first night, we had booked an inn with a pool, thinking we could wade in and cool our muscles at snack time. But it's 2 pm, and we struggle to hide our disappointment upon seeing the remaining 80 kilometers ahead, farewell to lounge chairs. The identical landscapes of endless fields unfold. The shaded bike paths remain pleasant to use. The last ten kilometers uphill under the still scorching sun next to a busy road test our nerves. Contrastingly, our arrival at the Knowlton inn unfolds tranquilly; we are the only guests. The manager hands us the keys to his establishment before heading home. We are now the proud owners of a 50-room building. After applying a bit of reparative vaseline to make future rides less painful, we set off for the marina to get something to eat. Along the way, we take the opportunity to dip a toe in the pool water. Tomorrow, we plan to cross the American border by bicycle through a small customs post. We hope the adventure won't end there.

We rise at 8 am and check the weather to avoid any unpleasant surprises. Again today, the thermometer exceeds 30°C. We fill our water bottles and head to the nearest café. A nondescript café serves an excellent breakfast accompanied by oat milk cappuccino Finally, we hit the road again. The first five kilometers uphill remain painful, and the soreness begins to appear. However, the following 20 kilometers downhill allow us to enjoy a gentle warm-up. We catch sight of the Vermont mountains in the distance, already regretting the flat terrain of the previous day. The end of this morning brings us directly to the border crossing. The customs officer welcomes us with the courtesy of a customs officer, meaning he knows where to set the bar for a smile, and it's rather low. He asks us questions about where we first met, what we plan to do in Boston, what date we arrived in Canada... Essentially, topics one would bring up to a tourist just met in a bar except that here, a wrong answer could land us in a cell. The handcuffs fixed to the bench don't reassure us. Ten long minutes later, we cross the border with our stamped USA passports. The cliché of the American town is immediately verified. Dozens of American flags planted in gardens flutter in the wind, and a LED sign hung on the front of a Catholic church extols the virtues of the village pastor. From this second stage onward, we enjoy crossing paths with other cyclists and greeting them. Overall, wishing everyone we meet on the road a good day, something sadly impossible to express from inside a car. At 1 pm, the sun beats down hard, and we decide to stop in a town in search of food. We are taken aback because the local main dish is burgers, which unfortunately do not fit into our vegetarian diet. We are saved at the last minute by a Subway next to a gas station. Here we are devouring our first American meal. A few kilometers after our departure, a saddlebag decides to take a leap (pun unintended). So, we pull over to the side of the road in search of the lost screw, amidst the stifling afternoon atmosphere. Five minutes later, a young boy emerges from his house, lemonade in hand, and offers it to us, a delicate gesture worthy of mention in this narrative. In Vermont, car roads are constantly accompanied by a trail dedicated to non-motorized vehicles. Unfortunately, these paths are made of dirt and sometimes turn into muddy and sandy slopes. One bike took advantage of this opportunity to get stuck. This muddy path was followed by what we called the "red line". A trail dotted with small gravel where road tires do not grip well, putting our thighs to the test. Even more unpleasant, the handlebars vibrate, threatening to dislocate wrists, shoulders, and backs. Arriving at 5 pm at the only inn in the area, we take the time to quench our thirst and prepare for the third day for which we have neither planned route nor destination!

The night is short and not very restful, our room being located above the inn's entrance door that kept banging. After quickly devouring two slices of muffin, we set off for our third day. The unpleasant rest is quickly forgotten by the 20 kilometers of trails composed ofold railway bridges and mountainous landscapes. There are fewer cyclists than yesterday, enough to continue enjoying the warm "good mornings". We relish the endless green mountains; this region of Vermont certainly lives up to its name. We take a short break to find our next lunch destination, settling on a small café about twenty kilometers away. After the gentleness of the trail, we are back on the rigidity of the road, a bit deafening due to the 33-ton trucks passing us at high speed. However, the emergency lane /bike path still leaves us some room to maneuver. We develop a sixth sense that involves guessing the size and appearance of a car solely from the sound of its engine. However, we struggle to differentiate between large cargo trucks and huge trucks. A painful ascent was followed by a 2-kilometer slide at high speed, ending up in the small café in Stowe. Pleasantly surprised by the quality of the food and drinks. It's 1:30 pm, and all we want after this meal is to lie down and sleep. My companion Antoine starts to snore. The second part of the day is a bit more complicated. It starts with the purchase of a new pair of gloves, as our hands are all red due to the handlebar vibrations on the trail paths. This was followed by a 700-meter elevation climb in about thirty minutes, an intense effort accompanied by the 30°C beating down on the head through the helmet. After some time, we manage to synchronize our pedaling with our breath. It feels like we're relearning how to breathe. It's still just as painful, but at least we move forward with the confidence of reaching our destination. We feel like we're climbing the slope half by half without ever seeing the end. At the top of the hill, relief; the gentle joy of the downhill wind cancels out the pain of the climb. However, we try to be careful because at this speed, any deviation in the road could be fatal. Focusing on the road remains a routine we quickly adapted to, a kind of forced meditation for several hours a day. But the problem won't arise on the slope. Indeed, it's time for the first flat tire, 5 minutes before arrival, what luck! However, we manage to change the inner tube promptly and arrive at our third lodging. A quick dip in the pool just for us and tasting a not-quite-local Norman cider. Tomorrow, it's raining, a novelty we're looking forward to experiencing.

A pleasant silent night compared to the previous one. We have the American countryside breakfast we're now accustomed to: pancakes the size of plates and cream cheese on a bagel. Just as we're about to settle onto the saddle the first drops fall, oh joy! However, we're more concerned about the tire, still not fully recovered from its puncture, than the gathering clouds. The next bike shop is about thirty kilometers away. Luckily, we're at the top of a pass, and this morning will be all downhill. The rainy landscapes create a magical atmosphere, with mist creeping among the weeping trees. The smell of wet earth and the sparse traffic transform this hour of worry into a moment of serenity. In the valley, we get overtaken by one, then two, then five, then a dozen cyclists. What's happening? A race! And we find ourselves in it. We kick off a final sprint to the bike shop to make it onto the podium, naturally. Once inside, we enter a true treasure trove. Bikes by the hundreds, pedals, derailleurs, handlebars, saddles, all maintained for a long time by seasoned veterans. The warm atmosphere prompts us to recount our adventure, albeit a bit truncated due to our dialect unaccustomed to such pronounced accents. The tire is replaced, and the inner tube is inflated. We're ready to face the second part of the day under the guidance of Zeus, the god of rain. But first, it's time for some grub located a few meters away. We watch as cyclistschallenge the downpours with every pedal stroke. The lunch break extends to 2 hours. A large coffee milkshake signals its end. The start is tough. Serotonin no longer lingers in our blood, our clothes are wet, and we're slowly beginning to find the rain tiresome. The landscapes, though still beautiful and drenched, pass by during a twenty-kilometer ascent. Streams flow along the road and lash against our wheels, causing them to skid backward. Splashes, sweat, and torrential rain, a challenging cocktail for the end of the day. Finally arriving at the inn, the receptionist greets us with his usual welcome speech. Our ears perk up when we hear that the jacuzzi will close shortly. A jacuzzi you say? Five minutes later later we transition from sudden water to blessed water. To end the evening, by chance or fate, a semi-gourmet restaurant is located a few meters from our lodging. We'll be able to replenish ourselves properly before tackling the most difficult and tortuous day of our expedition, 100 kilometers with 1100 meters of elevation gain, all in our damp clothes.

We approach this day with some apprehension. Breakfast doesn't seem very filling, but it will suffice until noon. Being served on-site has the advantage of allowing us to quickly get back on the road. During the first five minutes, we retrace the climb from yesterday. Then come the mountainous landscapes, dotted with lakes, smooth trails, little traffic and birds still lively, happy to sing about spring. We enjoy these landscapes even more as the steepest climb of our journey awaits us just a few kilometers ahead. Finally, it appears before us, starting on a bumpy road. We avoid checking the GPS for fear of demotivation; we know we'll push through to the end no matter what. We pass three cyclists going downhill, smiling broadly at us, a bad sign. The elevation starts at 8%, ending at 12%. Yet, nature soothes the effort; we're under the trees, the sun isn't directly beating down on us, it's no longer raining, and the temperature feels ideal. Thirty minutes later, we're at the top, dripping with sweat but proud not to have set foot on the ground. We grab our water bottles and reward our muscles with big gulps of water, eager to start the descent. Let's take a moment to talk about it. The most enjoyable part isn't the descent itself. If we had only gone downhill, the enjoyment would have been less. The real pleasure comes from the emotional contrast between intense effort and effortless gliding. We come to appreciate the high elevations, knowing that a descent follows. The adrenaline from speed and the serotonin released by our muscles during the climb turn these few minutes into moments of pure joy. We shout, we scream, we're kings of the world during these brief moments. And if sometimes we dismount during the effort, it's not a defeat. Other battles will follow where we'll prevail. At the foot of this mountain, the transition between Vermont and New Hampshire's border seems harsh. We go from gentle green landscapes to American four-lane highways, sponsored by dust and mechanical carbon monsters. The meager bike path at our disposal is riddled with holes, making progress difficult. For lunch, we had decided to eat at the only restaurant in the area offering vegetarian dishes. Unfortunately, once there, a half-abandoned shack awaits us. We're surrounded by Pizza Hut, McDonald's, and Burger King, reigning supreme in their infernal valleys. Our only option is to scrounge up some sustenance from the nearby supermarket and consume it in the parking lot. We start with a gentle trail through the slightly bumpy forest for road tires. Once again, we cross an old railway bridge and encounter two children each driving their quad, with their parents at the back. Let's talk now about the elevation calculations of mapping applications. For this adventure, we equipped ourselves with Google Maps and Komoot to optimize the route based on different road styles, traffic, and inclinations. Google Maps isn't very accurate with angles. Komoot isn't very precise either. So it's challenging to estimate with certainty what situation we'll find ourselves in the next five kilometers. This afternoon undoubtedly remained our worst disillusionment regarding the physical effort that still lay ahead, but we persevered. With dismounts, hydration, and curses, we reached our destination. We had booked this hotel the night before without knowing what to expect, and once again, we're not disappointed with the place. Being in the off-season, the upscale lodgings lie empty and financially accessible. A pool awaits us; it's high time for a dip. Tonight, the only pub in the area is Irish, so our choice is set on fish & chips, always regional. A small concert is on the agenda, along with an accent that becomes increasingly incomprehensible to our chauvinistic ears. Only two days left, potentially under rain, and then Boston awaits us!

Today promises to be mentally challenging. The rain is back, there's no saving grace for dining along the way, and the hotel we've booked is located at a highway rest area. We feel Boston approaching with its industrial zone. We start the day with breakfast at the local bakery, which is nothing more than a vending machine equipped with an oven that bakes us a bagel. We definitely don't look forward to the day ahead. However, once on the bike and with the initial soreness behind us, we start to appreciate the nature around us again. Especially since it has acquired a new element: the wind. We've experienced intense heat and rain. Now, we're experiencing the resistance of the air against our movements. Descents turn into flat terrain, flat terrain turns into uphill climbs, and uphill climbs offer no more resistance than usual due to our slowness. We could complain about our situation, but this wind has saved us from some respiratory problems. Canadian forests are engulfed in flames, generating ashes thousands of kilometers away. Montreal is, in fact the most polluted city in the world that day. What better than our decarbonized mode of transportation to not exacerbate the situation? The headwind keeps the particles away from us and allows us to breathe clean air straight from the Gulf of Mexico. Against the wind, but with healthy and serene lungs. We hesitate to turn back when we see a sign warning of danger but decide to press on. A wise decision because we stumble upon a beautiful regional park just before our midday break. The journey proved less taxing than we thought. Not a single drop of rain until a downpour in the early afternoon, while we were inside a supermarket buying our lunch. Happy chance striking once again. As the water poured down on the asphalt, we encountered an interesting character. He complimented our bikes before starting to tell his life story. According to him, he was the creator of clipless pedals and had the idea while working at Salomon in France at the time for ski bindings. We're somewhat surprised to meet such a brilliant and well-known individual in his field in a rural village far from everything. Like an American businessman, he extols the virtues of his genius to us and offers us a discount on his next invention: futuristic ski bindings. We appear skeptical about the truthfulness of his claims; however, after verification, we realize that we did indeed meet the inventor of those clips that made uphill climbs easier for us. The storm stops. We resume the route to our destination: a highway rest area. Here, the car is king, no walkways for pedestrians, no bike racks in the accommodations. People go from the hotel to the restaurant in their pickup trucks, to hell with a few minutes of outdoor walking. Fortunately, we're just passing through because tomorrow is the big day. It's arrival in Boston.

Slept poorly at this highway rest area, but pleasantly surprised by the well-stocked breakfast that will carry us through the remaining 80 kilometers. The wind is still present, and the traffic ubiquitous as we start the first kilometers. We pass through the industrial areas nestled between Boston and the mountains. Pickup trucks zoom past us, and it's clear that cyclists are not particularly welcome here. We push through as best as we can during these 30 kilometers separating us from the bike path. Along the way, Google Maps, the expert in shortcuts, takes us through the forest. Even if we have to dismount, it's very pleasant to smell the moss on the trees and the earth, still damp from yesterday. Three times we encounter a walker with his dog who points us in the right direction. He seemed to come out of nowhere. It felt like a hidden camera prank. Finally, the long-awaited shaded corridor brings us straight to Boston. Pickup trucks gradually become rarer, replaced by city cars. Drivers become more respectful, and bike lanes gradually widen. However, there are fewer greetings from other cyclists, who are more accustomed to seeing others. As we delve deeper into the city, the buildings grow The first skyscrapers emerge. Red lights at every intersection slow us down. We pass by Harvard, then MIT, but we have one thing on our minds. Even before taking photos in front of these famous institutions. It's to park our bikes, wash our belongings, and freshen up. And to think, we finally did it. We did it.