Cape Project

I was nervous, as you always are when you commit to a solo trip that involves more than just a couple of days away. A three-day bikepacking ride from the Boston Seaport to Provincetown, then across the Cape, meeting up with friends at night, with only my bike, my camera, and whatever the road could throw at me in between.

The morning ferry ride was choppy and brisk, and I clung to my armrest as the skyline of the city skipped away behind me. Seasickness instantly set in as the boat rushed through the white-capped waters toward the horizon. I sat outside as the frigid ocean air continuously whipped across my face in sadistic relief. Arriving at Provincetown, it took a half hour to shake off the seasickness with some coffee and a pastry. With my stomach settled, it was time to head toward Orleans.

There’s something about those first few hours of a solo trip where everything feels infinitely possible. The trees along Route 6B were a mix of brilliant reds and dull browns. The bike buzzed beneath me, as the world grew evermore silent, leaving only the soft hum of my tires on the asphalt. The terrain ahead was a series of gentle hills and quiet backroads. I was supposed to be looking for some kind of peace, some sort of autumnal clarity, but instead I kept thinking about how the landscape looked like a faded postcard, forgotten at the bottom of a drawer for a few decades.

I rode past the familiar sights—the faded motels with their "off-season" specials that nobody ever seems to take advantage of, the forlorn haunted-looking thrift shops that are only ever open from 11:00 AM to 3:00 PM -Thursday to Sunday, and even then it's unclear. The road then led me toward the ocean, where the beach was empty except for a few seagulls and departing surfers. There, the sand and the water repeatedly swept up the shore, restlessly, as if it were trying to bury a secret. In the twilight, the blinking light of Nauset Lighthouse guided me down the road, as if I were its only ship.

Arriving at Erin’s house in Orleans felt like a reward after what had turned into a race against time. The town itself was a sleepy mix of old Colonial charm and modern homes you’d find in travel magazines. Erin’s house was the perfect antidote to a day spent on the road. Her dogs, Jan and Matilda, greeted me with an enthusiastic disregard for personal space as dogsdo. Dinner was a leisurely aan air, a fried fisherman’s platter and a few pints at the local pub. We caught up on what we had missed in our time apart and conversed about my journey thus far. The next morning, the Orleans light spilled through the translucent curtains, waking me. Erin was already up and moving, making coffee in the kitchen and checking in on her garden. Neal, her partner, was also awake and hours deep into yet another home renovation project.

There’s something nice about being in someone else’s rhythm.

After breakfast at the local airplane hanger—eggs Benedict, toast, and a few cups of coffee—we climbed into Neal’s truck and headed to his foundations company, Donovan Concrete Forms. I hadn’t really considered how the day would unfold, but there I was, standing in the dusty yard of Donovan’s, looking at the monumental piles of materials and trying to grasp that this was what Neal did every day: building the literal ground people’s homes stood on. Neal showed me around while explaining the process and gave me a hoodie printed with his company logo. We headed back to Erin and Neal’s place—a quiet slice of land tucked away from the road, hidden behind towering oaks and cedars. Erin’s art studio stands opposite the house, a beautiful white barn. As soon as I walked in, I felt like I was crossing an invisible threshold into Erin’s world. The space was a mess of found objects: broken bits of glass, rusted metal, weathered wood, tangled fishing lines, and bouquets of drying wild plants. It was all laid out with intention, but in that chaotic way artists work, waiting for materials to become something more.

Erin moved through the space with the ease of someone who’d spent years making it their own. She picked up a section of a lobster trap, turning it over in her hands as she described its potential. It might be the starting point for a larger installation, she said, or maybeit would become something entirely different. Standing there surrounded by her work, the thing that struck me wasn’t so much the finished pieces, but the way the room felt. There was this sense of the sea in everything—the salt, the decay, the renewal. It was a feeling you couldn't fake, a kind of energy that activated the air and it made the whole room feel alive, like the materials themselves were breathing.

Erin has always had a way of making the discarded into something new. Her sculptures are of the environment, worn down and rebuilt. We spent a little over an hour in the studio, talking about everything and nothing. She told me stories about the objects she found while walking the beach and how those things, when viewed through the lens of her practice, became beautiful and meaningful.

Sensing the day ticking away, I said my goodbyes, packed up my bike and hit the road heading west. The stretch of road between Orleans and Falmouth is a mix of dense nature and quiet towns with the occasional cranberry bog popping up through the trees. By mid- afternoon, the sun began to lengthen and strain as I rode past fields of haunted marshes, junky-looking auto garages, and closed-for-the-season restaurants. As dusk fell, I rolled into Falmouth and found myself standing in front of Dre’s house—a friend of a friend who had graciously offered me a bed for the night. She had kindly prepared Moroccan Chicken for dinner and an apple popover for dessert. It was the kind of meal that feels like a hug from the inside, something I greatly needed after a second long and cold day in the saddle. We talked about her life on Cape Cod before I turned in for the night.

In the morning of my third day, Dre made me coffee and breakfast, and we toured her backyard where she proudly showed me her chicken coop, the hens clucking and strutting. I packed up my things, got on the bike, and headed down the road to meet my friend Paul, feeling grateful for the kindness of a new friend.

Paul, along with his wife and two kids, live in a picture-perfect Cape Cod cottage. A pristine white, perfectly rectangular box—two symmetrically placed windows, a sunny yellow door and a pitched gray roof. It’s a house plucked from a picture book, the kind you dream about when you think of Cape Cod. Inside, it is cozy and minimalist, the walls lined with art that Paul and his family had collected over the years. Paul’s mother-in-law then offered me a freshly baked scone which I quickly accepted and after another cup of coffee, I thanked him, hopped back on my bike, and pedaled off toward Woods Hole grateful for the scenic detour. The ride down to the village felt almost like riding through a dream, the kind where the world has no edges, and everything you see is muted in soft pastels. I found myself on a stretch of beach—stunning, quiet, and vivid in its beauty. The sand stretched endlessly and the water a deep blue. I stopped briefly to watch the ferries come in and out.

From Woods Hole, the route wound up toward the canal, and the famous Bourne Bridge loomed ahead like some metallic leviathan. There, the road turned faster and more brutal, the shoulders tighter, the cars angrier. I rode with the rhythm of someone nearing the end of something, not yet finished, but tired of the constant spin. By the time I reached Plymouth, I was ready for it all to be over, though in that satisfying, final way. I coasted down the main street, where the red brick of old colonial buildings gave way to the familiar hum of small-town life. The shore was empty, the air had cooled, and the shadows of the late afternoon were stretching long across the park. Feeling the salt on my skin, the ache in my legs, and the low hum of the world around me I stood still and reflected once more. Three days of quiet roads, strangers turned friends, and a landscape exhaling for a final time before its winter slumber.