On three wheels, chasing freedom

Peter Quinn grew up in an active family as the youngest of five children. On skis at age 2, his childhood was filled with family adventures, from skiing to tennis to family softball and football, skating on ponds and the occasional scuffle with his older brother as they fouled each other on their basketball court. Peter went on to be a dual sport athlete in college (skiing and tennis), after which he taught math and coached at a ski racing academy, and through his career fueled his soul with weekends spent coaching ski racing and bike racing.

Outdoor adventure has always been integral to Peter’s life — a key piece his DNA, his home. So in 2015, when a very rare disease that progressively attacks the body began taking away his ability to move, a new, sometimes dark, kind of adventure began.

I can. One of the things I still can do is ride a bike. Well, not really; I can ride a tricycle – a recumbent trike. Which isn’t like riding a bike, really, but it is a decent substitute, allowing me to explore and adventure and ride wherever I want, limited only by my will, creativity and resourcefulness. A sort of freedom.

One of the locations I have always loved to ride is Vermont. It’s what I imagine riding in the Ardennes region of Belgium to be like, with its rugged, forested landscape, rolling, steep climbs carved by streams, dotted by villages. It is also home to bike racing’s spring classics like Liège-Bastogne-Liège, my fave. Vermont’s mountains and valleys similarly weave countless options to explore for those who thrive on embracing the climb, the journey, the trial – for those who need such adventures to fuel their passion for life. No guarantees. I may fail in my attempt, but the victory is in the courage and bravery to try, to be on the start line.

And so it was that I woke up in Waitsfield, Vermont, on the morning of Juneteenth 2025. As we were commemorating the end of slavery in the United States, I was also reaffirming my own freedom; unbound, unconstrained and unlimited by my disease for a day, thereby renewing my commitment to live fully – to “suck the marrow out of life,” as Thoreau would say. I had mentioned my yearn to ride the hills of Vermont to my friend, Dan, the executive director at Waypoint Adventure, where he and his team find ways to help people with disabilities say, “Yes, I can” to outdoor exploration. True to the spirit of the organization he co-founded 15 years ago, Dan thinks in terms of possibilities, always finding a way to say yes... rather, “Yes!” So we let the idea of a Vermont ride percolate for a few months, like a glimmer of light not quite in focus.

From time to time Dan and I would talk about the Vermont ride, the shape it might take, the location, the route (gravel!), the people, the why. We began to float the idea by some friends. There was some interest, and like an aromatic cauldron of soup coming to a boil over an open flame after a cold, rainy bike ride with friends, momentum started to build. I sensed the potential for an extraordinary and epic experience. I just had a feeling.

The morning of June 19, we slowly gathered at Madbush Falls. One by one we rolled in, some arriving the night before, others making the three-hour drive from Boston in the morning, one driving all night after his band performed! At dawn, Dan and Steve – program director at Waypoint – had reconned the route. I was up early and decided to explore the Madbush grounds on my wheelchair, which I almost rolled as I attempted to take it up an incline at a trailhead on the edge of the parking lot. That was the second close call – Dan and I came dangerously close to being hit by a truck as Dan escorted me to the bathroom at a gas station on the way north. Dan’s split-second thwacks on the truck’s window saved us. That was serious, despite our attempt to joke it away. The adventure had begun.

As rollout time approached, we gathered in Waypoint’s traditional “opening circle.” Welcoming everyone, Dan asked people to introduce themselves, disclose how they knew me, and answer the question, “Where do you find joy on the bicycle?” Authentic answers: peace, to explore and adventure, think, challenge myself, get lost, be present, be a kid again, freedom, community! Although we did have to stop “Coach” before he launched into stories (dirt!) about me and Huss, my long-ago college ski team teammate at the University of New Hampshire.

We rolled out. The forecast had been for scattered showers, but early clouds gave way to brilliant sun as we turned onto a short section of single track, then gravel, which quickly turned toward the sky. I attached myself to my old cycling friend Jeff’s wheel so he could tow me up the densely forested ascent, going faster or slower depending on my commands, which were in French, Italian or Spanish depending on the European bike race I happened to be thinking about.

For a moment I feel the bursting energy, joy and passion I felt when I used to race, which is also why I like to ride close to other riders. My trike, with one wheel in front and two in back, is called a “delta.” Trikes with two wheels in front are called “tadpoles.” During one section of the ride, I was riding between Huss and his son, Tom, who were both riding tadpoles. Picture this: two tadpoles riding tight side-by-side, and then me on my delta, sliding right up between them to the point at which our bodies were in a straight row – amazing! We talked for a bit but were present and together also in the silence, the only sound that of our knobby tires eating up the gravel.

(A few days before, when Huss mentioned to me that he and Tom would be riding trikes, it stopped me in my tracks. How thoughtful, kind and generous; the definition of empathy.)

On we rode. Like an accordian, we stretched and contracted from end to end, periodically stopping to regroup or to fix a mechanical. Ride hard, ride easy, silence or conversation, drafting or not, up (15%!) and down, but always together, always supporting. Just in time, we rolled into the Warren Store, where we lunched and some of us cooled off in the stream.

Reenergized (hopefully), we rolled out, turned left and began a long, steep climb, all thoughts of easing into things post-lunch replaced by collegial but independent suffering and the joy and collective strength that comes with it. After about an hour of ups and downs and very little in-between, our local tour guide extraordinaire, Trish, recommended we take a quick detour to Blueberry Lake.

Returning to the route, we “au revoir-ed” Blueberry Lake, and we will meet again! Over the next timeless hour, we soaked it in – each other, the glorious vistas, sprawling farms, magnetic horses, and the occasional dig, of course.

One last speedy gravel descent, we turned right on Route 100 and were back at Madbush. Dan had made a reservation for everyone at the Madbush sauna, conveniently located next to an irresistible short trail that led to a sparkling pool. I briefly entertained the thought of having people get me into the pool, but my body reacts differently now to cold water, as does my heart.

About an hour later, we began to gather for hors d’oeuvres and perhaps a bevy, followed by dinner. Friends old and new recounted stories of the day, conversations spontaneously erupting into laughter, then settling into a serious tone; a few toasts to each other, to the human spirit, to being here, in this moment, together, authentic, as we are. I, for one, felt blessed, known, supported, cared for, dare I say, loved.

Just today someone asked me about the value and importance of community in my life as a person with a disability. I told the story of my daily fight with the disease, how my world had become smaller and more isolating with its progression, how isolation can lead to depression and other mental health conditions, my search for purpose and meaning, my need to live a vibrant, spirited, purposeful life, to live a good life, to set an example for my kids Kara, Alexa and Luke. “Community and connection have become essential to my life, to living, more so with every day as my disease progresses,” I said. She asked for an example. I smiled. “Let me tell you about a ride we had in Vermont last week...”