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The beginning of Autumn in Vermont is a time to savor the last precious moments of warm weather within the countryside's mosaic backdrop of reds, yellows, oranges, and purples before the chill of winter enters the air and the trees grow barren. Rural roads radiate with colors comparable to Monet's finest Impressionist works. Leaves on white birches turn yellow, aspens transform to a copper coin color, sugar maples produce a combination of yellow, green, orange, and red depending on how much sugar is trapped in the leaf, white ashes change to the color of a ripe plum, and oak leaves turn to a warm, dark brown.

This is not news to most of us. Indeed, Autumn in Vermont has become cliche. There's a 24-hour toll-free hotline to keep you informed of nature's progress and even a touring company where you can witness the splendor of fall foliage through the tinted windows of a chauffeured Rolls Royce. And then there's the traffic. It seems like the entire population of New York and Boston is behind the wheels of a car on the major roadways of this small New England state. However, there's an underlying problem with the usual Autumn driving trip - one of you has to drive. Prime leaf-watching soon becomes tiresome road-watching. Your significant other shouts exclamations of joy while you barely get a glimpse of the purple-leafed tree, causing severe neck strain in the process. Thus, the reason my wife and I always choose to bike during this time of year. We can both slow down and stop to appreciate Mother Nature wearing her most flamboyant dress.

Biking in Vermont's pastoral setting is ideal. Lightly traveled backcountry roads are rarely used outside of a handful of dairy farmers who live and work there. Around every bend, there's another meadow greener than the last, another anonymous mountain standing tall in the distance, another quintessential New England village where a freshly painted white steeple pierces the clouds overhead. Strict environmental statutes prohibit roadside billboards and other eyesores. In their place stand small signs advertising pure maple syrup or denoting the type of cows found on a farm - Holstein, Hereford, or Jersey. This state was made to be seen at a slow pace.

Two of our favorite fall biking routes are found in the eastern part of the state, near Grafton and Randolph. Very few places in New England epitomize small town splendor and charm better than the historic hamlet of Grafton. In the mid-1800s, Grafton had approximately 1,500 people and 10,000 sheep. Wool was turned into cloth, local soapstone quarries were used to create stoves, sinks, and foot warmers. By the end of the century, Grafton's magnificent inn known as the Old Tavern had played host to such luminaries as Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry David Thoreau, Rudyard Kipling, Ullyses S. Grant, and Teddy Roosevelt. However, the village soon took a turn for the worst. Sheep farmers moved west to find new land and the mills shut down, in search of cheaper labor farther south. By the end of the Depression, the population was less than 100 and most of the houses were up for sale. If it wasn't for the generosity of Pauline Dean Fiske, and the foresight of her nephews, Dean Mathey and Matthew Hall, the exquisite homes would have been torn down and turned to pasture. With their aunt's money, the two nephews founded the Windham Foundation in 1963 and proceeded to restore the entire town, including the Old Tavern. The turnaround was dramatic. The village now looks like it did a century and a half ago, replete with white steeple, sparkling white clapboard homes, and a country store.

Take your time strolling around Grafton, stocking up on goodies at the store, before starting this majestic 25-mile loop around the region. From the Old Tavern, turn left onto Route 35, a road lined with dark evergreens and flaming maples. Route 35 climbs sharply at first, but then cruises downhill for an exhilarating ride through waves of forest. Fast-paced modernity rears its ugly head once you turn right onto Route 11 East. Don't fret. The hum of cars lasts only a moment as you pass through the town of Chester on Route 103 South. A right turn onto Pleasant Valley Road and you'll gaze at grazing horses and barns in need of desperate repair. Veer right again at the end of the road to find the perfect picnic spot. Saxtons River appears on your left weaving though the ever-present cow pasture and cornfield. The sylvan landscape never leaves your side as you pedal through Cambridgeport all the way back to Grafton.

In an area of Vermont renowned for its road and mountain biking, the 36.5-mile loop around Randolph is easily one of the finest in the state. From the Slab City parking lot, veer left onto Route 12A North through Randolph and the outskirts of Braintree. Civilization soon fades away as the ride becomes a mix of meadows, corn fields, and farms nestled at the foothills of the Green Mountains. Come late September, the tree leaves all exude a different hue - burnt red, bright orange and as yellow as the yolk of an egg. The road is soon hidden by hills on both sides as you ride along a railroad bed and small stream. You'll pass Roxbury, with its requisite church, and Northfield Country Club, whose putting greens are camouflaged by the surrounding hillside. At 20.6 miles, prior to entering the town of Norwich, turn right on Route 12 South to pedal by apple orchards and a small pond. Gradually, you go uphill on the route's only ascent before zipping downhill on a serpentine road past a flash of forest color that produces a kaleidoscopic effect. Don't blink or you might miss the small town of East Braintree.

The final six miles is a special treat, acre upon acre of uninterrupted soil, carpets of green, so rich, you'll want to stop the bike and dig your hands into the dirt. At the junction of Routes 12 and 12A, bear left and then make an immediate right to complete this three to four hour ride.

Biking through this fertile farmland on a rolling country road with just a trace of traffic, it's hard to fathom ever enduring another fall foliage drive. As Vermont's official poet laureate, Robert Frost, wrote in his poem The Road Not Taken, "Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--, I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference."

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