I was on a solo training ride halfway up the Hotondberg, the highest point in��Belgium’s East Flanders, at 475-feet, when I finally snapped. I’d come to this cold corner of Northern Europe four months earlier, in October 2017, for my first professional racing season of cyclocross,��the half-mountain, half-road��winter discipline of cycling. Belgium is the epicenter of the sport—the country has more cyclocross��races than any other nation, and it has repeatedly churned out the top athletes. When it��hosted the 2012 World Championships, 60,000 spectators packed the 1.8-mile��circuit in the small seaside town of Koksijde. After spending 21 years clawing my way through the ranks, including four years as a semipro��in the U.S., I’d finally made the big time.

In some cruel twist of fate, doctors had diagnosed me with a life-changing chronic disease just six months earlier. It started innocuously enough at the end of 2016, just a few drops of blood during morning poops. “Hemorrhoids,” a doctor guessed—after all, I was an otherwise healthy 29-year-old who spent 20 hours a week perched on his perineum. But despite initial treatment, the bleeding persisted. A colonoscopy revealed the real culprit, ulcerative colitis, one of two forms of inflammatory bowel disease (IBD), characterized by recurring inflammation in the colon. Although , increasing nearly tenfold over the past four decades, it still only affects of the U.S. population.

Though the diagnosis came before I left for Belgium, I stubbornly soldiered through the symptoms.��I had a season to prepare for, intervals to suffer through. I wasn’t about to let some blood loss and stomach cramps derail my dream. But the bleeding continued��as��the frequency and inconvenience of my bathroom trips increased. I’d jump fences during training rides to squat in the bushes. Before the start of one of the biggest races in the U.S., I frantically dove to the Porta-Potty as the announcer called me to the start line. My sleep began to deteriorate—I’d wake up multiple times a night, a slave to the demands of my disgruntled colon.

By the time I landed in Belgium, the disease had become downright unpleasant and borderline unmanageable. One specialist advised me to take some time off. But I put my head down and pushed through. It was intoxicating to race through muddy Flemish fields, past tens of thousands of inebriated Belgian fans. But my disease clawed at me. Over five months in Europe, I lost nearly 20 pounds, shrinking from a wiry 162 down to a skeletal 145. My red-blood-cell counts dropped to that of an elderly��anemic man. I brushed off the pleas from loved ones begging me to consider my health. I was a bike racer, after all. I knew how to suffer. But with cycling, the pain stops when the race does. A chronic disease ends only when you do, too. That was a finish line I was in no hurry to cross.��

So onward I pushed, intent to live out my pro-cycling dream. That is��until that blustery winter day, as I struggled up the Hotondberg. I couldn’t push any more. My legs gave out. My mind had finally caught on to what my body had been screaming for over a year: too much. I let an expletive fly and launched my bike into a ditch.

I returned home to Santa Barbara, California, to rest, hoping the break from activity would coax the inflammation into remission, the best-case scenario for IBD.��Since doctors don’t know the exact cause of this chronic��autoimmune condition, they also don’t know exactly how to treat it. It’s a trial and error process to find the drugs that work��and the foods and stressors that trigger flares.

Of course, when you’re the lab rat, the “error” part carries more weight. A three-month course of prednisone meant to aggressively reduce inflammation proved futile. Instead��it devoured what remained of my once wiry muscles, and the steroid withdrawals mimicked a heart attack, sending me to the ER in the middle of the night.

I ruthlessly axed foods from my daily meals, hoping that a bland diet would relieve the suffering. No more bread. No more cheese. No more ice cream. No more booze. No more coffee. For months on end, I ate nothing but eggs, oats, white rice, boiled carrots, and chicken. It didn’t matter.

Because I couldn’t race, I had to pass up��$44,000 in sponsorship funding. My life, long defined by physical activity and athletic achievement, morphed into a couch-dwelling existence. I emotionally deteriorated through a cruel cycle of false optimism. Every day��I woke with a shred of hope that this would go away. Every morning��a bloody reality would flush that down the drain.

In the midst of this downward spiral, during the summer of 2018, I sped down the freeway to yet another doctor’s appointment. I could feel the dull ache of my gut, grinding away at itself. My chest was tight from the ongoing anxiety. Why me?��I thought. What the fuck happened?��I approached an overpass and considered drifting into the concrete footing. I was sick of being sick. I wanted to cross the finish line.

I turned the wheel��and exited the freeway instead. As part of a new protocol, the clinic had begun screening all patients for depression. The doctor rattled off the standard questions:

“Do you ever feel sad or empty? Do you ever think about harming yourself?”

To each I responded, “No.”

At that point, I’d had six separate doctors on two continents shove five different cameras up my ass. None of it offered any solution. No answer on effective medicines. No indication of cause.��Desperation set in. Anxiety turned to fear as one option after the other failed.

By the time I drove to in Los Angeles in the fall of 2018, I had burrowed deep into a dark tunnel with few remaining options. Among those were heavy-duty medications, which block the body’s immune response to the gut (and everything else),��and a colectomy, the complete surgical removal of my diseased colon.��

I was terrified. It had been nearly two years since that first drop of blood brought colitis into my life. I had long ago given up on a return to an athletic existence. Shit, all I wanted was my life back.

I wasn’t sure what I expected when I walked into to the center. I suppose I thought that as the top-rated gastrointestinal��hospital on the West Coast, it’d��give me some definitive answer, or at least some cutting-edge Western medicine. But two and a half hours later—after meeting with a dietitian, two doctors, and three nurses, and draining enough blood to fill 14 test tubes—I left with a prescription for Chinese herbs and instructions to follow a strict grain-free diet in addition to my existing anti-inflammatory drugs. I was shocked��and a bit apprehensive, but it was better than the remaining alternatives.��

Over the next month, I fanatically consumed nothing but squash, chicken, carrots, eggs, and bananas, while dutifully swallowing my daily dose of herbs. First��the bloating subsided. Then��the blood dried up. I reported this to my doctor.��Emboldened by the fact that something had finally gone right, I asked if I could fly to Europe for the end of the 2018–19 cyclocross season. I would be horribly out of shape and incredibly slow, but I didn’t care. The colitis could come back at any time. This could be the only shot at finishing what I had started a year and a half earlier. With my doctor’s��blessing, I began training again like there was no tomorrow.

Three months later, on a gray February afternoon in East Flanders, I lined up to race in the small town of Maldegem. It was cold and��rainy. The wind blew through my Lycra skin suit as the announcer called us to the start grid. The whistle blew. The crowd erupted. Forty-seven skinny, shivering cyclists sprinted into the soggy Belgian forest. And once again, I was one of them. For the next hour, we pounded through sand and slid through muddy ruts, round and round the circuit. I could feel my lungs burn and my legs ache. Every lap made it worse, but I kept pushing. After all, I was a bike racer.

I finished at the back of the pack and rolled into the woods, where I lay on my bars and sobbed. My seared lungs had not delivered��the oxygen that my legs demanded. But these were not cries of suffering. Oh no—what a delight it was to feel this way again, to suffer on my own terms.

The following day, I pedaled��toward the Hotondberg. It was only about five miles from where I was staying, and it had the best view in East Flanders. My loop took me into the woods, through fields, and along the small lanes that wind through the countryside. Halfway��up, I came to the ditch where I’d thrown my bike and my dreams one year earlier.

I stopped and stared for a moment before rolling away, not pedaling, just letting the slope pull me down the hill. The wind was at my back. Gravity was on my side. It would be a nice ride home. It was a good day. And I was going to enjoy every bit of it.

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On a hot��afternoon last week in the southeast of France, 30-year-old French mountain biker Alexis Bosson sat on his downhill bike. He stared at the wooden ramp that would launch him over the road gap below and into instant Internet glory. He and his nine-member crew from the nearby city of Annecy had planned this day for the past six months. They had scouted the location near the Plateau des Glières, built the jump, launched dozens of test runs, and stashed his bike nearby the night before.

The plan was to illicitly��jump over the Tour De France as the unsuspecting racers pedaled by on the road below. For Bosson, an unknown, underground ripper, it was a stunt 15 years in the making.��

Before Stage 8 of the 2003 Tour, a 21-year-old Canadian named Dave Watson spent several days preparing a jump off a 45-foot cliff on the Col du Galibier. But race day was a leap of faith. Watson had taken no practice runs and the clip, which would eventually appear in��, was his first and only attempt. Watson soared off the cliff and sailed over the peloton��as they rode from Sallanches to Alpe d’Huez. Alas, he undershot the landing and ragdolled��down the rocky slope on the other side.

He walked away with relatively minor injuries. No juiced-up road pros were harmed in the process.

Watson’s massive huck-to-yard-sale in the Alps inspired a group of riders from Annecy a decade later. Then-24-year-old Romain Marandet and his friends (including Bosson) planned a jump for six months leading up to Stage 20 of the 2013 Tour, which tackled six classified climbs around their hometown in southeast France. When the peloton climbed the final mountain of the day, the 3,000-foot grunt to Le Semnoz, Marandet stood at the top of the run-in, waiting for the right moment. Chris Froome approached in the race-leader’s yellow jersey, and the ground crew radioed Marandet the go ahead. The Frenchman soared over the road racers, becoming the first person to jump the Tour de France and successfully stick the landing.

Bosson was supposed to hit the jump along with Marandet in 2013. They’d planned a train—the riders would hit the jump in quick succession so they were simultaneously air born—but on “D-Day” Bosson had a meeting to attend. He wound up watching his friend’s solo send on TV.

Bosson’s redemption finally came last week. Two cops lingered nearby as he snuck his way up to the top of the ramp. The breakaway approached, and one of his crew radioed the go ahead. The Frenchman dropped in.

He flew 15 feet above the approaching riders and 20 feet across the road on Plateau des Glières. (Bosson and crew dialed the timing so he would jump over the road just before the peloton to avoid any accidents.) The feat flashed live across the Stage 10 race broadcast. Bosson launched over the road gap, his hands off the bars and outstretched behind his back.

The trajectory was spot on. He cleared the road and his hands reconnected with the grips. He touched down, and the Tour riders labored safely past as Bosson sped to the bottom of the landing.

He climbed back onto the road, and the crowd erupted in delight. The two gendarmeries still stood 160 feet away, completely ignorant or indifferent to the spectacle.

“The people were so happy,” Bosson recalled. “Everyone was cheering. There was a group of kids and my friend said, ‘You have to go up again, and jump over the peloton!’ And the kids were like, ‘Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Go! Go! Go!’”

So Bosson, the obliging entertainer, hiked back up the approach. Four minutes later, when the remaining peloton arrived, he dropped in for an encore huck. You know, for the children.

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Fall is the perfect time to get in the car and find some waves. So pack a wetsuit and some boards then embark on one of the following quests for surf-induced happiness.��

Central California

San Francisco to Big Sur
231 Miles, 3 to 5 Days
Best Season: Summer, Fall, Winter
Bring: 5/4 wetsuit, booties, hood

To Hunter S. Thompson, the end of Geary Boulevard in San Francisco was “the end of the line,” but for surfers, it’s the beginning of three miles of sandy shores and powerful waves at Ocean Beach. The area is a swell magnet during the winter months, though afternoon onshore flows can turn the surf into a chaotic mess. When the wind picks up, head south along Highway 1 through Half Moon Bay, home of the world-famous big-wave break Mavericks. Further south, Santa Cruz has the most consistent waves on the coast, with Steamer Lane and Pleasure Point pulling in year-round swell. Highway 1 continues along Monterey Bay road hugs the Santa Lucia Mountains as it winds through Big Sur. Many surf spots down here are difficult to access, but breaks like Sand Dollar Beach are only a short hike from the parking lot and have camping near by.��

New Jersey

Sandy Hook to Cape May
127 Miles, 1 to 2 Days
Best Season: Fall, Winter, Spring
Bring: Boardshorts (fall), 6/5/4 wetsuit, gloves, booties, and hood (winter).

From September through April the Jersey Shore is a mecca for surfers across the Northeast, and the Garden State Parkway is the gateway to the state’s fine surf and diverse coastal culture. Sandy Hook (Exit 117) is the northernmost break, and the lineup offers views of Manhattan’s skyline. Catch a show at the Stone Pony in Asbury Park (Exit 100A) and delve into the grunge/punk rock culture of the New Jersey surf scene. Seaside Heights of MTV Jersey Shore fame (Exit 82A) boasts the Shore’s most iconic boardwalk while just south of town, Island Beach State Park has almost ten miles of preserved shoreline. Cape May sits at the far end of the Parkway (Exit 0), and peninsula is home to a colorful array of Victorian B&Bs, a vastly different skyline from the view at Sandy Hook.

North Carolina

Kitty Hawk to Hatteras and Back
141 Miles, 2 to 3 Days
Best Season: Fall, Winter, Spring
Bring: Boardshorts (fall), 5/4 wetsuit, booties, gloves, and hood (winter), four-wheel-drive

Once the stomping grounds of the fearsome pirate Blackbeard, North Carolina’s barrier islands are now a hub for surfing, kiteboarding, and fishing. Highway 12 runs from Kitty Hawk to Hatteras, and the main thoroughfare never strays more than a mile from the Atlantic Ocean. Bring a 4×4 and with a permit you’ll be able to drive right up to many of the spots. Though sleeping on the beach is not allowed, there are plenty campgrounds at locations like Kill Devil Hills, Frisco, Avon, Buxton, and Hatteras. The quality of surf on the islands shifts with the sand, but when the swell pumps the S-Turns just north of Rodanthe and the Hatteras jetties just north of Cape Point are safe bets. If it’s flat, take a kitesurfing lesson at or check out the , which commemorates the ships and sailors lost off the coast.��

Baja

San Diego to El Rosario and Back
570 Miles, 5 to 14 Days
Best Season: Fall, Winter
Bring: 4/3 wetsuit and booties, four-wheel-drive, Spanish-English dictionary��

If your sense of adventure is undeterred by warnings like kidnapping, carjacking, and highway robbery (actual terminology from the State Department’s ), then Northern Baja could be your ultimate surf road trip. Mexico Federal Highway No. 1 heads south from Tijuana and runs all the way to Cabo San Lucas. However, unless you’re going out for months, it’s best to turn around at El Rosario, which is 306 kilometers south of the border. Many of the popular breaks along this stretch, like K-38, Shipwrecks, San Miguel, and Cuatros Casas, are less than an hour from Highway 1, and they have established campgrounds or hostels. The extra money to stay at these sites is worth the extra security.��

Wisconsin

Milwaukee to Algoma
73 Miles, 1 to 2 Days
Best Season: Fall, Winter
Bring: 6/5/4 wetsuit, booties, gloves, hood, Brett Favre jersey

Wisconsin may not abut a mighty ocean, but the shores of America’s Dairyland still see surf. The best waves occur in the fall and winter months, so scoring on the Great Lakes generally requires thick, full-body neoprene and a willingness to break icicles off your eyelashes. Sheboygan is the heart of the Great Lakes surf scene, and the town is home to Elbows, one of the most popular breaks on Great Lakes, and EOS, the only dedicated surf shop in Wisconsin. County Road LS winds along Lake Michigan to Manitowoc and Lakeshore Road continues along the shoreline to Kewaunee and Algoma. Along the way, keep an eye on the bays and breakwaters for waves.��

Oregon

Astoria to Brookings
338 Miles, 5 to 7 Days
Best Season: Fall
Bring: 5/4 wetsuit, booties, gloves, hood, raincoat

While Oregon is better known for year-round skiing on Mount Hood and the fixie crowd in Portland, the Beaver State also has 363 miles of coastline along Highway 101. In the winter, powerful storms in the Gulf of Alaska send massive waves to spots like Nelscott Reef in Coos Bay. Florence, Newport, and Seaside have some of the most established surf scenes on the coast and are south facing, which make them relatively protected during the swells of the winter months. However, the fall is the best time to explore the points, coves, and beaches of Oregon, when the weather, wind, and swell have the best chance of cooperating. ��

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There are myriad excuses for going on that next surf trip. It’s August in Jersey, and the waves have been flat for two months. It’s February in Maine, and the 35-degree water turns your hands into clubs. It’s May in California, and you’re sick of wetsuits, onshore winds and crowds. It’s January in Washington, and you really want a boardshort tan. However, flying with a surfboard can be a daunting task since every carrier has a different policy depending on destination, time of year and the size of your stick.��

With so many considerations for surf travel, I called professional surfer and frequent globetrotter ��just before��the 29-year-old Californian boarded��a plane headed for a big south swell in Tahiti. Gudauskas has spent the last ten years chasing swells and contests around the globe, and by his estimation, he takes between 30 and 50 trips per year. This equates to what he calls, “lots of donations to the airlines.”��

Before You Go

When researching ticket prices, pay attention to the wording of each carrier’s baggage policy. Some airlines charge per bag, while others, like US Airways, charge per board. That means what you think will be a $150 purchase at check in for one bag with three boards can become a $450 shocker. Know the policy before you go. Additionally, be aware that the size of your surfboard can impact the final price of flying it. A bag of three, six-foot short boards can actually cost less than one, 10-foot long board based on the dimensional charges. Some airlines will only fly boards of a certain length as freight, which is a whole other quagmire.��

Additionally, be aware of luggage embargoes on certain airlines. From June 1 through August 31, United has an oversize baggage embargo on most flights to and from destinations in . This means they will not accept your precious surfboards when you’re trying to get to those sand bottom barrels in Oaxaca.

For Gudauskas, the best carriers are the ones with the most consistent policies. “I fly American just because in the past they’ve been very standardized, and they always charge the same amount every time. It’s not like one time you’ll get it for free and the next time you get charged an exponentially high amount. It’s always the same, 150 bucks. That’s why I like it. There’s no questions asked. Just hand them the card. Swipe that thing and forget about it. You don’t have to stress about if they’re going to open it up, and you don’t have to worry about lying. It doesn’t get really awkward.”

The Good

While Gudauskas prefers consistent policies, the astute traveler can find great deals. The best carriers won’t even charge extra to bring a board along. Virgin Atlantic allows travelers one free surfboard bag under 9’1” in addition to their checked luggage allowance. Air Tahiti Nui offers one free board, per bag as long as it is less than 8’2”. When I spoke with Gudauskas, he had just checked his board bag on this airline for free.��

If one of these surf-friendly carriers is not headed to your dream break, consider another airline with low rates per bag like Alaska ($75), Frontier ($75) and Southwest ($75). Virgin Atlantic and Jet Blue are good options if you’re only bringing one — they charge $50 per board. Occasionally, prepaying the baggage fee over the phone leads to a solid deal. On Aeromexico, a prepurchased surfboard bag costs $40 instead of��$50 when paid at the counter.��

When flying on airlines with variable rates, Gudauskas explains, “I just try to give them my credit card quicker than they can ask what’s in the bag. I just go up and tell them I want to check this and not try to act like I’m hiding anything.”��

The Bad and the Ugly

While there are several airlines that offer reasonable rates to fly boards, some are downright rough. Gudauskas says, “Air China is gnarly (with variable rates between $85 and $225) and Japan Air too ($200 per bag international). Those both��will just get you.”��

Of course, paying a high fee isn’t the worst-case scenario. Gudauskas recalls, “The worst is when you pay for them, and then they never arrive at baggage claim.��That bums me out. I’ve had so many boards not show up.” Should your boards wind up in the baggage-handling vortex, be prepared to rent or borrow some equipment. While it may not be your magic board, there’s no reason to abstain from wave riding when the swell is pumping in paradise. ��

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There’s no getting around it: flying with a bike is no fun. But despite��airline fees and��greasy disassembly, taking the right steps will help��get you and your bike to the perfect destination. So we asked pro cyclist for help. Since heading to his first Mountain Bike World Championships in 1999, he has spent the past sixteen years flying around the globe to race his bike. In that span, the now 33-year-old has discovered some key considerations when flying with his ride. ��

Before You Board

When you book your trip, see if you can pick an airline that doesn’t charge an exorbitant fee for a bicycle. On domestic flights, these extra fees can range from $50 to $150 dollars each way; it can be even more internationally. Be aware that the cheapest passenger tickets aren’t always the best bet, as you have to factor in extra cost of bringing the bike. JetBlue and Virgin America are among the cheapest airlines, charging $50 per bike on domestic flights, and Southwest is right behind—they’ll dock you $75.��

When you arrive at the airport, Craig says there’s always the chance to work a little magic on the ticketing agent. “I’m really nice to check-in people. I try to be lighthearted, jovial,��and talk about whatever to try to distract them from the fact that I have a bunch of BS with me.” Of course, sneaking a bicycle bag past the check-in attendant is no easy task, and the reality of a bicycle trip usually involves paying to bring along your toy. If you can, avoid American, Delta,��or United. They want $150 each way on domestic flights.

The best way to avoid the fee? Craig says loyalty pays off. “My personal MO has always been to fly one particular airline, which for me has been United. They normally charge a lot for bikes, but once you have status they don’t hassle you.” If you are in good standing with a particular airline, contact them regarding the possibility of waiving the fee.��

Protect Your Precious

No matter what you paid to get it on the plane, that pain doesn’t come close to how much it will hurt if your pride and joy is smashed into��pieces en route. ��

So pick your case carefully: the ($600) offers the robust protection of a fully rigid case, while the ($600) has a unique take on protection (the sides inflate to shield the bike). Both cases have wheels to roll the bag to you final destination—your back will thank you. ��

Whichever bag you use, Craig says properly padding your bike when packing is key. “I just use a soft bag with a shoulder strap, but I pack it decently.” Craig recommends covering the frame with pipe insulation and placing a length of half-inch PVC pipe between the front and rear dropouts to keep the frame from snapping like a wishbone if anything is set on top of it. If your bike has disk brakes, remove the rotors and pack them in cardboard.��

There’s no getting around the fact that bringing a bike on a trip is an expensive and stressful ordeal, but Craig counsels trying to maintain perspective. “I think just acknowledge that traveling on an airplane with your bike is like using a time machine to go exactly where you want to go and do exactly what you want to be doing,” he says.��“Realize that that magic costs money and be cool about it.”

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Grab your camper, a longboard for the small days, and some SPF 50 as you bask in every glorious moment of these summer surf road trips. Most can be done in a few days, but by all means, hang in each spot for as long as you want.

Northern California

Santa Cruz to Bolinas
Distance: 101 miles,��one��way
Time Needed:��1 to 2��days
Bring: 4/3 wetsuit, booties

Start with the south swell magnets in Santa Cruz County, like and , which pull in some mighty fine summer surf. Before heading north on the Pacific Coast Highway (Highway 1), check out the extensive board-building culture in Santa Cruz, which includes , , , and . Highway 1 heads north and becomes 101 as it crosses the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco. Exit the freeway in to rejoin Highway 1, which rounds and passes the giant redwoods of Muir Woods. Continue on to , which has stellar longboard waves in the summer and sits on the southern end of Point Reyes National Seashore. A bit more bonus driving up the PCH won‘t yield more surf, but 18��miles north of Bolinas, you can snag fresh oysters at one of the many restaurants lining the shores of��.��

Southern California

Ventura to San Diego
Distance: 188 miles,��one��way
Time Needed:��2 to��3 days
Bring: 3/2 wetsuit

As the storms spin above Antarctica, they send groundswell to the exposed breaks of Southern California. is the main point break in Ventura and pulls in waves throughout the summer months. After some fish tacos at , take the Pacific Coast Highway south, flanked by the Santa Monica Mountains and the Pacific Ocean, to the iconic right point break of Malibu. The highway crawls through Los Angeles into , home of the formidable . In Dana Point, hop onto I-5, which continues to San Diego. Be sure to exit at San Onofre State Beach for a session at , one of the best waves on the West Coast and an annual stop on .��

Washington

Seattle to Oysterville
Distance:��185 miles,��one��way
Time Needed:��2 to��3 days
Bring: 5/4 wetsuit, booties, gloves, hood, 4×4

Dank winters give way to long summer days on Washington’s coastline. has the closest surf to Seattle, but its proximity to the city draws major crowds throughout the summer months. To dodge the hordes, head to the and its 20 miles of uncrowded��sandy beach breaks. From the center of Washington’s metropolis, drive south on I-5 to Highway 107, which connects to Highway 101 and skirts the southern end of . Highway 101 hits Seaview on the southern end of the Long Beach Peninsula. Beach driving is permitted on the 13.5 miles from Long Beach to Surfside Estates, so a four-wheel drive will allow you to cruise along the coast and find a personal wave. After a surf, refuel with fresh local seafood at , just south of Oysterville.��

New England

Hampton, NH, to Portland, ME��
Distance: 72 miles, one��way
Time Needed:��1 to��2 days
Bring: 3/2 wetsuit, longboard

Though New England’s best season for waves runs from late summer through spring, the coastal towns in New Hampshire and Maine come alive during the summer, with average daytime air and water temperatures reaching into the 70s. is the most consistent surf spot in Hampton, New Hampshire, and its close proximity to Boston makes it one of the most popular breaks along New Hampshire’s 13-mile coastline. sits at the north end of the break and offers surfboard rentals and lessons. Drive north on U.S. Route 1 to Maine’s Ogunquit Beach, which consistently pulls in small waves even during July and August. On the way to Portland, the beaches in and also provide mellow waves in the heart of the New England summer.

Florida

Juno to New Smyrna
Distance: 173 miles, one��way
Time Needed:��1 to��2 days
Bring: Board shorts, longboard

South Florida has some of the best waves on the East Coast, and though summer can leave surfers gnawing their leashes waiting for waves, there are still occasional swells. Start at (90 minutes north of Miami), which offers some of the most consistent surf along the coast. Follow Highway A1A north along Florida’s barrier islands, and stop in Sebastian Inlet, which has one of the highest-performance waves on the Atlantic Coast.��Tent camping is available at . Farther north, A1A hits Cocoa Beach, hometown of 11-time surfing world champ Kelly Slater. From the lineup, you might see a rocket shoot into orbit from the in neighboring Cape Canaveral. Keep going north and hit New Smyrna Beach, home to the , where jetties on the south end produce many sandbars that break on a wide swell window.

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