1999 September

Portsmouth is a nice town – attractive and stylish (including the women). I have a delicious mocha and a guy comes up with a Rhodesian Ridgeback. At 8 months old, many of his features already mirrored Dinger’s. Maybe Dinger was a Ridgeback!

I get doused, and lost at the same time in a maze of residential roads with names like Candy Lane, caramel Rd, Lollipop Way. I find my way, very wet, and occupty myself with Shakespearean fantasies. As if in honor of the bard, the sun comes out as I reach Derry.

I try to get online to no avail. Locals only here.

Roads are busy into Massachusetts. Tired of the traffic by Danstable, a couple of guys tell me where to find a field to camp in. I reach it after sundown.

I have a nice breakfast of eggs, bacon, cinnamon-raisin toast that Lorraine makes. We take pictures and they watch me ride off. I’m getting very familiar with the feeling of parting new friends, but not used to it.

I stop almost immediately for a moment alone, espresso, and yummy pastries.

I forgot – before leaving Ernie and Lorraine took me on a sightseeing drive: Cape Neddick light house, the first public building in Maine (a jail), the wiggly bridge, and every church in town. Ernie has played organ for all but one. Near the wiggly bridge, I see a backpacker on the road. Leaves are starting to turn – everything is beautiful.

Later, a few miles out of York Harbor, I pass the backpacker and slow down to talk. He’s Richard Nathan, retracing the voyage of 3 marooned sailors who walked from Mexico to Nova Scotia in 1568 to be rescued by French fishermen. He’s doing it in reverse, studying relevant history along the way.

We’re still talking when we pull into Kittery Point, so we share lunch. He buys the sandwich fixins, I buy the ice cream. Then he’s eager to get going, so we part and I remain to savor my dish of Kaluha-brownie. By and by a small, sparkly-eyed old man wanders up and starts talking to me. I like him instantly. He offers to take me kayaking, and I jump at the chance. I meet Marie, his equally vital companion. I’ll be her kayak. She reminds Charlie not to take me too far out. Off we go. Charlie Close at 74 is full of child-like energy and curiousity. He tells me about all sorts of people he’s met and helped. He advocates talking to people and staying active and healthy. He smiles and glows.

We go way out by a lighthouse before turning around. It’s a blast, waves now pushing us along. The upper-body exercise feels good. I fantasize about touring in one of these.

Back on shore, Marie invites me to stay. I accept, hoping maybe my fellow loopers will catch up to me. They feed me hamburgers, take me on a walk, talk about all sorts of things. I sign their guest book - the latest of many grateful visitors. This time I crash on the couch, because it looks like rain. I watch some TV even, and fight the urge to sneak out for a smoke.

A little tense riding back up 24 and 123 to Brunswick, but the rest of the day the roads treat me well. I know I’ll have to push to make York Beach, I decide to eat a good breakfast and then push hard. In plush Freeport I try a chain called Friendly’s, which turns out to have great, cheap food. For $8 I get coffee, 4 eggs, 4 french toasts, 4 links, and a mountain of homefries.

Then I get serious, riding sunny, pretty roads, taking just short brakes, riding hard. One break I meet a 72-year old man who is at the tail end of a 100-mile day at noon. The secret? He starts at 2 am, and does this 3 days a week year round.

I have a powerbar at crystal clear Sebago Lake. More beauty. Ice cream bar tastes fantastic. A few miles later I come upon attractive Dorothy Hall, nicely dressed, wrestling with a broken tailpipe. I tie it down for her, meet her two kids. She’s a gifted and talented teacher, and asks if I could possibly speak to one of her classes. We get out her map and she shows me where they are – the opposite direction from mine. It just looks too far, and I feel committed to getting to York Beach, so I say no and we part ways.

The rest of the ride is tough – daylight short, and Kennebunk, Wells, and Olgerneout offer a million things to eat and see. I pass them all, reach York Beach, look up Ernest Fiske and call him in the middle of dinner. Not wanting to further interrupt, I have a mediocre pizza and then make my way to their house. Friendly folks greet me on their large, shorefront porch. Ernie shows me his full pipe organ he’s building in the garage, Lorraine welcomes me. To their surprise I choose to sleep in my tent in the lawn. It’s dark when I go for a late walk and climb in my familiar tent.

Busy day. Up early, I split the campground. Rode to Waldsboro, by which time I was very hungry. Moody’s Diner took care of me with a good, cheap breakfast. My plan for the day: make my report from a library in Bath or Brunswick, then find a lighthouse on one of the peninsulas extending south, following Rowland’s recommendation.

In Damariscotta I take a short break, listen to two old men discuss their favorite guns, and the animals they shoot with them. “Don’t tell me you hit that rat with a foahtee-five, foahtee-five’s a close-action weapon.” “I told ya befoah, I used the thuhtee-eight!” They went on and on.

A local stopped and expressed his condolences that I’d had to ride through the mid-west. “I did my time there in college.That ride musta been flat and boahring as hell.” Lots of German tourists around too, all curious about the bike.

A nice small road out of Wiscasset, on which I meet a couple from LA, Clint and Allison, touring from Portland to Bar Harbor. They’re friendly, especially Allison, whose straight brown hair and thick-rimmed glasses are accompanied by a body to die for. I can’t stop staring, it’s involuntary. It makes Clint uncomfortable, but not her. He just starts riding after a polite amount of conversation. Thanks Clint!

I forget the days are no longer endless. In Bath I stop for a sandwich, then hit the library to make my report. Now I realize I need to rush, and my hand is forced by the line at the computer. I head down 24 to search for lighthouses, but it gets dark before I’m even halfway there. As luck would have it, there’s a secluded rest area there, where I abort my search, eat dinner, and camp.

Didn’t see Mr. Ranger on my way off the island. Had a good breakfast at a place with a pretty, smiling waitress. I skip the side trips on the way up and take the direct route. Road is good, I find a nice little bakery for lunch.

My mind is on Jeanette for some reason, so I try to give her a call. I get Dan – she’s still asleep. I move on, the road gets bad at Lincolnville Beach, where I reach Jeanette. She completely de-emphasizes the fact that she got married, preferring to talk about nodders (bobbing head toys) and other Jeanettesque topics. She asks me for a highlight, as always I have no answer. I feel much better having talked with her.

Oh – earlier in the day I meet two other loopers! Dave and a woman whose name mind has cruelly forgotten (Marcella). They started in Florida 8 months ago, same direction as me, now on their to Bar Harbor. They have me outclassed I’m afraid with colorful flags, laminated full-tour map, and video camera. On a waiter’s pay, they claim! Like me they love it, and will start saving to do it again when they get home.

I pass Camden Hills State Park around 5, and can’t resist the opportunity to have a picturesque dinner. I find a gorgeous table on the ocean and chat with people who convince me to give the campground a try. It’s nice – I set up and feeling good I reide into town for a beer. Alas, the store I choose has my favorite tobacco, Drum. It’s more temptation than my feeble will can withstand. I return to camp for a shower, Guinness stout, and fine smoke. It feels very, very good.

I spend the day discovering Acadia National Park. But first a look around Bar Harbor and a BIG buffet breakfast. Alas, it begins to rain. Must be my proximity to 1530-ft. Cadillac Mountain. I set off into the rather cold drops, then retreat to the visitor center to watch the film. Rather good as those films go. My determination to bike up Cadillac is renewed. There are “carriage roads” all over the island – carless, scenic ways made and given by John Rockefeller. My plan is to take one to Eagle Lake, stash my panniers, then continue to the Park Loop Rd. and on up the mountain. It seems to work perfectly. 35 lbs lighter, I fly up the climbs. There are occasional views, but I hold out for the top. Which turns to be ensconced in thick fog. Not worried, I get some postcards and coffee at the gift shop there and write and ruminate until it clears. And it does – briefly – long enough for me to be awed by the complete visual feast of ocean, sister mountains, lighthouse islands, Bar Harbor, mainland, all bejeweled by elusive sunbeams.

It has to be my most entertaining downhill yet. Deep turns twist, keeping my going fast enough to lean and lean until it feels like brushing shoulders with the asphalt. Then whip, up straight, lean left, bounce right, till I’m laughing loudly. I fly all the way to Bar Harbor to celibrate. The rain begins again, so I duck into a pizza joint and order a calzone. A smiling hippe lady comes in and asks if I know Jack somebody, doesn’t care that I don’t and starts asking questions. What are the most beautiful places I’ve been, places I might like to live. Montana? She guesses before I can say it.

We talk for a long time about places to live. I suspect she’s flirting with me, she seems reluctant to part. I say I have to make some phone calls and she points out a phone for me, gives me her address, tells me to ride the park loop road, and departs.

I try some calls, but no one is home. When I consider starting the ~20 mile loop ride, I realize I haven’t eaten enough. Back to the pizza shop for a slice and a cookie. Meredith rides by and sees me back in the shop and suddenly I feel like I ditched her. Maybe I did.

Running out of daylight, I take off to ride the loop. The old guy at the fee station asks where I’m headed. “There’s a few different answers to that question,” I tell him. He then tells me where he’s seen me before – on 233 at dusk last night, then on 233 again this morning, then on the mountain without my bags. He must know I’m camping illegally in the park. Luckily cars are piling up behind me, so he has to let me go. I hardly care – he knows he’ll never find me. I’ll wave if I see him on 233 again in the morning.

My first glimpse of the Atlantic comes at Rockport. A peek through the trees, a small bay, never a vast expanse. Maine makes the world feel small, everything you see is nearby, as if you’re always in the woods on top of a hill. When you do get an occasional distance view, it doesn’t look real.

Camden Hills are pretty, with big bare granite rock faces protruding from the woods, but I must endure another bad road to see them.

I happily take my map’s roundabout course, making today a day of riding. One road winds through strange, barren meadows strewn with boulders, another through lush oceanfront property.

In Ellsworth I listen to a moron try to pick up a pretty girl – they wind up yelling at each other. “Bitch!” “Bite me!” All in these great accents. He revealed that he was going to the bar, so the shopkeeper calls the bar to warn them. Soon he comes back, then heads the other way.

I reach the island, my final Northeastern destination, and am surprised by the traffic. It takes me a while to find my campsite, which I must do much earlier now due to shortening days. At 7 it’s fairly dark. I eat my last snack in the company of a few stars shining through the tree branches.

Hungry by the time I reach Norway for breakfast. Accents! My waitress speaks softly, but with a strong accent. I guess it’s a Maine accent, I’ll see. I eat a sandwich for lunch on the Androscoggin River. There are signs warning not to eat a particular fish. Hunters and fishermen run around. It’s a sunny, cool, blustery fall day.

The roads in Maine are terrible and people drive kind of crazy. I talk to a cyclist who’s been hit four times by “cahs”.

In Richmond I have ice cream and listen to a guy complain about pollution, socialized healthcare, gun control, and Clinton. I don’t talk politics with people, I just listen and inquire about their sources. I was disgusted by Clinton & Reno the other day though, presenting their argument against tobacco companies that sounds like fantasyland to me. The companies should pay for smoking related illnesses because they tricked people into smoking – I don’t buy it, not in my lifetime.

Then a nice ride over some hills to Newcastle and Damariscotta, where a Subway lured me in for dinner. Then I started scouting for a place to sleep. At the top of a hill near Waldsboro, I feel suddenly sick. I need to make a dash for the trees. There on the other side of the road a nicely concealed track disappears into trees – paydirt. I dash in , take care of business, and feel better. It’s the perfect place to sleep, so I move up the track a ways and settle in with my book.

Rained all night. When I wake it has let up, but clouds still loom low. I discover I have lost some food to a chiseler, and I angrily throw rocks at him when he returns for more while I make breakfast.

I find a trail that goes up Mt. Hancock, stash the bike, and head off in a light rain. It’s a nice hike, my mind is whizzing, but somewhere around Hancock Notch I grow weary of the swampy trail and dearth of views. I eat bagels and hummus for lunch, then hike back. Walking back is just as pleasant – I get an almost physical feeling that I belong here doing I’m doing.

Back on the bike I finish off the pass in heavier rain. Sailing down the back I pass lee and Vic, and execute a 200-yard wet stop.

They’re in good shape, putting on rain gear, so I follow suit. I wish Lee a happy 68th birthday, and we agree to meet in Conway. I start down the long, well-graded downhill.

The pizza shop in Conway is right across from the High School. The prices are cheap and kids hang around laughing, smoking, and looking cool. I read until Lee and Vic show up for our last meal together. They’re still teasing me about Kirah in Astoria. Reminding me that I may never stumble across another one like her.

I move on a ways, stop and read by the Saco River, then ride till its time to camp. No trouble finding a spot here, it’s all woods. It takes me a while to stop imagining chiselers in my food and go to sleep.

I’m ready to go early, so Lee, Vic, and I say our goodbyes and I take off. It has rained all night and is now mist and rain. Since New York the towns have started having many parts. I go through Haverhill, Haverhill Corner, and North Haverhill, but miss East Haverhill. Black Mountain is fairly wild and pretty, so I stop for a snack in the rain. I sit on a big wet boulder, listening to sounds in the woods.

I’m hoping the weather will improve so I can climb Mount Mooselake on the Appalachian Trail. I take my time on the climb, but no luck, it’s grey and rainy at the pass.

Instead I investigate Lost River Caves. This is a deep granite gorge which has partially filled with glacial debris, creating small caves and underground flows. The rock is beautifully sculpted, in many places by long-abated whirlpools that once reached sixty feet deep. My favorite cave, the Lemon Squeezer, requires me to crawl through a space so small I must completely exhale to make it into the main crawlway, where the only light comes from a dull orange candle. Below the river thunders. I’ve never experienced anything like it.

I have a snack and walk back into the rain, feeling oddly powerful and self-sufficient. When I get on the bike and head down the hill, I realize the hill is steep. Next, I realize the brakes have no effect due to the water. Both hands squeezing for all they’re worth, I continue to accelerate. My heart races and my knees start to shake. Mentally, I assess the situation. Smooth road – good. Blinding rain – bad, but not fatal. Scenery continues to whiz by, and, realizing I can maintain this state, I relax. Eventually the grade lets up and I regain control. I cruise into Lincoln, the base of my final climb into the mountains. It will be my last chance to top a peak, so I decide to stall for better weather. I eat, shop, make calls, read, and see a movie. When I get out, it’s dark and rainy. I feel burly riding the four miles up the road to the nearest campground in the dark, rainy night. My headlight isn’t working again, so I use the headlamp instead. Perhaps it’s the joy of being strong enough to do what I want, things that many people wouldn’t even consider.