We leave the bed and breakfast in Meredith and push out into
traffic. It is chilly. We have about a 50 mile ride to the little
town of Cornish, Maine. The next day, we
will only have about 30 miles to get into Portland. We both have pretty strong homing fever. Like horses who have been on an all-day ride,
but who begin to trot and can’t be deterred once they get a sense of barn and
pasture, we are singled minded in our focus. We want to get to Portland as soon as we can.
Of course, that doesn’t stop us from missing our turn and
going the wrong way for a few miles first thing in the morning. Even though we were following Highway 25, we
were not seeing the lake shore as we should.
Instead we were climbing a small saddle…and making good time, at
that. It just doesn’t seem right, I tell
Wes. Let’s stop and check. We pull off into a public area, check the
map, and…can- you-believe-it—not only have we gone the wrong way, I also have a
flat tire. Grrrrr.
It is already late because of the long conversation we had at
breakfast, so we try to control our anxiety as we change the tire and make our
way back to what should be a connector road back to EAST 25. (We had been going due north on WEST 25.) 25B is a short-cut, all right, in
distance. It is straight up a steep hill
we can’t ride. After a long and cranky
push, we make it to the top and see the streets of Center Harbor, straight
down. I am not completely confident in
our repair, so I brake like mad down the 13%
grade. Wes shoots straight down, and when I meet up
with him at the bottom, he has a bug-eyed, wild-hair grin. Near the junction with the main road, we see
a semi-truck loaded with hay just turning onto the road. He stops his truck and asks us if this the
road to Sunset Hill. Wes tells him it
is, but warns him that he may not be able to make it up that grade. He drives off to attempt it.
We don’t tarry at the lake, even though the town looks cute. We push through Moultonborough, even though
it is on another lake and has an intriguing sign for the Cloud in the Sky
house. Nope, we’ve got homing
fever. No left, no right, just go. The road outside of Moultonborough begins the
circumnavigation of the Ossipees. We
climb up and can see its western flank with big canyons and fast moving
streams.  |
| Ossipee Mountains |
As we circle around these unusual mountains, the view to our
right doesn’t change. Unlike normal
linear mountains, which have a beginning, middle and end, riding the perimeter
of the volcano means that mountain seems to rotate with us. However, once we are on the north side of the
circle dyke, the views to our left begin to be awe-inspiring. The White Mountains are just a few miles away
and they are impressive. At one point,
we look north and see a jagged peak far above the surrounding peaks. A single horn of granite, the stubborn
remnant after glaciers had scraped away all else, stands 1000 feet above the
rocky ridges below. We wonder, is that
Mount Washington? It certainly was the
tallest mountain we had seen since the Rockies.
West Ossipee is at 1pm on the clock of the circle. It is the last junction before Conway, in the
heart of the White Mountains. It is also
the first place we see a road sign announcing the distance to Portland, Maine:
62 miles. There is a busy barbeque joint
right at the junction. There are lots of
folks wrapping up their Columbus Holiday weekend. We eat in the tent outside the main dining area.
It was better people watching than eating. Around our table we see the following sets of
people. There is a handsome young
couple, both quite athletic with the tans and muscles that come from lots of
vigorous outside activities, with five children. The oldest, a teenage boy of about 15 looks
exactly like his father, who looks no more than 32 years old. The mother has long, dark hair and a kind of
casual elegance that makes me jealous.
Their youngest child is probably 5 years old. They order tons of food
and eat only part of it. They all seem
very confident and relaxed.
Next to them is an intergenerational family of far fewer
means. The grandmother is on
oxygen. Her two daughters are overweight
and wearing tight knit pants. They all have
their hair pulled tight into high ponytails.
All three women spend a good deal of time correcting and engaging with a
young tween who can’t sit still and may not be able to read. There are numerous questions, in quite loud
voices, “Do you want the chicken? How
about the pulled pork? Please sit down! Did you want to try chicken, or not? Answer me!”
Across from us is a middle aged man of Asian descent, who
has led his tiny, tottering, nearly blind mother up the ramp and to a high
table, where he has very difficult time getting her into the stool. There he explains, over and over, what this
place is. It’s not clear she
understands. When the food comes, he
puts a bib around her then gently helps her take bites from her sloppy,
slippery sandwich.
At the far end of the tent is another extended family. I can’t see them very well, but I have a
great view of the patriarch, with his sailor’s cap, beige windbreaker, tan
chinos, and deck shoes. He looks like he
should be returning from a weekend on the boat instead of the New Hampshire
mountains. He spends the whole meal on
his cell phone, only breaking his conversation once, with a loud, “Oh, all
right!” while he pulls some bills from
his pocket to give to two gesticulating teenage boys, who then run into the
interior of the restaurant.
When I come out of the restaurant, I see Wes in deep
conversation with an odd-looking fellow.
I had seen him riding down the hill to the junction on a beater bike
with a wobbly front wheel. He looked to
be in his forties. His clothes—work boots,
ragged jeans, polo shirt under a flannel shirt—were ragged and dirty. His long blondish hair was stuffed under a
mangled fisherman’s brim hat. Still, his
eyes were clear, his face was clean and smiling. He was gesturing animatedly and pointing to
his bike. I soon learn he is telling Wes
of his plans to convert his bike to a recumbent so he could take a tour like
ours. He is very fascinated by the
trailers and asks Wes all sorts of questions.
The conversation starts to repeat itself and it is not clear whether this
fellow actually has the wherewithal to do what he says, so we gently take our
leave. As we are riding away, a young
interracial couple in full black leather come riding up on motorcycles. We hear the cyclist tell them, “See them
trailers…I’m getting me one like that and headin’ out!”
A few miles down the road, through a strip of tourist
oriented businesses, we have traveled 180 degrees around the Ossipees. The main route continues circling, but our
route turns to the east, over a small pass, heading to Maine. The country is changing from upland
hardwoods to boggy lowlands with ferns and pines. The houses are becoming few and far between.
We stop to take pictures in front of the beat-up “Welcome to
Maine” signs. We have about 45 miles to
go to Portland, and still about 10 miles to go today. We are feeling pretty excited. It’s hard to believe our traverse of the Northern
Tier is nearly complete.There are moments of great beauty in this landscape, however, especially alongside the Saco River. Our minds, however, are focused on getting to Portland. Even as we go through the little town of Cornish, with its rustic shops, outdoor cafes, and groups of weekenders pottering about, we don’t stop. Our lodging is well outside of town, in a new-but-meant-to-look old complex. It has a bar, restaurant, and butcher shop in the downstairs retail area, and is advertising for more renters. It’s blinking external sign, at odds with its attempted colonial tavern design, says the motel is open, but the restaurant is only open on the weekends.
Our hostess is a young, beautiful Asian whom we can barely
understand. When she finds out that we
are headed to Portland, she tells us we need to go to Kennebunkport and see
President Bush—the first one—he is always there. Make sure we don’t miss seeing the bridge
over the bay, she says. She is giving
us more enthusiastic travel advice when we finally interrupt her and tell we
are tired and need to get to our room.
She then apologizes several times.
We are to put our bikes in a covered awning behind the bar. Our room is upstairs. They will be serving until 8pm tonight and
no, they do not have a breakfast in the morning.
Ok. Putting the bikes
under the awning proved quite difficult because of the chained picnic table
also occupying the space. Both Wes and I end up with big bruises. Upstairs, it is clear we are the only tenants
in the motel. The room is new and
nice-ish. Like the rest of the building, it is built to look nice, but made
with the cheapest materials and the shoddiest construction--the simulacrum of
civility.The restaurant/bar has a number of patrons. Most are eating lobster, which is the special of the day. It strikes with a blow that these are probably fresh caught lobsters. Our minds and stomachs are still in the mountains, however, so we have stir-fry and sandwiches instead. This was probably a mistake.
We try to go to bed early, but like kids waiting for Christmas day, we have a hard time sleeping and wake up every few hours to see if it is time to get up. We are up before dawn and out the door just as the sun is beginning to peak over the hillside. We are passing through numerous ups and down, with small farms and little cabins. It is not quite as disheveled as the area near the border, but this is no high rent district, either.
The road turns south near the tourist area around Lake Sebago. We are sure that this is a beauty spot, but
nothing is going to deter us from getting to Portland as soon as possible. We have gone about 15 miles; the sun is well up. We need to get some breakfast.
We find a tiny, “Mom’s diner” looking café, complete with gingham
curtains, and pull into the parking lot.
Just as we are about to go into the door, a young man standing next to
an old 3 speed bicycle, smoking a cigarette, accosts us. Without warning, he launches into a big story
about taking bicycle maintenance classes at his alternative high school. Before long, we have learned that he was put
out of his previous school, that he loved the teacher who taught him bike
mechanics, that he thought it was a great thing for people like himself, who
need to learn a skill, but that the whole program was shut down because of
budget cuts. He’s looking for a job
now. He hopes he can find something to
do with bikes. He really likes bikes,
what kind are ours? Have they worked good? Do we need anything done? This all goes by lickety-split, with barely a
breath between sentences. Stunned, we
tell him our bikes are working fine, and wish him luck finding work with
bikes. Later, he comes into the
restaurant, and unleashes another torrent at a fellow sitting at the
counter. The waitress and the cook
exchange knowing glances. The waitress
then helps the young man find the door and tells him can come back later.
As we are eating, two 30 year old men enter the café. They ask the whole diner, “Whose bikes are
those?” When they hear our answer, they
sit in the booth next to us, and ask us questions throughout our meal. While they are interested, they are also just
a bit disrespectful, with “Why on earth would anyone want to ride a bicycle
that far?” and “Don’t you have something
better to do?” questions. However, they wished us well as we left, and
told us we still had 25 more miles to go.
We are surprised by this. We have
been pedaling fast. Why aren’t these
miles going down faster! The young men
beep and wave at us as they drive past us a few miles later.
Bit by bit, the landscape begins to take on unmistakable
signs of suburbanization. The two-lane
road becomes a four lane and the traffic is becoming more noxious. We stop in the town of Gorham, which was
originally its own town, but has been swept up in the wave of
suburbanization. We are about 10 miles
from the sea. On some material I had
picked up, I see a description for a bike route that will take us all the way
to the coast. The ride on the highway is
not pleasant, so this seems like a good solution.
We find the trail right away and are following a river trail,
when all of a sudden, it goes into a small park and peters out. We wander about a bit but can’t find it
again. We wander out to a major junction
on the edge of a big industrial area. We
are trying to determine if one of these roads will get us to downtown and to
the ocean, when we see a bicycle tourist riding up truck-clogged street towards
us. We flag him over.
When he comes over, we are surprised to see he is a tiny,
beautiful youth. His hair is light
brown ringlets curling around his bike helmet.
He has enormous blue eyes ringed with long lashes. He is just an inch or two taller than me and
looks to be about 17 or 18 years old, with soft pink cheeks. Except for his well-used mountain bike shorts
and dirty wind-breaker, he looks like an angel.
He is riding a mountain bike with an odd conglomeration of bags and a
huge sleeping bag. We find out that he
has cycled all the way from Portland, Oregon, and that he left the day after us,
July 4. He has never heard of Adventure
Cycling, but has been making his own way using Google maps. He has been camping
a bit, but mostly couch surfing or staying with various relatives and
acquaintances. More surprising, he was
now turning south, on his way to Florida.
He hoped to be there by December.
He had found Portland kind of inhospitable and was anxious to leave. He could offer us no suggestions for a route
downtown. We watched this little spirit boy
mount his bike, then ride off along the ridge, heading to southern parts
unknown.
We are lucky enough to find good ol’ Highway 25 again, and
follow it past suburban malls, across freeways, and through an increasingly
dense and packed environment. As we go
along, Wes is telling an outrageous story about how the mayor will be meeting
us to give us the keys to the city…for a rather large fee, of course. Oh, and that marching band playing the
victory march at your arrival, that’s an additional $6000. If you could just leave the fee with the
bursar, I have another pressing obligation…
At one point, we are faced with a Y junction, east or
west? We would have preferred south, but
that was not an option. The east route
runs us past institutional buildings and ends at Portland’s Back Bay. Clearly, we had reached some portion of the
ocean, the smell alone would have told us that. However, the tide was out and gulls,
sandpipers, and curlews were hunting in the sodden mud.
The main portion of downtown was to our right. We cross another freeway and have to go up
to go downtown and down to the sea. Our
path takes us by a Salvation Army service center. There are scores of homeless people hanging
around, all ages, all genders, all colors.
There are those in hot conversation with others. Some look like they are embarrassed to be
seen in this crowd, some are there in body, their minds elsewhere. No one says a words as we pant up the hill,
in hot pursuit of a little piece of open ocean.
We find our way to Commercial Street. Before us are a series of busy piers. Some are serving the tourist trade (Whale watching,
scenic tours); others, for commercial fisherman. A few look like private mooring for pleasure
craft. Beyond these piers, we can see a
glimpse of water. We want to get
there. 
The first one we traverse stops us with a locked gate. The next one leads to a waterside condominium
with private boat slips. Although there
are numerous signs saying, NO TRESPASSING, we will not deterred at this
point. We come to the edge. There will be no ceremonial dipping our front
wheel in the waters of the Atlantic Ocean.
It is 8 feet below the edge. It
is not open ocean, either. We can see standing
oil tanks across the bay. None of it
matters. We have made it. Even when two men exit the condominium and
give the fish eye to the two rasty-looking bicyclists on their dock, we will
not be deterred from taking pictures and sending a celebratory text. 
We made it! It is
hard to believe that we have reached the end of our bicycle journey. Our travels are not done, far from it. We will visit with my brother and his wife in
“downeast Maine.” We still have to get
back to our cabin, then back to Detroit, before this journey is truly
complete. But for today, for right now,
we can celebrate. We can relax. We can begin to begin to understand all the
changes this journey has wrought. But
first, we’ll pause, and relent, and have at least one day where there’s no goal
to be met, no task to be done. Aaaaah.
----------------------------
Posted from Centennial, Wyoming
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