T+155: The Final Push

Mile 4162: Portland, Maine

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.

Almost immediately, we see that this part of Maine is in a very different economic state than anything we had seen in New Hampshire and Vermont.  Instead of big, well-maintained “add-on houses,” we now see bedraggled cabins or rusty, raggedy mobile homes surrounded by old pick-up trucks.  There are signs, some hand scrawled, offering firewood cutting, small engine repair, or “Maine-made” crafts.   Instead carefully tended gravel or paved driveways, there are muddy two-tracks leading to yards with falling down fences.  There are also chickens on the road with great regularity.

 
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.

 

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Posted from Centennial, Wyoming

 

T+129: Navigating on the Erie Canal, Pt. 2.

Centennial, Wyoming:  We can tell we are truly back in Wyoming.  We have seen an elk herd of 200, a gathering of 75 pronghorn antelope, 50 or so wild horses on the hillside, and a group of five mule deer eating trees at the edge of our property….yesterday.  This is more wildlife in one day than we saw on the entire bike trip.   There is another sign that the bike trip is over and daily life is returning.   We now have both phone service and internet at the cabin.  We have spent the morning, going through mail, paying bills, and updating all our accounts and correspondence.   Being on the bike was quite other-worldly.   There is such peace in simply being in the moment, taking in what the world was giving us.  Most of the time we loved it, but getting through New York state was proving troubling, for reasons both sublime and ridiculous.

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The only accommodation available in Brockport is up the hill, out of the Mohawk Valley, into the plastic land and at a perfectly average motel.  This is also where we discover that the word “town” has a different meaning in New England.  In the rest of the United States, most towns are the product of rail lines and grew with the development of cars.  The towns are set up in a grid and grow along straight lines moving out from the center.  In New England, a sign will announce “Entering X town.” There may not be any cohesive group of homes or businesses for another 5 miles.  That grouping will be announced by signs announcing “X center” or “X village.” A town in this context is roughly equivalent to a township in Michigan or Wisconsin: a civic jurisdiction.  We don’t know that when we see that the Dollinger Inn is in Brockport Town.  We ride and ride away from the village near the canal.  We arrive at the plastic land and I am so disappointed.  Until that point, I thought this part of New York had evaded the plastic-land scourge.  Not so.  It’s just up by the main highway.

The next morning, we return to the canal area and ensconce at a coffee shop, where I work on the blog and Wes reads the newspaper.  As we are leaving, we greet a group of five cyclists seated outside, enjoying their morning coffee in the bright fall sun.  They are all about our age, dressed in full cycle regalia, with nice bikes and panniers. They are from Pittsburgh, and here to cycle 200 miles on the Erie Canal.  A woman with her knee taped is quite proud about this distance.  Another woman in the group asks about our travels and is surprised to hear that we have gone more than 3000 miles. She is very interested in our travels, but one fellow wearing bib cycle shorts and no shirt, is openly contemptuous and talks over our answers to the woman’s questions.  Although he doesn’t say this, we see him staring at our floppy shirts and pants and BOB trailers.  “Don’t we know we are supposed to give the impression of speed and aerodynamic styling?” his sneer seemed to say.

We all go to get on the tow path at the same time.  Wes and I are just competitive enough to speed off and leave the group in our wake.  Some miles down the path, we have stopped to read another information sign.  The no-shirt guy and the knee brace woman come cycling up, the other members of the group nowhere in sight.  We acknowledge their presence, but cycle off without saying a word.  We never see them again.

We are entering the environs of Rochester, which is a very big city.  The main path of the Erie Canal passes south of the city, with numerous connecting canals.  The route is bit tricky because it is passing in and out of city parks and sometimes moving away from the water.  At one point the path takes us over a bridge.  There is a path leading from the bridge and we assume it is our path.  Before we know it, we find we are on the campus of IBM Research and Development, just as the lunch break is beginning.  This is a nice campus and all sorts of corporate types, wearing their blue IBM shirts, are out walking the paths that circle the man-made lake, and in an out of various buildings.   We are obviously out of place as we pass men with brief cases and women in heels.  We wander about a bit, trying to find a way back to the canal, laughing at spectacle we are creating.  We finally go back to where we went wrong.  There we discover that the tow path has crossed to the south side of the canal for the first time since we started following it.

It is odd to ride the canal in the midst of a city.  It is loud and we cross under a variety of freeways.  It passes through a number of neighborhoods and suburbs.  It is clear that Rochester has been hit hard in the Great Recession.  We see lots of closed businesses and empty houses.  Some miles after our foray onto the IBM campus, we are quite hungry and need to find someplace to eat.  Just as we are about to cross a busy highway, an older man with a bright yellow jersey, stops his bike to talk to us.  He is slight and quite slender, probably in his late 60’s.  He has a mirror and lights and flashers on his bike; he announces that he is a Canal Path Ambassador.  Did we have any questions or concerns about our ride on the Canal?   Yes.  Where can we get something to eat?  “Well, it depends on whether you want to eat now or ride 10 more miles.”  We’re hungry now.  “Well, there’s a restaurant just down this street.  A lot of people eat there.  I never have.  But a lot of people do.  But ten miles down is Fairport.  They have a lot of nice restaurants there.  One difference is that Fairport, the average per capita income is $40,000.  Around here it is $15,000 per capita.”  We say we are hungry now, bemused by his economic assessment.  “Well,” he says, “you should be able to get a burger or something.”  As we cycle off, he calls to us.  “Make sure you stop to see the city skyline on the ridge after you eat lunch. It is quite impressive!”

By the time we get to café, it is mid-afternoon and we are the only customers.  The cook is sitting in a booth picking at some soup; the single waitress is sitting next to her, eating from a sack lunch.   Shortly after we are seated, a big pony-tailed fellow of at least 300 pounds rides up on a motorcycle.   He announces himself as he comes through the door and is greeted by name by both the waitress and the cook.  He seats himself at a small table across the room and proceeds to flirt with the waitress.  This is an established routine with them.   He calls her sugar and offers to help with her young daughter.  She cheerfully dismisses everything he says even as he keeps trying.   It looks like he will keep trying until he finally gets a yes…to home repairs, babysitting, car repairs….something that will establish a deeper relationship with her.

The lunch is notable for two reasons, both of them ridiculous.  On the petty side, this lunch was the final straw for me.  While Wes had the good sense to order the tuna plate and get some decent handmade salads, pickles, and tuna, I ordered the special, a chicken cordon blue sandwich.  I received a hunk of slimy corporate chicken and a cold piece of canned ham, covered with bottled blue cheese dressing on a squishy white bread bun…accompanied with pre-fab potato-food fries.  Revolting…and the end of chicken sandwiches and fried food for me…I hope forever.

The second reason had to do with the government shutdown.  It was October 1, and the shutdown was the lead story on radio and newspaper.  A slender, middle-aged man wearing a delivery service uniform enters the diner, and as soon as he is seated, asks the whole room. “Didya see about the government shutdown?”   The waitress, who was getting him a glass a water, “Yeah, I saw, but I don’t understand what it it.

Did Obama shut down the government?” Delivery guy, “Naah, It’s not him….well, it’s not just him…it’s the whole bunch of ‘em.  Democrats and Republicans both just trying to feather their own nests.”  Waitress: “I don’t even understand what they are talking about.”  Flirting guy.  “I say to hell with all of ‘em.  Any time someone starts talking politics, even on the TV, I just walk out the room.”  Delivery guy, “Ain’t that the truth.  They’re all a bunch of corrupt liars….and you know who I blame it all on?  Richard Nixon!  He’s the one who ruined it for everyone.”

Wes and I don’t add our two cents, but on the way out, while paying our bill, I say to the waitress. “The Congress is supposed to have a budget by today, but the Tea Party Republicans won’t agree to a budget unless Obamacare is de-funded.”  She looks at me blankly, “Oh.”  I might as well have been speaking Navajo.

On the way out of the diner, we ride up the overpass to see the view touted by the ambassador.  To one side, we see a derelict truck repair yard; right below us, a string of eight or so sets of railroad tracks.  Off in the distance, we can just make out a tiny view of the Rochester skyline. 

We make our way to Pittsford, which is clearly a higher rent district.  It is warm and sunny; the leaves are turning.  There are a number of people sitting on benches.  Many are eating ice cream handmade in a nearby shop.   We get some coffee from the shop and are surprised to see that it is also selling a wide variety of African masks, drums, and handicrafts.  The owner had been a Peace Corps volunteer in the 1980’s.  He returns regularly and brings back various goods.   Outside, we sit next to two ladies who are trying to remember the Erie Canal song. One sings… “Low bridge, everyone down/ Low bridge ‘cause you’re coming to a town/You always know… your friend when you make you way on the Erie….that’s not right.”  The other sings, “You always know your neighbor, you always know…”  We sing, “your pal.” We all sing, “when you’re ever navigating on the Erie Canal.”  We all laugh and tell how we learned that song.  One says, “I remember the verse was something about 15 years on the Erie Canal.  Shouldn’t it be 15 MILES on the Erie Canal?”  We don’t know, but later, I do a google search and find out the song originally was written about a “Mule by the name of Sal” who was pulling barges “15 years on the Erie Canal.”

We are trying to make miles so we pedal off from the warm sun and the singing ladies.  Fairport is just 10 miles away and supposed to have a variety of accommodations.  Not too far out of town, we see three sculls go by.  One is a two person boat, but the other two are eight person crews…of middle-school and high school girls.  They slide down the canal at an impressive speed.  Shortly, thereafter we see a group of kayakers, a bunch of teenage boys out fishing, numerous hikers and joggers.   Not long after that, two more sculls glide by, powered by teenage boys, their coaches following in small motor boat, shouting instructions through a megaphone.

I try all the accommodations in town.  No luck.  All full.  I look further afield and end up talking to an innkeeper, who has no room, but gives me a number for private bed and breakfast.  She says, “They are really nice people, but I can’t vouch for their accommodations.”  I call and leave a message.  We wander around town, leave another message.  It is starting to get dark.  We wish we had our camping gear.  I remember that the house was very near the canal. Maybe we can find it.  It takes us a while, but we do find it.  We are really getting worried now.  There is a handwritten note on the door saying they are away and which gives a different number.  We call it and thank goodness, someone answers, and asks us, “Are you riding bikes pulling trailers?”  They had seen us wandering about the town.   Kathy and Phil do have a room and we are grateful, even though Wes has an attack of claustrophobia because the room is so full of trinkets and tchotchkes, he is afraid to move.

This very long day ended on a high note, however.  Our hosts recommend a place to eat on the canal.  In the warm October night, we eat on the balcony, looking at the winking lights on the docked pleasure boats below.  We watch a young couple come in to eat dinner with the female’s parents.  We guess it is their first meeting.  The young man is wearing a badly tied tie with a short sleeve shirt.  He is sits rigidly in front of the father, who has his arms crossed and is learning back.  At first, the daughter is chattering away, but only the mom responds.  By the end of the dinner, however, conversation is flowing, and the daughter reaches over and gently, lovingly, touches the young man's shoulder, who visibly relaxes. 

We have a great meal, with truly delicious pumpkin soup.  As we are getting ready to leave, we hear the pipping bark of the coxswain.  In the pitch dark, moving much more slowly down the canal, come the two sculls of young men. 

The next day, we will leave the towpath of the Erie Canal to explore New York’s Lake Ontario shores. 100 miles of straight flat bicycling is enough, but we have learned a lot and loved a lot on this peculiar path.

 

Posted from Centennial, Wyoming

 

T+125: Fellow Travelers, Pt. 2

Des Moines, Iowa: On June 23, Wes and I stayed at this same Candlewood Suites, en route to Wyoming, where we would pick up Wes’ bike and make our way to Portland, Oregon.  It is now October 25, and we are making our way back to Wyoming, to drop off the bike and finish writing the story of our travels from Portland to Portland.  In many ways, the trip began on that night in June, when we watched the movie, The Journey, with Martin Sheen.  That movie resonated throughout our trip….the times of just going, the moments of grief or of jubilation, the tender and touching connections with people who walked…or in this case, cycled…into our lives, and left such a big impression.

 

We had just got on the Erie/Niagara Trail and were making our way along the eastern coast.  Our goal was Niagara Falls, but it was far and we were tired.  We couldn’t find one nice thing to say to each other.  All the petty grievances of constant companionship were at the front of our minds and quick off our lips that day.  Why can’t Wes eat one meal without spilling food on himself?  Why does Shaun always dawdle and delay and mess around when we need to be going? 

About five miles in, a youngish man, full beard, chestnut colored hair, riding a bike with full panniers, rides up alongside us.  One of his panniers is a rectangular plastic box. Normally, one buys kitty litter or soap in these containers.  Here it was bolted to his bike rack.   Seeing that he was a fellow traveler, I launched into the regular litany of questions.  Where are you coming from?  Portland, where he lives.  Where are you going to?  Rhode Island, to meet his girlfriend, although his original destination was Portland, Maine.   He and a group of 4 other bicyclists set out the third week of July and have been pretty much following the Northern Tier.  However, the group has been splitting apart.   Two split off in Montana, including the girlfriend he was rushing to meet in Rhode Island on October 8.  The other two he left in Minnesota.  He has been traveling alone for a while now.  After experiencing what Wes describes as “Existential Angst” (Why am I here?  What am I doing?)  during a particularly difficult crossing of Michigan, he has chat stored up and is anxious to talk.

And talk we do.  His name is Bruce.  He is originally from New York, but has been living in Portland for some years.  He is an emergency room nurse by trade, but a mountain climber/adventurer by avocation.  This is the first time he has taken a major bike trip.  He has been camping and eating rough most of the way.   A light day for him is 70 miles.  It is clear that he has slowed down to ride with us; Wes and I are pumping as fast as we can to keep up with this slender, strong man and his light, modern bike. 

We talk of our trips and compare notes.  Bruce is a mountain climber and backpacker.  He has been on many trips, but even he found the ride over the Cascades a challenge.  He was eaten alive by mosquitoes in Saco, MT.  They stayed on the freeway all the way across North Dakota, never venturing into the back ways and farm routes we explored.  He left his friends in Minnesota so that he could make time across the mid-section.  By the time he got to Wisconsin and was going to take the ferry at Manitowoc, it had broken down.  It was not at all clear who or how or what was going to be able to fix that 100 year old coal fired ship.  (I wonder what has happened to family associated with Two Guys taxi; ferry traffic was the mainstay of their business).  He took the hovercraft over the lake, landing at Muskegon.  He wandered through busy roads and surly people in our home state and was glad to be out of there.

He was bee-lining across Canada and anxious to get to Niagara.  Despite having been raised in New York City, and having travelled extensively throughout the state, he had never seen the falls.  After that, he was off to the Finger Lakes, Ithaca and Cornell, then lickety-split across the Catskills to Rhode Island.  He had a ride of about 700 miles to do in 8 days.   Of course, this makes Wes and I feel like a couple of pikers.

After we wore out the topic of our trips, we soon turned our attention to politics, the economy, our personal history…and more.  The conversation continued apace as we rode the fifty miles to Niagara Falls.  It continued as we explored the town and ate dinner together that night.  It didn’t stop until we said our good byes the next morning from the hostel in Niagara Falls.

Like us, Bruce was using the bike trip to sort out a life change.  He had been an emergency room nurse for some years and had been satisfied with it.  He had recently purchased a house in Portland, and now at the age of 40 (he looked barely 30), his life of work interspersed with adventure was no longer working for him. He had become frustrated and disaffected with the branch of medicine in which he was working.  When he was younger, he had liked the adrenalin rush and lack of relationship at the core of that type of nursing.  It wore on him now.

I told him that my sister was a nurse and that she has found a great deal of satisfaction, after years of bouncing around the profession, working as a hospice care nurse.  She really enjoys that it is patient and family-centered.  Bruce says he has thought about it and is going to think some more about it.  This conversation occurs as we are on the most eastern reach of Erie, as we are cruising past giant houses on the Niagara Recreation Trail, 40 miles into our common ride.

Bruce is a generation younger than us.  His view of his prospects and future within the American economy is sobering.  He has an enormous student debt that he believes he will never be able to pay off.   He feels good about the house he recently purchased, but allows that he is the only one of his friends to make that commitment.  He has no pension plan, no retirement savings, nor any expectation to ever receive Social Security.  He feels his best strategy is to make the most of each day, no promises given nor expected.  He doesn’t perceive a social contract beyond his circle of friends and family.

We are surprised by this.  He allows that it would be a good thing to feel as though one were getting and giving in a web of mutual support.  It’s just that he has never seen or felt such a thing.  He is not a member of a union, and doesn’t think he knows anyone who is. 

It would be tempting to say that Bruce is alienated, but he is not.  He is a free agent, and ok with that.  He benefits from white privilege and knows it.  We all know that we move more freely than any person of color.  A case in point: the night before Bruce camped (illegally) in the closed Peacock Point Provincial Park.  Local law enforcement saw him there and shined a light on him, then moved on without saying a word.  Would that have happened to someone who was not a white male on a nice bike?   It is not hard to think of scenario where the answer would be “No.”

He is an alert, educated, compassionate guy.  He lives simply and tries to pay attention to his choices.  Part of the reason he has the plastic box pannier is a commitment to living without waste.  What surprises us, over and over, is the lack of collective conscience or experience.  He was self-centered, but not at all narcissistic.  Being for himself and himself alone was not driven by ego; it was the way he was trained to be.  It was how society asked him to perform.

He was truly surprised when I told him about our life in Detroit and that I know at least 100 people by name in my immediate neighborhood.  Detroit is incredibly rich in social capital, I tell him.  The kind of art-making, storytelling, urban agriculture, mutual protection, and social activism that makes up our daily life in Detroit sounds appealing, but utterly foreign, to Bruce.  I do understand that social capital is required and present when financial capital is absent, (otherwise known as “making a way out of no way”). In addition, it is easy to disengage from the social contract when one has financial means.  What bothers me, truly saddens me, is understanding that there are a large number of young people who don’t see themselves connected to any larger whole. 

As we get closer to the falls, all three of us get more and more excited.  This is a momentous point in our trip.  Already we are seeing all sorts of signs of this area’s pre-American Revolution past.  When we cross the border tomorrow, we will enter one of the original colonies.  We are amazed at how little we know of War of 1812, which is remembered and celebrated all throughout this region.  I say to Wes, “Just think! When we cross the border, we will actually be in the Atlantic United States.”  (I will soon discover the folly of that statement.)  We stop to take pictures of the corner of Lake Erie with Buffalo, New York in the distance.

We bike along the edge of the Niagara River.  The river is big and powerful, with enormous rocks which generate ferocious rapids.  It is easy to see why this river created such a barrier.   When we get to the town of Niagara Falls, we find ourselves in a huge sea of humanity, even though this is mid-September. It is impossible to cycle in this throng, so we dismount and pick our way through the crush.  

The range of people here is astonishing.  There are women in gorgeous saris, groups speaking in the clicking tones of very South Africa, many, many Asians, some speaking Japanese, some Tagalog, maybe some Vietnamese, Korean, and Chinese as well.  There urban folks and country folks, the tight pant set right next to the baggy pants brigade.  There are busloads of seniors, mamas attempting to corral little ones while pushing strollers.   Young lovers kiss in front of the falls while someone takes their pictures.  There are folks in wheelchairs; people conversing in sign.  I saw one family pushing what looked like a gurney with a person tightly wrapped in a handmade quilt toward the guardrail.  A woman, whom I took to be the grandma, held the wrapped one’s hand and issued a running commentary on the sights and sounds.  Every complexion, every size, every age is represented: what a global mosaic.

Everyone takes turn pushing up to the guardrail to take a look at the awesome horseshoe falls.  There is a full 180 rainbow over the falls and a light mist falling over this human sea.  The city stretches behind us with high-rise hotels; helicopters circle endlessly and dip in and out of the water’s mist.   Boat with names like the Maiden of the Mist chug towards the cataract at the base of the falls.   On the edge, at least 300 feet above, we can hear the faint squeal of the crowd on the boat as they move into the fall’s spray.  The whole experience is giddy, surreal, slightly euphoric. 

I need to find the ladies room, so make my way through a cavernous hall, jam-packed with people.  It is tricky and takes quite a while.  While I am gone, a young man with a bike pulling an overloaded BOB trailer introduces himself to Wes.  He is Japanese, quite young, riding a single gear bicycle.  He has just begun his trip and is headed west, on the opposite path we have just traveled.  Wes and Bruce try to get this young man to join us at the hostel for the evening.  However, the wind has shifted and the light mist has become the equivalent of a heavy drizzle.   Just as I return, the young man bows deeply to Wes and Bruce and disappears into the crowd.

It is getting late; we need to get to the hostel and get our dinner. As we ride, we worry about this rider.  How will he ever make it over the Rockies and Cascades with a single gear?  And it is much too late in the year to be staying so far north.  He told Wes he was carrying 35 kilos on his bike…80 pounds and no gears as fall is coming on… with limited English.  Ay, ay, ay….

After we check into the run-down hostel with just a single staff on duty, a jocular, sandy-haired native of Ireland named Eric.  The hostel has all sorts of signs of events and tours it is offering on Fridays.  This Friday, there are none.  Wes and I have (over) paid for a private room; Bruce sleeps in the men’s dorms.  We walk down to Queen Street for dinner.  This area used to be the hipster/bistro/quaint shop district of this tourist town.  Now, most of the shops are closed and our steps echo as we walk.  We go into a brewpub, eat pretty average bar food, and listen to a group of Canadian physicists talk about US and Canadian politics.  Bruce is happy to be sleeping inside and eating at a restaurant.  Both have been rare events on his journey.   We take our leave.  Bruce wants to go listen to some incredibly loud rock music (we heard it three blocks away) and sample the local beer. 

Wes and I are very much aware of our age as we say good night. The 70 mile ride with Bruce has pushed us pretty hard; we’re beat.  Wes is complaining of a scratchy throat and watery eyes.  He thinks he might have picked up a germ while we traversing the crowd.   We wonder at Bruce’s endurance, although we do remember our last bike journey from Montreal to Halifax and back to Quebec.  We camped and cooked our own food the whole way.  Such are the strengths and fleeting ways of youth.

The next morning, we are off on our bikes before Bruce, although we are sure he will overtake us and leave us behind.  We stop and ogle the whirlpool vista, where the river makes sharp turn.  At another vista stop, we mis-communicate and run into each other, wrecking both of us and causing a group of seniors who just exited a bus to come running over to see if we are all right.  We are a bit battered, but more embarrassed than anything.  The bruise on my knee and gash on Wes’ finger will take the rest of the trip to heal.

Crossing the border is hectic. We are the only bicyclists in a swarm of motor vehicles.  We wait behind a group of motor cyclists from New Jersey, who have been out on a 1000 mile weekend jaunt.  They will ride 350 miles back home today.  One of them is long-haired, good looking, perhaps Tongan, and he is fascinated by our trip, but wants to know why we haven’t used it to raise money for a good cause.  He didn’t like our answer that we were using it to make a change in ourselves.  As he rode off, he said, “Next time you do this, make sure you benefit someone else!”

With that, we enter the last phase of this trip.  We are tired, but think we are almost done.  We are wrong.  There are many more challenges, some of them as hard as any we’ve faced, in the last days of this journey from sea to sea.

 

Posted from Centennial, Wyoming

T+103: A Lucky Break

Mile 3690: Fulton, NY

After a difficult and frustrating day, we find ourselves in a town as least as beat up as Detroit.   Having lost Nestle, Birds Eye, and Miller factories, this small town in upstate New York is full of poverty, degenerating businesses, and people trying to make a way out of no way.  We recognize the signs and will tell this story soon.  In the meantime, our trip across Michigan begins….

After we said good-bye to our friends in Ludington, we began following the Adventure Cycling map through the Manistee National Forest.  It exemplifies everything we both love and hate about these routes.  First of all, it is a beautiful ride, but it is far from efficient.  We ride 50 miles through all sort of back country forest and lakes.  It is a lovely ride.  But at the end of the day, we have only gone 25 miles towards the east.

Throughout the day, we have been on a quest to get a good paper map of Michigan.  This is apparently a rarity, now that many (most?) people use GPS on their phones or in their cars.   In the little town of Wolf Point, after visiting with the resident young Jack Russell and ancient Shepherd/Corgie dogs, we ask the proprietor if she sells maps.  For the fourth time that day, the answer is no.  A few minutes later, a customer who heard our request and denial returns with a high quality laminated map from his car.  He will sell it to us at cost.  We are happy to accept, even though we squirm a bit to see that it comes from Wal-mart.

After Wolf Point, we make our way to the Red Moose Inn, which is south of Baldwin, Michigan on the Pere Marquette River.  We are struck by the level of abandonment and disarray we see along the way.  This part of Michigan is not looking so good.  At the inn, the proprietor tells us that he is full up with salmon fishers, but that we will be housed in a cabin just down the way.   He shows us the way to the cabin in the woods by driving us over in a 2009 Cadillac with leather seats and just 50,000 miles.  He tells us that it is his son’s vehicle, and that it originally cost $54,000, but that his son purchased it for just $2700.   “Some depreciation, huh?”  he asks.

The cabin is deep in the woods.  Wes and I are at first disappointed, because we hoped to be on the river, but once we got inside, it felt so homey, we settled right in.  After a quick trip to a local grocery store, we played “at home” and truly enjoyed the evening.

The next morning, we jounce over sandy roads and make our way back to the highway.  On the highway, Wes immediately experiences difficulties.  His back wheel is not rolling right.  We try several strategies, including realigning the axle and adjusting the brakes, until it finally dawns on us that the reason the wheel is not rolling is because Wes has 3 broken spokes.  We are now dead in the water.  I make a few calls and find out that the closest bike shops are 57 miles away in Clare, 25 miles back to Ludington, or 30 miles the wrong direction to Cadillac.   I call the Clare bike shop.  They can’t help because they are short staffed and cannot come get us.  Sorry.  Maybe the folks in Ludington can assist.

While I wonder if this is how our trip will end, Wes drags his bike across the road, removes the BOB trailer, and turns the bike upside down.  I pull my bike across and watch while Wes begins to hitchhike.  He signals to the first car by, a new truck pulling a big silver ATV trailer.  Wes gives his best “6 second sell” to the passing vehicle.  When he was younger, Wes travelled many thousand miles by hitchhiking, which he says depended upon making a connection within the six seconds a driver sees you on the side of the road.

Sure enough, the truck turns around and comes back to pick us up.  The driver asks us if we need help.  We tell him about our situation and tell him we need to get to a bike shop, or at least on a main highway.   He jumps out, opens his trailer, where a brand new Polaris 4-wheeler is secured, and tell us to load our bikes in the trailer.  Wes and I pile in the jump seat of the truck and meet our saviors.  They are Karl and Nancy Nelson, owners of the Pronto Pup in Grand Haven, out on a rare day off to try out their new four-wheeler.  They saw the upside down bike, knew we were in distress, and thought, “Something is obviously wrong.  We’ve got room, and time.  Why not?”

Nancy gets to work on her I-phone trying to find a bike shop where we can get the spokes repaired.  She calls the shop in Cadillac and finds out they are open and can do the work.   They decide right then and there to drive us the 30 miles to the north to the bike shop in Cadillac.  While driving there, we have a chance to visit.   They were out that day headed to the ATV trails around Baldwin.  It was lucky for us they chose to drive the back way from Grand Haven.  They just purchased this new ATV and wanted to check it out before taking it up to the Upper Peninsula for its maiden backwoods trip.   They are taking their first break after a long summer selling their high quality hot dogs to the resort community.  Throughout the trip north, Karl takes phone calls and makes deals to provide hot dogs at various events.

It is very clear that Karl and Nancy and Wes and I are not people whose lives would normally intersect, but we are glad to tell each other stories of life and work, bills and choices.  We connect around the challenges of running small businesses and how important good employees are to business success.  This leads to a surprisingly frank discussion about many corporations misplaced emphasis on financial success instead of employee success.   Despite our obvious ideological differences, all four of us agree with the principal that secure employees are the cornerstone of a strong economy.  We also agree that such security is no longer the norm.

In Cadillac, Karl and Nancy drop us off, wish us well, and drive off to enjoy the rest of their day.  We take the bike in, and find out that there are FIVE broken spokes.  While the young men in the shop do the repairs, Wes and I head out to get breakfast and explore the town.  We have great handmade food at the Blue Heron, wander a few shops, and are generally amazed at the comeback in this town.   We had visited a few years ago; it is vibrant and exciting by comparison. 

By noon, we are back on the trail.  The bike shop guys recommend the White Pine Trail to us.  This is a Rails to Trails from Cadillac to Reed City, going through forests and small towns in western Michigan.  The first 17 miles are paved.  It is beautiful, full of big trees, small lakes, and wetlands, and we have a blast.  As we discuss the broken spokes, we realize that Wes probably broke his first spoke way back in Wisconsin on that rotten concrete road.   Sheesh. 

We visit outback towns like Leroy, Michigan and buy handmade baked goods.  The trail turns to dirt and it gets rougher and slower.  It is far less fun.  The next 20 miles are much harder work.  We pull into the little town of Reed City, where the White Pine trail intersects with the Pere Marquette trail.  We wander up and down Upton Avenue, stare at the Yoplait factory, and think to stay here.  At the local pub, the waitress is one of those types that drive us crazy.  They don’t know anything about the town, its amenities, or its services. 

We finally determine that the next motel is in Evart, 15 miles down the trail.  We head out on the smooth and lovely trail as the sun starts to sink in the west.   This is the Michigan not seen by the roads, lush and lovely.  We stop to see the Muskegon River and marvel at its pure beauty.  When we finally land at the Osceola Grand Hotel in Evart, Michigan, it is nearly dark.  We have been on the move since early morning.  We have almost seen the end of the trip, travelled 30 miles north, and ridden more than 60 miles on Michigan rails to trails through wonderful beauty.  Like the day before, we have only travelled about 25 miles to the east, but we are incredibly grateful, first to the Nelsons, then to the creators and sustainers of these beautiful trails.