Sunday, November 4, 2012

Ribbon of Highway - Route 1 - Leg 8 Part 1 - Boston to Maine Oct 1-6 2012 or, Fall Colors on Steroids

 
 

Leg 8
Massachusetts to Indiana
Or
Fall Colors on Steroids
Part 1
October 1-6, 2012
 
 
 Ohio Farm Field

 
Monday-Tuesday October 1-2
Massachusetts

During the ride from DC to Boston, the last leg, my Beemer’s brake failure warning light kept coming on and then going off once I was on the road with engine warmed up. My diagnosis was low brake fluid except the visual window on the fluid reservoir showed it full. I had no brake failure problems, but the light kept coming on more often and staying on longer, so I resolved to have it checked out and if necessary repaired before I started off again. With me in Indiana and the bike in Massachusetts, the problem became finding a BMW shop that was open on Mondays so I could fly in on the weekend in order to get on the road early in the week. I tried several shops, all open only Tuesday-Saturday, until at last I struck gold at GBM Motor Sports in Arlington Heights-Cambridge. I called them as soon as they were open Monday morning.  Yes, they would look at the bike right away, so I wended my way down Route 2 as quickly as I could in morning traffic. With luck, I would get the repairs done today and be on my way Tuesday morning.

Not so much luck. Good news and bad news. The brake problem was just as I had suspected, low brake fluid. Although I had checked the reservoir window as instructed in the Owner’s Manual, it turns out there are two brake fluid reservoirs on this year and model of BMW. For some unfathomable Teutonic reason, the Owner’s Manual keeps the second one a carefully guarded secret. The bad news was that on the test run, the mechanic noticed my clutch was slipping, which I had noticed before but had not thought much about. However, the mechanic expressed concern that I would not make it back to Indiana with the clutch in that condition. Repairing a clutch on a BMW is a very involved disassembly and assembly process, read expensive. Hmm, start off into the wilderness of Maine and the Adirondacks with no BMW shop for hundreds of miles, or get my clutch fixed now? Not really much of a choice. The shop did not have all the parts in stock, but if I gave the go ahead now they could have them overnighted by Federal Express, they should be here in the morning and I could be on my way by mid-afternoon.
Go ahead.
I caught a bus down to Porter Square for some lunch and to catch the Fitchburg commuter rail line out to South Acton at 1:30, where my sister-in-law would pick me up. All around Arlington Heights, I passed small road construction sites where road crews were doing repairs, either repaving or doing something down in the sewer. Every single repair site was staffed by a policeman, who pretty much just stood around. Funny, we don’t need policemen at every small road construction site in Indiana. Apparently in Massachusetts these sites are big crime scenes! Not. Unions. I’m sure union work rules require the presence of a cop to direct traffic. Ridiculous. No wonder they call the state Taxachusetts.
Not my problem. I found a good Thai place for lunch, and picked up a very fine bottle of Laphroaig as a gift to my brother-in-law to thank him for putting me up. The commuter rail was right on time,
but while waiting at West Acton “station” I noticed this mini “city scape” that eclipsed the autumn
leaves for color:
 
Back at the ranch, after sharing several wee drams with my brolaw, and taking everybody out to dinner 11 o’clock the next day found me back at GBM. Yes, the parts had come in. The bike was on the lift and in the beginning stages of disassembly. It was going to be a while, so what to do? I walked a few blocks to Sarah’s Barber Shop (which I had passed the day before) to get my locks trimmed. Sarah has owned and operated her own shop for several years, telling me very clearly that she had a barber’s license, not a beautician’s license, cutting men’s hair only – Shampoo in reverse! It was fun to have a barber was dressed like a babe, heck she was a babe, obviously Sarah knew her clientele. The haircut cost me double what it would in Indiana with my old guy barber, but she was good and I certainly didn’t begrudge it. Sarah is a hardworking entrepreneur who has found a way to make it on her own. She told me she averaged about 20 cuts per day. Do the math, guessing 20 minutes a customer that’s a full day on your feet and clipping shears with not much time to sweep the floor, open and close, do the books a or take a break. I wonder if barbers are prone to carpal tunnel syndrome? Anyway, everything is more expensive in Massachusetts than Indiana, right?

Maybe not. After Sarah’s, I strolled down the street to grab a “grinder” at a local deli-grocery store that featured a steady stream of local workmen obviously coming in for their daily feed. The line was a great advertisement. Excellent - but I also thought the grinder was pretty expensive, chalked it up to Massachusetts prices again! My apologies to the deli, not so. Sometime later, I stopped at a Subway chain back in the Midwest for a $5 6-inch sub and “made it a meal.” The clerk said, “$8.03!” I said, “It’s a 6 inch, not a foot long.” She had apparently heard this reaction before, and apologized as she assured me that was the price of the “meal.” Wait a minute, $3 for a pour-your-own soda and a measly bag of chips? What’s going on here? Inflation, that’s what. The smart marketeers lure you in with the inexpensive sandwich and hit you with the extras that you don’t think about. The BLS says inflation this year is at about 2%, and the USDA projects retail food prices to rise by 4-5% in the coming year due to the drought in the rising energy prices, but the people on the street who have to buy things everyday know from their own experience that these government numbers are BS. It’s hard to get out of a McDonalds these days for less than $8! Britain just reported that their food prices have risen more than 30% since the beginning of the fiscal crisis in 2009. That sounds more like the truth of the situation in the US. The truth is that the purchasing power of the dollar today is in free fall, which gives me concern as I join the ranks of the semi-fixed incomes.  Not much I can do about it today, though.
Back at the shop, I couldn’t see much progress on the bike. The weather kept deteriorating as the day dragged on, getting colder and looking more and more like rain. I became more and more fidgety – but what to do? so I spent a lot of time in the “boutique” stocked with helmets, gloves, jackets, after-market parts, motorcycle electronics, etc. I considered a very nice pair of new leather gloves, but $70 (!) was too much on top of the clutch repairs. I did buy a balaclava (an over-the-head full face mask). The shop guy swore buy it, he wears it ice riding during the winter (crazy man!) to protect against the freezing wind. Looking outside, I decided it made sense where I was headed even if it did make me look like a terrorist! The shop guy also told me if I was driving through Vermont near Quechee Gorge, I had to stop at the Quechee Diner, the food is awesome!
For a while I watched some of films of races at the Isle of Man TT which whetted my appetite to go there next May. 3 o’clock came and went. I could see the bike was finally being reassembled but it was far from done. I inspected almost every motorcycle on the floor to see what was au courant. 4 o’clock came and went. It was way past mid-afternoon, and it was beginning to mist outside as afternoon traffic began to thicken. Let’s just say I was not happy, but I never complained. They were doing me a favor, and bitching wouldn’t make things go any faster. I gave up watching the pot boil and for a while sat on some steps leaning against my pile of gear, reading a novel on my Nook. Bored with that, I went back into the service shop to watch the reassembly process. The shop didn’t close until 7. I began to wonder if I was really going to get out of Boston tonight. Sometime after 5, the mechanic lowered the bike off the lift, backed it out of the shop and put on his helmet and riding gear for a test drive. When he came back he pronounced that it “felt good.” He apologized for being so slow, and of course I said I’d rather have it done right than done fast. A seal had broken that allowed engine oil to leak into the transmission which in turn got the clutch plates wet and was causing the failure. He had no explanation as to why, didn’t see how it had anything to do with the way I might ride the bike. For those of you who think BMWs are all super reliable, this is the second clutch I have had to replace for the exactly same reason in 7 years, the last one at least was under warranty. The mechanic offered that I was not the only one, he had replaced 3 (!) on another fellow’s K1200, perhaps there is some kind of design problem with this model.
A plug for at GBM – everybody I met there was helpful, knowledgeable, friendly and, well, just great. I trust their integrity and ability implicitly, and I do not hesitate to highly recommend the shop. From my conversations there, they actually have a similar underground national reputation. Terrific shop.
In any event, having contributed greatly to the local economy, by 6 I had my bike packed up and was heading up a wet Route 3 to Interstate 95 in a light drizzle. The first minutes of any rain lifts oils off the pavement and makes it quite slick, which you are aware of much more on two wheels rather than four, so in a way I was thankful for the congestion of heavy traffic that kept the speeds down as I crept along the north side of Boston. All the day’s delays killed my plan to leisurely explore the North Shore and feast on fried full belly clams at Ipswich. My objective now was just to get at least as far as Portsmouth, New Hampshire as quickly as I could, to cut down the distance I would have to drive to Bar Harbor the next day - which meant as soon as the Interstate turned northward and the commuter traffic dispersed after Danvers, driving very, very fast on a very wet roadway, zipping around 14 wheelers like a bird flitting amongst a herd of cattle The heavy cloud cover made it hard to gauge the time, it seemed as if twilight lasted for hours, but even the half-light and the road spray could not obscure the colors of the leaves parading both sides of the road. It was eerie. Huge gray granite boulders sitting on the road’s shoulders like giant chunks of smoldering coal, crested by waving red and yellow flames with the road mist rising all around like smoke against the darkening slate gray sky. Followed by no moon, no stars, no streetlights, just a world hurtling by at 80mph gradually descending into utter blackness in smoke and flames…
But by 8, I made it Portsmouth, and thankfully found a room on my first try at a new Homewood Suites, staffed by more very friendly and helpful people who gave me warm chocolate chip cookies! All of which goes to prove that nice people and attitude can make what amounts to pretty much of a disaster day pretty pleasant!
Sign of the day: hand scrawled in large print and taped to the garbage can between the gas pumps at the station where I stopped for gasoline in Arlington Heights: “NO DOG DROPPINGS” Ahh, the joys of urban living! Woof!
But what may be the sign of the month is jarring Regardless of your politics or party affiliation or lack thereof, this sign is reflects what is going on throughout the country less than one month before the Presidential election. Reactions to this billboard run the gamut from shock to outrage to laughter to celebration. It is right up there with tv ad of the little blonde girl picking daisies in front of a mushroom cloud in the 1964 Johnson-Goldwater campaign, but overall, this campaign is even nastier – and longer. Only worse. The 1964 ad carried a message of fear and dangerous judgment. This billboard is a message of loathing and deliberate evil. This is without a doubt the nastiest election campaign I have ever seen in my lifetime; little serious discussion about specific policies and plans for the future, just platitudes and promises without substance, many vicious attacks against candidates at all levels, and often blatant lies. The country is deeply divided. People on each side despise the other’s policies and candidates. Gone are the days when people complained there was no real difference between Nixon and Kennedy. It is not just a sign of the day, it’s a sign of the times.
 
Wednesday, October 3
New Hampshire – Maine
Headlines over coffee in the early morning: The Bureau of Labor Statistics reports that people looking for work had dropped from 8.2% to 7.8% in one month! “How can this be?” I ask myself, when at the very same time it is reported that the economy has grown more slowly in 2012 than in 2011 for two or three consecutive quarters? Does that make sense to you?

Well, it didn’t to me, so I did a little quick research. Not surprisingly It turns out that the devil is in the details. Leaving aside that the first report of the BLS employment statistics is an “estimate” that is always “revised” a few months later (which in this case will be after the election, is my cynicism too apparent?), I found that this measure of “unemployment” (called the “U3”) does not measure unemployment at all: it measures the number of people actively looking for work. Observe the difference. I’m not sure what methodology they use to calculate those actively looking for work, but assuming that it is consistent and consistently applied, this data point:
·         Does not count those who have given up and stopped looking for work, almost universally estimated at over  8 million people;

·         Does count as those who are involuntarily part-time employed as “employed” and therefore not looking for work, also almost universally estimated to be another over  8 million people.
The estimated drop from 8.2% to 7.8% in this measure of people actively looking for work is entirely at category, and therefore “no longer looking for work.” There is another BLS statistic calculated at the same time but less widely reported called the “U6.” The U6  only counts 1/3 of those who have given up looking, which results in an “unemployment” figure of almost 15% and, the U6  has not dropped. Neither the U3 nor the U6 includes the more than 8 million who the statisticians agree have given up looking for work. If you include all of them, the rate of “underemployment” and “unemployment” is almost 22%! Or is it 25%, I forget! Either way, over 20% is a depression level of unemployment that apparently nobody in either party wants to talk about.
Another perplexing statistic: retail gas prices are stuck high around $4/gallon, while due to the worldwide recession the price of crude has fallen 38% from $147/barrel to $92/barrel. So why is the price gas at the pump as high or higher as it was when crude was at $147/barrel? Some claim it is the rapacious oil companies keeping gasoline prices high with artificial shortages in order to rake in record profits. This presumes a price fixing cartel, as no single oil company has anything like that kind of market power. However, I simply can’t conceive of oil executives being sop stupid as to risk the criminal penalties of an illegal price fixing cartel, especially under the aegis of this anti-fossil fuel administration. Plus there is this inconvenient factoid: this year US refineries have been operating at 88%-91% efficiency, which allowing for maintenance and breakdowns is virtually 100% capacity: the refineries are simply not being shut down to create artificial shortages to justify high prices. So why else might prices at the pump remain high while the cost of crude drops? Well, we all know that prices tend to get sticky going down. Nobody wants to be the first to lower their prices when costs drop, so it usually takes longer for the market to reflect decreased costs than it does to reflect increased costs. But that doesn’t adequately explain why this phenomena has lasted as long as it has. Something else must be going on. Here’s another interesting factoid: much of the profits of US big oil are coming from petroleum exports, that’s right, exporting US gasoline to foreign markets is actually more profitable than selling that gasoline in the US. How can that be? Gasoline is a worldwide commodity market, the price being pretty much the same everywhere. Well, that may be true, but profits are determined by the simple formula of price less cost. Costs are not the same everywhere, so profits are not the same in every market at the same price. The US is a higher cost market than foreign markets where US oil companies are exporting. Why? Simple, Virginia. Regulations.
Let me give you an example of which I have personal knowledge. Back in the 80’s, when the US EPA ion its infinite wisdom banned tetra-ethyl lead (leaded gas), leaded gas was still in high demand overseas because it allowed engines to get higher fuel mileage, to run on less refined grades of gasoline, and at the same time extended engine life – the very reason that lead was added to gasoline. Less refined grades of gasoline also means it is cheaper and easier to produce in the refinery. So while the market for leaded gas, and thereby cheaper less refined grades of gas, was legislatively abolished here in the US, it thrived overseas. Not only that, but market division cartels affecting non-US markets are not illegal in the US. So, the two major world producers of tetra-ethyl lead collaborated, one shutting down its refineries and transferring all of its demand to the refineries of its “competitor,” which made the remaining refineries highly efficient and accordingly, the tetra-ethyl lead much cheaper to produce, while the other producer  tuned over all of its delivery tankers and stations to its competitor, allowing ships to be put out of commission as they aged and eliminating duplicative routes and storage stations The two “competitors” presented one price of tetra-ethyl and reaped record profits from drastically reduced costs in the years after tera-ethyl lead was outlawed in the US.
How does that apply to the price of retail gasoline today? Factoid: EPA regulations require regional and seasonal “blends” of gasoline that both cause refinery inefficiencies and prevent a national US market for gasoline. Gas being made in California can’t be shipped and sold to Massachusetts because it is the wrong blend at the wrong time of year. I was curious as to exactly how many of these different mandated blends there are. Surprisingly, I found that it was virtually impossible for me to find out! You can’t find number of blends mandated anywhere on EPA website. After reading several articles, I also could not find any consensus on the number of blends being used in US – estimates ranged from a low of 45 to a high in the 100s! It is abundantly clear that there are different blend mandated for every major city, different seasonal blends and other blends for special “sensitive” non-populated areas. The EPA says all these blends only adds about 2-4 cents to the cost of a gallon of gas, but anybody who has been in the refinery business recognizes that as patent nonsense. Possibly that might cover just the extra direct refining cost per gallon, but what about the total indirect costs of limited production runs, change overs, seasonal changes, the inability to ship to national markets or to relieve shortages, inefficiencies in distribution, special costs at pumps to recover emissions, special additives to oxygenate blends, costs of ethanol, capital costs of new equipment, and the occasional extraordinary cost of running afoul of the associated regulations (the EPA once attempted to assess a fine of $656,000 on my company for an activity that the Michigan DNR had twice specifically approved under the exact same regulation; at a 10% margin it takes roughly $7,000,000 in sales to cover that kind of fine, not counting legal and PR costs – but that’s a different story) are much higher than the EPA estimate. In fact, it would appear that they are higher than the cost of exporting that fuel! Why else would we be importing crude and exporting gasoline?
So, if you are an oil company executive, and it’s cheaper (and therefore more profitable) to ship and sell less refined gasoline to markets outside the country where EPA regulations do not apply, what would you do? Even if it does cause occasional shortages and higher prices in the domestic market?
This is all good for all the green weenies in the Obummer administration because the different blends supposedly protect or improve the environment, and all the associated costs make the higher price of gasoline a disincentive to the use of fossil fuels and an incentive for “renewable” wind, solar and hydro - and if in the process the oil companies make record profits, they are the perfect fall guys for high gasoline prices. But these blends are also why we will not see an increase in refinery or distribution efficiency, or again see a truly national US market for gasoline, all of which would decrease the price of gas at the pump (which incidentally could also easily be accomplished by decreasing the regressive state sales taxes imposed on every gallon of gas sold). Of course, if you are an urbanite who believes with almost religious fervor in the imminent disaster of man-caused global warming, this should also be very ok with you because the net economic effect is to discourage use of fossil fuels and you don’t drive a car much, anyway. But if you are a redneck living in the boonies, this is not good at all, because there you actually have to use your vehicle to get around, and this makes day to day living much more expensive. Of course, the higher price of gas also affects urbanites in less direct ways, as the higher costs of fuel add to the to the cost of distribution of goods that urbanites must import from their country cousins, but people are not as aware of that creeping cost the way you are when you are confronted with the prices at the gas pump several times a month. And when our government reports inflation, it excludes the costs of fuel and food – can you believe that? Two of the items that are most subject to inflationary pressures and that most directly impact most people are excluded from the inflation rate calculation. While the government tells us that the inflation rate is below 3%, the cost of filling your grocery cart has actually gone up about 30%. True.
Connect the dots, Virginia: the price of crude has much less to do with why it costs $100 to fill the tank of your car today than you think. Eventually of course, the inexorable laws of economics will prevail. Barring war, the price of crude will stay down due to decreased demand as long as the worldwide recession continues, and competition will tend to bring the price of gas down somewhat at the pump. But don’t hold your breath waiting for the “good old days” of $2/gallon gasoline under today’s government policies. Not gonna happen, no way, Jose.
Too much thinking for one morning’s cup of coffee to handle! I have read that downtown Portsmouth is the gem of New Hampshire’s 18 mile sea coast, retaining “the grandeur of its 18th century maritime heyday,”  so I am resolved to explore it before I head off into Maine. Good move! The commercial center is full of shops and taverns (which I neglected to explore the night before, bad decision), and borders Prescott Park and the Strawberry Banke. These are truly worth a visit. As usual, I was there before they opened, but I was able to stroll the area at my leisure without interference. Lovely. If you were part of the upper classes, living in olde new Englande was clearly a very good way of life –
 
 

Tempis fugit. The sky was grey and pregnant with rain, but I was hopeful that it might hold off enough that I could stay ahead of it as I headed further north along the coast.
Not. Heading up 95, the skies opened up around Ogunquit. With rain beading and road spray beading on the windshield, and rivulets on my facemask obscuring my vision, and gust of wind buffeting me across my lane, I had to slow down. This is turn reduced the effectiveness of the wind blowing over my windshield as a rain break, resulting in more cold water falling on me. Chaps are a pretty good defense against rain and road spray, but they have no crotch – so when the windshield airfoil fails, a certain part of you anatomy gets very wet – and very cold. Quite an odd sensation, actually, as everything around it protected by the chaps remained fairly warm and dry.
I took the first exit I could, and naturally, there were no services at the exit. They were several miles toward the coast, deeper into the storm. I was sodden by the time I pulled up to the convenience store and gas station at the first intersection. A friendly young guy held the door open and expressed sympathy for my plight, saying that the day before it had been beautiful and the rains had just started this morning. Oh, well. I took my time in the blessed dry warmth of the inside as I (literally) dripped on the floor and wrung the water out of my leather gloves, drinking hot chocolate and munching on a piece of pepperoni pizza in an attempt to warm up and wait out the weather, hoping the rain would abate. It did start top break, so I went outside to fill up my gas tank. Crazy. When I pulled in, there wasn’t a single vehicle at any of the dozen or so pumps. When I went out to fill up, at least half of them were empty.  By the time I got the bike started and backed up, all 12 were full! And of course, while waiting for one of the  to open up, the rain started again. By the time I got under the canopy to fill up, I was once again soaked. A fellow with a big white beard filling his SUV at the same pump chuckled, “I can’t tell you how many times I have been where you are now! I just sold my 1984 Gold Wing with 198,000 miles on it,” he proudly announced. Just sold and already he missed it, wanted to reminisce about years of riding. “I have to ask, where you traveling from and to?” I told I was from Indiana and I had come from there via Key West, and was going back via Maine and Vermont. “Wow,” he said, “I thought I was doing something riding 300 miles a day, but that’s real riding!” I didn’t pop his bubble (or my image as an iron butt) by pointing out that I hadn’t done it all in one stretch. J Oh, well!
I waited inside again until the rains let up, but finally decided I had to go if I was going to have any chance of seeing Pemaquid and still make it to Bar Harbor by nightfall. I said goodbye to the cute girl behind the cash register who volunteers that if she didn’t have to work, she would ride to Bar Harbor with me – oh, well!
A few exits up, I detoured to ride Routes 1 and 9 along the coast through Kennebunk. Never have I seen so many antique shops, anywhere! And for every two antique shops, there was some sort of artists gallery, paintings or pottery. And the closer I rode to Kennebunkport, the more Obama-Biden signs I saw. Scads of them, sometimes two or three to a yard, lke falling leaves, everywhere. It seemed to me to be an in-your-face to the Bush family, all the Obama supporters showing their colors in this community most famous as the Bush summer residence. Even the guide book got in its licks: “That grand estate overlooking the ocean on the right – the one with the unwelcoming security gate –is Walkers Point, summer abode of former President George Bush.” Wow, that’s harsh. With neighbors like these, he probably needs that security gate! If this is any indication of how the rest of Maine feels, the election will be a landslide for Obummer. One thing I did learn, though, too late to take advantage of it, is that Kennebunk is a real hotbed for Zumba Classes. I really should have taken one while I was passing through! J Oh, well! Kennebunkport itself was quaint and pretty, but overall I have to say I was a little disappointed by this detour, not as pretty a ride as advertised
I really wanted to see Pequamid because my ancestors wrecked there during a storm when they arrived in the New World in 1635, on a ship named the Angel Gabriel. I am told there is a historical marker at the spot where they waded ashore, and there is a museum with relics from the wreck, including a trunk from the ship donated to the museum by a distant cousin who now lives in Colorado. How often can you experience history with such a direct connection as that?  So I made tracks for Pequamid, turning off the main road at Damariscotta, population 1100. Very pretty, very English, with shops and small hotels lining the street that rises up from the harbor south toward Pequamid. The sun was breaking through and there were beautiful views from the 27 down to the water, all looked good. But the further south I went, the worse the weather became. Worse. And worse. Rain. And wind. Rain drops stinging my cheeks like cold needles. As much as I wanted to see Pequamid, I decided it was not worth getting totally soaked again, so I turned around and went back to Damariscotta, out of the rain and headed east, once again in the sun. Oh, well. Maybe another time. And, then again, maybe not. There is less and less time for another time. But maybe…
Things got much better. I pulled over at Captain’s Fresh Idea Restaurant, home of Wicked Good Lobster Rolls and Lobster Stew, in Waldoboro. Oh, well. I had both. Amen, wicked good! I looked around, but I couldn’t see anybody in a long sleeved blue and red striped shirt. This was the last week Captain’s would be open before heading to Sarasota for the winter. They were kind enough to turn on the space heater near my table so that I could dry out my gloves. Another biker was there, and of course we struck up a conversation, he was heading south, too. It turns out that half the State of Maine must head south after Columbus Day weekend!  They turned me on to a short cut to Camden through West Rockport, and I was once again on my way.
Camden is as beautiful as advertised. The town reeks of wealth, and sits on some hills right on the Atlantic. There is also a State Park there, and it’s one of the few places where you have panorama of the ocean from the main highway. They also apparently feel differently in Camden about our four legged furry friends than do the city fathers of Portsmouth, for a big sign on the Episcopal Church advertised a Blessing of the Animals service. Bring your pets to church! That’s one way to combat declining attendance, I suppose. I wonder, do they have to bark the Apostle’s Creed?
At Bucksport, I got to ride over the new suspension bridge across the Penobscot River.
Tremendous views, and I suddenly realized I had recently read about this place. It was the scene of the largest combined naval-army assault in the American Revolutionary War, where in the summer of 1779 a much larger American force attempted to trap the British fleet and assaulted the town of Bucksport held by 1000 Scots. The Americans failed, miserably. It was a complete British victory that all but destroyed the Continental Navy. The famous Paul Revere commanded the artillery for the Americans, and made a complete buffoon of himself. If you want to read about it, The Fort by Bernard Cornwell is a terrific yarn! He describes it so well that when standing on the bluffs overlooking the town, you can see exactly how everything fell into place.

 From Bucksport, it was a short ride right to Bar Harbor, arriving at dusk at the Cleftsone Manor, clinging to a cliff overlooking the water a short walk into own. Cleftstone is old but well maintained, built in 1881 as the summer retreat of a wealthy family. Well its not summer and I don’t boast the kind of wealth they obviously had, but I still enjoyed the original master bedroom with a private bath with a big bathtub across the hall, but with a working fireplace that was very welcome after the long day's ride.
 
 
I walked downtown under gas streetlamps past Bar Harbor mansions that are now mostly bed and breakfasts or oceanographic institutes of some kind or another, to West St. Café where I indulged in a dry  martini, lobster remoulade, and (finally) those wonderful fried full belly clams for dinner before hiking back to the Clefstone to slip under the covers next to the fire to watch the first Presidential debate between OBummer and Romney. Not surprisingly, I was too tired to watch it all, but I stayed awake long enough to recognize the phoniness of forced friendliness when the rivals greeted each other, and several bald faced lies mouthed sincerely as the absolute truth. I was reminded of what my mother taught me, that manners are for people you don’t like. Overall, I felt both candidates seemed overly coached, too stiff with very little spontaneity, but that Romney had come out on top. The next day, the political pundits on both sides universally reached the same conclusion, and that the election was now “game on.”
As I drifted off to sleep, for some reason it occurred to me that I had not seen a Walmart all day! They do have Walmarts in Maine, don’t they?
S.O.D. – Had to be “Obama Biden.” Everywhere in Kennebunkport.
 
Thursday, October 4 -Maine
I was bound and determined to see Acadia before the rain storm that had been chasing me up the
coast arrived, so as soon as I finished breakfast as early as Cleftsone would serve it, I was on the Beemer heading up to the top of Cadillac Mountain, listening to Huey Lewis and The News play The Heart of Rock and Roll. At the top, magnificent views of the ocean and islands. Life is good! While I was busy taking pictures, a fellow wandered over to my bike, and walked around it, inspecting it from every angle like it was a rare piece of art. Then he had his wife take his picture standing next to it! Man, that guy really wanted a BMW motorcycle. I felt kind of sorry for him! Life’s too short. I hope he was inspired to go out and buy one. As Oscar Wilde said, “Take care of the luxuries, the necessities will take care of themselves.”
 
Looking out over the islands, I saw a cruise ship anchored in Bar Harbor. It seemed incongruous, but they go everywhere now, Key West to Acadia. Still, it seems that they provide a bumper sticker version of their ports of call. Perfect for the ADD sound-bite generation!
Down the mountain grooving to the Sultans of Swing and admiring deep forest green fir forests alternating with stands of golden capped white birch trees when a partridge unexpectedly explodes from the undergrowth. Where is my shot gun when I could really use it? Then out to Sand Beach. It reminded me a lot of Drake’s Beach at Point Reyes in California. In fact, the coastline reminded me of the Big Sur. I thought to myself, “Pretty lucky, I have stood on the beach on both the Atlantic and Pacific Coasts, and been from Key West to Canada in the past few years.” And a few year before that, I was scuttling around like a crab with a cane because of a pinched nerve in my back and a worn out hip joint, thinking I would never be able to ride a motorcycle or hike again. By the way, did you know that hip replacement surgery is one of those “elective” surgeries that would not be available to seniors under Obamacare? Jesus, who would make rules like that except people who have not experienced what a life changing operation that can be? Where does the impulse come from to mandate what you can and cannot do with your own health and your own doctor? This is insane.
Off to Thunder Hole . A busload of tourists all chattering away in French arrived at the same time. After that, I sat on a bluff for a while, watching mergansers (I think), flocks of what looked to be loons but living on the ocean, surface diving for fish, and then over to Jordan Lake. Even in cloudy weather, Acadia National Park is truly a treasure. I would like to come back here in better weather and spend several days, because I really saw so little! A perfect day would be to pack a breakfast and have it at dawn on Cadillac Mountain, then actually go swimming at Sand Beach, and make sure to schedule the day so that you are at Thunder Hole during the rising tide and can experience the noises that give it its name, spend some time either hiking or riding horses through the interior, and of course finished with lobster and clams, and maybe the next day taking a boat out to whale watch. Ahhh, maybe three days…
 
 

But today I wanted to get out ahead of that storm coming up the coast, so by early afternoon I was headed out – stopping at Trenton for another lobster roll, of course. There was construction  right by the lobster shack where I intended to stop. The flagman saw me, and turned his sign to stop traffic so that I could cross and go in. He did the same thing when I came back out after eating. How nice is that? I don’t know, it just seems to me that people everywhere along this trip have been particularly friendly and nice because I’m on a bike. Maybe it’s because I’m doing something they would really like to do? Or are they just this nice to all travelers, and I haven’t noticed so much before?
I was sitting next to a family with two cute but really restless little boys. They were becoming something of a nuisance, so the proprietor(ess?) decide to help out. “We just got in our catch for the day, and we have a five pound lobster. Would you like to see it?” Naturally, a chorus of “yeahs” and they march out behind her, leaving the dining room for a few minutes of blessed peace and quiet until they return, huge smiles plastered across their faces, babbling about the giant lobster. “You should see it, Dad, I touched it, a 10 pound lobster!” Hmm, wasn’t that a 5-pounder just a few minutes ago? Grows with the telling. Nonplussed, their dad says, “Well you really are a fisherman, aren’t you?” Ha!
Then as I drove into Ellsworth, I saw a Walmart! Walmart is surprisingly controversial for such a successful retailer. Growing from a small Arkansas store to a huge multi-national, it is blamed by many for destroying the fabric of small town America by driving the “Mom and Pop” corner store out of business.. Nobody was ever forced to buy at Walmart, yet virtually everybody has shopped at Walmart. In fact, Walmart has vastly improved the lives of millions of Americans by providing quality brand name products at the lowest prices possible, and that’s exactly why it drove the higher cost, higher priced corner stores out of business. And Walmart grievously wounded the likes of Sears and Kmart while finishing what they started, the total transformation of the balance of power in the retail goods distribution chain between manufacturers and retailers. My old company, a home appliance manufacturer, used to say, “The good news is, we now have Walmart as a customer. The bad news is, we now have Walmart as a customer.” And now Walmart is doing the same thing to (for?) eye care, pharmacies and walk in clinics that it did for clothing, appliances and groceries. Walmart has provided all of its employees with good quality benefits, as health insurance. Walmart has also hired the previously unemployed, the “greeters” that some are so fond of ridiculing, who are for the most part elderly whom nobody else would hire. So why is it so hated while the others seem to get a pass? Yes, it created new jobs, in distribution and in management, but for the most part the jobs it has created are fewer in number and lower paying than those it has displaced.  And small business is romanticized in America, just like the family farm. Walmart is  is the prototype  “Big Box” store after which are modeled Home Depot, Lowe’s, Target and so many others that have relegated so many small retailers to the ashbin. While Walmart has done nothing illegal, it has openly been staunchly anti-union, and got itself into trouble with the trial lawyers for its policy of refusing to settle what it considered nuisance “blackmail” suits. But basically Walmart is reviled because it is the biggest, the most successful big box store. So is Walmart good or bad? In today’s America, big and successful increasingly seems to be bad.
My original plan was to drive to Calais and then into New Brunswick, but I abandoned that when I abandoned my objective of getting to Nova Scotia this trip. Besides, I left my passport at home, so now I couldn’t cross the border even to visit Campobello, the international peace park on the Canadian side of the border where Roosevelt spent his summers, a border that all my life we have driven across with merely a wave at the checkpoint. Really, is that really necessary to combat Osama and Al Qaeda? Combined with the possibility that maybe inland I would more likely escape the rainstorm, I decided to change routes and head north on 1A through Bangor and Orono. It was still dull grey and I couldn’t see very far off the road, so I searched radio stations for entertainment. I knew I had a winner when I heard Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off, followed by Miranda Lambert’s Fastest Girl in Town. I skirted Phillips Lake through an area called Lucerne in Maine, which I suspect is pretty nice but I can’t vouch for it! What I remember most were American flags that suddenly appeared hung from every other telephone pole, on and on for miles and miles, like it was a July 4th parade route, until I passed over a township or county line where they abruptly stopped. Interesting. I kept wondering, “Why all those flags?” Meanwhile, the big news on the radio was that the Boston Red Sox had fired their manager, and that the mayor of Lewiston, Maine refused to resign in face of a recall petition signed by a whopping 1,400 people because he criticized something that some Somali immigrants did, and said something like “You are welcome to our culture but leave yours at the door.” For some reason, this reminded me of the uproar when the owners of Chik Fil-A expressed their opposition gay marriage, and activists attempted to shut them down first with a boycott and then with a “kiss-in”, and Rahm Emmanuel, mayor of Chicago pointedly refused to issue Chik Fil A a business permit to operate their restaurants because they did not represent “our values.”  Does it disturb you that holding the correct political beliefs are now a measure of whether you get a license to operate a restaurant in Chicago? It’s just not a good idea these days to voice any opinion that is controversial, whether you are in public or private life. I remember in the 60’s George Norman Rockwell, then the leader of the American Nazi Party came with his “Storm Troopers” to make a speech in Ann Arbor. A few people protested on the steps outside the auditorium, but they didn’t hassle anybody coming or going. The auditorium was full. We listened to Rockwell’s nonsense, and went home. We believed that everybody had the right to express themselves in the public forum, and that in the war of ideas the best would prevail. That was what fee speech was all about. That was the value of free and open discourse. At the time, everybody I knew was revolted by what had been done to those who spoke out against segregation in the South, and many of us had unpopular things to say about the Vietnam War, so we were pretty sensitive to the rights of people to say very unpopular things – to the point that antiwar protestors actually were  allowed to collect blood for the Viet Cong on the Michigan Diagonal in the middle of campus. Just a few years later, in 1968 I experienced the erosion of free speech first hand when protestors with whom I sympathized took over the campus at Columbia University. I’ll never forget sitting in class when the doors blew open and several people came in shouting slogans, jumped up on the dais and walked on top of the desks kicking all the books and papers to the floor, drowning out the professor’s protests with their chants while the students sat transfixed in shock. That was my first experience with mobs shouting bumper sticker slogans to drown out any discourse with which they disagreed. Tolerance of free speech has always been tenuous. From the very beginning of the Republic Congress passed the Alien and Sedition Acts that outlawed criticism of the government, and I bet many people would be surprised to learn (and even deny) that both Abraham Lincoln and Franklin Roosevelt had their critics jailed. Regardless, I don’t think George Lincoln Rockwell would have been treated with anywhere close to the same degree of tolerance today as he was 40 years ago. At least the actions in Lewiston and against the owners of Chik Fil A appear to have arisen from the bottom, from the people, not the government, although the goal of censorship is the same. But that’s a worrisome development, (successfully) attempting to suppress free speech through the government, either by trying to recall publicly elected officials for saying something that is not liked, or inciting government officials like Rahm Emmanuel to exercise their government power to indirectly retaliate to suppress thoughts with which they disagree. Direct action or indirect involvement of the government, the intent and result is the same: censorship. Are we seeing that deTocqueville right when he warned that the tyranny of the majority in a democracy would enclose thought in that “formidable fence” beyond which men would not go for fear of “all kinds of unpleasantness in everyday persecution?”
I passed through Bangor just long enough to hurt myself. Leaning into a corner on a hill. I somehow caught my foot between the road and a footpeg, which gave it a heck of a yank, and in reaction I gave the bike a heck of a lurch that almost dumped me. For a moment my ankle hurt like hell. “That’s why I wear heavy boots,” I told myself, “People who ride motorcycles in flip flops are nuts.” But right then I saw a tough Mainer walking down the street with his shirt off in 40 degree weather. Brrr. I told myself to quit whining! By the next day, the ankle didn’t hurt so much.
There are difficulties in taking the road less traveled in the Days of Garmin that Robert Frost never imagined. New England roads, never the easiest to follow because they tend to wander along streams and old cow paths, and always notoriously not well marked, have become worse so as fewer people travel them and fewer people pay attention to road signs. Strangers seeking the fastest route from here to there take the Interstates. Those few who actually get off the Interstate between here and there slavishly follow directions of the toneless voice on their gps navigator, bing bing turn left now. True locals don’t need to follow route signs. Ergo, in the priority battles for slices of highway department budgets, route markings slip below to filling potholes and snow removal. Repeatedly I rode for miles and miles without seeing any route marker at all, often just guessing which way to go according to the flow of traffic and condition of the road surface – sometimes rightly, and sometimes wrongly. Case in point. Coming out of Bangor, I wished to follow Route 2. Just North of town, the road divides. There actually is a Route 2 sign at the intersection (not before it, why give any warning?), partially obscured by untrimmed underbrush. Unfortunately, the arrow which is below the Route 2 sign that tells you which way to go is completely obscured by that same untrimmed underbrush. Quite obviously, nobody on the road crew or in the highway department management has seen any need to trim those bushes for months, if not years. Of course, I bitch because I took the wrong fork, and ended up on the Interstate instead of backtracking to the fork in the road. I returned to Route 2 at the Orono exit, which was quite well marked as most Interstate exits are. I followed Route 2 across the river to Orono, intending to drive through the campus of the University of Maine. Immediately across the river, the highway forked again. Route 2A went to the left, but there were no markings as to what was to the right, and no signs as to which way the university lay. The traffic was heavier to the right, so I went with the flow, thinking surely somewhere there would be a sign to something indicating the U. There were no more road signs of any kind for miles, to the point that I was wondering if I had drifted off of Route 2 entirely when I found myself in Old Town, with 2A rejoining from the left. I had managed to stay on Route 2, but I had completely circumvented the University, which apparently is on Route 2A. Great. Oh well, I didn’t want to see it bas enough to back track here, either.
Old Town is a hole. I don’t care if it is the legendary home of Old Town canoes and kayaks, it is a hole. So is the next 20 or 30 miles on the east bank of the Penobscot. Flat, wooded and dreary. There ain’t nothing there, ceptin’ mebbe rednecks and critters. Probably big critters! I was back in the land of the double-wides, and that was in the upscale neighborhoods. I started counting the miles between intersections. I traveled 7 miles between paved roads. I pulled back over to get Interstate at West Enfield and Howland, looking for a place to spend the night. Nuttin’ except a road sign advertising a Holiday Inn Express 30 some odd miles south in Bangor. That added insult to injury. The road heading west to Milo and Dover looked equally bleak. Not good. So I went into the general store with the gas pumps that was the only thing at the intersection except a backwoods tavern that didn’t look open, and asked where there might be some lodgings without backtracking all the way to elusive Orono. The proprietress, friendly and helpful as usual, directed me further North 12 or so miles to Lincoln, where there were no chain hotels but she assured me there was an old privately run motel that was clean right downtown.
Lincoln is not a destination resort, unless you carry a 30 odd 6 during hunting season. One lap around the parking lot of the downtown motel convinced me that I marginally liked the looks of the Notel Motel that I had passed at the edge of town. I got a room there, last one on the ground floor at the end of the building where the manager assured me it would be quiet. Hey, there were beds, a couple of skinny white towels, a tiny no name bottle of shampoo with no conditioner, and a giant antique TV that was as deep as it was wide, all this and only $80! I’ll never complain about the ambience of a Holiday Inn Express again! I couldn’t help thinking of the elevator posters at the Hampton Inn where the kid marvels about how clean the beds are! Oh, well! I turned on the heater and lay my gloves next to it to dry, took a few hits on my trusty bottle of  flavored vodka, and everything looked better. It began to rain outside and I was dry. All is good.
I turn on the TV to catch the news. It works! Turkey is invading Syria to stop Syrians from shelling refugees in Turkey. Great. But there is a very uplifting story about a family that rescued an injured crow. After they nursed it back to health, they tried to set him free, but he has refused to go. He keeps hanging around the house, and even follows the kids when they walk to school, flying down to the playground to visit with them when they come out for recess. Pretty neat!
After dark, I walked around the puddles to the Gilmor’s Beef and Ale across the highway. That was a hoppin’ place. It was mobbed, long tables filled with parties of twenty or more people of all ages laughing and carrying on louder than heck. I took a seat at the bar, the only place open. The bartender was a young guy with short hair and a well-trimmed pussy bumper, with tattoos down his arms and bright blue O rings inserted in his earlobes, so big that I could have stuck my index finger through them and yanked if I’d a mind to. I couldn’t help thinking “Ubangi!” He was a very friendly and very articulate guy. He first put the rings in 8 years ago, and had steadily enlarged them. Art his suggestion, I tried the local specialty on draft, Blueberry Ale. So good that I had two, I think… And a shot (or two?) of Jack, too, I think. J The bartender obliged me by yanking on his ear rings to show they didn’t hurt. I wonder if innovative inserts like that might have a practical function on some body part? Probably not…
As the night went on and the crowd kept changing and growing, I found myself sitting next to a young Filipino woman. We struck up a conversation. “How’d you get here?” “My parents left the Philippines to escape martial law.” Interesting. According to her, Ferdinand Marcos was a hero and a good governor when the Phillipines first gained independence from the US, except he listened to his wife, Imelda of the thousands of shoes, who came from a very poor background, was pretty much crazy and ran the country into the ditch. Sounded to me a lot like Eva Peron, who also came from a very poor background and married another dictator, who ran Argentina into the ditch, not once but several times - only Eva was a leftist and is lionized by lousy musical that has only one good song, while her soul-sister Imelda is (rightly) vilified as just a crazy evil bitch. My Filpina said Aquino (who was elected after they tossed Imelda out) was well intentioned, but couldn’t pull the country together again because it was so in the tank and it is spread too widely over too many islands sharply divided between Muslim and Christian areas. Now, after kicking the US Navy of Subic Bay after Vietnam, they are inviting the US back in?
Anybody who thinks backwater towns like Lincoln, Maine are nothing more than collections of down and out ignorant rednecks and hayseeds who do nothing but hunt and fish has another think coming. They may be right about the hunting and fishing, but a bartender with bright blue earrings, craft fruit flavored beers, and conversations about Asian politics with a Filipina masters candidate? Hey, Gilmor’s in Lincoln is a happening place. But time to pack it in before I get myself in real trouble!
S.O.D.: Route 2. Where is Waldo? MIA.

 
Friday, October 5 - Northern Maine

When I awoke, I realized that I had miscalculated. I wasn’t supposed to be in Lincoln today! By cutting North from Bar Harbor, I had gotten a day ahead of my itinerary. I was supposed to be in Calais. Now I was going to get to Rangeley Lakes a day ahead of schedule. So after breakfast featuring homemade cinnamon toast at the Timbers, I called ahead to the Rangeley Lakes B&B where I had a reservation for the next night to see if I could change it to tonight. Luckily I could, because as much as I may have enjoyed Gilmor’s, I didn’t particularly wish to spend another night at the Notel Motel. However, this seemingly minor change in plans was to have unforeseen consequences down the road!
As I was packing the bike to leave, I met my “neighbor”, who was  packing up his van, in his case because he was going (where else?) to Orlando for the winter. He informed me that in Florida, you absolutely needed to live in a gated community. OK, bro, if you say so.
Leaving town, I espied the sign of the day. Maybe the sign of the week:
Ben must do a big business in candles! I bet he could teach Sam Walton a thing or two about low overhead!
As I rode through Enfield, I passed a small restaurant with a big sign out front, “Still Serving Ice Cream and Good Food. Eat In or Take Out.” Huh? Targeted marketing to locals in northern Maine well past summer when everybody is heading south?
Except apparently me, now I’m heading west down 57 toward Milo, following a long, winding and misty technicolor corridor of reds and yellows with an occasional splash of stubborn green just for contrast, through the land of mobile homes and hardscrabble lumbering. Every truck that passed left the smell of fresh cut pine in their wakes. No lush farms here, although there was place where you could buy Fresh Cukes 3/$1. Passed a sign that read “Blind person.” Somebody had carefully added a 2 the beginning and an S at the end, so it read “2 Blind Persons.” So we will be twice as careful, or what? Shortly followed by another sign that read “Hidden Driveway.” Funny, I didn’t see anything!
Until I got close to Milo, when a big flock of turkeys emerged from the fog in a field by the side of the road. Beginning at Milo, where three rivers come together, the land starts to have more definition to it. Milo itself, population 1898, is dominated by a classic white steepled United Church of Christ in the center of town, across from the ubiquitous memorial to the Union civil war dead. It strikes me when I pass by The Pleasant River Lumber Company, with logs and lumber stacked high just as in Georgia that despite that history, these rural Mainers likely have a lot more in common with rural Georgians than they do with the artsy-craftsy set along their own Maine coast. I pass more and more farms, mostly livestock, and for the first time I see houses directly connected to their barns, so that you can go from one to the other in winter without venturing out into the harsh weather. (I have always wondered why this innovation is pretty much limited to New England?) Piles of chopped wood appear everywhere outside houses and trailer homes, some stacked precisely just so and others just in haphazard tangled heaps where the logs have been tossed, but either way a sure sign that winter is on its way. (Are they really burning logs inside those trailers? Probably…)
Just past Milo, I stop to see a classic covered bridge spanning the river. When I was growing up, I thought they only had these bridges in places like Vermont and Maine, sort of like maple syrup. Then I moved to Indiana and found a county west of Indianapolis known as covered bridge country that boasts a dozen or more of them (and Hoosiers are equally proud of their maple syrup, too!). Wherever they are, these bridges are minor engineering marvels that evoke images of snow and horse drawn wagon in days gone by.
 
The sun just began to break through the overcast clouds as I took this photo looking up river from the bridge.
An older couple arrives there right after I do. They are living proof that there is someone for everyone. He’s fat and white, she’s dumpy and black, and they are immensely happy together. He’s from Texas, she’s from here. I snapped some pictures of them at the bridge to take south for the winter. That trip wouldn’t have happened 50 years ago. They tell me the bridge was washed out in a flood in 1987, and rebuilt in 1990. Look at the picture, and how far it is from the bridge to the water: that must have been one huge flood. I wonder if the locals are still complaining about how Uncle Sam didn’t bail them out, as they are in New Orleans a decade after Katrina? Somehow I think not. Nobody is chopping wood for these people. They are independent. Rural folk, not city dwellers. Beyond Milo, everything begins to look much more prosperous. Maybe it’s just the sunshine making me delusional? No, it must be more prosperous: I start seeing more and more Romney-Ryan signs. Listening to Martina McBride sing Broken Wing reminds  me of the happy crow, and then I laugh out loud when the DJ asks “So, if you choke a smurf, what color would it be?” Along the way, I pass some very unique road signs:
 
In the Guilford river valley:
 
 

Pretty, but I am unprepared for when I arrive at the foot of Moosehead Lake: I am blown away. I don’t know what I expected, but Moosehead Lake is gorgeous.
 
I stop just outside of Moosehead to take another photo, at a spot where there is no shoulder and a cluster of cabins hug the shore below me. A group of people down there see me wandering back and forth trying to get a shot, and wave me to come on down. I leave my bike precariously balanced by the side of the road. They are setting up a tent for a wedding to be held there the coming weekend. They show me all around, very proud of their place.  What a view!
I thank them and say good bye, climb back up the hill to my bike. Before even trying to get on it,  I brush against it while putting on my gloves  it, just enough to disturb its delicate balance and… it dumps! I manage to prevent it from sliding down the hill, but at 800 ponds, there is no way I can right it. Before I know it, three or four of the guys setting up the tent are next me to help pick it up. Of course, I’m a bit embarrassed. Four of us right it, no problem, but to make things worse as I turn around to thank them and shake their hands, the bike falls over again! It’s pretty funny, and we all get a good laugh. I seem to always dump this damn bike when it’s sitting still! (Of course, that’s a lot better than dumping when it’s moving!) With a friendly wave, I’m off for Rangeley Lakes where I have a reservation at a B&B.
I keep on 6 all the way to Jackman, where I am just 15 miles from the Canadian border and a short drive to Montreal. I turn south on US 201 and follow what I learn is the “Old Canada Road, historically a big trade route to Montreal and an immigration highway for French Canadians seeking jobs in the US. Just after turning south, I come across the Attean Pond overlook, from where you can see all the way into Canada (and all the informational plaques are in both French and English!):
The Old Canada Road is fragrant with the smell of spruce and alive with a brilliant kaleidoscope of yellow of maples mixed randomly with the lemon green to rustic gold of turning birches, and slashed with white of sunlight reflecting off birch bark. I pull over at Parlin Pond just to walk around and soak it in. I neglect to remove my helmet, and as I walk down a trail to the lake front, I startle a beagle who growls and barks at this strange booted visitor from outer space invading his turf. And older fellow with a three day beard and Boston Red Sox hat appears and calls him off. I take off the helmet and make peace with the suspicious beagle by extending my hand for him to smell, and strike up a conversation with the Red Sox fan. He has a camp across the lake. He says there is fantastic fly fishing around here, especially since they banned the four wheelers, which were really tearing up the woods. Fewer and fewer people are hunting and fishing, too, so now you can once again take a short hike in peace and quiet into some smaller lakes even at the lower elevations, and catch plenty of wild trout. He loves the remoteness of this place, but I get the impression he would genuinely welcome visitors who would love it as much as he. I take note of a place called Bulldog Camp near Hackman that might be just the sort of base camp for such a trip.
 
This sign is across the road from Parlin Pond, out here in the middle of nowhere:
They feel differently here than does the artsy set around Kennebunkport. (If you can’t see it, that’s the Constitution he is ripping into shreds).
The Old Canada Road follows the Dead River straight south into Maine, but proximity to the border and a warm welcome to Canucks is evident. Where I stopped for lunch:
Rangeley Lakes Bed and Breakfast is very simple but passes all the key B&B tests: clean; plenty of hot water; comfortable beds; a fantastic breakfast; and an interesting host. “You won’t go away hungry,” the owner says. He is a stout retired paper mill worker with a heavy Maine accent, I think a widower. He says the B&B was his wife’s idea, but I see no evidence of her being around. He’s not a cotton top who heads south for the winter, he’s a year rounder. In fact, November (hunting season) and January-February (snowmobilers) are some of his busiest months. December and April (mud month) are his slowest. Yes, he has had moose meat. It’s good but not as good as elk, which we agree is the best meat either of us have ever had. He has hunted elk in the Colorado Rockies. We swap stories. I tell him of the time when I was backpacking at 12,000 feet and had to take cover in some trees when I found myself in the path of a herd of elk coming right at me. He tells me of the bull moose that walked through his back yard and stood in the middle of the road stopping traffic in front of his B&B the week before hunting season a few years ago.
I finish the night drinking the last of my vodka from a paper bag next to a “No Alcoholic Beverages” sign in the park, watching the sunset before walking down Main Street to the Rangeley Inn for dinner.
 On the walk, I pass more Mainers in flip flops and even one in bare feet. Gees! Don’t they know it’s cold outside? The Rangeley Inn is a restored early 20th century style resort hotel with one of the lakes at the backdoor, featuring a high ceilinged lobby graced by a gigantic moose head and a classic tavern with dark lights and red walls, a big bar and patterned ceiling – and they do know how to make a good martini!
I have fallen in love with Maine over the past few days. I am reluctant to leave tomorrow.
 
 
Saturday, October 6
Maine to New Hampshire

Over breakfast and hot coffee, newspaper headlines of the new 7.8% unemployment figure leads to a discussion about the state of the country among the innkeeper, some other guests from Michigan and me. Nobody at the table believes that unemployment has really fallen below 8% for the first time in 44 months the month before the election. It’s really disappointing when statistics published by our own government are regarded with skepticism, or even outright disbelief. The discussion turns to the docu-movie on Obama, 2016. About half the people at the table have seen it, all agree it should be seen, whether or not you agree with its conclusions. The newspaper also reports that there was a shooting in the Lewiston version of the projects; I wonder if that had anything to do with the Mayor’s comments on the Somalis, but the article sheds no light on that.
None of the world’s problems having been solved, it’s decision time for something I can control: do I stay in Rangeley Lakes another night, or push on? I call ahead to the lodge at Blue Mountain Lake in the Adirondacks where I have a reservation for Monday, to see if I can arrive a day early and stay two nights. Yes, they would have to put me in a different room, but I can. So next I try the Hampton Inn in White River Junction where I have a room for Saturday night: can I switch that to tonight? No, I can’t, its Columbus Day Weekend and they are all booked with leaf peekers. So I call back the lodge at Blue Mountain and say forget it, I’ll arrive on Sunday as planned. I decide to keep riding and find a place to stay somewhere along the way in New Hampshire or Vermont, which should allow a couple of very leisurely day’s rides through the White and Green mountains. So the chilly early morning finds me continuing down Route 16 toward New Hampshire, passing signs that say “Moose Antlers for Sale” and somewhat incongruously listening to Surfin’ Safari and dreaming of the Endless Summer while looking at autumn colors against an overcast sky. The electric guitars of BB King and Eric Clapton keep the rhythm upbeat, and pretty soon I am mesmerized by the long double yellow lines of a two lane highway that undulates like the curve of a woman’s flank from her knees, over her hips, into her waist and back out again. I never have to change out of 4th or brake, just point and lean with the road and adjust the throttle. The background hum of the four cylinder engine enlarges to a throaty growl when I decelerate coming into a steep grade and accelerate through the curve at the bottom, drowning out the music. What election? I’m probably smiling as I ride, but certainly before too long I am pushing the envelope maybe a little too far, I get an occasional clutch in the groin like riding the downhill side of a roller coaster when I think maybe I might be coming too fast or at the wrong lean or trajectory into a curve – but it feels really good when you come out of it!

I hit the border at the Magalloway River, and took this shot looking across the valley to the White Mountains in New Hampshire:
 
And this of one of those connected barns at the Magalloway River Farm:
As I got closer to Berlin, the countryside became more pastoral. I drove through Flint Holsteins and man, could I smell them! And the wind picked up, leaves blowing in the air and American flags flapping straight out from their staffs, you could almost feel winter blowing in. Then into Berlin, and old industrial town stuffed between granite ridges in a narrow river valley, where I ran smack into generational differences. Stopped at an intersection, a girl who looked to be in her late teens came running down the hill and around the corner, barely breathing hard, striding like a fit young deer. It made me a little nostalgic for when I had knees that worked as God intended and I could run like that without them hurting. I pulled into a Dunkin Donuts across the intersection to get something hot and to warm up. Inside were a half dozen older locals sitting around like they might have done around the wood stove at the local country store a century before,  swapping stories about old Saturday Night Live skits and remembering Gilda Rattner and Baba Wawa. I’d rather have been running!

West of New Berlin, the landscape became increasingly rugged as the road climbed into the mountains toward Crawford Notch. No more placid farm valleys, these were rugged boulder strewn stream gouged gorges that reminded me of the eastern slope of the Rockies, only here were stands of birch rather than aspen. Several times I considered pulling over and checking into one of the many motels or lodges that had vacancy signs, but I had not thought to bring boots to hike in. Note to self: wear army boots, good for riding and hiking! Besides, it seemed a little early yet, and the area was overrun with busloads of Indian (red dot, not red feather) tourists and hikers at every trail access, so I decided I would push on and find something on the other side of the notch.
The Silver Cascade at Crawford Notch is awesome:

Same place, same day:
As I left the cascade, and crested the notch, the sun disappeared and it began to mist. The further down the slope I rode, the heavier it became. I stopped at a lodge across from Bretton Woods to see if I could get a room. No Vacancy. Uh oh. The manager was kind enough to call several other places on my way west. Nothing. A few turned into a dozen. No luck. All the way to Littleton, one place only had a room and they had a 2 night minimum. Two other groups came in seeking shelter while I was there, were turned away. Two choices: backtrack across the notch many miles to where there had been vacancies, or continue on my way. I elected to push on, surely something would turn up. The manager counseled staying off I93 South as there was nothing but forest down the way all the way to Woodstock, she suggested heading over toward Woodville.
So I cut across New Hampshire on secondary highways, at first passing sign after sign that read “Happily Filled,” or “No Rooms Tonight”, or simply, “No”, and then no more signs at all, enduring increasingly cold rain and blustery winds on back roads covered with leaves that a few hours ago were pretty in the wind but were now covering the pavement and treacherously wet and slippery. The roads were narrow, twisty and humped for rain runoff, not banked for vehicles, so I had to take them carefully and slowly. I passed a place with gliders in the field and a fellow bringing in saddles from the barn, but no room at the inn. Road signs? Useless. It was drizzling too hard to look at a map and there was no cell phone service on the back roads around Mt Mobislauke. As my only alternative, I tried to stick to the more heavily trafficked roads on my theory that they would more likely lead to a town large enough to have a hotel. I took the right hand turn at the center of one small burg, got to the edge of town, turned around and rode all the way back through it, nothing! Somehow I missed the turn to Woodville and found myself near the Vermont border near North Haverhill. I took the first bridge across the Connecticut River because I knew US Highway 5 lay on the other side, surely there would be something there.
There was. A little country store. I stopped and asked if there were any hotels, motels or B&B’s anywhere nearby. Only in Woodville (!) which was back across the river and north. A very nice young girl trying to be helpful began to give me impossibly complicated directions to a possible place in Woodville, but I decided to let my fingers do the driving before striking out again. At least they had cell service. Half a dozen calls later, calling all the way to White River Junction and asking each place if they knew of another place that might have a room, I found only one place, the Hanover Inn at Dartmouth. One night there was more expensive than two nights at the two-night minimum place I had turned down earlier, which I suspect is the only reason they still had any rooms left. Literally, any port in a storm. I took it before it was gone, too!
 
At least the weather gods showed some mercy. The rain stopped while I was inside looking for a place to stay, and stayed away. The doorman at the Hanover Inn fell in love with the bike. He loved BMWs. I gave him a big tip to look after it for me, and somehow I ran him several times that evening as I wandered  around campus. Each time he stopped to say hello and chat. Even with his suggestions as to where to find something to do, it turned out to be one of the dullest Saturday nights I have ever spent in a college town. The campus was pretty enough, but nothing was going on. Even with a soccer game under the lights as entertainment, Dartmouth was deserted. There were three types of people on the streets: scruffy-looking pretend rebels (Real rebels at Dirtmouth? Give me a break.); well-dressed preppy types; and geeky looking Asians (especially in the library!), not many of any of them but by far more Asians than anything else. I found a Chinese restaurant and sat across from a table of about 12 girls, 2 were black, two were very loud and obviously Jewish, one of whom was loudly complaining that her boyfriend was in London with his husband – I kid you not. Talk about confused!  All were equally unfortunate, and clearly could not find a date on Saturday night. Oh, boy.  I turned my attention to an article in a student newspaper highlighting the research of a professor on segregation in America today. He found that there were virtually no all-white segregated communities left, but that there were many very segregated all-black communities. The article did not theorize the why behind that phenomenon, but I suspect it is pretty simple: all people want to move up the socio-economic strata, which in America meant blacks moving “up” into wealthier mainly white communities, but few white people really want to move down the socio-economic strata into mainly black communities. Wonder if I could get a government grant to research that? But the article did get me to thinking about how many blacks I saw (or didn’t see) in Hanover. Other than the two at dinner, one girl pulling her jacket tightly to keep out the cold while hurrying across campus in high heels. I didn’t see a single black male anywhere all night.
I stuck my head into a student play written by a student, not well attended and it quickly became clear why: very amateurish. I found free film that I thought looked interesting bring shown at the art museum, but it was already more than 30 minutes in when I found the place, so I skipped it. I tried to go see one of “the treasures of Dartmouth”, the Orozco masterpiece mural described as the Epic of American History (perhaps better described as Cowboys vs. Indians?) in the main library – and it was locked up for the night! Wandering back across campus, through a fraternity window I could see 4 or 5 guys playing ping pong, with one girl hanging around looking bored. Whoopee! Maybe there was some hope for them there, as another girl was walking up the steps with a guy carrying a bottle of booze in a brown paper bag. I went back downtown past what looked like a bar on the second floor where I could seem more students playing ping pong. What is it with ping pong on Saturday night at Dartmouth? Boring. At last I stumbled upon a place called the Salt Box Pub that advertised blues music tonight. It was a mixed age crowd, with many of the obligatory frizzy haired professor-types in their grey socks, Birkenstocks, and shapeless smocks, and no free tables - so I ordered a Bass standing  at the bar. Sensitized by the article, I noticed that the only black students in the place were the ones wearing South Carolina football helmets on TV. The band started up hopefully, with a barefoot female singer who belted sort a sort of bluesy number that still set off warning bells in my brain because it was like blues with an intellectual bent. The trumpet and trombone player wore an old tuxedo with tails that I’m sure he thought was very campy. The next few songs had nothing to do with the blues although they described them as New Orleans style music. I decided that all the members of the band were probably music school professors. I don’t know what they were playing, but it wasn’t blues. Dull dull dull. Oh, I mean, really dull.
 
Could this be another confused Dartmouth student?
Or juts a gay terrorist?
Or maybe both?
 
Sign of the day: No Vacancy.

 

To be continued…

 
 
 
 
 

1 comment:

  1. Thank you for your posts. I discovered your blog, while searching for information about my great grandfather, and where he lived in Maine. I am anxious to visit there myself.

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