Day 3: Sunday, May 24, 2015
Yarmouth to Bailey’s Island: 38 miles (averaging 10.72 mph)
Sometimes, when the riding
gets tough – my butt so sore it feels like I’m sitting on top of a flag pole, the
legs tell me they’re done for the day and I tell them we have at least 20 more
miles, and here comes another hill to climb while traffic is roaring by at 60
mph and I’m hanging onto a narrow shoulder pockmarked with pot holes – I wonder how I can think this is fun. Then, the next day, we meander down scenic back roads with a light breeze and the
temperature in the seventies, the views opening up on pristine bays and
rock-strewn coasts, and I feel sorry for all the poor fools who think that
riding a bicycle is work.
And today is just that day. We get started
shortly after noon and ride a bit on U.S. Route 1, where the highway runs
quietly for a stretch without the bother of coastal towns and their
restaurants, strip malls and tacky tourist traps. Then we’re off on local roads that loosely
follow the coastline. We stop for a late lunch at a boat launch, overlooking a
peaceful bay. As we eat we watch the sky darken and rain begins to fall and we put rain covers on our panniers.
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| We stop for lunch at Wharton Point boat launch. |
But it doesn’t
rain and the riding is fine, even as we start getting into some hills. Then we're starting our tour of Maine's peninsulas and a few of its many islands. (Maine has
over 3000 islands – 3166 if you believe Wikipedia.
But, according to waterfrontpropertiesofmaine.com
only 41 of these are inhabited.)
We ride across causeways and bridges and by now we have likely arrived on Orr’s
Island and should be getting to our campground. Which we can’t seem to find. We
pass cemeteries and ponds and woods and driveways and dirt roads and a sign for
a motel, but nothing
about a campground.
A garden catches our attention and alongside is a café. Inside, Rob waits patiently in line, then asks the woman behind the counter if she knows anything about the campground. Is it open?
“Oh, yes. It should be open. Head back north, past the cemetery and when you can see
a pond on your right look for the dirt road on the left with a wagon wheel at
the end of it.”
We ride back a
mile or so and find the cemetery and there’s the pond but we still haven’t seen
any sign for a campground. We turn around and try again, stop
along the side of the road and then we do see a dirt road with a wagon wheel. But there's no sign. We ride down the road anyway, and there's the campground in a gorgeous spot overlooking the water
which would be a lovely place to spend the night. But not for us. There's a sign that welcomes seasonal RVs, but no tents because there's no bath house. So that’s
that.
I take the turn off the dirt road onto the highway
just a tad too sharp and don't unclip out of my pedals in time. I hit the dirt, indignity added to disappointment.
At this point,
anyone else would pull out his or her smart phone and ask Siri where’s the
nearest campground, or motel or B&B. But all we have is a dumb phone that is
next to useless once we’re beyond any major populated area.
So instead of asking Siri, I ask Rob, “Did
you see that sign for a motel? Let’s check it out.”
We follow the
arrows into a residential neighborhood and bicycle around in what feels like suburbia and an unlikely place for a motel. I go up one road and Rob
another and when a car stops at an intersection Rob talks to the driver, who tells him the
motel was turned into condos a few years ago. I guess nobody cares about updating those blue highway signs.
No campground,
no motel.
We stop back at the café and this old guy
sitting at a table drinking coffee says there are several motels down the road.
We cross the bridge to Bailey Island and straight ahead, on the other side, is a motel.
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| Straight ahead to the Bailey Island Motel |
Inside the office, I ask the woman behind
the desk about a room.
“I can give you
one for $125.”
“That’s a
little more than we were hoping to spend. Are you the only place around?”
“There’s another
motel down the road. It’s cheaper but we have a better view.”
“What are the
chances of you renting out your last room while we go check it out?”
“We have plenty
of rooms left.” Evidently the tourist season hasn't started. “I’ll tell you what. I can let you have a room for $100.”
Outside, Rob and I discuss our options. I can totally get into parking myself in one of the Adirondack chairs overlooking the harbor, and Rob's got his eye on the restaurant next door.
The budget will take a hit tonight.
[The Bailey Island Motel turns out t be a real gem. Check out this newspaper
article which describes it perfectly. You’ll want to visit, for sure.]
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