Rain

It rained on our wedding day and it rained on our honeymoon, so I guess it was only appropriate that it would rain on our anniversary bike ride.

The view from our motel room on a rainy morning.

We woke to rain, walked to breakfast in the rain, and watched the rain pour down outside from our table at The Red Skiff. Rob enjoyed his blueberry pancakes and I savored my over-easy eggs, bacon, toast, and homefries. The bacon was terrific, especially when I made it into a sandwich with the whole wheat toast and dunked it into the egg yolk. It took my mind off the worry of getting hit by a car that wouldn’t be able to see me in the pouring rain. Not to mention getting soaked. It was really coming down hard.

The Red Skiff, a cozy diner, was rather deserted on a rainy
Tuesday morning in May.

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A couple years ago we had a very long rainy day during a week's tour in Vermont. We got soaked in the morning, dried off at lunch, and were soaked again within 15 minutes of getting back on our bikes. But the barns and pastures in the distance had a mystical quality, colors muted by the gray sky, edges softened by the moist air. When Rob asked me afterwards what my favorite day of the trip was, I said, ‘The day it rained.”

It was still coming down hard as we walked back to our room. I checked the weather forecast on my phone.

“It’s supposed to let up around 10 o’clock,” I said. We could wait that long, but no longer.

And by 10 o’clock the rain had turned into a fine mist. We turned on our red flashing rear lights and put on reflective vests over our gortex jackets.

We took a different route back to Gloucester, passing through small towns with antique homes and libraries and quiet inland harbors. The fog and mist muffled sound and softened the edges of time and distance. 

It took about four hours to get to Newburyport, where we stopped at Not Your Average Joe's for a late lunch. We started right in on the fresh bread our server brought out with a generous serving of olive oil mixed with parmesan cheese and spices. That filled me right up, so I just ordered a Waldorf side salad - granny smith apples, dried cranberries, grapes, candied pecans, smoked mozzarella and romaine, with creamy sherry vinaigrette – a beautiful kaleidoscope of flavors and textures. Rob had a Tuscan chicken sandwich.

Rob had requested a table with a view of our bikes parked outside and while we were waiting for our food, we saw another cyclist, fully loaded, parking his bike next to ours. When he came inside, I said to Rob, “Let’s invite him to join us.” Having been on a solo ride myself, I know it gets lonely sometimes, not the riding so much as the stopping. And I love hearing the stories of other cyclists, especially the ones, like this fellow, who are obviously traveling long distances.

His name was Nick. He looked to be in his thirties, tall and solidly built. His beard gave him a friendly attitude. He lived in Ontario, Canada, and had caught a ride to Vermont where he started his journey, had ridden to Acadia National Park and down the coast, was heading to Cape Cod that night and then on to Boston to meet some friends, all this in about six days. (I was duly impressed.) He’d ridden a number of self-contained tours before this one, some with his girlfriend.

“I read about this guy who rode a hundred miles a day, so I figured I would do that. It’s gotten so I have to ride at least a hundred miles every day,” he said. “If I get to a campground and I haven’t ridden a hundred miles, I’ll ride around some more to get to a hundred. I have to feel like I’ve pushed myself.”

I once rode 500 miles in five days in the Colorado Rockies, just to say I’d done it. I was younger then, but, still, it wasn’t fun.

“You must be able to keep up a pretty fast pace to do that,” I said.

“Not really,” said Nick. “I usually ride about 12 miles an hour. But I can go forever at that pace. I’ve met up with guys who are riding fast and they were spent by early afternoon. I’ll could keep going another four hours or more.”

“That’s a long day,” I said.

“I get up early. I’m on the road by six o’clock,” he said.

But he admitted that his girlfriend isn’t really into the hundred-mile-a-day thing, so she gave this particular trip a pass.

Nick said, “I’m beginning to wonder why I’m even doing it. I don’t know anymore.”

As I’ve mentioned in an earlier blog, I hold to riding an average of 50 miles a day on long trips, leaving time for the spontaneous hike, visit to a museum, or a swim and nap at a state park. More than just riding, it’s about seeing the places you ride through and meeting people along the way.

I said, “Maybe your girlfriend has the right idea.”

Outside Not Your Average Joe's after lunch. The loaded bike on the right (cut off in this photo) belonged to our new friend Nick.

By the time we got back on our bikes it was after 3 o’clock and all precipitation had stopped, even though the sky remained overcast. Soon enough we were back at Hampton Beach, fighting a head wind; we couldn’t push past nine miles an hour. The streets were deserted, only an occasional pedestrian. It wasn’t the kind of day to invite strolling along the beach.

The town of Hampton Beach, above, and the beach itself, below, on a rainy weekday, late May.

Then we turned inland to Exeter where we stopped in the park along the river, to rest and eat something before the final push home. As we finished off the food left in our packs – some peanuts, an orange – I noticed movement in the grass on the other side of the chain link fence along the river bank.

“Look, there’s a mother duck and her babies,” I said.

She didn’t acknowledge my presence when I leaned over the fence for a better look.

“There are four ducklings,” I said. They sat in a tight pile against their mother, nestled against the fence in the wild grasses of the river bank. Rob, who gets excited whenever a family of wild turkeys wanders into our yard at home, didn’t get up, just took my word for it. He was conserving his energy.

A Philips-Exeter Prep School crew of eight rowed by. It was getting on to six o’clock.

The park in Exeter.
(Did I take a picture of the mother duck
and her babies? Nope.
Guess I was just too entranced by them to think of it.)

“We’d better get going,” said Rob. With the sky still gray above, we’d have to hurry to get home before dark. And we just barely made it. More and more cars coming by with their headlights on made me think we should be stopping to get out our lights, but we pushed on, getting home around eight o’clock.

Looking back, is this a trip to do again? Yes, but it would be fun to stretch it out over several days to have time to explore some of the sights along the way. Just outside of Newburyport is Plum Island, an 11-mile long barrier island. Then there are the art galleries and craft shops in Gloucester and Rockport. It could easily be a 4-day trip.

Leave a comment if you would like details on our route.

Celebrating 33 Years Together:

Monday, May 23, 2016        85.49 miles    11.37 mph     Riding time: 7 hours, 30 minutes
Tuesday, May 24, 2016        84.23 miles    11.20 mph     Riding time: 7 hours, 31 minutes

On to Rockport

I thought I was planning a 70-mile trip, but it turned out to be 85 miles. (That's 170 miles round trip instead of 140.)

In Salisbury, Massachusetts, houses stacked three deep blocked our views of the water, which was probably just as well. We had to keep our eyes on the road to avoid hitting one of the plentiful potholes.

Our view from lunch in Newburyport. Apparently I cut off half of the elderly couple out for their midday stroll.

Then it was over the Merrimack River into Newburyport, with its historic brick buildings and brick sidewalks, small craft shops and pedestrian-friendly downtown. We found the waterfront park along the river, with an expansive lawn and boardwalk, parked our bikes and got out our lunch. Sitting on a wooden bench in the sun, eating our sandwiches of hummus and tomato sprinkled with garlic salt, we looked out over a harbor filled with luxury boats, watched the occasional mom with a stroller or elderly couple walk by. A gentle breeze cooled off our sweaty selves.

I looked at my odometer.

Rob asked, “How far have we gone?”

“Forty-five. I blew it. I must have forgotten about the 10 miles from Hampton Beach to here. I think we have another 35 to go. We’ll do at least 80.”

We wouldn’t have much extra time. Our sightseeing would have to be from our bicycle seats. But Rob didn’t seem to mind. His only response was, “Oh, well.” What’s another 10 miles?

Back on our bikes we passed tidal flats and organic farms with their scent of fresh manure, some fields turned over and ready for planting. Then more traffic, a detour onto a country road, traffic again, a stretch along a river, past marshes, and into Gloucester, where we stopped just before downtown to wait while a small drawbridge finished letting a boat through.

Gloucester was the last port of the Andrea Gail, the commercial fishing boat lost at sea during the “Perfect Storm” of 1991. Known as a working class fishing town, it has become more upscale recently with art galleries and coffee shops.

We needed rest and fuel. But the waterfront seemed to be mainly working piers, no quiet dockside coffee shop in sight. We pushed our bikes up the hill to the main street where we found an Italian bakery, its glass display case filled with pastries. Some had cream exploding out of them. I asked the woman behind the counter what they were, and she said they were filled with ricotta cheese. She pronounced ricotta with a real Italian accent.

“And what about those?” I pointed to something that looked similar.

“Those are baked ricotta,” she said.

“What’s the difference?”

She explained that one had the cream baked inside and the other didn’t.

I picked the one with the baked ricotta. Rob ordered an éclair and we grabbed lemonade drinks out of the cooler. We sat at a small metal table on the sidewalk in front of the bakery.

As I bit into my pastry, the flaky crust crackled and crumbs fell everywhere. This was the real thing. The dough had been carefully rolled out to paper-thin thickness and then wrapped around the ricotta filling and baked to a delicate crispness.

“How is it?” Rob asked.

“Great. I think I’m going to stop by tomorrow to pick one up for the ride home.”

The last 11 miles to Rockport were the best of the day. Quiet residential roads passed through neighborhoods of well-kept modest-sized homes with small front yards filled with colorful flowers. Then we came to a dramatic coastline, waves crashing against rocks piled along the shore. And on the hill on the other side of the road, beautiful Victorian houses close beside one another. I pictured myself sitting on one of their wooden porches with the surf a perfect backdrop to a good book, a cup of tea, and a pastry. Or some fine chocolate. I’d put my feet up on the railing and, hands cupped around my tea mug, just sit for a few minutes as I’d study the waves, watching the different ways they would break over the same rock.

I would be quite content to have a view like this from my front porch.

We arrived in Rockport shortly before 5 o’clock, and found the small peninsula known as Bearskin Neck. We’d ridden 85 miles.

Bearskin Neck Motor Lodge is about as low-budget as you can get in Rockport, but you can't beat the location and the view (on the other side of the building).

We had a room booked at the Bearskin Neck Motor Lodge, a small family-owned place at theend of the neck, every one of the seven rooms opening onto a common balcony that overlooked the ocean. The owner gave us the option of locking our bikes outside, behind the office, or bringing them up to our room on the second floor. I looked at the narrow wooden staircase at the side of the building. It would be easier to leave the bikes outside down here.

“What do you want to do?” I asked.

Rob said, “I’d feel better if we brought our bikes up to our room.”

We pulled the panniers off, leaving them for a second trip. I hoisted my bike over my shoulder and up the stairs, another couple watching us from the top, waiting to go down themselves, as we squeezed by them.

The room was nothing fancy, no cozy comforters or antique furniture, just a basic motel room in nondescript colors with two beds, a small fridge, a table and two chairs. The window opened onto the balcony and a screen door allowed us to welcome in even more of the ocean air. And there was enough room for two bicycles. It was perfect.

After a shower I settled into one of the plastic white chairs on the balcony with a book and a cup of hot tea. Maybe we didn’t own one of those historic Victorians we’d passed by, but I still felt rich, looking out on the ocean and blue sky stretching to infinity and listening to the surf rattling the rocks below. Rob joined me but he never sits and reads. He’s always watching, looking around.

“That guy is stealing stones off the wall,” he said. I looked over next door and saw a man taking a large stone, and then another, off the stone wall between the building and the water. When I want to tease Rob I call him Mrs. Kravits, that nosy neighbor from the old television show, Bewitched.

We didn’t sit long before heading out for a short walk and dinner. Unfortunately, we couldn’t check out the many colorful shops crowded onto this small spit of land. By the time we arrived everything was closing for the day, or still hadn’t opened for the season. 

We did walk to the end of the peninsula, just past our motel, where a granite bench had been donated by a resident on her 100^th birthday. I like that. Don’t wait until you die to have someone dedicate a bench to your memory. Just do it yourself. It does have more punch if you live to a hundred though.

Rockport
My home for over 100 years
Gertrude (Tarr) Reed
Given on My 100th Birtday
July 5, 1995
Sit Relax Enjoy

There were only a couple of restaurants within walking distance that were open for dinner, both serving seafood. We chose Roy Moore’s Fish Shack and waited for a table by the window. We were in no hurry.

Looking over our menus, Rob asked, “What are you thinking about getting?”

We ate lobster when we honeymooned on Cape Cod and Martha’s Vineyard.  Since this was our anniversary I knew that’s what he wanted, but I figured he was waiting for me to bring it up. I said, “If you order a lobster dinner then I’ll have to. I can’t sit here and watch you eat it.” We both ordered the lobster.

This restaurant may have started as a fish shack, but the food was fine dining. We shared a crab cake appetizer, loaded with flaky crab and delicate spices and fried to a gentle crispness, and a baby field greens salad with pecans and feta cheese.

Then our lobsters came. Growing up, Rob’s family never shared food when they went out to eat. When we were first married and I’d ask him for a taste of whatever he’d ordered, he had a hard time giving up even a small bite of his dinner. Now he usually offers before I even ask. (And, foodie that I am, I usually do ask). So when one of Rob’s claws came out looking like it had been struck by polio, all shriveled up, I thought it only fair to give him a chunk of one of mine, to even us up.

I once heard that back in the 1800s farmhands in Nova Scotia had it written in their contracts that they couldn’t be fed lobster more than twice a week. It was so plentiful it was considered a poor man’s dish. But I’m sure they didn’t have unlimited melted butter to drown it in. So now, sometimes I wonder, is it the lobster served with butter that I love, or the butter served with lobster?

While we waited for the check, we noticed a few raindrops falling outside. The forecast had called for a 50% chance of rain tomorrow. It looked like it was already starting.

“Think we can rent a car to get us home tomorrow?” Rob joked.

We could be looking at a wet ride back.

Worth the Risk?

To Rockport, MA

When I met Rob he didn’t own a bicycle. But when he realized how passionate I was about cycling he decided to buy one. Then I invited him to join me on a two-day ride through Rocky Mountain National Park, convinced him to compete in a triathlon, and watched as he got side-swiped by a hit-and-run driver on a mountain road outside Boulder, Colorado. That last episode cost him a piece of collarbone.

Rob, in turn, witnessed my acrobatic flip when I hit a rock on a ride several years later. The concussion from the fall buried any memory of my takeoff and flight. But it would have been worse if a patch of poison ivy hadn’t cushioned my landing.

We've had our share of crises, both on and off the road. But we made it to our 33rd anniversary and decided to celebrate with an overnight ride to Rockport, Massachusetts. Starting from our house in Madbury, New Hampshire, I calculated the ride to be about 70 miles each way. We'd arrive in Rockport around 3 in the afternoon, giving us time to walk around and browse some of the shops and art galleries.

We were on the road by 7:30 a.m., the air fresh and shadows long. We soon stopped to take off our jackets as the day heated up.

After 15 miles on quiet country roads, we turned onto a major highway heading east towards the seacoast, cars passing by at high speeds, one after another, big trucks with a WHOOSH! of wind as I grabbed tight onto my handlebars to stay upright. I focused on sinking into a cruising speed of 17 miles an hour, thankful for the wide, smooth shoulder.

As we approached the coast, the heavy hot air became a cool gentle breeze and the stink of exhaust gave way to the pungent smell of salt water. We turned south on coastal Route 1A and took on a more relaxed pace. In spring, the seacoast belongs to the locals who, like us, are fortunate enough to escape for a summer preview in the middle of the week. Those old enough to be done with the working life and too young for school walk the beaches. Black dots in the surf that look like sea lions are surfers in wetsuits hanging out on their boards, thankful for any wave the calm sea offers. Businesses along the road are closed on a weekday, tourists only a trickle. We savored this part of the ride, with smooth roads and only the occasional car passing by at a moderate speed.

Condominiums and motels, one after another, signaled our arrival in Hampton Beach, the tourist mecca of the New Hampshire seashore. The long untarnished stretch of beach provides a stark contrast to the arcades, T-shirt shops and junk food stands on the opposite side of the road. In July we'll occasionally come to check out the sculptures during the annual sand sculpture contest but otherwise we stay away from the crowds and traffic that congregate here during the hot summer months.

Traffic was sparse. But it takes only one car to ruin a bicyclist’s day. A white sedan passed dangerously close beside me, slowed down, pulled over, drove back into my lane, slowed again. I stayed back, too nervous to pass. When it finally pulled over and stopped, I rode up and knocked on the window. Two older women were inside. The driver rolled down her window and I said, “You passed me way too close back there.”

She apologized and said they were lost. I tried to give directions. But getting back on my bike I just hoped they got the message to drive more carefully. If I’d landed in the hospital or funeral home after they hit me, they wouldn’t care if they were lost. And I’d care even less.

From Hampton Beach we rode over the bridge to Seabrook. Three years ago, during a Granite State Wheelmen century ride, a young woman, driving without a license and high on drugs, sped over the bridge into the opposite lane. She plowed into four cyclists riding single file, killing two and severely injuring the others.

On the other side of the bridge I looked for the makeshift memorials for the two women who died. There they were, in a sand dune by the side of the road, pictures and plastic flowers sitting in the sand dune by the side of the road.

The tragedy brought into focus for every serious bicyclist in this part of New England how dangerous our sport is. I wrote a feature article commemorating the first anniversary of that ride for a local paper. Several of the riders I interviewed, some of them witnesses to the crash, said it would be several months before they would get back on their bikes. Yet, not a single person considered hanging up their bicycle for good. I’m sure it’s different for each of us, but whatever it is about cycling that grabs your soul, it owns you forever.

The two riders who survived are both riding again.

[Here’s the article. http://www.fosters.com/article/20140914/GJNEWS_01/140919609]

I'd love to hear from other cyclists. What is it about bicycling that keeps us riding, even when we hear of yet another rider killed on the road?

Not All Rides Are Fun and Games

May 15, 2016

"I have no idea where we are."

We had finally come to an intersection, but I couldn’t find it on my map. I guessed that we had bicycled off the page I had brought along, and now we were on another page, one left at home. 

Rob and I were exploring a new route from Madbury, New Hampshire, to York Beach in Maine. It had been a lovely ride so far. Riding along quiet country roads, we’d had a light tail wind; I had wanted to average 12 miles per hour, and we were riding comfortably at 13. We passed lush green fields, with horses grazing here and there. The yellow daffodils and forsythia of two weeks ago had given way to gentle purples of lilacs and phlox. The trees sparkled with yellow-green spring leaves. All was fine except that somehow we had turned up on the wrong road.

I flagged down a pickup truck as it pulled up to the stop sign.

“We’re trying to get to York,” I told the woman in the passenger’s seat. “We seem to be lost.”

“We’re going that way, over the mountain. You turn left here and then take a right.”

For some reason that didn’t make sense. After they pulled away, I checked with the woman in my smart phone. She confirmed the left turn. We’d ridden extra miles but we weren’t too far off course.

Then we hit dirt and gravel for a stretch of road work. Bouncing along, I felt unsteady and unclipped from one of my pedals, just in case. But we turned off onto a paved road – Mountain Road - soon enough, taking us over Mt. Agamenticus. Then we were on dirt again and I started skidding going up a hill when my tires wouldn’t grab. I glanced at my map, and couldn’t see where it was marked as unpaved; I guess I can’t trust the map. Fortunately the sparse traffic didn’t kick up much dust.

The Cape Neddick River runs into the ocean just north of York Beach.

Back on pavement, easy riding brought us to the coastal road. At 30 miles we arrived in York Beach, a strip of summer rentals, ice cream stands and T-shirt shops. Tucked down a side street that dead-ended onto the beach was our destination, Rossi's Italian Bakery, a treasure my friends and I had found on a bike ride a couple years ago.

But it wasn't there. Just a sign that said “Bakery For Lease or Sale.” 

A young man saw us standing, dejected, in front of the empty storefront. "They moved. The rent went up. They're over on Route 1 now."

Gone.

Route 1 is the main thoroughfare running north and south just slightly inland from the coast, crowded with traffic lights, strip malls, restaurants, and tourist junk shops. We weren't going to bike over there, not even for a delicious Italian pastry.

Even with the setbacks, we enjoyed the morning. But our day turned around from the point when our destination disappeared.

We rode out to Nubble Lighthouse, one of those tourist places where everyone stops – artists, bicyclists, tour buses, families with kids excitedly climbing all over the rocky shoreline. A cold wind was blowing today; I put on my neck warmer, thankful I’d brought it. Rob and I sat on one of the stone benches overlooking the surf and ate our hummus and tomato sandwiches, with no delicious Italian pastry for dessert. I pulled out a tiny fun-size bag of M&Ms that I had discovered in the pantry that morning.

"There aren't enough to share," I said. The entire bagful didn't even fill my hand, nothing fun about that.

"Come on, give me some," said Rob.

There were four blue ones. Blue is Rob's favorite color. "Here, I'll give you the blue ones."

The benches had inscriptions on them, many in memory of someone.

I said, “When I die, throw my ashes somewhere in the Rocky Mountains and dedicate a bench to me.”

 

Rob perked up after I shared 
my M&Ms with him.
That's Nubble Lighthouse in the distance.

I was hanging out with the bikes while Rob went to the restroom. A man heading into the gift shop said, "You're courageous to be out riding in this wind."

"Oh, it won't be bad," I said. "It's always windy here because we're out on a point."

But I was wrong. That light tailwind we had in the morning became a strong headwind that plagued us the entire way home. Pushing against it, I was climbing hills I’d never noticed before on this ride. And that damn wind kept throwing crap into my eyes.

When we passed through Kittery, I thought about calling for a stop at Lil's, my favorite café. I was getting hungry and sure would enjoy something delicious. But I decided to tough it out, build some character, and I’ve got excess weight to get rid of. Besides, we had planned to get home in time to catch up on some chores and we were already heading into overtime.

After passing Kittery we had a terrific view 
of theSarah Long Bridge that connects 
Maine andNew Hampshire.

We had saved the most scenic part of the ride for the return trip, but it was lost on me. I thought about my celebration ride two weeks ago, grateful the weather was perfect that day.

We were almost back in Dover, less than an hour from home. I called to Rob to pull off as we passed by a golf course.

I said, “I need to eat.”

We sat on a stone wall and pulled out the rest of our food, apples and peanuts. Rob tucked his apple core inside the stone wall. “That’ll make a squirrel happy,” he said.

Once we got through Dover, we took the direct way home, down the state highway with traffic whizzing by, thankful for the wide shoulder. Once on the quiet country road that took us to our neighborhood, I no longer cared about how fast we were going, or about the chores that weren’t going to get done. I was just happy to get home, shower, and take a nap.

I had wanted to average at least 12 miles an hour. We barely made 11. But we had ridden 66 miles in tough conditions. I’ll call it a successful training ride. In a week Rob and I are celebrating our anniversary by bicycling to Rockport, Massachusetts, and back. It's about 70 miles one way, maybe 80. We want to make sure we’re in good enough shape to enjoy it.

At dinner Rob went on and on about what a great day he had, what a beautiful ride that was. I’m usually the optimistic one, so I am completely befuddled. Where did he ride today and who was that riding with me?