Clenching my handlebars, I
struggled to hold a steady course as the wind threatened to steer my bicycle
into a pothole, or off the road. The scenery of the southern coast of Maine -
waves crashing against rocks and boats languishing in harbors - was lost on me that
day. I had to keep my head down and eyes focused on the road. The wind must
have been coming from the east, from across the ocean, because it didn’t
matter, riding north or south, it was all the same, pedaling against an April wind
determined to throw my bike – with me on it - onto the ground.
When I passed a golf course I
was astonished to see people out there swinging their clubs. “They’re crazy!
How can they play golf in this wind?” I said to myself. Then, “Wait a minute, I must be totally out of my mind, I’m out here, too.” I laughed
as I realized that riding a bike in that wind was way nuttier than playing golf.
But that’s what we do this time of year, eager as we are to get started on the
cycling season. We pull out our bikes, pump up the tires, bundle up, and get
going without bothering to check the weather.
But I didn’t want 60 miles of
misery for my birthday ride, so I did check the weather, many times, keeping an
eye out for that little windsock icon on weather.gov. And there was no sign of
it, only a shining sun and temperatures in the fifties.
 |
| Maura always bundles up, but today the temperatures warranted it. |
Some of my riding companions had
to work on my actual birthday, so I scheduled my celebratory ride for the
following day, Besides my husband Rob, three friends joined me. Nancy and I
have shared adventures with and without our
children for over 20 years. Most anywhere we go, if there is water, she finds a way to get in it.
Maura and I became friends while cheering our daughters through eight years of
track and cross country meets. If Nancy will go swimming on the coldest of
days, Maura will wear sweatpants on the hottest of days, no fancy riding
clothes for her. Mike, an avid cyclist who recently retired even though he’s
only 60, came us through a mutual friend.
We’ve all ridden together
before, so I knew we would be a compatible group. I emailed everyone a general
outline of the route. The invitation said 60 miles, but I warned them
that it would be closer to 66. Since it was my birthday I felt it
only fair that I got to establish the ground rules. We’d stop after about 20
miles for tea and donuts and then again for lunch. No dawdling because my
daughter was coming home to cook me dinner, but if you wanted to throw in
another stop let me know. I wasn’t going to be a dictator, but, sorry, Nancy,
no stopping for a swim. It would be too cold anyway.
It wasn't sunny after all that morning; dark clouds covered the sky. I went for multiple layers, four on top, running tights over my riding shorts, neck warmer on, mittens and hat
ready if needed. I was getting on my bike when I noticed Rob only had on
shorts. “Are you bringing running tights?” I asked.
“Nope.”
I thought about the long ride
and how miserable I’d be if I were cold, which it very likely could be,
especially along the ocean. “I’d go grab a pair of tights,” I said, even though
we were already late for our 8 a.m. rendezvous.
We started out from our house in
Madbury. Nancy and Maura were waiting a couple miles
away and Mike further along. I apologized for being late, blaming Rob.
Mike said, “No problem. It gave
me time to put on an extra layer.”
We stopped at the only traffic light
on our way through downtown Dover, Mike said, “I don’t know if the light is
going to change for us.” Lights that have sensors don’t always pick up
cyclists; we’d have to wait for a car to pull up behind us.
I had been watching the light but
then I caught some action going on over by the traffic light post and there was
Rob providing us with some spontaneous entertainment. He’d gotten off his bike
and was fumbling with his running tights, trying to get them on before the
light changed. Would he make it in time or would we leave him stranded on the
traffic island? The first leg of his tights got tangled on its way over his
riding shoe. His balance was precarious, as he negotiated the disagreement
between the shoe and the tights. Would he manage the trick without falling on
his ass? He had one leg through. The pedestrian walk signal started its countdown while Rob worked on getting his other leg through. Then it was zero, the
light turned green, and he was on his bike, ready to go. I married a talented
guy.
As we were leaving downtown
Dover, a police siren sounded right behind me. “Am I being pulled over?” I
wondered. But it turned onto a side road, almost taking out Mike.
 |
| The Salmon Falls River separates New Hampshire and Maine. |
 |
| Further downstream the Cocheco and Salmon Falls Rivers merge to become the Piscataqua River. That's New Hampshire across the way. |
We rode along and across the
Cocheco River (on Route 101) and across the Salmon Falls River into Maine. From
there we generally followed the Piscataqua River, even though Maura wondered
why we weren’t seeing more of it. We did get occasional picturesque glimpses;
then a few miles before Kittery we rode along a stretch of unobstructed water
views, modest homes on one side of the road with private docks on the other. At
that point you could see oil tanks and industrial buildings across the river near
Portsmouth, New Hampshire. After 22 miles we arrived in Kittery for delicious
morning treats.
I have become a cruller
connoisseur. Crullers are puffy donuts, kind of like popovers but sweeter. Used
to be I could only find them at Dunkin Donuts. Then, while hanging out for the
winter in Boulder, Colorado, I discovered them in a local supermarket. I was
thrilled to have another opportunity to enjoy this delectable treat.
Last year I stumbled upon the
pinnacle of crullers at a donut stand in New York City. Rob pointed them out
while we were on our morning run. They were even chocolate-covered. The
one I got was warm, and so soft you didn’t so much chew as gently massage it
before swallowing. But, sadly, like those people who lost their way to
Brigadoon, the following day I couldn’t retrace my steps to that magical
cruller. The next one I bought tasted like yesterday’s special. I regretted the
wasted calories.
Then I heard about the crullers
at Lil’s Cafe in Kittery, Maine. Rob and I rode out there last
spring to check them out. On that Saturday morning a line wound its way beside
the counter and almost to the door. As we slowly moved closer to chance to order I examined the variety of fresh-baked goods – muffins, cinnamon rolls,
croissants. And there they were - only a few remained - sitting on a plate
raised high like a throne. The famous crullers. One by one the customers ahead
of us placed their orders, and I watched as the barista picked up one
cruller and then another and placed each in a bag or on a plate for someone
other than me to cherish. There was just one left, and then it was my turn. I
knew that I had found my new favorite cafe when I took that first bite. It was
as light and airy as only the most perfect cruller could possibly be, with just
the right amount of sweetness glazing its surface.
But it’s that lightness and
airiness that's the problem. When you take your last bite you’re just getting
warmed up. They're mostly air, so why not have two?
I had given it a lot of thought
in the days before my birthday and made my decision. Having a birthday gives you the excuse you have been
looking for. “I can have two crullers. It’s my birthday.”
Lil's was busy for a weekday
morning, probably because schools were out on spring break. But I didn't have
to worry, the plate of crullers was still piled high. No one else in my party
shared my cruller enthusiasm. The men both got blueberry muffins. Maura says
she has no sense of smell and therefore many tastes are lost on her, but evidently
not chocolate. She happily sat down to a chocolate muffin replete with
chocolate chips. Nancy, having ruined a good handful of rides recently with
indigestion from bike-stop meals, ordered a warm ham and Gruyere croissant.
I savored every bite of both my
crullers. But in the end I admit that it’s probably a good idea to quit before
being totally satiated with something you love. Two crullers was about half a
cruller too much. Then again, that second cruller did get me all the way to our
lunch stop 25 miles later.
 |
| The Memorial Bridge crosses the Piscataqua River from Badger Island in Maine to Portsmouth, New Hampshire. |
Only a few minutes after
leaving Lil’s we were riding over the Memorial Bridge back to New Hampshire. Through Portsmouth and then a brief tour of
New Castle Island and we arrived at the New Hampshire
coastline.
When I was a kid I
came with my family to New Hampshire every summer to vacation on Lake Wentworth
in Wolfeboro. If we took a day trip to the ocean, it was to Maine. I was
surprised to find out that New Hampshire has a coastline. Most people are. According
to Wikipedia, it’s 13 miles from Massachusetts to the Piscataqua River and
Maine. We rode about 9 miles of it.
| ||
| Wallis Sands State Beach has always been a family favorite. |
The road along the
length of the coast is perfect for cycling when traffic is light, which it
usually is on weekdays before school lets out for the summer. By the
time we got to our first view of the ocean the dark clouds of the morning had
broken up and we could see patches of blue sky. We were all pretty much wearing
the layers we had started out with, but no one complained about it being cold.
It was really ideal weather for riding. If there was an ocean breeze it didn’t slow
us down.
We could see and
hear the surf crashing against rocks and washing up on beaches as we pedaled
smoothly along at any easy 10 or 11 mile-an-hour pace. On our right, we passed
ice cream stands, restaurants, and lobster shacks advertising lobsters, live
and cooked, most everything still closed for the season. When we passed Petey's Mike said it was
reputed to have terrific lobster rolls, though he’d never had one. I wondered
if he wanted to stop – it was open for business - but it didn’t feel like lunch
time yet. I said we’d have to plan another ride around having lunch there.
 |
| The ocean view might add a little to the price of this residence. |
Past Rye Harbor the
tourist spots ended and the stately homes began. These are not your seaside
vacation getaways that get boarded up for the winter. If they are, the owners are
very rich. Rob has always admired
houses with columns. There are a lot of homes along this stretch for him to
admire.
We turned east on NH
State Highway 111, with not a word from Nancy about stopping for a swim.
Afterward she said, “If you hadn't laid ‘no swimming’ out as a ground rule, I
might very well have insisted on jumping in the ocean.” And she’d have probably
done it, too, even with the air temperature in the fifties, and water temp in
the low forties.
 |
| It was a little cold outside for lunch, but too stuffy and crowded inside. We had the outside patio to ourselves. |
We eventually merged
onto State Highway 27 which took us into Exeter (home of the prestigious
Philips-Exeter Academy) where we stopped for lunch at the Green Bean Cafe. (This part of New Hampshire seems to have a thing about bean
cafes. There's a Green Bean, a Black Bean, and a Big Bean, all within easy
bicycling distance, and all worth the ride.) I ordered their Friday special, a
warm ham and provolone cheese sandwich on rosemary focaccia with a few other
accouterments which I forget but I do remember that it was delicious. Everyone
else had sandwiches except for Nancy who had a salad, probably because she’d
already had a sandwich.
 |
| At the Green Bean, a salad becomes art. |
From Exeter our last 20 miles took us through back roads lined with trees and open fields, over small creeks, past new suburban developments and old farmhouses with attached or detached barns still standing.
Road crews were out
repairing the winter’s crop of potholes. When we came to a crew that was working
at an intersection with a 4-way stop, we all diligently stopped, the legal way,
one foot off the pedal and touching the ground. The police cruiser was sitting
right there, by the construction equipment.
 |
| In New Hampshire no expense is spared to repair pot holes every spring. |
Even as the trees were still barren of leaves, we enjoyed signs of spring, riding past blooming forsythia and azaleas with their fuchsia flowers already scattered on the ground below, daffodils showing off their bright shades of yellow and tulips beginning to open.
Did I say this was
going to be a 60-mile ride? When I mapped it on mapmyrun.com it came up as
66.41 miles. When we arrived home my odometer gave me 69.44 miles, at an 11.54
mph pace. It took eight hours from start to finish.
 |
| Old farmhouses, many with barns attached, are a staple of New Hampshire scenery. |
So how much training
do you need to do for a 70-mile ride? Not much, as long as you pick a route
that's mostly flat and you don’t have to be anywhere on time. Rob, Nancy, and I rode 35 miles the weekend before on a route with enough short hills
to keep us awake. And that was enough. My birthday ride ended with a long hill
– the longest and steepest of the day - which we all tackled easily, finishing our adventure in fine shape, no aching muscles, just sore butts.
I can't think of a
better way to celebrate 60 years of living.
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