Chapter 9: Waylaid!

Day 5: Wednesday, June 28, 2017
28 miles
Woodford State Park, VT, to North Adams, MA

Tucked into the northwestern corner of Massachusetts are two well-known art museums that I'd been eager to get to for some years, the Massachusetts Museum of Contemporary Art (Mass MoCA) and the Clark Art Institute. When we readjusted this trip to make it more of a meander I suggested we put these museums on the itinerary. (See the Prologue.)

The beauty of our change in plans yesterday was that we were only 20 miles from the Mass MoCA so we could still get there by the time it opened at 10 a.m. We did get an early start, on the road before eight o'clock, under a cloudy sky with rain threatening, and cool enough that I put on an extra sweater and warm tights over my shorts.

We backtracked several miles on Route 9 to Highway 8 which would take us directly south to North Adams and once we got to the junction the sky had cleared and the sun warmed us enough to stop and take off our extra clothing. We looked at the road that was supposed to be easy and downhill and saw a hill going the wrong way - up. Rob said, "That guy yesterday was pulling our leg." 

I sincerely hoped not. But after getting over that first hill we came to another that was shorter but steeper. I decided it was too early in the morning for this nonsense and got off my bike and walked up. Then more downs and ups. 

But soon enough we were doing the kind of riding that you dream about: fresh morning air caressing our faces; legs effortlessly turning the pedals, faster, then faster still; cruising past barns, fields of cows and hay bales, and tree-covered hillsides; riding on smooth roads with wide shoulders and only the occasional car. Ten or more perfect miles, miles that give you the taste of perfection, the reason you get on your bike and fight the fight we fought yesterday.  

I said a thank you to the man who gave us such great advice as we sailed along through a valley, past wind turbines, and on into North Adams. 

Can you see the wind turbines along the top of the ridge?

We averaged 12 mph into North Adams. I realize that for many cyclists that may not seem all that fast, but remember we're carrying a lot. And we're getting old.

North Adams

Once in North Adams we found the Mass MoCA pretty easily by following the many signs showing us the way. It is housed in a collection of old brick mill buildings similar to those you find in many New England towns and cities.

We were heading over to a corner of the parking lot to park our bikes when we were accosted by a slender man - looked to be in his late sixties, early seventies - who appeared suddenly as if from nowhere. 

He said he was going on his first ever bike trip, solo, via credit card, in France, for three weeks. (Credit card bike tourists can travel light since they charge all their food and overnight accommodations.) He had all his nights booked ahead, planned to ride 30 miles a day. He kept talking while Rob and I locked our bikes. I took off my riding shoes and socks, packed a bag of food for lunch. I wanted him to move on so I could discreetly change out of my riding shorts and into more comfortable street shorts. He kept talking. I was eager to get into the art museum. This was what we'd ridden all those miles for, I didn't want to waste a minute. But I never want to put off another cyclist. I told him it sounded like he had everything figured out and I'd never biked in Europe. What did he need to know? 

"I'm worried about what will happen to my reservation if I break down."

I said, "Do you have a thumb?" I wasn't being flippant. The best advice I ever got was from someone who told me about hitchhiking when you are in a pickle on a bike trip. People do stop to pick up cyclists; they realize you are probably trying to get a ride because you are in trouble.

He said he was renting a bike and I assured him that he would be fine, he could call the bike rental shop if he ran into trouble. 

Then I made the mistake of getting out my map and asking him about riding around the area of North Adams. He showed me some back roads north to Bennington and then some more and didn't want to let go of the map. I finally said, "You'll have to avert your eyes while I change out of these shorts." He kept on talking while I did my quick-change act. 

Meanwhile Rob had locked his bike, had his flip-flops on, looked like he was ready to go. I got my map back and put away and said, "It sounds like you've got it all figured out for your trip to France. Have a great time."

Even now, as I write this, I wonder where that man came from. He just appeared out of nowhere, in the middle of a parking lot. He wasn't even going to the museum.

Check out that downhill. Yes, it was as much fun as it looks.

Chapter 8: ...The Old Folks Find the Easy Way Out

Day 4: Tuesday, June 27, 2017 (continued)
33 miles
Southern Vermont: Brattleboro to Woodford State Park

If you're thinking of bicycling Vermont, let me tell you what road not to take. Then again, what were we thinking? Vermont Route 9 goes directly across the state, over the Green Mountains.

Looking over my last post, I don't think I conveyed how beat up we were by the morning's ride. We had anticipated about 50 miles to our next overnight stop, a campground south of Bennington. By the time we stopped for lunch, it had taken us four hours to ride 17 miles. At that rate we'd be getting to the campground after 8 p.m. If we lasted that long.

We were discouraged, exhausted, and anxious about the promise of more hills to come. 

We looked over the map while we ate lunch, hoping for a new route to magically appear. It didn't.

We'd finished eating but hadn't made any moves to get back on our bikes, just kind of sat there in a tired stupor, enjoying the view, trying to work up an appetite for more hill climbing, when an older gentleman came over to us. "I saw you this morning riding up this way. I've been to White River Junction and now I'm on my way home. That's quite a ride you're doing." 

I pictured the distance in my mind. "You've been to White River Junction and back?" That's a long way, even by car. And we'd only done 17 miles. We really were a sad case.

He told us he'd been to the VA hospital to get his wounds from a bike crash checked out. "A suicidal dog ran out in front of me."

I said, "Did you kill it?"

"Unfortunately, no."

I had been so immersed in studying our map that I barely glanced at this man. Now I made a more careful inspection. Yup. He was pretty beat up. He had bandages covering his arms and legs where he'd been sewn back together. But he was obviously a true bicyclist, his accident just a bump in the road on his journey to ride the RAGBRAI at the end of July. 

Organized by the Des Moines Register, the RAGBRAI is an annual ride across Iowa. Participants' gear is transported from one overnight stop to another. We'd been in Davenport, Iowa, several years before when the RAGBRAI was finishing in that city. The temperature was in the nineties.

I said, "It's too hot. I'd do it if it were in September."

We talked pros and cons of different styles of riding.

He pointed to our bikes. "I don't want to carry all that gear."

"Yeah, we are kind of pack mules. But I like the freedom. If I don't want to get on my bike and ride 70 miles on any given day, I don't have to."

"There's that. Your gear is going so you'd better go, too."

He told us that the last ten miles to Bennington could be a bear. It turned out that he lived in North Adams, home of the Massachusetts Museum of Contemporary Art (Mass. MOCA), which was our destination for the next day. He said we could turn directly south to North Adams without going all the way to Bennington, and the ride was mostly downhill. 

Even if we made it to Bennington, which wasn't sounding like much fun, we'd still have another 8 miles south to the private campground we were aiming for. We took another look at the map and found Woodford State Park, with a campground, a few miles past the turnoff he was talking about. It looked to be about 15 miles. We could do that much. This didn't require any discussion; it was the alternate plan we'd kept hoping to find every time we examined the map.

On our bikes after lunch, we were thrilled to see this sign. 6% downhill grade for 3/4 miles. Not much, but after all the climbing in the morning we were ecstatic about any bit of downhill.

Our change in plans made the afternoon much more pleasant. We stopped for about an hour at the library in Wilmington where I did some writing and Rob some trip research. 

This picture doesn't do justice to the picturesque town of Wilmington, Vermont. We strolled down Main Street, admiring the rustic buildings that housed local businesses. Alas, we found nothing open that suited our fancy for afternoon tea. But we did find a statue of the famous Molly Stark, who never set foot in the town.

Seven miles after Wilmington we arrived at the top of another hill and the road to North Adams. Tomorrow we would be riding back to this junction. And I thought, I'm too tired to do any more climbing but if we have a long downhill from here then we'll have to climb back uphill tomorrow morning and I don't want to do that either. So, please, let it be flat for the next few miles to the campground. 

It wasn't flat, but it was gently rolling hills and that was okay. With several miles to go our luck with the dark clouds that had been hovering over us all day finally gave out and the rain came down hard. We rode into the campground cold and wet. That made two days out of four finishing with a ride in the rain. 

The campground office had already closed by the time we arrived after five o'clock. Good fortune shined on us through the rain and we found a site with a lean-to, and discovered we had enough change for hot showers. Soon we were warm and dry and thankful for the serendipitous meeting with the man who offered us an alternative itinerary, saving us from our poor planning.

Rob and I agreed that Route 9 was a disappointment scenically. With the exception of our lunch stop we couldn't recall any beautiful views from the day. Maybe because we were too busy swearing at the hills.

Chapter 7: When the Going Gets Tough...

Day 4: Tuesday, June 27, 2017

It's only 40 miles from Brattleboro to Bennington, Vermont. Uphill.

We began climbing as soon as we got onto Route 9 in Brattleboro. I shifted my front gear to the smallest chainring, then gradually worked the rear shifter onto the climbing gears while focusing on staying as close to the side of the road as possible with only a narrow shoulder to work with. One semi after another blew past, rattling my balance and my nerves. It didn't take long before I realized that this was the major highway for trucks heading across the state. 

We climbed steadily for several miles. When it looked like I'd reached the top I stopped. When Rob caught up I said, "This is no fun." I showed him the map, which had a detail of the local roads. 'There's another road here," I said.

A car pulled in beside us and the driver, a slender older man, said, "I bicycle around here a lot. I was wondering if I could help you in any way."

"We're looking for Stark Road," I said.

"You passed Stark Road a while back. But you wouldn't want to take it anyway. It's steeper than this."

"Oh. Well, we've got a downhill coming," I said.

"Oh, you'll only be going down for a couple hundred yards. No, you're not done climbing yet."

He said we'd be climbing until about the last three miles into Bennington and there was no way to avoid the traffic. He wished he could tell us that there was another, better way to go. He apologized for not being able to help us out and drove off.

Rte. 9 is the major east/west route across southern Vermont. I'd driven this road before and remembered it as a scenic byway so I figured it would be a fun way to go. I was wrong.

I stopped to wait for Rob at this roadside memorial. We were both ready for a break and some food. We still had some of the hard-boiled eggs that John Whiting had given us the day before. It hadn't been too hot so they were still good and much appreciated.

"Truck Lane 1/4 Mile"

Translation: You're not at the top yet and the climbing is going to get worse. But at least the cars and trucks will have some more room to get around you.

After 17 miles we arrived at the top of Hogback Mountain. With its fine views and a deck and picnic tables it was the perfect place to stop to eat lunch and regain our positive attitudes. Studying maps can help. We tried to figure out an alternative plan but kept coming up empty. 

On a fine day you can see New Hampshire and Massachusetts. This wasn't a fine day, and we were very glad for the cloud cover. It reminded us that we could have been much worse off. It could have been very hot or it could have been raining. In many respects the weather was perfect for the day's ride.

Outside the gift shop were some signs describing Route 9 as The Molly Stark Trail. And we would see many more references to Molly Stark along the way. The woman was never anywhere near all these places that honor her. She was a nurse and had 11 children. Her husband rallied his troops during the Revolutionary War by telling them: "There are the Red Coats and the enemy are ours or this night Molly Stark sleeps a widow." And the farmer soldiers were so inspired that they won the Battle of Bennington. That's why Molly Stark is famous. I'm still trying to make sense of that. 

Chapter 6: Backcountry History

Day 3: Monday, June 26, 2017
44 miles
Rindge, NH to Brattleboro, VT

You can find all sorts of historical gems tucked away on the country roads of New England. As we bicycled through Francestown on Sunday I noticed a church with a building of old stables dating back, one assumes, to the horse and buggy days. When I mentioned it to John Whiting, he said, "Oh, our church has old stables, too." So I stopped and took this picture on our way out of Rindge.

To the left is the First Congregational Church of Rindge, but I was interested in the old stables straight ahead. The historical summary of the church makes only a brief mention of the stables when discussing the construction of the church in the 1760s: "Horse stables were built near the Meeting House and on the Common." 

While writing this up, I did a little online research and found out that the building with the stables in Francestown isn't a church, but the town hall, which is on the National Register of Historic Places. I found it on googlemaps and took a screen shot, so I could fool you into thinking I did take a picture after all.

The Francestown town hall - it sort of looks like a church, doesn't it? - was constructed in 1847 so perhaps the stables were built then as well.

After enjoying John and Lynne's delicious breakfast we headed directly west on Route 119, a rural two-lane highway. Except for a stretch of heavier traffic the last few miles into Brattleboro, the riding was terrific with long stretches of downhills and manageable uphills.

The Fitzwilliam Inn
Restaurant & Pub - Rooms Available

I took this picture because it is an example of the sort of picturesque inn we often stumbled upon in the small New England towns we rode through. And probably to remind myself to come back one day and stay. What do you think, Rob? We could come here after a day of hiking Mt. Monadnock and then do some bicycling the next day. Check it out. The prices look reasonable.

Not too many cars on this stretch of two-lane highway in southwestern New Hampshire. Yes, that's Rob coming up the hill...

And enjoying a beer on the rooftop of the Whetstone Station in Brattleboro. The bridge in the background goes over the Connecticut River, which forms the border between New Hampshire and Vermont. The picture below is the view of the river. Are those storm clouds moving in?

We camped that night at Fort Dummer State Park, an unremarkable campground just outside Brattleboro, situated next to the interstate with no swimming and only a couple of short hiking trails. But what was remarkable about it was how much trouble we had finding it. We saw not a single sign directing us there. We realized that our map was no help after heading down the road it should have been on, with no luck. Fortunately the woman working the customer service desk at the local grocery story gave us directions. We took a local street until coming to a "Dead End" sign. We stopped, wondering what to do, then saw someone working outside an apartment building. He assured us we should keep going and we'd come to the park, at the top of a significant climb. 

The climb was a killer. And we did it twice because we wanted to get our campsite set up before enjoying our beer in Brattleboro. At one point Rob got going so slowly that he came to a stop before he could unclip from his pedals and fell off his bike. I missed seeing it, but he told me. That would be the only time for this trip. Which is an improving trend. He fell 3 times on our Maine trip in 2015 (I fell twice) and two times last year. 

Even though it hides some of its parks, Vermont generally does a great job with them, offering hot showers and, for an extra $7, lean-tos. We asked the park ranger if rain was expected. It was. When I heard the rain during the night I thought about how glad I was that we paid the extra money and how fortunate we were that our bikes and tent all fit easily in the lean-to and would be dry in the morning. 

We rode 44 miles along Rte. 119 from Rindge to Brattleboro.

No wonder it felt like we had lots of downhill riding. We did. But I am surprised that the last hill to the state park doesn't look more significant. 

Chapter 5: Think of It As a Giant Slingshot

This is a story that has nothing to do with bicycling and everything to do with the kind of people you might meet when you get on your bike and trust your well-being to complete strangers.

The first trebuchet I saw was slinging a banjo during the Ossippee Valley Bluegrass Festival some years back. So when John Whiting started telling us about how he built a trebuchet as a surprise gift for someone he hardly knew, I had some idea what he was talking about. First used to throw projectiles at an enemy in wartime, its more common use today, at least in the United States, is for throwing pumpkins. 

As you watch this video (posted in 2011; less than 4 minutes), notice John's hat. What this dysfunctional veteran really wants is to draw people into his life with kindness and humor.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nKbKV21kyw8&t=7s

Chapter 4: Thank you, Mike Herlihy

Day 2: Sunday, June 25, 2017 (continued)
49 miles 
Southern New Hampshire - Manchester to Rindge

What do you bring someone you haven't met yet, who has offered to feed you dinner and put you up for the night, and you're traveling by bicycle, you don't pass any liquor stores, and it's after 5 o'clock so all the bakeries are closed?

When we came to an Agway, I pulled into the parking lot and said to Rob, "We could pick up a small plant for a gift."

We leaned our bikes against a pile of plastic bags filled with compost, and as we were walking over to look at the display of plants outside, I heard a man's voice. "Hi, Connie."

I turned around and saw a sturdy gray-haired man, slightly older than us, sitting in a tan sedan with the window down. He introduced himself as John Whiting, who was expecting us for dinner and to spend the night. He said, "You've got a couple long hills ahead of you. If you want you can throw your gear into my car."

That would be a treat. We tossed our panniers into his trunk, while John said, "I did this once for a couple from Germany. As I was driving away, I said, 'Thanks for the cool gear,' and the fellow realized he had just left their passports and everything else they had with a total stranger." He chuckled.

I took a quick look at John's license plate, trying to memorize it while he gave us directions to his house. As he drove away he shouted, "Thanks for all the cool gear!" And for the next seven miles I went back and forth in my head, convincing myself that this guy wouldn't really be taking off with our stuff. We had his address after all, and he was a registered host with warmshowers.org.

A couple weeks before we began this trip, bicycling friend Mike Herlihy emailed me a link to a blog by a couple doing a long-distance tour. I don't think Mike realized what a huge gift he was giving us when he sent me that link. I didn't have time to read the post, only skimmed it. And I saw a reference to "warm showers hosts" that piqued my curiosity. Searching the internet I found warmshowers.org, a site that provides a way to connect bicycle tourists with people willing to host them for the night, for free. I decided to give it a try. 

I sent a request to John Whiting in Rindge for our second night on the road and received a positive reply: "Always looking for new victims..."

After John left us it started to rain. I was riding with a sleeveless jersey and I thought, "Great. My rain gear is in my panniers, in John's car." But it wasn't cold and not raining much. Yet. 

At the top of the hill, at the turnoff to the town of Rindge, I heard thunder and saw flashes of lightening. I turned back to look for Rob.

He caught up and said, "I'm good." I said, "You have to look at the sky." 

Deep gray storm clouds above and ahead, but behind Rob were patches of blue sky with the sun's rays streaming through enormous white clouds. We didn't know it then, but this trip would become memorable for countless views of dramatic skies. 

Then the rain started in earnest.

Through pouring rain, crashing thunder and bursts of lightening we soared downhill into the tiny community of Rindge. I half expected John to come looking for us again. And he did, this time with a vehicle large enough to hold our bikes. But we were just about to his house. We pulled into the garage where he had draped two large towels for us over the sedan. 

As we were drying off and getting our panniers out of his car, John called out, "You want Ramen noodles for dinner? Or you can have what I'm having."

For the rest of that evening and the following morning we were treated to John Whiting's unlimited supply of kindness, humor, and stories.

John's house is filled with the accoutrements of his many interests. He has six fishing poles stored under the ceiling of his hallway. Several large kites decorate the walls and a telescope sits in the living room. While we unpacked and showered, we heard music that I assumed came from a CD, but when I went into the living room, John was sitting there playing electric guitar. 

In 2014 he bicycled, alone, the full length of the 400-mile Erie Canal trail. That's when he met a cyclist who told him about Warm Showers. He says, "I get lonely so I host cyclists."

John keeps two bicycles in his garage. He calls the second bicycle his "friend's bike." These days it's his sweetheart, Lynne, who rides the friend's bike and, when she can, helps him host cyclists. Slender and tall, Lynne matches John in height and complements his energetic humor with a calm demeanor. 

The two created a picture of support and love as they worked together to serve us as much steak, corn-on-the-cob, and salad as two hungry cyclists could eat.

After dinner John shared stories of his mischievousness. Late one night he was out walking in the town cemetery; after one lap around, he decided to run a second. Tired, he lay down in the grass, looking up at the stars. When a couple of young men came along he began moaning, "Help, help me..." The two men high-tailed it out of there and John began walking home. When a police car drove by and stopped. John said, "I think you may be looking for me." 

At a town dinner the chief of police sat next to John and said, "I've been hearing stories about you." John said, "They're all true."

John served in the military during the Vietnam War. He said that for a number of years he lived alone in a cabin in the woods. Some days he would get up and sit with a cup of coffee and, without knowing it, the day would pass by. 

He began living in Rindge when his parents passed away and he inherited their modest ranch house. He realized that he needed a way to include more people in his life so one day he walked into the Rindge police station and said, "You're my family." 

And he meant it. The morning of our stay Jeff, a local police officer, joined us for coffee and tea on the deck outside before breakfast. Jeff was interested to hear about our bike trip, hoping to do one someday, but I expect he'll be busy enough for a while with the baby he was expecting that week.

John introduced us to Cumona, a little Hawaiian dancing figure set a shelf above the deck railing. No taller than a finger, she's set into motion by sunlight. John said, "I bought her because movement soothes me. Her full name is Cumona Wanna Laya."

Then John and Lynne made us breakfast - scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, and juice. We ate outside on the deck. John said, "I have some bananas and hard-boiled eggs for you to take with you."

As we were leaving, John suggested we stop by the police station on our way through town and tell the chief that he should keep an eye on the crazy guy we over on Goddard St. We did, and the chief's first words were, "What's he been up to this time?"

Out of Manchester to Goffstown on Routes 114 and 114A we encountered traffic and blah scenery. Then we bypassed the highway to New Boston, taking Bog Rd. which was quiet, running along a creek for a while; some hills but nothing unmanageable. Route 136 to Francestown, Greenfield, and almost to Peterborough was delightful. As was the rest of the way to Rindge, riding without our packs.

As you can see, we did some climbing, but the net gain over 12 miles was only about 500 feet. Overall, the riding was not particularly difficult, although we were still getting used to riding with loaded bikes. We were not breaking any land-speed records, averaging under 10 mph.

Chapter 3: Southern New Hampshire

Day 2: Sunday, June 25, 2017

49 miles

Southern New Hampshire - Manchester to Rindge

Out of Manchester we encountered traffic and blah scenery. But soon we bypassed the highway, taking a quiet back road that ran along a creek for a while. This was a day to see the best that southern New Hampshire has to offer - small towns with picturesque gazebos, antique churches, and wonderfully landscaped town greens for eating lunch and relaxing in the shade. We passed over countless rivers and creeks, and passed by small lakes, farms, tree-covered hillsides, and centuries-old cemeteries, countryside where you have to hunt for miles if you want a fast-food restaurant or big-box store.

New Boston

Many town greens, like New Boston's, also have a war memorial. Note the church in the background. Every town has a church. In fact, some New England towns are so small the only way to know you have arrived is when you see the church.

That's my bicycle in the foreground of the picture above. Every year we've been adding more panniers. By now we both have front and rear panniers. Not so much to carry more gear, but for more flexibility, like when we stop to pick up dinner and want to buy that rotisserie chicken, a favorite of ours. After a day of riding we easily consume one in its entirety. We're very compatible on this. Rob only eats white meat and I only like the dark.

In an attempt to accommodate Rob's pulmonary hypertension, I'm carrying 45 pounds while Rob is carrying 32. More or less. That helps, but even with his medication, Rob still struggles on the hills. His doctor says that's just the way it's going to be, so we'd better get used to it. If you ride just about anywhere you can't avoid hills, especially in New England.

I can often find a pleasant grassy & shady spot with a pleasant view to wait for my bicycling companion. But I dare not take my eyes off the road.

Rather than stop and wait at the top of every hill, we're trying a new strategy on this trip. I've gotten a rear-view mirror so I don't have to keep turning around to look behind to see how Rob is doing. When he falls so far behind that I can't see him, I'll continue riding at a pace that is comfortable for me and after several miles I'll look for a comfortable shady spot alongside the road and wait for him. 

I have to be careful though. On one of our training rides I found a shady spot on someone's lawn right next to the road, laid down and closed my eyes. After a while I sat up and looked at my watch. He should have arrived by now. I stopped a car, asked the woman driving, "Have you seen a bicyclist wearing a red shirt?" 

"I don't think so." 

"If you see him up ahead, would you tell him to come back?"

After the driver of a second car hadn't seen him either, I decided to keep heading in the direction of home and, soon enough, I saw him up ahead riding toward me. 

Even though I was stretched out not even ten feet from the road, Rob had been looking at the farm on the other side. And the farmer was running some equipment so I didn't hear Rob as he rode by. 

These signs are quite common around New Hampshire this time of year. Sadly, more common than the signs were piles of smashed turtle shells in the road. I did pass one turtle valiantly attempting to survive a crossing. I'm ashamed to say that I didn't stop to help him, as the thought only came to me when I was long past. (And maybe also because the last time I stopped to help a turtle I took the turn too sharply and fell off my bike.) I hope he made it. 

Thanks to our late start and usual dilly-dallying, relaxing on pretty New England town greens, we didn't arrive in Peterborough until after five o'clock, with another ten miles yet to go. I tried calling John Whiting, our Warm Showers host who was expecting us for dinner, but - wouldn't you know it? - I had no cell phone coverage. Nothing for it but to just show up when we got there and offer our apologies.

As it turned out, no apologies were needed.

Chapter 2: On the Road Again

Day 1: Saturday, June 24, 2017
39 miles
Madbury to Manchester, NH

We didn't get started until after 2:30 in the afternoon. Our plan was to stay in Manchester, about 40 miles away, at the art studio where I'd been studying drawing and painting for the past three months. When we stopped to take a break after just 10 miles I felt nauseous, hot, and miserable.


We had tickets to a AA baseball game in Manchester that night. Around mile twenty we approached Pawtuckaway State Park and I thought, forget the game, let's stop and see if there's a campsite available. But the state park was two miles off the highway and it was a Saturday night so there probably weren't any sites available and I needed to save my energy to get to Manchester.

How nice it would have been if we had gotten an earlier start and had time to duck into the state park for a swim on this hot day. And we would have if I hadn't woken up that morning to a tick stuck in my neck.

Rob tried to take it out. "All I could get were the legs." Off I went to the nearby walk-in clinic.

Every time I am hooked up to one of those automatic blood pressure cuffs, I have this irrational fear that the nurse will leave the room while the cuff keeps filling up with air, cutting off the circulation in my arm until something dire happens, like my arm falling off. And this time the cuff really did keep expanding until I finally said to the nurse, who thankfully hadn't left the room, "I don't think it's going to stop." He stopped the machine and took my blood pressure the old-fashioned way, and escorted me to an exam room.

The doctor came in with a very business-like attitude and started asking me all sorts of medical questions that had nothing to do with the tick in my neck. She worried over my vital signs - pulse 48, blood pressure 80 over 50. I've always had low blood pressure. This low? I can't really say. I felt fine. Can you just take the tick out of my neck?

She got it out easily with tweezers and then suggested I get a tetanus booster and an EKG. Yes to the tetanus booster, why do I need an EKG? She went into some medical explanation about what was concerning about my low blood pressure and what it could mean for my heart but I wasn't listening. Forget the EKG. I just wanted to get home and finish packing so we could get on the road. 

When the nurse came in for the tetanus shot, I said, "The doctor was certainly worried about my low blood pressure."

He checked to make sure the door was shut. He said, "She was annoyed with me for not getting her right away when I told her about your low vital signs. But you seemed fine."

All that fuss. Maybe we should just buy some better tweezers.

We passed this house in Nottingham. The owners have created a fun garden on their property.

My low vitals got me to Manchester around 7 o'clock. I still felt crappy, mostly just exhausted. 

When we planned this first day, I had the idea that, in addition to stopping for a swim at the state park, we would arrive in Manchester with enough time to explore the downtown area and find dinner at a decent restaurant. Instead dinner was going to be ballpark food. Yuck.

We cleaned up as best we could without a shower and headed over to the baseball stadium, next door to the art studio, arriving just as the first game of a double header was in its last inning. Before finding our seats we settled into the Sam Adams Brewhouse located right there in the stadium and ordered cheeseburgers, which thankfully were a higher standard than your usual ballpark fare. Even better than the cheeseburgers were the accompanying homemade potato chips. We shared a Caesars salad. No beer tonight; I still felt crappy and Rob didn't want to drink alone.  

The second game didn't start until 9 o'clock. I was too tired to enjoy it - all I wanted to do was sleep - but I knew that Rob would be disappointed if we left early. He did enjoy the game. And there were fireworks after. 

I recently began studying with Paul Ingbretson in a traditional atelier inside this old mill building. You can find old mill buildings like this in many New England towns. They serve very well as art studios. 

You can get an idea from this picture how large the studio is. That's Rob off in the distance fiddling with his bike. There is room for about 20 students, with the individual work spaces to the left and a large space for figure drawing and demonstrations straight ahead. Only natural light is used, so it can feel rather dark. This picture was taken on Sunday morning. 

We spent the night sleeping on the couches in the community room of the studio. The building has no air-conditioning. It was very hot, but much cheaper than a hotel.

A combination of a late night at the ballgame, exhaustion from the trip preparation, and sleeping poorly from the heat all contributed to a late start the next morning. We didn't hit the road until 11:30, with about 40 miles ahead of us to Rindge, New Hampshire.

We crossed the Merrimac River as we were leaving Manchester.

We had good riding on quiet country roads until we hit Route 27 which had too much traffic for any fun so we popped onto some local roads as we approached Manchester. We rode 39 miles in all.

This elevation profile comes from the MapMyRide.com website. All climb scores are based on distance, grade/elevation change, and maximum elevation, with HC (French for "Hors Categorie") being the hardest, then 1 through 6, with a higher number indicating an easier climb. Today's climbs were rated 4 and 5, so not an especially difficult day and enough hills to keep it interesting.

Chapter 1: Bikes Ready?

June, 2017:

When Rob, my husband and favorite bicycle partner, was in high school his father, a mechanical engineer, insisted that he take an auto mechanics class. But Rob is a psychologist, not a mechanical engineer, and had no interest in working on cars, even as his father showered him with gifts of spare parts and tools for his first car - a Chevy Nova. By the time he sold the car the trunk was filled with enough stuff to rebuild the entire car, the good fortune of the amateur mechanic who bought it. And when we were packing up to move across country, Rob was still finding spare parts tucked away in his closet. 

To Rob's credit he is pretty good at detecting when something is amiss and the car needs to visit our mechanic. But bike maintenance and repair pretty much falls in my court.  

Earlier in my adulthood, I took an interest in bicycle mechanics. Once I took apart and put back together one of my bikes, cleaning the bearings and replacing the cables and brake pads. And while I've never built a wheel from scratch, I have replaced broken spokes and trued my wheels, even having to do it once on a bike tour. 

But lately I've gotten lazy and will take our bikes to the local bike shop, The Dover Cyclery for maintenance and repairs. The mechanics, Mike and Rob, have been there for years and I know I can trust their work.

I can trust their work but I can't trust myself to bring in my bicycle when it needs the work.

Last year, a couple days before leaving for our Prince Edward Island trip, Rob and I were out for a short shakedown ride with our friend Nancy. Almost home, Nancy mentioned that she had taken her bike in recently for a cable adjustment and the mechanic pointed out that she needed a new tire. And I got to thinking, I hadn't checked my tires recently. As soon as I got home, I looked them over and my rear tire was just about worn through to the inner tube. 

I headed immediately to the bike shop to get a new tire and while I was there I asked them about the wire sticking out of my shift lever. "Looks like your gear cable is about shot," said Mike. I should have been able to figure that out on my own. Along with feeling pretty stupid, I really did not have the time to change a gear cable along with everything else I needed to be doing to get ready for our trip. Thankfully, Mike said he'd be able to replace the cable right then. 

"Do you think you could replace the rear tire, too?" And he did both repairs while I waited.

So this year, I gave some thought to making sure our bikes were ready to go. We'd had them tuned up last November. I checked my tires. Rob checked his. He was going to need a new rear one, but not right away. We'd just bring along a new one, which is a good idea for a longer tour anyway.

Then a week or so before we were to leave, sometime in the middle of the night - my usual worrying time - I got to thinking about my chain. I brought my bike in the next day and Rob - bike mechanic Rob, not husband Rob - measured my chain with a chain caliper and said, "Yup, you need a new chain. And as stretched as it is, you're going to need a new cassette, too." (The cassette is the set of sprockets for the gears on the rear wheel.)

Dang. I love my gear setup. Do I really need a new cassette? Can you replace it exactly? Is there enough time to get the parts? And then I'm going to need a new cable and when it stretches it will throw off the shifting. 

Rob said, "We can get it done. It's not a problem."

I wondered how I could have let this go too long. "Isn't this something you would have checked when I had it tuned up last November?" 

Mike said, "I did call you and said that your chain was almost ready to be replaced and you said you'd wait."

And I had totally forgotten. Now they both know. Not only am I stupid. I have a terrible memory.

But I do have two terrific bike mechanics who are always willing to bail me out. That's Rob on the left and Mike on the right.

We never talked about disc brake maintenance and repair.