Bicycling Maine (7) - Nothing Ordinary About This Bridge

May 24, 2015

The Cribstone Bridge

Morse's Cribstone Grill

After cleaning up we wander next door to Morse’s Cribstone Grill, a basic seafood restaurant, nothing fancy. Trying to find something healthy – not fried - I order the broiled haddock, which turns out to be rather bland. Rob orders the same and his tastes fine. Then again, he grew up with bland food.

We finish our meal and it’s that time of day when you’re on vacation and you have nowhere you have to be and nothing you have to do and you’re in a beautiful place where you’ve never been before. The sky is mostly clear with just enough clouds to promise a spectacular sunset, the temperature perfect for a stroll across the bridge adjacent to the restaurant. We didn’t really pay it much attention when we bicycled across it earlier, nor do we pay it much attention now, we’re so taken with the view of the boats, the horizon, the colorful pile of kayaks on the other side. But when we cross over it, we notice a sign saying it’s a historic landmark.

Constructed in 1927-28, the design of the Bailey Island Bridge presented a challenge because of the strong tides. Copying a bridge in Scotland, it was built using granite slabs stacked one upon the other in an open cribbing style to permit the tide to ebb and flow freely. Today it is the only bridge of its kind in the world.

We wander onto the beach to get a closer look. A manmade structure designed solely for a utilitarian purpose, yet stunning in its simplicity. I wonder how many people cross over it and – like us – don’t even notice its uniqueness. But now we don’t squander the time we have  to marvel at the light shining through the open cells, at its random yet orderly structure. And maybe it's all the more beautiful because we knew nothing about it when we landed here unexpectedly for the night.

Look carefully where the arch is at its highest and
you will see the opening that allows boats to pass through.

Lesson Learned

This morning Rob came home after giving a final exam and said, “You want to go for a bike ride?”

It's December. The riding season is over. But there's no snow to pull me outside on my skis, and a pulled muscle keeps me from running. I haven’t done anything fun outside in days. Maybe that’s why I’ve been in a funk. Or it could be because we’re approaching the shortest day of the year or because my son has just left home for good and won’t be back for Christmas.

I looked out the window. I could hear the wind even as I saw the trees swaying back and forth. But the sky was blue. I checked the thermometer - 48 degrees. Forty is the cutoff.

“Sure. Let’s go around the reservoir.”

That’s our shortest loop - past a horse farm, then an old barn and farmhouse before turning up a tree-lined residential road and on through a wetland. Past more houses and through some woods then onto a stretch of highway and along the reservoir, and back onto country roads before finally completing the loop. It’s one of the first rides we do in the spring when we’re just getting back on our bikes, the buds starting to show on the trees and daffodils blooming alongside the road. In the summer it’s our quick gotta-get-out-but-don’t-have-much-time ride and I’ll admire the gardens we pass, all much prettier than mine. And in the fall, we track the progress of the leaves changing, some individual trees particularly spectacular year after year, and we marvel at the trees' vibrant reflections on the reservoir.

Today, there was little to admire. Brown leaves covered the ground and the trees were a drab gray. Even so, after a half mile I felt my doldrums lift.  Being out under a clear blue sky, riding past fields and open spaces, feeling the cold wind on my face, and pushing myself physically, I felt invigorated. 

There is nothing remarkable about an 11-mile ride in December. But today, it was exactly that.

Thank you, Rob, for getting me out.