Day 2: Saturday, May 23, 2015
Ogunquit to Yarmouth
Today we’re off to Yarmouth, 10 miles north
of Portland, where Rob's childhood friend Steve and his wife have agreed to put us up for the night.
The only information we can glean from the
Maine tourism state highway map, which provides no mileage and little detail, is that the distance from Ogunquit to Portland is much further than what we rode
yesterday. But we made 45 miles easily with a late morning start yesterday so
we’ll just get on the road a few hours earlier and have no problem.
By 8 o’clock, after a walk on the beach and
Continental breakfast on the veranda of our hotel, we’re heading north on U.S. Route 1 and a sign says 39 miles to Portland so I add 10 miles
to account for meandering along the coast. We take Route 9 to Kennebunkport, where we stop to check the map, notice we’re in front of an art gallery and pop in for a
quick look.
But the gallery contains some very fine art and since the day stretches far ahead of us, we linger for a bit. Rob falls in love with an old
painting of a ship at sea that costs more than just a few thousand dollars, which is just as
well since I find it too dark and dreary. The gallery owner is a retired
engineer who took up painting himself later in life. He has a few of his own
paintings for sale and they are quite good. We talk about one he is presently
working on, where he is painting with his palette knife.
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| We stopped for an early lunch on Cape Porpoise |
As we leave he gives us a local map and
suggests some roads to take that follow the coast. And now we’re off to explore
new territory with names like Goose Rocks Beach and Fortunes Rocks and Cape
Porpoise.
Biddeford Pool sits on the end of an obscure
point of land on the way to nowhere else. We don’t regret taking the detour
when, after riding past wide-open marshes, we cruise past stunning views of the surf
pounding on a rocky shore.
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| Relaxing in Biddeford Pool |
Aside from the dramatic coastline, Biddeford
Pool is mostly private residences, but we do find Goldthwaites
Pool Lobster Co., where we check out the clam
chowder. We’ve gone about 30 miles and, after studying the map I determine that
we have another 20 miles to Portland. We'll get to our friends' house in Yarmouth by 4 o’clock.
We continue to follow the coast, but ocean
views are scarce and uninspiring and it’s just hard riding with a sore butt. We
pull into Old Orchard Beach, with a crowd of tourists milling around an amusement park, hanging out in
the streets, and sitting at outdoor restaurants. Rob sees
a soft-serve ice cream stand and insists we stop, but the ice cream is
third-rate and the music blaring over loudspeakers overwhelming.
I check the map and estimate 20 miles to
Portland. We’ll get to Yarmouth by 5 o’clock.
We take the direct route now, heading to
Scarborough. When we pass a bike path
that looks like it heads in the general direction of Portland, we follow it through
a lovely marshland and pass other bicyclists out enjoying a leisurely ride on
the holiday weekend. We've bypassed
Scarborough and manage to get back on Route 1, which should take us straight
through Portland. We follow the signs for Route 1/I-295, assuming Route
1 will go one way and the interstate another, but they don’t and we’re on the
interstate with trucks and cars speeding past us at 70 mph.
The last time I found myself on an interstate
was in 1980 when I was riding into Portland, Oregon, and I swore I’d never do
it again. I didn’t intentionally get on the interstate then, either. It
just somehow magically happened.
Rob is behind me and I have no idea what he’s
thinking but there’s no way I’m going to negotiate crossing an exit ramp. I
don’t care if we are on Route 1 and it’s the only way we know to get through
Portland. I get off at the first exit we, which drops us off downtown.
We’re hot and tired and have no idea where to go next.
We call our friends, and they don’t know how
to get out of Portland either, because of course they always drive and take the
interstate. But they mention the names of a few possible roads and, we head off
in a northerly direction, find another bike path and eventually we're back on Route 1, north of the city.
It’s 5 o’clock; we should get to Yarmouth by
6. And all I can think of is Sally’s wonderful cooking and how good it’s going
to be to get off my bike. We’re almost there and I see a grassy knoll and
signal a stop, drop my bike, dig into my handlebar pack for some almonds, and
lay down. I don’t care how close we are; I need to recharge. Rob doesn’t argue;
he’s almost out of gas, too.
After only a few more miles we see our
friends’ house. Their 6-year-old son Pete
runs alongside us as we pull into the driveway. He eagerly asks to carry in my
gear as I unload my bike, and I, just as eagerly, say yes.
We’ve clocked 77 miles, in 7 hours and 21
minutes of riding, 10 hours on the road, including stops. It will be our
longest day.
The hills are coming.
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