Bicycling Maine (9) - To Boothbay Harbor

Day 4: Memorial Day, May 25, 2015

Bailey’s Island to Boothbay Harbor and beyond:  67 miles (averaging 10.5 mph)

While Rob cooks oatmeal for breakfast outside on our camp stove, I wander into the hotel office to check out the free continental breakfast, expecting the usual packaged, sugar-loaded pastries and grocery-store bagels. Instead I find baskets filled with homemade muffins, covered with tea towels, still warm. And enormous - I juggle two muffins in one hand and a cup of hot tea in the other.

I hand off a muffin to Rob, then sink into an Adirondack chair. The view of the harbor in front of us, the blue sky, gentle breeze and a bowl of hot oatmeal mixed with walnuts and raisins beats any restaurant. I bite into my muffin, still warm and bursting with blueberries, so moist it needs no butter.

I hope the proprietor doesn’t think me too greedy when I grab a couple more muffins for the road.

Last night we looked over the map, measured the miles and realized that if we really want to get to the Canadian border we’d have to bypass all these peninsulas. So instead we’ll just ride our 50 miles or so each day and let the destination surprise us.

For tonight, we'll camp outside Boothbay Harbor, assuming we find the campground, it allows tents, and Rob doesn’t come up with another reason why we should stay in a motel. I’m sick of carrying all this damn camping gear and not using it.

We ride to the other end of the island where we find the Bailey Island Lobsterman.

The lobster theme pervades
the Maine seacoast.

Then we ride to Bath, perched on the Kennebec River. We arrive shortly before the Memorial Day parade starts, the town filling up with spectators. It feels too crowded so we don't stay long.

Before we get back on our bikes I call our daughter, just to check in, expecting a hi-how-are-you-everything's-fine phone call. But it's not that. She has news of a tragedy she needs to share, a favorite high school teacher found dead, an apparent suicide. He had only recently retired, having taught social studies and psychology for many years. When I met him, I appreciated his strong Long Island accent, an accent so like my mother's. He loved to hike the White Mountains and told his students how he climbed Mt. Washington many times in the winter. Rob visited his psychology classes every semester to answer students’ questions about the field. He always offered to take Rob kayaking as a way to say thanks, but somehow they never got around to it.

We cross the bridge out of Bath, over the Kennebec River, riding on Route 1 into Wiscasset then down Route 27 towards Boothway Harbor, too much traffic speeding by on roads without decent shoulders and why are they going towards a tourist spot on the Monday of a holiday weekend when they should be going home?

But the traffic is just an annoying distraction from my thoughts of this man who loved the outdoors, hiking and kayaking. Yet, that wasn’t enough to save his life.

We arrive at Shore Hills Campground in mid-afternoon and set up our tent with time for more riding. To avoid traffic we set off on a local road on a loop that looks, from the map, like it might have some nice views, but it doesn’t, really. At least the traffic is considerably lighter.

 How seaworthy is this boat?

Finding our way to downtown Boothbay Harbor, we stop on one of the streets just off the waterfront. The town has a quaint feel to it in spite of the garish signs advertising boat tours.

We lock our bikes to a lamppost and walk around but most of the shops have closed for the day. Around the corner we find a specialty wine and cheese shop that’s still open, buy a small bottle of wine, some cheese, and a loaf of French bread for dinner, and sit outside to eat at a picnic table overlooking the harbor.

We tend to think of the Memorial Day weekend as ushering in summer. But summer hasn’t even started knocking on the door here. A cold wind starts blowing, and, as we eat, it starts to rain. Thankfully it comes down sporadically, as we put on rain gear and drink up the wine. We arrive back at the campground before the rain begins in earnest.

Tomorrow we'll start another day of riding, and thoughts of a teacher's suicide will dissipate as others take their place. It seems callous, in a way, that we give what seems like only a passing thought to someone else's tragedy and then just go on with our lives. But maybe that's the way it should be. Now is our time to fill up our buckets with adventures and joyful moments, building memories that will get us through the sorrows that will someday be ours.