Chapter 29: No Brakes!

Day 21: Friday, July 14, 2017
62 miles

Brighton State Park to Littleton, Vermont

"I thought disc brakes didn't need any maintenance," said Rob, as we were riding along.

"All I know is that they are supposed to work better in the rain," I said. 

We'd bought our touring bikes in 2013 (mine) and 2014 (Rob's). Disc brakes were a new option that the bike people convinced us were a good idea, but we didn't really know that much about them. All the new technology on bikes was a bit intimidating, really. I understood and could replace the old brakes, but these I knew nothing about. And now Rob's brakes were failing. I had no idea. 

"We should probably try to find a bike shop," I said.

The riding was great all day along the Connecticut River Valley, crossing over the river into New Hampshire or Vermont as suited our fancy. We had lots of downhills and easy uphills. And Rob still had one working brake.

We stopped in the town of North Stratford, New Hampshire, for tea and pastries. The price was right but Rob's cinnamon roll was stale. He took it back.

Eggs for Sale. And a lawnmower.

There's the Connecticut River. And, look! The road is wet. Did it rain again? Not on us. This one happened before we got there. But we'll get our turn.

Those are clouds, not snow, sitting on the mountains.

It started raining when we were only a couple miles from a covered bridge. If only we could get there before it started coming down hard. But we couldn't. We stopped under some trees to wait it out. We waited. And waited. It didn't stop.

 

We finally gave up and rode in the rain to the covered bridge.  There's Rob, getting out some rain gear. But by then the rain let up, and stopped.

I wish I could say that was our shelter from the storm, but we arrived when we were already quite wet. Still, the covered bridges that you find sprinkled throughout Vermont and New Hampshire (and maybe the rest of New England) are really lovely. It's wonderful that they are preserved.

Another shot of the Connecticut River, which serves as the border between New Hampshire and Vermont.

As we headed further south we found out that there was a bike shop in Littleton, New Hampshire, which was near a campground. But it was getting late. We had to make a decision at an intersection a few miles from town. Should we ride to the bike shop, not knowing if it would still be open after 5? Or head straight to our campground?

I stopped at the intersection, Rob right behind me.

"What do you want to do?" I asked.

"Let's go to the bike shop," Rob said.

"Okay." And I took off for two glorious miles downhill. Which was a lot of fun except that all the way I was thinking, "Shit, we're going to have to go back up this to get to the campground. And if the bike shop is closed, we're going to have to come back again tomorrow morning." 

Littleton is a tourist town in the White Mountains. We passed lots of motels and hotels and bed and breakfasts as we searched out the bike shop.

Rob, behind me, said, "I'm for finding a room in town and going out to dinner." I was thinking the same thing. Even pizza would be better than what we had to cook, which was not much. And we wouldn't have to ride back up that hill. Then again, I wasn't sure we could afford it.

We found the bike shop pretty quickly, around 5:45. It was still open. Rob headed right inside with his bike. By the time I had parked and locked mine, the lone bike mechanic had already taken apart Rob's brake and diagnosed the problem. The brake pad was completely worn down.

"Can you fix it today?" I asked.

"I'll have it done in about 15 minutes," he said.

"Well, that's good news." 

Rob said, "Let's find a room for tonight."

I wasn't up for riding back up that hill. But I also wasn't up for the challenge of finding a room somewhere in town on a Friday night, even though I knew it would be wonderful. And what would it cost? I decided to put the ball in Rob's court. 

"Okay. Why don't you ask the salesperson for advice?"

There was a young woman working on the side of the store where there was riding gear and clothing. She was tidying up, getting ready to close the store for the day. Rob went over to talk to her. I sat down on a step by the door. I watched while he made a phone call. Then he came back over to me. He was not smiling. 

"The cheapest place in town has a room for two hundred dollars."

"Forget that," I said, and sighed. I guessed we were riding back up that hill. At least we wouldn't have to come back to town in the morning.

The young saleswoman - her name was Jen - came over to us. "I can give you a ride to the campground if you'd like," she said.

"Really? That would be terrific," and as I said that I was mentally reviewing the food we had available to cook for dinner. We had a package of instant flavored rice and nothing else except snack food. Normally we'd find a grocery store on the ride to the campground. But this was too good an offer to pass up. We'd make do.

Rob said, "Are you sure it's not too much trouble?" 

"Not at all." She had a rack on top of her car for both our bikes. We threw our panniers in the back. And before she started the engine she turned to us and said, "I can stop somewhere if you need to pick up anything for dinner. There's a Hannaford on the way."

How did she know? 

This is the magic of traveling by bicycle, the people you meet along the way who step in to give a helping hand just when you need it the most. And what we needed just then was a ride to the campground with a stop along the way to pick up a rotisserie chicken for dinner. 

Thank you, Jen! Please come visit us soon so we can return the favor.