Eat Dessert First.

April 28, 2017

"Life is uncertain. Eat dessert first." I have no idea who said that. I saw it on a T-shirt at the starting line of a race a number of years ago and decided it was a philosophy worth adopting. (My other philosophical tenet is "Avoid left turns whenever possible." That's from the United Parcel Service.)

Last year I celebrated the momentous occasion of turning 60 by recruiting a few friends to join me on a 60-mile bike ride. By that logic, in ten years I should ride 70 miles, and when I get to a hundred I'll have to ride a century. Now that would be something.

Back when I bicycled the backroads of West Virginia with my brother, I'd be pushing my bike up a hill and there'd be a curve up ahead and I'd pray that around that curve would be the top of the hill, but wouldn't you know it, I'd get around that curve and the hill just kept going. It seemed like we never would get to the top. But we always did. We'd get home hot and tired and proud of ourselves for climbing all those hills on our 3-speed English racers, even if we did walk up a lot of them. 

We were always able to take on whatever was around that next curve. But getting older brings with it the knowledge life can be uncertain. My brother lost his life to AIDS over twenty years ago. Rob - my husband and long-time bicycling companion - has a chronic lung disease slowing him down. As I look around at friends and family my age and younger with health problems I appreciate how fortunate I am. Still, I'd better tackle that century while I know I can. 

I invited the same crew as last year, but my good friend Nancy was the only one who came along for the full ride. A couple friends had to cancel at the last minute. Mike Herlihy decided he'd ride the first half only and Rob met us for lunch and the second half.

With so many miles to cover I didn't stop often to take pictures and when we did stop for lunch and a late afternoon snack, I forgot. Following is what I can offer from one hundred miles of bicycling in the seacoast of New Hampshire and southern Maine.

We went as far north as Ogunquit, on the coast of Maine. We stopped at Perkins Cove, just a mile or so south on a little spit of land filled with touristy shops, mostly still closed this time of year. The shops are straight ahead in the picture. 

Mike, above, took the picture of the boats below. He's a much better photographer than I, which is why I had to steal the picture from his Facebook page. 

You can't bicycle to York without stopping at Nubble Lighthouse. We had been bicycling under cloudy skies and, even though the lighthouse is encased in fog in this picture, while we were there the sky began to clear.

After leaving the lighthouse, the strangest thing happened. We were riding down a hill along the shore when insects began pelting us. Mike said maybe they were some sort of sand creatures. They sounded like little hailstones hitting our helmets. I yelled, "Keep your mouth shut!" Mike covered his face with the sleeve of his jacket. As careful as I was, I did end up swallowing one. 

It wasn't too cold for these kids to go for a swim. 

After lunch we continued down the coast of New Hampshire. This is one of our favorite beaches, Wallis Sands State Park. We were surprised to see so many people on the beach until we realized it was the last day of the public school spring break week. That explained all the traffic, too. 

We made it as far south as Hampton Beach, almost to Massachusetts. As you can see from all the hotels, this is tourist mecca. Not a beach we ever go to in the summer, but a great stop on a bike ride in the off-season. After locking up our bikes, Rob and I took off our shoes and walked onto the beach while Nancy went to the bathhouse to change into her bathing suit. We put our feet in the water and, surprisingly, it wasn't too cold. Yup, Nancy's going in for sure.

Nancy is very excited, anticipating her first ocean swim of the year.

Rob and I sat on the beach and watched Nancy having fun. There were some pretty big waves out there. I said, "I hope there isn't a rip tide." There were other people in the water, they weren't really in the water, they were just standing in the water. Rob said, "If there is, we're not going to be able to help her." 

Nancy came out, a big smile on her face, and said, "I had to get out. I couldn't feel my feet."

I said, "Rob and I were a little worried that there was a riptide. We figured that if there was, that's how you'd like to go anyway."

Nancy believes that when death comes, it should be embraced as part of life. She laughed, "You're right."

"Breathe soft, ye winds,
Ye waves in silence rest."
The Lady of the Sea: NH Marine Memorial

We backtracked north up the coast for a few miles then headed east, to Exeter, where we stopped for a snack, and then home. 

A park runs along the Squamscott River just outside Exeter. That's the town in the background. 

The town of Newfields has a church, town office, an art gallery, and this little general store.

If you've ever wanted to ride a century, don't let the idea of it intimidate you. Find a flat route and go for it. Just leave yourself plenty of time. I don't ride fast; I'm that turtle that just keeps going. My average for the day was just under 12 mph. We stopped for lunch, twice for snacks, and once so Nancy could go for a swim. We started at 7 a.m. and finished 12 hours later. My longest training ride was 47 miles.

So now that I've ridden my century, I figure I have a couple choices. I could either decrease the distance by one mile each year, in a sense paying respect to my declining physical capabilities. Or, given how much fun I had this year, maybe I'll just own a century on April 28 every year.

Here's the route. I clocked 102 miles on my bike computer. We added a few miles when we had to ride through York a couple times in order to ride counter-clockwise around the Nubble Lighthouse peninsula. We did that because last summer Rob and I determined that riding it in the clockwise direction is no fun. 

Early September in Northern New Hampshire 2016

Many of the rides described in our New England bicycling book come in pairs, teasing you with a two-day adventure to a new or old-favorite part of New England. I had my eye on a couple rides in northern New Hampshire and convinced my friend Nancy to join me.

We camped in a National Forest campground near the town of Twin Lakes. I love camping, especially when it comes with a mountain stream at no extra cost.  But if you are looking for a more luxurious end to your bicycling day, I highly recommend the historic Mt. Washington Hotel, just down the road.

The first day, September 1, we drove to our campsite, set up camp, and then cycled about 40 miles starting from the campground around 11:00.

We ate lunch on the town green in Whitefield.

In all my travels through New England, 
this was my first village gun store (in Whitefield).

We always had views of the mountains
but the riding was never difficult.

After the first day's riding we relaxed at our spacious campsite.

This swimming hole was a short walk through the woods from our campsite. 

This beats a shower any day.

The second day, after breaking camp we drove to Whitefield where we started a 64-mile loop.

The day's ride featured several covered bridges. 

We passed one bucolic farm after another...

And the occasional fixer-upper.

St. Timothy's Church in the town of Lost Nation.
A number of the towns we passed through had only a church or...nothing.

We finished the second day's ride by crossing the Connecticut River and riding in 
Vermont for several miles.

The Connecticut River 

Vermont cornfields

We rode about 40 miles the first day.
 .

We started our second day's 64 mile ride from the town of Whitefield.

Rain

It rained on our wedding day and it rained on our honeymoon, so I guess it was only appropriate that it would rain on our anniversary bike ride.

The view from our motel room on a rainy morning.

We woke to rain, walked to breakfast in the rain, and watched the rain pour down outside from our table at The Red Skiff. Rob enjoyed his blueberry pancakes and I savored my over-easy eggs, bacon, toast, and homefries. The bacon was terrific, especially when I made it into a sandwich with the whole wheat toast and dunked it into the egg yolk. It took my mind off the worry of getting hit by a car that wouldn’t be able to see me in the pouring rain. Not to mention getting soaked. It was really coming down hard.

The Red Skiff, a cozy diner, was rather deserted on a rainy
Tuesday morning in May.

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A couple years ago we had a very long rainy day during a week's tour in Vermont. We got soaked in the morning, dried off at lunch, and were soaked again within 15 minutes of getting back on our bikes. But the barns and pastures in the distance had a mystical quality, colors muted by the gray sky, edges softened by the moist air. When Rob asked me afterwards what my favorite day of the trip was, I said, ‘The day it rained.”

It was still coming down hard as we walked back to our room. I checked the weather forecast on my phone.

“It’s supposed to let up around 10 o’clock,” I said. We could wait that long, but no longer.

And by 10 o’clock the rain had turned into a fine mist. We turned on our red flashing rear lights and put on reflective vests over our gortex jackets.

We took a different route back to Gloucester, passing through small towns with antique homes and libraries and quiet inland harbors. The fog and mist muffled sound and softened the edges of time and distance. 

It took about four hours to get to Newburyport, where we stopped at Not Your Average Joe's for a late lunch. We started right in on the fresh bread our server brought out with a generous serving of olive oil mixed with parmesan cheese and spices. That filled me right up, so I just ordered a Waldorf side salad - granny smith apples, dried cranberries, grapes, candied pecans, smoked mozzarella and romaine, with creamy sherry vinaigrette – a beautiful kaleidoscope of flavors and textures. Rob had a Tuscan chicken sandwich.

Rob had requested a table with a view of our bikes parked outside and while we were waiting for our food, we saw another cyclist, fully loaded, parking his bike next to ours. When he came inside, I said to Rob, “Let’s invite him to join us.” Having been on a solo ride myself, I know it gets lonely sometimes, not the riding so much as the stopping. And I love hearing the stories of other cyclists, especially the ones, like this fellow, who are obviously traveling long distances.

His name was Nick. He looked to be in his thirties, tall and solidly built. His beard gave him a friendly attitude. He lived in Ontario, Canada, and had caught a ride to Vermont where he started his journey, had ridden to Acadia National Park and down the coast, was heading to Cape Cod that night and then on to Boston to meet some friends, all this in about six days. (I was duly impressed.) He’d ridden a number of self-contained tours before this one, some with his girlfriend.

“I read about this guy who rode a hundred miles a day, so I figured I would do that. It’s gotten so I have to ride at least a hundred miles every day,” he said. “If I get to a campground and I haven’t ridden a hundred miles, I’ll ride around some more to get to a hundred. I have to feel like I’ve pushed myself.”

I once rode 500 miles in five days in the Colorado Rockies, just to say I’d done it. I was younger then, but, still, it wasn’t fun.

“You must be able to keep up a pretty fast pace to do that,” I said.

“Not really,” said Nick. “I usually ride about 12 miles an hour. But I can go forever at that pace. I’ve met up with guys who are riding fast and they were spent by early afternoon. I’ll could keep going another four hours or more.”

“That’s a long day,” I said.

“I get up early. I’m on the road by six o’clock,” he said.

But he admitted that his girlfriend isn’t really into the hundred-mile-a-day thing, so she gave this particular trip a pass.

Nick said, “I’m beginning to wonder why I’m even doing it. I don’t know anymore.”

As I’ve mentioned in an earlier blog, I hold to riding an average of 50 miles a day on long trips, leaving time for the spontaneous hike, visit to a museum, or a swim and nap at a state park. More than just riding, it’s about seeing the places you ride through and meeting people along the way.

I said, “Maybe your girlfriend has the right idea.”

Outside Not Your Average Joe's after lunch. The loaded bike on the right (cut off in this photo) belonged to our new friend Nick.

By the time we got back on our bikes it was after 3 o’clock and all precipitation had stopped, even though the sky remained overcast. Soon enough we were back at Hampton Beach, fighting a head wind; we couldn’t push past nine miles an hour. The streets were deserted, only an occasional pedestrian. It wasn’t the kind of day to invite strolling along the beach.

The town of Hampton Beach, above, and the beach itself, below, on a rainy weekday, late May.

Then we turned inland to Exeter where we stopped in the park along the river, to rest and eat something before the final push home. As we finished off the food left in our packs – some peanuts, an orange – I noticed movement in the grass on the other side of the chain link fence along the river bank.

“Look, there’s a mother duck and her babies,” I said.

She didn’t acknowledge my presence when I leaned over the fence for a better look.

“There are four ducklings,” I said. They sat in a tight pile against their mother, nestled against the fence in the wild grasses of the river bank. Rob, who gets excited whenever a family of wild turkeys wanders into our yard at home, didn’t get up, just took my word for it. He was conserving his energy.

A Philips-Exeter Prep School crew of eight rowed by. It was getting on to six o’clock.

The park in Exeter.
(Did I take a picture of the mother duck
and her babies? Nope.
Guess I was just too entranced by them to think of it.)

“We’d better get going,” said Rob. With the sky still gray above, we’d have to hurry to get home before dark. And we just barely made it. More and more cars coming by with their headlights on made me think we should be stopping to get out our lights, but we pushed on, getting home around eight o’clock.

Looking back, is this a trip to do again? Yes, but it would be fun to stretch it out over several days to have time to explore some of the sights along the way. Just outside of Newburyport is Plum Island, an 11-mile long barrier island. Then there are the art galleries and craft shops in Gloucester and Rockport. It could easily be a 4-day trip.

Leave a comment if you would like details on our route.

Celebrating 33 Years Together:

Monday, May 23, 2016        85.49 miles    11.37 mph     Riding time: 7 hours, 30 minutes
Tuesday, May 24, 2016        84.23 miles    11.20 mph     Riding time: 7 hours, 31 minutes

On to Rockport

I thought I was planning a 70-mile trip, but it turned out to be 85 miles. (That's 170 miles round trip instead of 140.)

In Salisbury, Massachusetts, houses stacked three deep blocked our views of the water, which was probably just as well. We had to keep our eyes on the road to avoid hitting one of the plentiful potholes.

Our view from lunch in Newburyport. Apparently I cut off half of the elderly couple out for their midday stroll.

Then it was over the Merrimack River into Newburyport, with its historic brick buildings and brick sidewalks, small craft shops and pedestrian-friendly downtown. We found the waterfront park along the river, with an expansive lawn and boardwalk, parked our bikes and got out our lunch. Sitting on a wooden bench in the sun, eating our sandwiches of hummus and tomato sprinkled with garlic salt, we looked out over a harbor filled with luxury boats, watched the occasional mom with a stroller or elderly couple walk by. A gentle breeze cooled off our sweaty selves.

I looked at my odometer.

Rob asked, “How far have we gone?”

“Forty-five. I blew it. I must have forgotten about the 10 miles from Hampton Beach to here. I think we have another 35 to go. We’ll do at least 80.”

We wouldn’t have much extra time. Our sightseeing would have to be from our bicycle seats. But Rob didn’t seem to mind. His only response was, “Oh, well.” What’s another 10 miles?

Back on our bikes we passed tidal flats and organic farms with their scent of fresh manure, some fields turned over and ready for planting. Then more traffic, a detour onto a country road, traffic again, a stretch along a river, past marshes, and into Gloucester, where we stopped just before downtown to wait while a small drawbridge finished letting a boat through.

Gloucester was the last port of the Andrea Gail, the commercial fishing boat lost at sea during the “Perfect Storm” of 1991. Known as a working class fishing town, it has become more upscale recently with art galleries and coffee shops.

We needed rest and fuel. But the waterfront seemed to be mainly working piers, no quiet dockside coffee shop in sight. We pushed our bikes up the hill to the main street where we found an Italian bakery, its glass display case filled with pastries. Some had cream exploding out of them. I asked the woman behind the counter what they were, and she said they were filled with ricotta cheese. She pronounced ricotta with a real Italian accent.

“And what about those?” I pointed to something that looked similar.

“Those are baked ricotta,” she said.

“What’s the difference?”

She explained that one had the cream baked inside and the other didn’t.

I picked the one with the baked ricotta. Rob ordered an éclair and we grabbed lemonade drinks out of the cooler. We sat at a small metal table on the sidewalk in front of the bakery.

As I bit into my pastry, the flaky crust crackled and crumbs fell everywhere. This was the real thing. The dough had been carefully rolled out to paper-thin thickness and then wrapped around the ricotta filling and baked to a delicate crispness.

“How is it?” Rob asked.

“Great. I think I’m going to stop by tomorrow to pick one up for the ride home.”

The last 11 miles to Rockport were the best of the day. Quiet residential roads passed through neighborhoods of well-kept modest-sized homes with small front yards filled with colorful flowers. Then we came to a dramatic coastline, waves crashing against rocks piled along the shore. And on the hill on the other side of the road, beautiful Victorian houses close beside one another. I pictured myself sitting on one of their wooden porches with the surf a perfect backdrop to a good book, a cup of tea, and a pastry. Or some fine chocolate. I’d put my feet up on the railing and, hands cupped around my tea mug, just sit for a few minutes as I’d study the waves, watching the different ways they would break over the same rock.

I would be quite content to have a view like this from my front porch.

We arrived in Rockport shortly before 5 o’clock, and found the small peninsula known as Bearskin Neck. We’d ridden 85 miles.

Bearskin Neck Motor Lodge is about as low-budget as you can get in Rockport, but you can't beat the location and the view (on the other side of the building).

We had a room booked at the Bearskin Neck Motor Lodge, a small family-owned place at theend of the neck, every one of the seven rooms opening onto a common balcony that overlooked the ocean. The owner gave us the option of locking our bikes outside, behind the office, or bringing them up to our room on the second floor. I looked at the narrow wooden staircase at the side of the building. It would be easier to leave the bikes outside down here.

“What do you want to do?” I asked.

Rob said, “I’d feel better if we brought our bikes up to our room.”

We pulled the panniers off, leaving them for a second trip. I hoisted my bike over my shoulder and up the stairs, another couple watching us from the top, waiting to go down themselves, as we squeezed by them.

The room was nothing fancy, no cozy comforters or antique furniture, just a basic motel room in nondescript colors with two beds, a small fridge, a table and two chairs. The window opened onto the balcony and a screen door allowed us to welcome in even more of the ocean air. And there was enough room for two bicycles. It was perfect.

After a shower I settled into one of the plastic white chairs on the balcony with a book and a cup of hot tea. Maybe we didn’t own one of those historic Victorians we’d passed by, but I still felt rich, looking out on the ocean and blue sky stretching to infinity and listening to the surf rattling the rocks below. Rob joined me but he never sits and reads. He’s always watching, looking around.

“That guy is stealing stones off the wall,” he said. I looked over next door and saw a man taking a large stone, and then another, off the stone wall between the building and the water. When I want to tease Rob I call him Mrs. Kravits, that nosy neighbor from the old television show, Bewitched.

We didn’t sit long before heading out for a short walk and dinner. Unfortunately, we couldn’t check out the many colorful shops crowded onto this small spit of land. By the time we arrived everything was closing for the day, or still hadn’t opened for the season. 

We did walk to the end of the peninsula, just past our motel, where a granite bench had been donated by a resident on her 100^th birthday. I like that. Don’t wait until you die to have someone dedicate a bench to your memory. Just do it yourself. It does have more punch if you live to a hundred though.

Rockport
My home for over 100 years
Gertrude (Tarr) Reed
Given on My 100th Birtday
July 5, 1995
Sit Relax Enjoy

There were only a couple of restaurants within walking distance that were open for dinner, both serving seafood. We chose Roy Moore’s Fish Shack and waited for a table by the window. We were in no hurry.

Looking over our menus, Rob asked, “What are you thinking about getting?”

We ate lobster when we honeymooned on Cape Cod and Martha’s Vineyard.  Since this was our anniversary I knew that’s what he wanted, but I figured he was waiting for me to bring it up. I said, “If you order a lobster dinner then I’ll have to. I can’t sit here and watch you eat it.” We both ordered the lobster.

This restaurant may have started as a fish shack, but the food was fine dining. We shared a crab cake appetizer, loaded with flaky crab and delicate spices and fried to a gentle crispness, and a baby field greens salad with pecans and feta cheese.

Then our lobsters came. Growing up, Rob’s family never shared food when they went out to eat. When we were first married and I’d ask him for a taste of whatever he’d ordered, he had a hard time giving up even a small bite of his dinner. Now he usually offers before I even ask. (And, foodie that I am, I usually do ask). So when one of Rob’s claws came out looking like it had been struck by polio, all shriveled up, I thought it only fair to give him a chunk of one of mine, to even us up.

I once heard that back in the 1800s farmhands in Nova Scotia had it written in their contracts that they couldn’t be fed lobster more than twice a week. It was so plentiful it was considered a poor man’s dish. But I’m sure they didn’t have unlimited melted butter to drown it in. So now, sometimes I wonder, is it the lobster served with butter that I love, or the butter served with lobster?

While we waited for the check, we noticed a few raindrops falling outside. The forecast had called for a 50% chance of rain tomorrow. It looked like it was already starting.

“Think we can rent a car to get us home tomorrow?” Rob joked.

We could be looking at a wet ride back.