Going Shopping

I have of late been inspired by my friend Nancy who rides her bike everywhere she needs to go, whether to church three miles away, or to visit a friend in an assisted living facility in a neighboring city. Many of us avid cyclists are trying to take a page from Nancy’s book and use our bicycles not just for recreation, but for transportation as well.

In fact, here’s where I put in a plug for my son Tim, who has a gig writing for Bike Life Cities magazine. Check out his column where he describes the challenges he encounters when he decides to permanently garage his car (actually, our car) in favor of riding his bicycle everywhere he needs to go while living and working in Boulder, Colorado. It’s good writing, a whole lot funnier than mine.

So today I decided to combine a trip to Wildcat Fitness in Durham with an errand to a farm in Lee to pick up eggs and some meat. I was curious to find out how a couple dozen eggs would fare traveling in a pannier.

I checked out the distance to Coppal House Farm on googlemaps and it came up as 7 ½ miles. The ride to Durham is about 6, so I expected the total to be around 20 miles, just right for a training ride. And I’d feel good about not burning fossil fuels while supporting a local farm that raises happy animals. The chickens get to roam on 78 acres and the other animals get to run around in pastures, just like in the old days.

I recruited Nancy and another friend, Maura, to meet me at the gym for the ride to the farm.

Too cold for shorts but not so cold that I needed mittens when I left my house at 7:30 this morning, it wasn’t much warmer at 9 o’clock when I met up with Nancy and Maura. The trees haven’t greened up yet, but there are occasional hints of spring green here and there.  

Coppal House Farm in Lee, New Hampshire

From Durham we took an indirect route to the farm to avoid the state highway, staying on country roads, which is not hard to do in this corner of New Hampshire. Having been on only two short bike rides this spring I wasn’t too excited when some hills loomed ahead, but it all turned out okay.

When we arrived at the farm, Nancy said she’d pop over to Blue Bell Greenhouse across the road to pick up some pansies for her church. I wondered how she was going to get them on her bike, but she assured me they'd fit in her panniers just fine. I guess the people who sold them to her worried how they'd do riding on the back of her bike. But when we parted ways and she had just three miles left to go they were still looking pretty good. And my eggs arrived home unbroken.

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.