That cute O'Reilly kid, Ralph, Action boy, Zeb and myself. Don't ask how the crew got here. We had tediously planned to be wearing hiking boots, draped in rain gear, raping the Mountains of Maine with our knowledgeable Amazon Appalachian book.
In
the dreary days of a brisk California winter, we bought magical
tickets, the golden wrapper kind in a Willy Wonka bar. The kind of
winters cold blooded creatures can only dream of; with shorts and
sandals and warm summer nights. We plucked from tree of maps, Maine, a
destination knitted tightly with lots of trees.
But
like so many times before, life doesn't always work out in the linear
way we perceive and plan. It was an annoying nauseating nuisance that at
age 30 knees were to be giving out like an overstock of Halloween
candy. We had a lot of talks, me and my knee. Time to heal up like a
hungover teenager bounces back to life, we have golden prized tickets.
But refusing to cooperate with the timeline, we were left no option but
to longingly leave the idea of a dirt trail in the dust. That left three
options: toss our non refundable golden tickets in a garbage pail, down
margaritas while sun bathing on a New England beach, or bike tour Maine
for the month.
It was an easy last minute decision and Zeb and Action Boy quickly used gymnastics, dismantling themselves into clusters and we all boarded the plane together. The
nightmare mess of transporting a reindeer as well as two metal souls to
Ogunquit is irrelevant. Important part, we made it, and armed with boxes of Mac and cheese our posse and gear.
We stood staring into the sparkling doorway of Maine with wide open roads leading to Nova Scotia. Soon to be shot into tiny towns, the posse soon to be suited in spandex, sweat, and exhaustion. We excitingly leave behind the
complexities of busy lives that sometimes seem to water down the world
around us. And one again reunited with that urge to capture the world is
undoubtably, irresistible.
This is bike tour MAINE.
Ralph would have been laughing till his organs hurt. Laughing at our haggardness on day one. Slumped over handle bars from the previous epicness of a night, he would not have let us live that one down. But Ralph is on a plane North; to his midget toy making pals and cookie eating master. Annoyed by remarks about his bulky weight, and demanding minced carrots and
a freezer, a compromised was made. We splurged on his ticket and soon
he was flying solo to his reindeer reunion for the weeks ahead. Yet even
in his absense his contagious laughter could be heard. Suddenly I missed the obnoxious reindeer of a pillow.
Transversing long forests and wide open roads we made it to the O'Reilly family barn along the coast of Maine. Pegged together like an Amish treasure with fresh timber, it breathes in and out the thick air of a Maine summer night. Sheltered from the tick infested woods, the sun dimed beneath lush green curtains. That green turned
to black and darkness took over. Darkness darker than dark. The kind of
dark that's a little too dark for comfort. The kind of dark where you
can't see a hand infront. And for the night the dense canopy of trees cacconed us into a void surrounded only by sounds of nocturnal insects and the creaking of a beautiful wooden barn.
DAY TWO
...and without Ralph, it felt like life was missing a tantalizing component of our posse. Annoying stoplight after stoplight, with the emptiness of the gabby deer in back, the final disappointment with a flat tire. Starring at Zeb's shoes- tires that had ridden 4000 miles in previous years - one could almost see socks through the worn soles. This is one of those moments when one thinks: perhaps I have a problem here. Just a month ago trekking into the woods without enough food or fuel, and now with a thousand miles ahead Zeb lacked a wearable tire. How did such a mishap of basic preparedness happen again?
But hours later, exiting a rarely found cycling shack with a pathetically cheap tire (beggars can't be chooser) I also held a new prized possession. It
was the key to a secret world, x ray vision to the world of dumb
drivers following behind. It was, in all it reflective silver glass, the
purchase to invincibility! Never in my life did I ever expect to own
such a hideous object, as a bicycle mirror. Although I knew it would have always made my mother very happy.
We were no longer those hip 20 something year olds. It only
takes too many people you could have known, too many friends of friends
that have died on a bicycle. Killed on tour or everyday commute. Run
over by ruthless cars, drivers distracted at unimportant text messages. A
reality of adulthood had sunk in: naive was no longer an excuse. And so
I embraced the mirror with an excited proudness, that somehow it
represented we were growing up. No longer that young kid too cool to acknowledge we are completely vulnerable to life's uncertainties.
But the important things are: despite ugliness of the projecting side reflection and hideous new tire, O'Reilly
and I are happy owners of the largest fuel canister REI has to offer
and this time around, wealthy enough to purchase campsites with showers
for days ahead. As we rolled into the New Zealand of Maine, zebra
stripped cows lined the dirt road. Fresh strawberry milk was for sale in
the camp store and the local habitat was infested with scenic ocean views and Daddy Long Legs. But grateful to be on bike tour, we boiled famous road risotto and fell fast asleep at campsite 303 in Wolf Neck State Park.
DAY THREE
Mileage: 65. It was annoying. The morning started off with Dunkin Dounuts refusing to refill my iced coffee needs. The problem lay not in the refill, but in the concept that I could purchase another medium iced caffeine and could also bring in a personal cup to be filled for 75 cents off the listed price. But I could not purchase another coffee to be put in the disposable recyclable plastic label dunkin donuts cup that I purchased 15 minutes ago. It was only 10am, but the young naive girl behind the counter refused to partake in my save the earth speech. "So one medium iced coffee?" She asked after this back and forth of corporate rules of ridiculousness. I wanted that coffee more than anything. Like a a Mosquito feinting for warm blood. But appalled by superfluous wastefulness my answer was a flat out NO. I dreamed about that coffee all through the early afternoon.
Mt. Battie Camden Hills
Missed a few spots.
Mileage: 65. It was annoying. The morning started off with Dunkin Dounuts refusing to refill my iced coffee needs. The problem lay not in the refill, but in the concept that I could purchase another medium iced caffeine and could also bring in a personal cup to be filled for 75 cents off the listed price. But I could not purchase another coffee to be put in the disposable recyclable plastic label dunkin donuts cup that I purchased 15 minutes ago. It was only 10am, but the young naive girl behind the counter refused to partake in my save the earth speech. "So one medium iced coffee?" She asked after this back and forth of corporate rules of ridiculousness. I wanted that coffee more than anything. Like a a Mosquito feinting for warm blood. But appalled by superfluous wastefulness my answer was a flat out NO. I dreamed about that coffee all through the early afternoon.
Receiving
a final email from my place of previous employment stating they would
not be compensating me the nearly thousand dollars I was owed, didn't
help the day. To rub it in even more they acknowledged my hard work had
earned what the contract said I should have been paid. The obsessions
started with anger over their response. Questioning my impulsive
preemptive email back stating the unpleasant truth of what was burned in
the walls of that restaurant was not the ending I wanted. But at least
the truth had been told. I couldn't let it go on the Atlantic hwy 1
north. The thoughts seems tied to each pedal stroke, going around and
around with cadence on repeat. The frustrations began to stack like a
Jenga tower. The fact that this coastline had allowed citizens to
purchase precious coastline views, left us with barely any coast to
actually see. Instead vacationers trafficked north on this two lane hwy.
At least my trusty new mirror stared down the approaching tons of metal
hurtling in our direction. There is mostly a wide lane for Zeb and
Action boy. Wider than the traffic lane itself; however, suddenly there
are these moments on this vortex of a road where everything to the right
of our glorious white line disappears. Could there possibly be a
compromise between plentiful and inches of our safety net? The day ended
without a shower. There just seemed something inherently wrong when the
campsite, with roaring cars at the fence line and humming RVs asked for
$40 to pitch tent for a mere 12 hours with two bicycles. Riled with
enough anger of annoyances from the day to bitch out anyone who dare
disturb us, we pitched tent in an abandoned demolished gas station for
the night.
And then DAY FOUR happened...
Mileage: 74
Side
trips to spectacular state parks. Blueberries and burritos that beat any
California farmers market or Mexican mafia Taqueria. This was Maine,
where pottery studios sat in every town, enough potters in this state to
put Ikea out of business. Enough antique stores to
furnish every house. And enough winter grandma knitters to keep the
state warm.
The low from the
previous day was turning into a day of smiles. And then we met Stuart. A
fun young gentleman wearing sky blue farmed sunglasses and the loudest
stripped shirt any thrift store could stock. He was that guy straight
out of a some California surf town, curly shoulder length hair and happy
go lucky. As we stocked up on a few beers after a long days ride he
asked where the posses was headed. It was 6pm and with sunset in the
horizon, "that way," unsure exactly where that way meant the night would
take us.
Then everything you
except about society goes right our the door. "We're headed out of town
for the night, but you can sleep in our backyard," he says, and then to
his girlfriend, "is this weird?" She shook her head with laughter and
like that, we were on our way to his house. "It's the brown house with
the lime green door six miles up the road. Door is open. Feel free to
use the bathroom." Half way through his sentence my jaw had hit the
asphalt. You see we are from a town where people ruthlessly blow each
other brains out.
O'Reilly had witnessed it for himself just months before. And this kind
hearted ship captain had just befriended two strangers like nothing I
had seen before. The stress of my disenchanted paycheck, the
patheticness of thousands of miles of privatized coastlines, and the
heart wrenching sadness of unnecessary pollution was all an
afterthought.
Society has hope, at least in Maine, and sunburnt we passed out like
puppies on Stuarts front lawn. Thanks Stew!
Camden Hills State Park
Wild berries!
DAY FIVE
Miles 61
DAY SEVEN
Miles: 46
Weather: 95
Miles 61
Acadia National Park. Pristine Atlantic
coastlines with vibrating blue hues. The sun sparkles on the gentle
waters that have thawed from a long harsh winter. Rugged geometric red
and brown rocky cliffs directed the scenic road up down and around.
Islands afar stood pronounced through the ocean midst haze. They spoke
no words, but emitted a breeze of silence, of a calm peacefulness.
But
where is Edward Abbey when in dire need. This is a necessary rant in
his honor because if this protected beauty of the nation But
something is seriously wrong in the idea that the grandparents in the
line ahead, in their white 2012 Nissan, flash their senior plastic park
card and drive right through. At age 62, their one time fee, costing
less than the price of a movie ticket, equated to a lifetime pass to all
National parks. Granted they gave the government 48 years of taxes, but
after pedaling 300 miles and having caused no congestion or added
pollution, these grey haired humans drive right through clogging up the
roads, without dropping a penny. And together on bicycles we were
charged the same entrance fee as an overloaded SUV with a family of obnoxious kids. I
have a problem with that concept, not that anyone would care except
maybe my dear friend Abbey. But then the pretty coastline appeared in
the window of the road, and all was forgotten.
Forgotten
until O'Reilly took over directions. Let me refresh your memory. This
boy is about as good as navigating as an artist is flying a spaceship to
Mars. The past year however progress had been made in his awareness of
directional forces and so I happily followed the plan in which he led.
Two
hours later tears were about to pour from eyes at the bottom of hwy 233
staring into the junction of hwy 3. Moments before, O'reilly's face
snarled with annoyance as I unsurely questioned his direction? One thing
is certain, I can't spell for shit, and it takes a second to remember
left from right (it's a dyslexic thing) but directionally without
question 95% of the time I could tell you which way is north. We had
descended from a beautiful quite road flying down miles of asphalt. And
we went the wrong way. Staring back up at the massive hill felt like
standing at the base of the Rocky Mountains. There was no way that 50lb
bike was about to pedal back up. We had missed the turn to see the entire other side of the park. Mistakes
happen, things that are every easy for some are extremely difficult for
others, but frustration took over and oozed out any pore clogged with
sweat and sunscreen. We had spent 4 days getting here, and in 2 hours it
was over. Even worse, the two bikes and two humans were now completely
directionless. Where to next? NW to Baxter or NE to Nova Scotia; there
was no plan. The one positive of anger combined with cycling is it can
equate to speed. A speed so fast that if dropped in the Tour de France
one might, just might, be able to hang on the wheel of the last man
dropped.
This race turned
badly after an hour of madness. All fuel had been used, the sugar tanks
were on empty. Below empty. Without any backup storage the mind
beings to play tricks. All the basic necessities needed after an hour
race on a 50lb bike: a bathroom, water, food, the brain was unable to
decipher which was to be prioritize. Thoughts of a sugary snack break
banged at the door, but no one answered. They could only say just keep
pedaling. This is called bonking.
Despair
had lead to a bonked state, but thank someone's God for Subway. That
sign called out the smell mom's freshly baked cookies wafting out the
windows of the house. A serious mental sobbing breakdown nearly happened
for no exact reason while patiently waiting to order the best veggie
sandwich on the planet. 15 minutes later, sanity was restore, a campsite
was found, and poor O'Reilly started me down and gave me a big smacker
of a kiss. And at the end of the day, laying in the red tent laughter
sang at one another of the absurdities that happen on bike tour.
DAY SIX
Miles: 84
Weather: 95 and sunny
The New
Englanders say there is an imaginary line that stretches across Maine.
It is the divide. The farther north the weirder the breed. It wasn't
hard to spot after Howland Maine. Only a few rednecks and gas stations
stocked with Budweiser and Cheetos. Finally we had found the backroads!
Wild blueberries filled the landscape for miles. Warmed from the
blistering sun, it was like an explosion of blueberry pie on thirsty
taste buds. White pristine box houses dwindled to grimy trailers fraught
with lawns of rusted cars and junk. How anyone could or would survive a
lonesome white frozen dark long cold and dismal brutally harsh winter
left me stunned. No one drove these newly paved roads. Their fresh
smooth black tar was like riding on a silk scarf. Moments, long pauses
of uninterrupted riding were found, where thoughts can wonder, were cars
cease to roam, and where miles drift by effortlessly. No tamed yards,
no cement channeled rivers, this was the wild lands of wild blueberries
where few choose to inhabit. Territories devoid of supermarkets and
Dunkins stretch for 50+ miles. After days of riding we had crossed that
imaginary line, where moose roam free and roads are barely touched.Miles: 84
Weather: 95 and sunny
Miles: 46
Weather: 95
Fatigue finally set it. Legs
felt ballooned full of pebbles. It was only 10:30am and already the
heat index hit the 90s. The asphalt boiled like lava below. The previous night mosquitoes
had swarmed our tent raging war. They sucked our blood all night like
vampires and we awoke with pounding welts. How those parasitic suckers
snuck in bewildered us, but one thing was certain, their blood filled
tummies weren't leaving the mesh walls alive. The battlefield was laced
with death in a mere 20 minutes. Blood smeared the tiny neon holes like a
red stained glass window. Itchy, we had won the war!
National Geographics ranks Katahdin the second top mountain to summit
in the world. It is the highest peak in Maine and Baxter state park
rates it as a "very strenuous" hike. At an elevation of 5262 feet we
didn't believe them. Nine hours later at a brisk pace, trekking from the
west side and exiting the east, we stood corrected. The stunning
explorers magazine says Katahdin is "possibly one of the most inspiring
mountains of east America." Thin timber birch lined the trail, green
spread thick like oil on canvas. It was a pretty view at the top, but
overly congested with many seekers of that same awe inspiring experience.
Their neon color tanks and voices interrupted the entirety of a moment.
It took away from the "inspiring". There was no daze, no instance where
the mind freely wandered in trance. This mountain required
concentration. Bouldering is a necessity and steel pegs turn rocks into
an elevator headed up. Every step must be carefully calculated. It was hard, but like any challenge it came with a reward.
Officially this story, buried within the state called Maine, can end with no regrets. Mosquitoes had eaten flesh and it itched like children with the chicken poxs. Poor O'Reilly was smeared in poison ivy and a tiredness set in so painful it was deliriously nauseating. Maine showed it's true colors, blueberry blues and isolated green stretched of a never ending density. New Englander's vacation homes contrasted the unmanicured scraps of poverty layered deep within the back roads. Their countryside clearly portrayed why these northerners produce 90% of the nations toothpicks and 99% of our blueberries.
But
sleep is never quite as restful in a cemetery or little league field
and
especially when surrounded with a swarm of a quite intolerable mote of
mosquitoes. Without Ralph to keep a nightly watch, sleep in these type
of circumstances is never super enjoyable. For some reason, without his
furry head, red nose, and big black eyes in my arms, I didn't feel the
confidence to talk my way out of this slightly illegal trespassing
situation if needed.
Hamstrings tight as guitar strings painfully dragged the miles by. Arriving
at the last town before crawling up to Baxter state park, it was
decided that climbing mountains in biking shoes was something of our
twenties. Biking across states in flip flops was something of our teens.
The little church thrift store run by 3 lovely elderly ladies thought
we
were quite the adventuring adorable bunch marching in spandex dripping
sweat. There they were staring right at me, a pair of solid Merrel
branded hiking shoes, size 8, stuck with a sticker that read $2.50. They
fit like a glove. It was glorious. O'Reilly also in luck, met his match
of Asics running shoes size 10. And then off up the lonesome road to
the large and wild State Park. 450 miles in, 7 days, we rode to the
entrance gate, to find, absolutely no bikes allowed. No bikes on roads,
no bikes past the entrance, and no bikes even tied to the roof of cars.
So let's just get this straight. We rode here, and tied our horses to
trees to hitch a ride into the green box on the map. Whatever we were
about to climb the tallest mountain in Maine.
I
guess I could chant on, but I have to spill the beans. I'm sick of this
blog. It has become a story on repeat. Pretty mountains, pristine
lakes, weird people and fascinating interactions, towns secluded from
the world and a physical and mental fatigue that can run so deep it
turns 99cent Kraft Mac and cheese into an experience at the French
Laundry. You've heard it; same story different state.
Did we wake up this summer, 30 years old and something changed? Are we becoming our parents and are the
stories of their youth really true? That before birthed mom actually
climbed Mt Ritter in a hail storm with crampons and an ice axe and dad
planned to hike the entire Pacific crest trail? I vowed to never be like
them: old, demanding beds and showers, stuck in routine, partaking in
societies corporate agenda, and becoming a bit too attached to comforts.
But somehow I felt too aged this time around to find joy for weeks in
the neglect of seemingly basic needs.
Too old to be bum camping in city parks and gas stations, falling
asleep in a pajama suit of sunscreen sweat and road grit. Ralph no
longer pranced around the tent, but returned to his stuffed state, a
distant reminder of childhood fantasies. Already at day 8, dreams crept
in about fluffy bath towels or any towel at that. How we made it last
year to day 43 averaging 80 miles in 105 temps is bewildering. Perhaps
it was still all very new, and we were a little bit younger.
What
is next? Still excited to wake up and hop on Zeb, even more excitement
sits in the ideas that in four very long days we will reach Boston and
pass out on family couches in AC. A flight back across the 48 states
will be waiting to rejoin friends, a tiny studio apartment, a pottery
studio, and a beloved old pal of a doggie. And I guess figure out what
chapter comes next in life.
Officially this story, buried within the state called Maine, can end with no regrets. Mosquitoes had eaten flesh and it itched like children with the chicken poxs. Poor O'Reilly was smeared in poison ivy and a tiredness set in so painful it was deliriously nauseating. Maine showed it's true colors, blueberry blues and isolated green stretched of a never ending density. New Englander's vacation homes contrasted the unmanicured scraps of poverty layered deep within the back roads. Their countryside clearly portrayed why these northerners produce 90% of the nations toothpicks and 99% of our blueberries.
The icing on the cake: there she stood
in the distance, her majestic chocolate brown fur, her big adorable
eyes, her body larger than the largest wild horse; she was beautiful. A
huge Gorgeous
moose. We named her Gracey. Days followed with paniers filled with
enough rain water to keep a small pond of fish alive. A thunderstorm
like a stationary pedal bike drowning under a shower faucet for five
long wet hours. Fingers turned into prunes worst than any wrinkly dried
packaged store bought plums.
700 miles passed without a car horn blaring through the peaceful landscapes of Maine. But two miles back
into Boston, in the "bicycles may use full use of lane", that damn
impatient bastard in too big of a hurry lays his horn on our asses. It
officially ended with a middle finger staring down his ugly eyes and
Ralph greeting us with a plethora of hugs. Thank you Maine!
Sincerely,
The Bicycle Crew