"Live free or die"

The Vermont rain came to an end at about the same time I crossed the bridge over the Connecticut River separating Vermont from New Hampshire.  The first ten miles of cycling in New Hampshire were a wonderful introduction to the state: I went through a covered bridge, I cycled a idyllic country road along the Connecticut River, and, ending the day, I slept in a comfortable bed at a beautiful B&B, the White Goose Inn. 

"Live free or die" are strong words, but it's the New Hampshire state motto and is prominently emblazoned on New Hampshire license plates.  I definitely took the motto to heart on my first full day of cycling in the state.  At the summit of the Lost River pass on the east side of Lincoln, NH, my favorite road sign appeared: a truck pictured on a downhill slope, and the words "7% for the next 4 miles".  Hot dog!  I "lived free" as the speedometer first exceeded 20 miles per hour, then 30, then 35, then 40, then 45 --- and after that I was too terrified to do anything except study the road ahead of me seeking out deformities, rocks, debris, or anything else that could lead to the "or die" part of the motto.  Rusty performed admirably, as solid as a rock under me, even with the 65 pounds of gear.  Although the fastest part of the descent frightened me a bit, the whole of it was thrilling.  At the bottom of the pass, I checked my speedometer: maximum speed, 47.9 miles per hour (77.1 k/hr).  This is the fastest of the trip, the fastest ever on Rusty, and the second fastest of my entire life.

The White Mountains

After the high speed downhill thrill, I rolled into Lincoln, New Hampshire, eagerly anticipating the opportunity to meet Tom and his family.  Tom is the nephew of my best friend back in San Francisco (who grew up in New Hampshire).  Being a cyclist himself, Tom had a bike rack with which he could transport my bike from Lincoln, NH, which was on my route, to his home in Plymouth, NH, which was not. 

Tom, his wife Barbara, and daughter Ali were so welcoming and so hospitable that I wound up taking a two-day break. The longer stay allowed for a tour of the surrounding area in Tom's snazzy Audi two-seater.  The first stop of the tour was Polly's Pancake Parlor, a local in spot where they have been serving gourmet pancakes for the past 100 years. We both ordered the "pancake sampler" in order to check out three of their offerings simultaneously: cornmeal pancakes with walnuts, whole wheat pancakes with strawberries, and buttermilk pancakes with blueberries, all three served with New Hampshire maple syrup, of course.  Yummy.

An hour later we waddled contentedly out of the restaurant and proceeded on our way to the imposing Mount Washington Hotel. It is one of the many resorts that used to exist in the White Mountains; all but a handful have burned down.  In the more gracious era of the late 19th century, people would travel here by train to escape the summer heat in the major east coast metropolitan areas, and enjoy a week of hiking, horseback riding, swimming, and tennis by the day; fine dining and dancing in the hotel ballroom by night.  The hotel is located in the township of Bretton Woods which lends its name to the historic event that occurred at the hotel: the 1944 Bretton Woods Monetary Conference.  This conference established the International Monetary Fund and helped revive international trade in the aftermath of World War II.

The next morning Tom dropped me back in Lincoln to resume my ride from where I had left off two days earlier.  The weather was looking good for my long-anticipated climb over the Kancamagus Pass, the highest point ion the northeastern section of the designated bike route.  I was prepared for a challenge, but the climb to the summit was at a steady 5-6% grade that wasn't too  difficult.  No commercial development is allowed along the 32-mile Kancamagus Highway, but there are a number of turn outs where you can pull off the road to enjoy the views of the White Mountains.  On this particular day, unfortunately, the weather clouded over after the first hour and it wasn't nearly as stunning as it might have been.  It was easy to imagine, though, what a blaze of color it must be when the leaves begin to turn in the Fall, but at this point, it was still a few weeks too early.

Since I was not that far behind schedule, I decided it wouldn't hurt to take off another rest day in the town of Conroy on the far side of the Kancamagus Pass.  A high school friend of Jim's, Bob, drove up from Manchester to join me.  This time the weather cooperated and we had a beautiful 85-degree day to enjoy the town and  surroundings.  We took a short hike along the river coming down from the pass, and followed up with some sightseeing.  My favorite sight of the day was the North Conway Scenic Railway.  There is an interesting exhibit of railway memorabilia housed inside the Victorian North Conway train station.  We were also lucky to be there as the train pulled into the station after its daily excursion.  If I ever get the opportunity to return to this part of New Hampshire, the two things at the top of my list are (a) an excursion on this railway, and (b) a second excursion on the cog railway that climbs up one of the peaks.

Maine

Saturday was the first day of my fourteenth week on the road.  It was also the day I crossed the state border from New Hampshire into Maine, the last border crossing of my trip.  Prior to this trip, I suppose I had formed my impression of Maine by watching too many reruns of "Murder She Wrote".  I had seen Angela Lansbury solve so many murders on the dramatic rocky coast line that I extrapolated for some unfathomable and totally illogical reason, that the state had a somewhat barren, rocky interior, just like the coast but without the lighthouses.  Nothing could be further from the truth.

The parts of Maine that I cycled through are heavily forested, dotted with many lakes and rivers.  Maine touts itself as "Vacationland" on its license plates, and it's easy to see why.  It's a beautiful place, perfect for anyone who loves nature.  Anglers, boaters, hikers, swimmers and cyclists ought to love it here. 

Only the northernmost parts of the state have bona fide mountains, but the rest of the state has more than enough hills to compensate for any lack thereof.  On my first day of cycling in Maine, I never climbed a hill higher than 521 feet, but the total climbing for the day totaled an incredible 4,250 feet --- more than on any day since I crossed the Cascade Range in Washington back in June.  I was constantly going either up or down, never flat.  At times the climbs were incredibly steep.  Once there was a quarter-mile section I could scarcely push my bike up, much less cycle.  On the other hand, the climbs never lasted very long.  I would try to convince myself that "if I can only make it a few more feet, I'll be able to coast downhill".  Sometimes there was even more hill to climb around the first bend, but luckily it was mostly true.  At the end of the day, though, all the "ups" really did add up!

I was overcome by an incredible feeling of excitement and wonder when I got my first glimpse of the Atlantic Ocean.  Even if I hadn't quite arrived at my ultimate destination, it meant that I had really cycled coast-to-coast.   The picturesque harbor at Rockport, Maine, spread out beneath me, dotted with little fishing boats.  Just beyond the harbor, you could glimpse the Atlantic.  The temperatures were cool and crisp; the air was crystalline; and the sky overhead was a deep, cloudless blue.  It was the perfect cycling day. Wow.

For the rest of the day, the scenery was a succession of one stunning view after another.  Especially with the superb weather, it was exhilarating.  Since I wanted to savor my last night on the road as much as possible, I stopped for the day at around 4:00 pm in order to camp on the beautiful Penobscot River estuary.  My camp site was just a few feet from the water's edge, with trees all around me and a good view of the rocky shore.  Birds swooped down over the water, and after nightfall, the moon rose and reflected in the water.

I experienced an odd mixture of contradictory emotions that evening.  At the same time I was ecstatic at having had a superb cycling day and now a magnificent spot to camp,  a growing sadness gnawed at me.  With every action I took, I would say to myself that I was doing this for the last time.  It was the last time I would set up my tent, the last time I would cook myself a meal, the last time I would sit at my picnic bench sipping on a glass of wine while watching the sun go down, the last time I would go to sleep listening to the birds and other unidentified forest creatures.  Just one more day and I would be packing everything up and shipping it home.

Too soon the trip would be nothing but memories.  With my aging memory cells, I'll probably have to re-read my own website and look at the photographs if I am to remember it all.  Although the forecast for my final day of cycling is for yet more glorious weather -- and in spite of the fact that I hope to continue bicycling until I reach a very ripe old age [and when a 59-year-old says old, that really means old!] --- it's still sad that this particular bicycle tour is almost at its conclusion.