It is now way past time to write this blog. That’s what happens when you are on a mission to get through cities, find places to stay, and figure out what the heck you are doing and where you should go.
So, let’s see if I can hit the main points over the last several days.
I stayed at the Days Inn in Kittery, Maine, situated on the Hwy 1 bypass road, on Thursday night and Friday, August 28th and 29th. There was an Irving gas station and convenience store about 1 city block away. This station had a laundromat and shower and was frequented by truck drivers and construction/road workers. The motels across the street were filled with the working crowds, 5-6 men to a room. The Irving station had a little Italian restaurant in it. It also had almost everything a convenience store could offer, although their bananas were pricey. But they put out fresh muffins every day and had several packaged sandwiches and salads, etc. I visited this shop a few times in just one day and 2 nights. I even had to use the Irivng Store laundromat as the Days Inn laundromat was out of service. I spent Friday writing and posting online. I am perpetually behind on the photos, but the writing comes first, and seems to be rather time consuming. I know I write an awful lot of stuff and it is way too much for most people to read, but to tell you the truth, I need it to remind myself of the wonder of this journey. When I don’t write, I forget how magical it all is, and think more about how tired I am or how sore my thighs are, etc.
While at the Days Inn, I met Patrick McKinney. This gent is in his late 50’s and told me a bit of his story. He was adopted and said he grew up in a very abusive situation, so he left home at age 14. Since this was against the law, technically, he agreed to talk to the judge in a closed session if he would be allowed to walk out of the judge’s office a free man. The judge agreed. So Patrick traveled incognito back to town, told the judge the secrets of his life, and walked out and never looked back.
He spent his youth living a crazy life. He checked himself into a high school for few years, living in the woods and working wherever he could to support himself. He purchased a violin and a harmonica at a pawn shop and taught himself to play with books and by hanging out in coffee shops and bars where skilled people practiced their art. At one point, he jammed with Wille Nelson and smoked some weed with him. In the 70’s while a teenager, he played in the same bar as Bob Dylan, playing between Dylan’s sets and sharing an impromptu jam session with him. These two musicians, Patrick says, “were the real deal”. They were “real people, humble even though famous. You could just sit and talk to them”. I think it was also the language of music drawing them together. And maybe sharing weed. Just saying.
Patrick said he had a hard time in school due to dyslexia, but can follow things in pictures and schematics better than letters. I found that fascinating. So, for some years now, he has worked putting in phone systems for big business chain stores like WalMart. He has enjoyed that type of job because he gets to continue to travel. He is now a married man---a newlywed of about 2 years now. He was traveling through Maine traveling after visiting his wife’s family. Most of the time, I saw Patrick hanging outside the motel room. He had spent his life outside and on the road and didn’t like to be inside the small motel rooms for long. Patrick is not doing well healthwise; he is waiting for a liver transplant. He has had several surgeries for liver tumor resection, but the tumors still keep returning. He was a slender man but showed the signs of ascites, with yellowed, darkened skin and a protruding abdomen from his suffering liver. But, he smiled and laughed and shared stories and did not dwell on his illness. He did make it clear, though, that he continues to have traveling in his blood and finds it difficult to stay still. His passions are music and the road.
We shared contact info and laughed at our very similar email addresses.
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On Friday, August 30th, I left Maine and zipped into New Hampshire again through the hilly, busy town of Portsmouth. Then, a few hours later, I passed into Massachusetts. I had found a campground near Gloucester, Massachusetts on the net. I spent the morning traveling the 1A along the Atlantic coast in NH and MA. I had several glimpses of the beautiful ocean, but most of the time a rock seawall blocked my view. Still, the atmosphere of the last great weekend of the summer was in the air. There was the beautiful young college crowd, dressed in bathing suits with slim, toned bodies, grabbing boogie boards and surfboards to run to the beach. There were families with children and beach umbrellas and blankets. There were the sights and scents of coast town bistros, shops, and restaurants. It was holiday along the coast and I felt a part of it.
The day went along beautifully with a pleasant ride, fresh sea air, and started out quite sunny. As the day progressed, the clouds rolled in. The last 5 miles getting to Cape Ann were crazy hard, with steep hills through neighborhoods with signs forbidding truck travel and warning against size and weight limits. The last difficult hill was in the campground itself, getting to the office on top of the hill, with HD’s front end lifting up and making it almost impossible to navigate. I had to get off and pull him part of the way, because I could not get any traction.
Just as I arrived, my phone died. I had been using the google cycling maps, which had been very helpful with his voice commands, but uses a tremendous amount of battery power to run. My campsite did not have any electricity, so I went back down to the office to recharge and write texts and check maps for the next day, while the phone recharged. The nice staff in the office agreed to keep an eye on my phone and MacBook while I took a walk to work out the stiffness in my legs. The campground was near an ocean inlet. You could not see the ocean but many little “rivers”. To get to the ocean by foot, car, or cycle, you would need to travel another 5 miles around these crazy corners and hills. So. I remained satisfied with my ocean views of the morning.
After partially recharging the phone, I went to camp and stood there looking at Henry David. I had been having to use more bungee cords to pull in the wheel guards as they were rubbing the left rear tire. The whole guard was off kilter and I was getting more aggravated. So, I pulled out a pocket knife and took a guess as to where the tire would be, then went several inches below that to cut into the plastic wheelguard to pull it out.
Oops. Misjudgment there. Big time. PSSSSSTTT. I heard the air immediately escaping the tire as soon as my little knife went through the plastic and hit the tire behind it. Damn. So, I pulled off the tire and worked for the longest time, with flashlights, to get the doggone tire off one side of the rim so I could pull out the innertube. Once I got it changed and aired up, it was pitch dark. I decided I would need to wait til the following morning to put the tire back on the trike. It was the left rear tire, on the chain side, and I would need daylight to thread this particular needle.
The next morning, in the rain, I wriggled and wrestled with that tire and finally got it on the frame, locked it down, packed HD up and headed out. Interestingly, from perhaps lying on its side all night with a bungee cord pulling it inward, the wheelgaurd no longer rubbed the wheel. So, that problem was fixed. Yay! But, after about an hour, the rear chain started slipping a bit. I got off the bike and could see nothing that would cause a problem and wondered if the chain and rear sprocket were worn.
I cycled into Salem, Mass, and stopped right downtown at the Salem Cyclery. There, Dave, the owner, came out and found that my wheel just needed a little tightening down. Problem fixed and yet another lesson learned. I purchased a replacement innertube and cycled 3 blocks down the street to a Dunkin Donuts with an electrical outlet to figure out what in the heck I was going to do about lodging.
It was seriously now Labor Day weekend. Salem and Boston and all the surrounding towns were packed with holiday travelers. All motels and campgrounds were filled. I finally found a place another 30 miles, west northwest. Well, ok. So, I booked it and headed for Chelmsford and the Radisson Inn on a Priceline deal that was worth the trouble.
Thirty hard miles back into the hills. Doggone it.
Once at the Radisson, I met a young man from Jamaica working at the counter. He was very excited about the cycling trip. I talked to him about why he left Jamaica. “It was love” he said.
That says it all.
Oh no, it doesnt. I wanted the scoop!
He had loved a certain young Jamaican woman for several years. She didn’t give him the time of day. She left Jamaica to come to the USA to join the military. She came back a few years later to get her sister and help her through the immigration process to the USA. At that time, he found out she was in town and he went to find her.
“How did you get her to pay attention to you, then?” I asked with anticipation of a good story.
“I said one thing, and that was all it took”, he replied with mischeivous mysteriousness.
“Oh my god!! What did you say? What did you say?” I asked several times. When he didn’t answer right away and the other staff member arrived to help me store HD, I left my interesting conversant, wondering what the words were that changed the lady’s mind. Once HD was safe and I moved my things, I returned to the counter to ask him about his cryptic remark.
He replied, “It only took one thing”.
“What? What? You’re killing me here!”
With a big grin and his beautifully accented voice drawn out to give the words romance and meaning, he stated, “I have waited for you a long, long time”.
Sigh.
“That was all it took” he said, smiling.
The rest of the story is left to our imagination. Suffice it to say he is a happily married man and they are still together after several years. She is a little firecracker and he loves her like that.
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On Sunday, August 31st, I headed for Uxbridge, MA under rainy skies. I wound through the Appalachian hills and through quaint towns and state forests. All the way, there are homes in the hills. Exhausted and weak, but in a good mood, I checked into the Quaker Inn and Conference Center, a place which had seen some good days about 20-30 years ago. Now it was a bit rundown and the room smelled like dogs but it was spacious. And the manager was wonderful. She and I had a nice long natter the following morning before I left “camp”.
Nancy is a woman who may be in her 60’s. She is thin and tiny and a little ball of fire. Her college years were spent changing her mind on what to study. She started with an idea to be a social worker but her brother, who is a respected neurosurgeon, helped her seek a different avenue. Nancy has a big heart and loves animals and children. Once she realized the challenges facing a typical social worker, she changed her major to wildlife management with a minor in English. She has worked various jobs, one of her favorites was working on an aviary program in Colorado with the forestry department. When funds were cut, she worked for ASPCA with animal rehab. She was bitten by a pitbull, requiring a number of stitches to replace the back of her scalp. She has worked for a newspaper writing articles and reviews on a number of topics.
Nancy was in an MVA several years ago, sustaining a serious brain injury which has left her with epilepsy. She has a Saint Bernard/Great Pyrenees mix breed dog who works as her service dog and alerts her if she is heading for a seizure, so she can find a safe place to lie down and rest.
She is such a quick little thing, I bet she doesn’t rest much.
She has been married and has a few children, most of them grown. She does have a son with her, who may be a teenager or possibly college age, and he helps her with the motel management.
She got her job there when she planned to move to the area to look at job opportunities. She was raised in Connecticut and this is hometown area. She was staying for a few weeks at the motel and found that the current manager was using people’s credit card info and making illegal charges. She brought this to the owner’s attention and he fired the manager and put her in his place at head of the motel. Because she does not have to pay for lodging, as she lives there at the motel, she is working hard at saving her money.
What does she want to do with her savings? She wants to go to London. Ever since she saw a movie as a young lass about Jack the Ripper and saw the cobblestoned streets and decaying buildings shrouded in fog, she yearned to go there to visit. She has a macabre taste in stories and wants to feel the mystery of her idea of a foggy London: cold, damp, dark, decaying, mysterious, scary. Because my daughter Shannon has the same predilections, I understood her desires.
She did have a tragic story to share. Her niece, her sister’s daughter, was engaged to be married in NYC. Nancy had purchased airfare from Colorado to the coast to go to the wedding. A week before the wedding, her beloved niece was in the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001. Two floors above the impact. She was likely incinerated immediately. But Nancy’s sister did not get a death certificate from the government for about 10 years, during which time she would not give up hope. This mother of the young lady, who was one of so many tragic victims, suffers from PTSD and will be on medication for the rest of her life.
So many families affected.
Weird thing: the night before I heard Nancy’s story, I watched a movie on Netflix on my MacBook, “Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close”, about a young boy who suffers after the untimely death of his father in the same horrible incident.
Deja vu. If you haven’t seen it---it is amazing. Stars Thomas Horn, Tom Cruise, and Sandra Bullock. The kid is amazing.
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After the long chat with Nancy, HD and I hit the road again, now on Tuesday, September 2nd, winding again through the hills to get to Chaplin, CT. The hills got crazier, or I was getting more tired. I was facing yet another long, steep grade when a man jumped out of his truck in the farmyard next to the road. He called out, “You aren’t going to cycle up that crazy hill, are you?”
I laughed in response and said, “Yes, I am!”
“Well, God bless and good luck!” he shouted out.
I found that was very helpful. I had been facing these hills all day, struggling up the 9% grades and feeling like a big baby, because I was traveling so darn slowly. To have someone acknowledge that this was “a crazy ass hill” made me feel better. He thought it was amazing to go up this one, single hill. I had been facing these grades all day, and had more to go. It gave me courage, somehow.
These hills are fascinating. There are homes everywhere, even in the state park regions. They are nestled in the trees, with copses of trees between the homes. If they didn’t manage the property, the homeowners would be engulfed by the trees. At the top of some of the hills, I would look out at a vista of millions of trees. I began to understand what I had heard of the psychosis of the people who had settled this area from Europe. They were used to more populated areas and miles of open fields. The trees had a way of enveloping you, cloaking you, hiding you. There could be comfort there for some people. But, for many settlers, this was frightening. In the woods were wolves and bears and people who could come out of the trees and attack you. There was fear living in those woods. So, clearing of large areas of wooded land ensued. But, when the clearing stops, if not too much damage has been done, the trees return.
These trees were not the thick trunked trees of the redwoods, but the deciduous maples and elms of New England, with thinner trunks. Perhaps they were not as old either. Maybe these trees are young, having grown since the area was first cleared and settled in the 16-and 1700’s.
Another thing: it is reallyt fun to go through New Hampshire and see the town signs with the dates of settlement in the 17--and 1800’s. But in Massachusetts and Connecticut, towns were born in the 1600’s! This was really cool. Some of the buildings looked pretty old too!! Fascinating, but the oldest preserved homes were often more modest, which seems appropriate. If you are a settler, you have some funds, but not always the time and craftsmen to build a fancy home with pillars and gables. A more basic home will do to start. The fancier homes were constructed 100 years later, when the settlements were now established, successful, bursting towns and cities and commerce was established and the population was growing.
HD and I cycled through Thompson, CT and, while passing the Thompson Speedway, a senior in his 80’s, parked under the speedway sign, asked if I could stop a few minutes.
This was Norman. What an interesting man. He was an air force veteran and fought in Korea. He worked with artillery and stated that he did extensive traveling while in the military, including throughout the USA. For a short time, while in the military as a young man, he was staioned hear Jackson Hole, Wyoming. He called his girlfriend, who is now his wife, asking if she would be willing to move to Wyoming. No go. So, he went back to Connecticut, married his love, and he and his wife have lived here ever since.
When he got out of the air force, he went into the construction trade, learning skills quickly and working on bridges and skyscrapers---serious building. He loved the challenge of the bridge and massive building engineering and took his job quite seriously. He was making good money and he and his wife were doing well financially.
Then, one day, an old friend who was a high school administrator, showed up while he was working on a skyscraper job, and asked him to chuck it all to become an industrial arts teacher, at a 65% cut in pay.
Norman said, “Forget it!” but did agree to at least go to the school. He walked into the industrial arts room and saw a young boy cutting a board the wrong way. That was it. He showed the child the right way to use the saw, noted the look of appreciation on the child’s face, and felt the immediate glow of pleasure one feels as a dedicated teacher.
He talked to his wife, who was horrified at the financial cut, but who also agreed that Norman should follow his passion.
So, Norman “quit his high paying job on the skyscrapers and taught children how to make birdhouses for the next 30 years”. He said, “I spent 30 years on vacation!” While the pay was not great, the retirement benefits were good and the stress was low and the job satisfaction high. He said he did not have the stress of most academic teachers because he did not have to grade papers and homework and his tests were only about 5 questions long. Grading was primarily based on what he observed of each student and the completed projects.
Norman loves to fish now. He also has a bit of passion for history and told me a bit about the Thompson Speedway where we were parked. Of course, I had to look up a little about this racetrack, which is adding a mile track even as I write. Here is the beginning of its history, cropped from their website. If you are a racing fan, you may find this of interest, just enough to whet your interest. Check it out yourself to read more:
“Born in a hurricane
Our story begins on a quiet September afternoon in the farming community of Thompson, Connecticut. The year was 1938 and the chores of the day had been completed. Heavy rains had pelted the area a few days earlier, but on this September 21st, the day had been sunny and dry. To the people in this beautiful, yet quiet section of the state, it was time to relax after a hard day’s work. Little did they know that the landscape and their lives were about to change forever.
With no advance warning, the skies turned black as huge storm clouds raced over the area. The “Long Island Express” was ready to bear down on New England. The affects were devastating as the famous 1938 hurricane roared through this quiet farming town. When the skies cleared, buildings, trees and just about anything in the storm’s path had been destroyed. Included was the farm of John Hoenig and his family.
In the aftermath of the storm called the “Long Island Express” and The Great New England Hurricane, many chose to rebuild. Some chose to pull up stakes and move elsewhere. However, John Hoenig had a dream. If ever that dream were to become reality, now was the time.
He began to remove the downed trees and clear the land. He brought in a rock crusher, built a sawmill, and moved thousands of cubic yards of gravel. All of these items were needed to create his dream. Before long, the nation’s first asphalt racetrack was beginning to take shape and John Hoenig’s dream was coming true.”
Check out the Thompson Speedway if you want to know the rest of the story.
When I left Norman, he passed me a 20 dollar bill and told me to go get a milkshake. That gift feeds me for 2 days: I thanked him profusely and cycled on, ever richer--on many levels- for having met him. Thank you, Norman. Your gift is remembered.
That night, I checked into the Passport Inn, right on highway 6, a few miles from Willimantic. The next morning, I zipped back 1/4 mile on the highway to go to the Irving station for morning coffee and a muffin. A met the good ole boys club. Every small town has one. Some bigger towns have several. These are the middle aged to retired guys who are good buddies and hang out together in the morning for coffee and gossip. These gents at the Irving station were dog lovers and worked with “Jim”, who trains retrievers to become hunting dogs. Half of the guys just wanted to work with the animals and don’t even go hunting. Either way, these boys were fun and silly and full of jokes and started my day out with a smile.
Then it was cycling west northwest again, this time to East Hartford, where a cheap motel awaited me yet again. The iPhone map misdirected me about 5 miles north, to Windsor. Yet, because of this cyber mapping mistake, a wonderful thing happened.
Eva. Eva was one of those adventurous lady athletes I had met on the Erie Canalway Trail, with the group of women who were cycling the full length of the trail. Eva is also a runner and spends her free time cycling with Shari (one of the Appalachian trail hikers) or running, as she is training for her first half marathon.
Apparently, when Eva returned to work, right there in Windsor, CT, after her cycling expedition on the Erie Canalway, she told her boss about her experiences on the trail. She mentioned meeting me and even posted a photo of us on her FB page. So, her boss had an idea of what I looked like.
So, there I was, cycling on the wrong road to the motel. The boss sees me, runs into the office and tells Eva to get in her car and find me. So, she did!
What a delightful surprise to see her pretty, smiling face when her vehicle sidled up beside me and honked! She moved ahead and pulled over and we shared hugs and laughter!
Eva has continued cycling with Shari for day long rides. She runs after work and then drives 35 minutes home every day. Eva is slim and pretty and looks like a runner. What a great lady.
I like her boss too! Thank you for sending Eva on the wild goose chase!
I made it to the little room in East Hartford, hiked to the closest Subway, and brought back a salad.
The days since mid August had been extremely humid, with sweat dripping off my forearms and elbows while I cycled through hills and valleys. The rain had been on and off through most of the Labor Day weekend and into mid week. The hills had been demoralizing and depressing because of the slow pace and the hard work. My daily mileage was dropping and the days were getting shorter.
I was getting very tired. I longed for the coast.
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Wednesday, September 4th. That’s enough, I gotta go back to the coastal cities. So, back to the coast, through New Haven, and to Milford, CT. It was so fun hitting the cities in Connecticut. I had gone through Harvard and met a cycling group from MIT. I passed by exclusive high schools and private and state universities. I cycled right through Hartford, but didn’t seen any bull elk(!). But I did meet friendly workers on the streets and saw incredibly beautiful buildings. As I neared the coast, the population density increased. Then, New Haven. Home of Yale University. I cycled through the Yale district and absorbed the energy from this town like a sponge.
I adore college towns. New Haven did not disappoint me. Theatres, concerts, art galleries, technical institutes, medical facilities promising serious results, coffee shops and bistros, restaurants with foods from all over the world: the sights and sounds were engulfing. I shot some iphone photos of some of the buildings and sent one at a time to my son, who did an internship at Yale one summer. He had to guess my location. He did that by the second photo, before any truly identifying buildings were sent. Good job, Deois!
I cycled on to Milford, CT, where lodging was more affordable. The day was sunny and I was back on the coast. Relief.
Yes, the traffic can be thick, resulting in stop and go travel all day long. But there are people waving, calling out, asking questions, laughing, sharing their lives. And I can find a Dunkin Donuts and their great coffee in every town. Caffeine Power!
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Thursday, September 5th. I found a steal of a deal on Priceline for cheaper than any Super 8 in the state. The Hyatt Regency in Stamford---well, technically, Old Greenwich. I cycled on hwy 1, also known as Boston Post Road, all day. Mostly, I traveled through cities, with some strips of gardens and parks and trees between. At a 7-11 convenience store, I chatted with several people while drinking coffee by Henry David. A regional 7-11 manager told me his passion is fishing and gardening; his assistant or friend (not sure which) said that gardening was his passion.
Then, I met Chris---a retired military vet who spent 42 years in the service. He said he has been to every port. He was whipcord tough, driving a four wheel truck, and was living a semi-hermit life. He has been married 5 times and said he has learned his lesson. When I asked him about his passion, he said, “You”, meaning women, then he said, “but no longer that. I’m too old. Now it is racecar driving. And riding my motorcycle.”
Chris described a life always living on the edge--an adrenaline junkie, so to speak. He now builds and drives racecars. He likes to ride his motorcycle in the hills and is thinking of slowing down and maybe buying a mountain bike. Bicycle, that is. I kind of doubt he will go from racing cars and motorcycles to riding a mountain bike.
Chris comes from a long line of Republicans. He shared his political views with me. We discussed the decency of President Eisenhower. He told me that his dad was one of the organizers of the Republican Party and helped Eisenhower’s election. When he was too young to really remember it clearly, Chris said he was bounced on Ike’s knees as the famous general and belove president was a family friend.
When I pulled into the Hyatt Regency on the evening of September 5th, I was amazed to see this very fancy, even regal, hotel. Inside, there was an open bar in the middle of a garden setting with a fountain and inside “brook” with the water rolling over rocks and forming little pools. The bellmen were dressed snappily and all employees wore black suits. But, with a pricey hotel, “ain’t nothing free”. No coffee maker in the room. No free continental breakfast. Internet in the room had a price tag with it; if you wanted free internet, you had to sit in the bar area by the fountain. And I’m sure you’d buy an overpriced drink. No laundromat for guests, but you could pay for your laundry to be done for you.
Jeez. Rich people have to spend a lot of money to stay in a place like that. As for me: I took my laundry to the laundromat at the bottom of the hill and bought my coffee at Dunkin Donuts. Then, I had a flat on the way. Luckily, this tire was much easier to manage and was changed in 10 minutes. When I got back up the hill, in the dark, I realized I left my phone at the grocery store. The bellman called the store and the phone was at the service desk. So, after unpacking the bike and storing HD in the service closet, I literally ran down the hill to the store to get my phone back.
By the time I got back to the room, I was tired and hungry and did not have the time, money, or interest to go to the bar to get on the net. So, I used my phone to figure out my plan.
The question? Go up to the campground or go through New York City.
Hmmmm. Hills? Or traffic? I called the campground. There was no electricity there and no stores for 7 miles--of hills. If I chose to cycle through NYC and stay somewhat near the coast, and out of the Appalachians, I would cut off several miles. I would have to deal with traffic and stay in motels for a few more days.
But I would see New York City. I would go right through the Bronx. I would cross the Hudson River by Manhattan. No question.
New York, New York, here I come!
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