Go Places, Meet People, Burn their Fuel

Got up early, hit the road in the wrong direction, made a u-turn, and headed back down Vermont 17. Turns out my excursion to the inn last night was actually on my GPS plan. Once I’d started looking for a place to stop, I quit looking at the GPS, which must have frustrated the electronic biddy in the box, but I’d turned where I was supposed to turn by accident. Not knowing that, I reversed directions and headed back to 100. My GPS kept telling me to make a u-turn, but I figured it was stupid, or something. Finally, I stopped, looked at the map, realized the GPS was smarter than me, and went back up the hill. Sorry, east coasters, the mountain. Yeah, that’s what it is. It’s a little, tiny, rounded top, tree-covered mountain.

Vermont 17 is a blast. The speed limits are totally cowardly, but the road is good, the scenery is tree-lined but occasionally nice, and the ride is a good morning workout. I’ll be ready for breakfast after 150 miles of this. My GPS plan kept me off of main roads and on fun backroads all the way through Vermont into New York. I am amazed at how little traffic and how few houses there are in this well developed part of the country. I went through a town called Moriah that was celebrating its 200th birthday. Amazing, 200 years and they still haven’t found the time to build a restaurant. Makes me feel much better about coming from a younger part of the country. We may be new at this business of civilization, but we’re better at it. We don’t talk funny, either.

I stumbled on a convenience store/restaurant/campground on New York country road 84. I was entertained with an incomprehensible “upstate New York” dialect that combined with my single unplugged ear turned ordering breakfast into a Laurel and Hardy routine. I could have sworn he was saying ‘have some home fries,” but he was saying “don’t have home fries.” Turned out, his wife is the official cook, but she was occupied with getting the kids sorted out. He did an ok job with the sausage (“I like sausage.”), but the pancakes were burned and a bit flat (“I don’t like pancakes, you should have ordered an omelet.”). Later, he tried to convince me that I needed ice cream to go with my breakfast, since it was a balmy 45F outside that morning. I think we entertained each other enough, so I am on the road again.

New York speed limits are some kind of testament to the conservative nature of old America. What New York considers to be a 25mph corner, Colorado would label 45mpg. New York 35mph corners wouldn’t be worth the trouble to label or even put up a turn sign in the west. I kept seeing twisty corner signs and being disappointed with gradual curves hardly worth pushing on the bars. I guess that goes with calling 2k bumps “mountains.”

I kept going through New York the coward’s way, I90. After slogging my way through zillions of dots on the map jokingly called “towns” with the usual 4 miles of 30mph speed limits and no buildings or residents in sight, I gave up on “seeing New York” and decided to blow through every thing from Rochester west. I missed many valuable history lessons, I’m sure, but at least I wasn’t bored. New York freeway drivers are challenging, even if the freeway is a freeway (except for the $11 toll I paid to be on the US taxpayer subsidized interstate system). I whipped though most of the tiny bit of Pennsylvania the same way. I’d lost interest.

I was aimed for the Cleveland home of an old friend and I made it to their general territory about 8PM . I’ll be there for a day or two. I have a vicious plan for the last couple of days of this tour. Stay tuned.

Fifteen Days on the Road and Going Nowhere Special

Up early, pack up my gear, hit the road in deep fog, again. It must be my karma.

My historic moment, today, was to find the most eastern point in the US. That place is the home of a lighthouse. The most eastern town in the US is Lubec, ME. There is a fine restaurant in that little town that services a good breakfast. After taking my own picture by the nation's cornerstone, I was back on the road.

Today was a long ride from Maine to the west end of Vermont. As the crow flies, it’s a short trip; about 400 miles. As a rider, it takes forever to cross these tiny states. Here’s my take on those states:
. Maine – Highway 1 is a rolling disaster, unless you have the suspension for it. Maine’s road maintenance plan is not apparent. Traffic speeds are slow to parked and the speed limits are prehistoric.
. New Hampshire – More prehistoric speed limits. Mediocre roads and way too many “towns.” A New Hampshire town is a bump in the road with a lowered speed limit for no obvious reason. I had a good time on both Maine and New Hampshire roads, but I ride a V-Strom and my new ELKA rear shock got a workout.
. Vermont – Great roads, silly low speed limits that nobody pays attention to, and I haven’t seen a cop in the state yet. The east side of I91 is pretty tourist oriented, the west is not so much.

I started out slogging through pea soup fog. I ended up rocketing along a Vermont back road with lots of high speed company and having a ton of fun in the twisties. I’m just traveling today. No tourist stuff, no cool pictures, just logging miles heading west toward the Adirondacks. This is pretty country, but not much different from western Wisconsin from a riding perspective. Calling these bumps “mountains” does a disservice to real mountains everywhere.

I wanted to make 400 miles before I gave up for the day. I also wanted to find fuel before I stopped. Those two goals screwed me up for the night. My artificial target was Montpelier, VT. There was no reason for that goal, I just decided on it arbitrarially. The fuel objective was practical. If I can hit the road without needing to stop for anything, I can get further in the morning than in the afternoon. I don't know if that is me or because of traffic, but it appears to be true. After the Adirondacks, I have no other NY objectives but to get the hell out of the state. I don't have any reason at all to be in Pennsylvania. I'd rather spend a couple of days in Wisconsin than in any of those places. I have some interest in Erie Canal history, but I don't have any idea how to satisfy that itch.

Once I passed Monpelier, no sign of camping areas or decent motels came into sight. I kept going, hoping for more luck. On highway 100, heading south, I decided enough was enough. It was approaching 6PM and nothing good happens in moose territory after dark. I stopped at a Fayston station, got directions for a place to put up a tent, and headed that direction. I didn't make it. Half-way up the mountain, I stumbled into an inn with reasonable rates and great food and better beer.

14 Days Rolling

I’m packed and out of camp by 6:30. I slept well and am ready to make some miles up. I put in 140 miles before breakfast. Made it to the harbor to check out the ferry to the mainland. Fog slowed my progress most of the way from New Glasgow to the Digby harbor. Sometimes it was thick as goo. More of that Scotland feel, I suppose. The scenery, when I could see it was pretty cool. A lot like an exceptionally hilly and wet eastern Kansas with the same crops (except for occasional apple orchards).

I stopped for breakfast and an attempt at finding replacement parts for the hammock. No luck, but I got an idea for the repair from talking to a clerk at Canadian Tire. He was looking for fiberglass tape, which gave me the idea to wrap the pole end with nylon rope and duct tape that on tight. Might work. Might save me having to buy a tent.

No plan today, except to keep moving. I figured on hitting the Digby ferry. If that didn’t work, I’d move on to Yarmouth. I picked Digby as my first choice because I figured the combination of a ferry crossing and a boarder crossing might overwhelm my capabilities. I lucked out and arrived at Digby right in time to get on the ferry. $80 for the bike and my over-60 discount. I have no idea how long it will take to cross the bay, but it doesn’t much matter because I’m not having to work to get the job done.

Like the fort, the ferry is pretty empty. I had no problem getting on the boat, but either did a collection of foot passengers and a few cagers. For August, this is pretty slow business. “Prime tourist time” may have a different meaning if energy and economics continue to flag. I saw a lot of closed businesses on the way across Canada. Some of them appeared to have barely opened before they went bust. Lots of houses for sale, too.

Some little parent-less retards commandeered the ships computers and dialed up a noisy on-line computer game. I put up with the noise for a few moments and turned off the computer’s sound for the little morons. Mommy bitched, so I told her to turn it back on if she didn’t know how to parent her little retards. She left in a pout. A few moments later, a steward came by and took the little shits off of the computer and delivered them to gutless, brainless mommy. Even Canadians are allowed to spawn without credentials. What a world!

After St. John, I’m taking Highway 1 to Maine. I haven’t decided if I’m going to cross Maine or follow the coast for a bit. I’ll decide when I get there. I’m generally westward bound for the rest of the trip.

Ferry’s are peaceful. Some folks are on the deck whale-watching. I’m too lazy to be that focused, but if someone yells I’ll look up. It’s too foggy for pictures and we’re too far from shore for the pictures to be worth much. It’s warm, however. I’m in my riding gear, but it’s all opened up and it feels good to have the fresh air without being cold. It’s a long ride. We’re heading toward 2 ½ hours and land just came into sight. The Atlantic is calm and even Robbye would enjoy this motionless ride. If you don’t look out the window, you’d barely know we were moving. It’s not the north Atlantic I expected, for sure.

I’d like to make Maine before dark, if possible. Now I have a goal for the day. It’s good to have goals.

I made Maine, barely. About 20 miles in, in fact. I was doing well, even ahead of my non-existent schedule, until I hit the boarder. I screwed up. I was wearing my wife’s “Green Man” t-shirt. I hadn’t brought anything but nylon dirt biker shirts and thought a t-shirt would be comfortable as a change. The boarder guards took one look at the shirt and flagged me for “inspection.” Honestly, they were pretty polite about it. I didn’t get a cavity search. The worst thing about the whole episode was having to sit under the leering picture of the head What-Me-Worry idiot while his minions went through my gear and burned up my daylight. They made a mess of my top case, but probably neatened up my side cases. Other than their almost pathological lack of humor and the lost time, I can’t say anything bad about the experience. Where do they find guys so humorless? Is there a factory they send ordinary people to for funnybone extraction?

I’m camped in an incredible place. It’s a good distance from Highway 1, so the traffic noise is vanishingly absent. Some local doofuses are firing off fireworks, but that will quit in an hour or two. My “fix” for the screwed up tent pole sort of worked. I should be able to survive the night, anyway. I plan to hit the US’s most eastern point, tomorrow. After that, explore more of Maine. It’s good to be back in the US where my AAA card is useful.