Saint Martins, NB >> L'Etete, NB >> Deer Island, NB (via ferry) >> Roosevelt Campobello International Park (via ferry) >> Lubec, ME >> Dover, NH >> Boston, MA
470 miles ridden/12 hours
Today, I’m shipping up to Boston!
From Saint Martins, it was a relatively short ride to the first of two ferries that would take me back to the good ol’ U.S. of A. via Deer Island and Campobello Island. On the latter, I’d ride through Roosevelt Campobello International Park – where the 32nd president of the United States used to vacation – to cross the Roosevelt Memorial Bridge into Lubec, Maine. America at last!
The second ferry captain suggested a place to grab a bite before I entered the States, and since I needed to spend my remaining Canadian cash before crossing the border, I had pancakes and scallops for breakfast. Afterward, I skipped a tour of FDR’s summer retreat because: a.) at this point, I was excited at the prospect of getting home, and, b.) of course, it was raining.
From Lubec, I followed Vacationland’s rugged coastline south, creeping ever closer to Boston. I reached Ellsworth around noon and thought this bode well for walking into my house about six hours later. However, I wasn’t prepared for the behavior of drivers on Maine’s two-lane local byways or the torrential rainclouds that followed my bike like the police escort I’d soon pick up.
The trip home wouldn’t have been complete without a story about the weather, now would it? While puttering along Penobscot Bay, a thin strip of ominous-looking thunderclouds appeared directly overhead and opened up with a vengeance. Meanwhile, to my immediate left and right: nothing but bright sunshine. It was like a cartoon where a raincloud hovers over some hapless soul, drenching him wherever he goes. I was having a hard time believing this was even possible, but there it was: proof that truth is stranger than (or as strange as) fiction.
And while there admittedly wasn’t much traffic on the roads, just like in Alaska, when I encountered cars, they’d typically be going under the speed limit until I tried to pass, at which point each driver would suddenly develop a lead foot. While passing one car in the rain, I thought I was going to get run off the road, but thankfully my Honda could accelerate faster than any ‘80s-era four-door sedan.
Miles later, in the quaint village of Camden, I got pulled over by one of the local boys in blue. It seems someone I left in my dust felt I was enough of a nuisance to call the cops and report a motorcyclist “driving erratically.” Granted, I had been skipping my way through lines of traffic because as I learned in Homer: Rain + Inadequate airflow = Foggy helmet, and as the last seven weeks taught me, it’s useful to be able to see when piloting a motorcycle.
The officer and I had a somewhat ridiculous exchange reviewing the rules of the road – I had to remind him that passing on a broken yellow center line was indeed a legal option – but my new best friend nonetheless insisted on following me to the town line, where another cruiser was waiting for the handoff.
Despite abiding all traffic laws, I nonetheless managed to lose my tail by Rockland, where I had planned to stop at Conte’s, a restaurant chef/traveler Anthony Bourdain featured on his show while I was in Seattle. I dropped my bike off in the parking lot and was walking through town to get cash from an ATM when I saw the police looking for me, so I waved.
The staff at Conte’s was kind enough to open early so I could get back on the road ASAP, and sure enough, I soon had Smokey in my rear-view mirrors again. Although my speedometer hadn’t worked for the last 14,000 miles, I knew what speed each gear topped out at, so I wasn’t worried about getting a ticket. Plus, as long as I stayed behind another vehicle, it would be pretty tough to argue I was speeding.
This time he was glued to me, however, and I couldn’t shake him even when I reached Route 295/Interstate 95, although he finally bowed out when I reached the New Hampshire border.
Because of my slow pace along Route 1 and not being able to blast off like a rocket on the highway, I hadn’t made great time, so I figured I’d spend one final night on the road at a friend’s house in Dover, New Hampshire, rather than risk an accident this close to the finish line. I called Mark and left a message; I knew his house was near the train station, but exactly where, I wasn’t sure.
I got to Dover around 9p, only to discover my phone was dead. It had managed to survive the entire trip – including a hurricane! – but now that I needed it, no dice. With relatively few options, I sat in the parking lot and waited, trying to telepathically convey my location to Mark. It must have worked, because, incredibly, he eventually showed up (granted, we’re talking an hour later, but better late than never!) and led me back to his place.
After a long, hot shower, it was time for a few beers and greasy food, so we ordered pizza and began swapping stories.
The next morning it was a straight shot home, and it was a relief to see the “Boston: 11 miles” sign at the I-95/I-93 interchange.
As I started unpacking in my apartment, I felt triumphant, tired, and was trying to figure out what it all meant, if anything.
Email:
SUBJECT: After ten weeks on the road, it’s good to be home
Hey everyone –
Rainstorms in New Brunswick forced my timeline along a bit faster than originally planned, so after a soggy slog through Maine, I’m finally back in Boston. I’m tired and looking forward to seeing if my bed is as comfortable as I remember, so I’ll send a recap of the last few days once I get settled in again. I just wanted everyone to know I made it back safely and am looking forward to catching up with each of you soon.
Thanks for all the support.
-GK