Finally, a beautiful day of spring-like sun graced us. It was Memorial Day in our small town and kith and kin were here with their assorted tasks to abide. The boyz, Graham and Eli, marched with the scouts in our town's brief parade to Memorial Rock. Daughter Quilla, would be marching with her school band and my outlaw biker man decided to bolt the 3x5 flag to his Harley and cruise into the village to watch it all.
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| walking the great flag to Memorial Rock |
I love our town's solemn tribute to this day. The local women and men in uniform will participate bearing flags; they will adorn the veterans' graves in the town cemetery, make some speeches and, hopefully, feel the appreciation of the townsfolk who line the route and surround the service.
Lining up the parade participants at the school, it was a somber group of scouts, vets and families. Uniforms were straightened, flags were unfurled and formations were practiced, as the bands tuned their instruments. My boys were assigned corners of the very large flag. Along with their den-mates, they would walk this flag, holding it taunt, for the quarter mile distance to the ceremony. A den leader defined their roles, "...you all need to walk in time, be aware of each other..", as the young grade schoolers flapped the great flag and marveled at its breadth. I had to add, "... I don't think they can understand that advice, Mr. Barnes; may I? men! just keep this off of the ground, do not let it touch the ground, ever! You can do it!", was my simple advice. Eli took the front corner and then, Graham walked up and took the back corner. I was delighted and then realized I would have to walk that distance along side him on this hot day. With a shout from the leader we were off.
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| Eli with serious thoughts |
These young boys can walk briskly, but I managed to keep up and we arrived in perfect form to the ceremony. I was pleased with these youngsters, taking this so seriously and rising to the occasion. I snapped a few pictures. The speeches were made, a couple kids needed to be escorted to shade while I delighted in the event's small town endeavor. It's so humble, an authentic tribute to our local sacrifices. I ignored my inner doubt of war and focused on the human scale of the offering. By the time we had returned to our car, settled the kids with their charges, the afternoon had be planned. My bikerman, inspired by the patriotic tone, announced the flag would stay on the bike and we would "...take a little ride, go get some lunch, and enjoy the day.."
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| a shade break in Eden Mills |
Back at the farm, with chaps and lid buckled, sun glasses adjusted, tail bag full of jackets, map, trailmix and water; we mounted and headed out. We followed rte 109N; it was in good condition compared to so many other VT roads. Smooth and lightly traveled in the northern reaches of Lamoille County, it was nearly free of traffic. An occasional traveler, some bikes out for the sites, like us. But most folks were gathered around picnic tables at family round ups, was my guess. As we rolled by small groups, the loud pipes would turn their heads our way; the whipping flag would garnish waves and "wows" and thumbs up. The deeper we rode into the small towns, the farther along the way back roads we traveled, the more exuberant the random spectators became. They would leave their lawn chairs, stand up on their porches, lean over the fence rails to give a long look and enthusiastic wave at our one bike parade.
We left the state roads of the county and followed the winding pavement of the back roads through Eden Mills, Lowell, Westfield and Troy. Gliding past crumbling hill farms, bygone shanties from the asbestos mining era, and rusting homesteads still occupied by the same generations that staked out these sites. This was a very real Appalachia, very much alive and firmly rooted at this edge of the Northeast Kingdom. This is a Vermont that the 5 o'clock news has ignored and a media savvy government has neglected. Riding past the poverty, I thought that maybe these Vermonters like it that way. No one bothers them and they don't bother anyone else. A patch of shade loomed ahead, and my driver elected to stop and stretch.
The road would take us to rte 100N, the main way to Newport and its spectacular Lake Mempremeggog. We've been to it many times, but manage to enjoy it afresh in every visit. This trip, we would divine our way to the Eastside Restaurant and Bar. Taking a table on the deck, we would enjoy the eats, the rest and the shade. Thankfully, it was noticeably cooler at the water and the crowd was thin so we could linger and revive for the ride home.
Mounted up, we resumed our odd circle of the north country with our flag still in full glory. Route 105 to the Port of North Troy was in near perfect condition and too few cars to count. The station was all quiet, no cars, or cyclists or flags. Tough day for the patrollers assigned here; we snapped a picture and went south.
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| 2up in the Green Mountains |
These border towns are small, remote and original. The architecture hasn't changed much and offers a glimpse into the past of Vermont's glory days. I get lost in these imaginings evoked of the old sepia prints of the decades past. In those historic still-lifes, people were abustle, streets were busy, and villages burst with community. As we roll by, there were no dapper strollers on the sidewalks, no patriotic banners on porch rails, no parishioners gathered on the church lawn for cool drinks. These towns weren't dead, just in a coma of comforts as folks had retreated inside, in their own living rooms with cable or Wii or iTunes. I held on with a squeeze to my driver and changed my thoughts to the emerald wilderness around us. We are so lucky to live here, to travel to places that weave past into present while the mountains, the valleys, the waters stay constant.
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| sunburnt for the East Side Grill |
With that, we trolled through Jay and then onto its infamous ascent. Where expansive vistas and tight twisties challenged the bike. The Low Ride throttled, climbed and wrangled that mountain road easily, proving her worth and grace in that gauntlet. Over 38K in miles, a major spring tune up, and a sparkling day to ride as she showed herself off to all viewers. The road was rough, unkept for some years, but it was doable and my driver made the journey happen. Up south over Jay Peak and then down north and finally onto the familiar road home.
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| Jay Peak summit house |
It's still early in the season, and as the bike defied her vintage limits, we were aware of ours. One hundred ten miles and we were sunburned (forgot the sunblock), aching (forgot the Advil), cussing our Vermont roads, and smiling as we cracked our beers in celebration. It was a grand run; a few more roads highlited on our recorded map of traveled roads. No place in Vermont is disappointing to see; I am so blessed to have a biker man who plans to get me to every one of them. I close my eyes and recite a biker's prayer: 'ride safe with the rubber side down and the shinny side up ~ ride on.
ell
this is for them that take the road less traveled
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