Day 2...
I love mornings for so many reasons. The gentle commencement of the day ahead and the positive energy of the possibilities. I feel physically and mentally strong. I have ambition and graceful movement. The air is cool and I feel as if I can do anything, like I can live my dreams...I feel normal, at least normal enough. By 11 am on any given day, things will be different. My walk will get wobbly, my legs will weaken, my mind begins to fatigue. I have learned to plan my days and set my goals accordingly (that's an other story all together). So this morning, I felt especially jazzed; it would be a day dedicated to riding; one of my most normal pastimes still.
The docks were in, the early air was crisp and clear and breakfast was yet another feast of fresh fruit, chilled lobster and hot coffee. With the dishes cleared, the discussion emerged around the ride-route home. I for one, knew that I didn't want to go home the way we had come. This was an adventure and I wanted to see places I haven't seen. I dreamed large about going up the east side of NH and circling Mt Washington to then make for St Johnsbury. But my patient bikerman knew better. I had struggled to set the bike comfortably on day one. My squirming and wincing was too obvious to my driver. It was an indication of my limits over long miles as days grow warmer and black top more or less unkept in its veneer. Plainly, most of our VT roads suck and they take their toll on my flimsy muscle-tone. So we would target a route that was forgiving. He vowed to take many more shade breaks where I could cool down and stretch my weary legs. With the map out, everyone laid out their preferred route. My mother selected a village-sampler route; too many stops to suit us. I picked a more easterly route; too many junctions in that. He spied the fastest way to the selected Lake Winnipesaukee. There would be a brief sprint on the Daniel Webster Hwy and then off at the Hooksett exit for quieter rte 28N.
In the dooryard, the bike protested only slightly belching a small bit of darker smoke but my driver was confident the foul fuel was nearly gone and the fresh gas would energize the engine. In 3 miles, he was proven right. I bow down to his mastery over his chrome pony's innards. It seems the "real" bikers know their motorcycles as well as the dude who built it. He never doubted the machine's perseverance, even when the symptoms seemed so grave only one day before.
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| Pandora Mills in Manchester NH |
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| Lowell Mill girls from |
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| from Lowell mills archives |
He challenged the fresh petrol and recent engine up-grades with a bold twist of the throttle and a closed clutch. If any neighbors were sleeping, they were awake now. He lifted his visor and cautioned me to "hang on...we're gonna make up some time here..." The NH roads were velvety smooth with light traffic as we glided past the historic city of Manchester. The behemoth textile mills lined the banks of the Merrimack River with their massive windows gathering the brilliant sun, while random others were boarded shut. I pondered those times for this town, these industrious places, their 'state-of-the-art-at-the-time' yet so completely dependent upon women and children labor. Workers who could not imagine a biker chic like me blasting past them with loud pipes throbbing as I balanced effortlessly in the pillion seat. Would they ever imagine their sacrifices would, in part, lead to
my freedoms? We owe so much, I think, to the women who toiled before us. I turned away from the view and wished their ghosts well, throwing in a prayer for all their kin. If ever you want to learn of their story, visit Lowell Mass. and tour the mills and canals.
http://faculty.uml.edu/sgallagher/Mill_girls.htm
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| won't see this in VT: Billboards |
Not long on the highway, we popped off onto rte 28 and enjoyed a flawless ride to north-central NH. My first time in these parts and I was intrigued by the smooth roads and persistent advertising. A sight you'll not see in VT, was apparent in any place that an entrepreneur could erect one: Billboards were out and about. It was actually startling when ever I'd see one. Accustomed to broad vistas and un-obstructed views along VT roadways, they would appear randomly and often be unrelated to their location in NH. Route 28 was a pleasing route leading us straight to the Lake without incident, a very appreciated experience for sure. In fact, the vintage motorcycle ran like a newly minted ride, never missing a stroke. Coming to the lake-district sooner than we expected, we were suddenly tasked with spotting signs among an over abundance of signs, indicating our departure for rte 11. Even with both of us straining to catch a familiar state route indicator, we managed to miss our turn at Alton Bay. The road continued northeast like carpet, yet the traffic thinned out considerably. Finding a scenic pull off, we took a break and opened the map. While stretching my legs and gazing at the famed lake in the distance, I caught a glimpse of my bikerman in, a rare profile. He works hard and plays hard, but he dedicated this weekend adventure to me, and in this moment I caught him in total repose, when I clicked yet another picture. He makes my moto-dreams come true and this picture is a favorite of mine, so indulge my heart-felt appreciation for him, please.
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| its so close |
With the lake in view, confirming our re-direction, we made for Alton Bay and the jct for rte 11. We were seeking Weirs Beach and hoping for some of the lore of 'Laconia Bike Week' to be in the air when we found it.
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| the great road to Laconia |
Gliding down an un-remarkable lane, we landed on rte 11, the mother road for the infamous Laconia Bike Week. The pavement was pristine, double-wide ample lanes in both directions. Not a blemish anywhere, each line vividly painted, all signs standing straight and tall. In minutes, we caught upto a small group of bikers where we fell in for a short while. After a time, their slower pace bored my driver and he roiled his throttle passing the newish machines with ease. I marveled at their choice to ride without lids and how cavalier it made them look. But then the cowboys of old rode horses without helmets and I imagine today's motorcycle enthusiasts placate that un-caged urge to ride long, ride far, and ride free.
It wasn't long enough on these expansive lanes before we hooked into Weirs Beach, and the dense holiday crowds of thousands of people and too many bikes to count. In this motorcycle mecca, our parade of one was barely unique. Dodging the clueless pedestrians at every corner or near corner, was frustrating. And devinning our way to a diner was becoming tiresome. One-ways, wrong-ways and trolling patrol cars made finding a place to park and eat a dance of dodge, stop and squint. Finally, we found a quiet lot, with spots to spare and a good looking lunch menu nailed to the fence. Dismounting the bike, my leathers were heavy, hot and more than I wanted to wear in the mid-afternoon sun. I broke out my folding cane, shiny black with Rhine stone ring at the collar, it at least looked 'hard-core' if a walking stick can. We strolled to the door only to find that it closed 20 minutes ago. "Damn" was all I could spit out of my mouth in despair, "I'm stauvvven!" I leaned on the fence rail while biker man strolled down the walk toward a sandwich board. He returned with a smile and a hurry-up lope. "...come on, I found someplace good...you'll love it." In a short distance was the famed George's Diner with plenty of seating and a full serve menu inside the air conditioned cottage. At that moment, we were the only bikers inside and enjoyed ample portions of fish and chips while we swapped stories with the RI couple across the tight isle. Chocolate pie for desert and a map check to head for VT got the waitress's attention. And while my driver looked like George, it did not get us a free lunch or even accurate directions; seems she's never been there. Bill paid, we were off to find our way back to the Green Mtn State and overnight at his home in Brookfield.
Finding rte 25c, we enjoyed still more smooth road, almost to the border between these twin states. New Hampshire hospitality may be thin, but their road conditions make up for it. The bike was purring over the miles and the air was feeling a bit heavier. We were riding 'into weather' and the cloudscape was looking menacing to the northwest. It would be a race for creature comforts and I smelled rain. By the time we reached the lattice bridge crossing the CT river, a few random drops of rain would tag our windshield. There was no time to stop for rain suits as we turned south and west from Fairlee VT. He knew we were less than an hour from his house, the sky was dark but not low, so we had a chance at staying dry. Over each mile and past each landmark I smiled and pondered the grand ride of this day. Plenty of breaks, velvety roads, new sites, a flawless bike, and a worthy driver made for a sparkling day.
Winding homeward, the shadows were long and tunnels of darkness where trees gulfed the road embracing us with the cool and calm of VT. Once parked in the door yard, the the vast scene was wrapped in the soft glow of twilight setting over the distant ridge. Owls could be heard in a challenge of baritones. The air was lighter, no rain had fallen here. Walking to the porch, I reveled in the silence, its weight was soothing as my mind was still feeling the ride. Sitting on the bench, leaning on my partner's shoulder, I believe I drifted off thinking of one more day to ride.... in Vermont and to a special place I've wanted to see... stay tuned for day 3... peace ~ ell
- "Two roads diverged in a wood, and I ~ I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference."
- Robert Frost, The Road Not Taken
In the dooryard, the bike protested only slightly belching a small bit of darker smoke but my driver was confident the foul fuel was nearly gone and the fresh gas would energize the engine. In 3 miles, he was proven right. I bow down to his mastery over his chrome pony's innards. It seems the "real" bikers know their motorcycles as well as the dude who built it. He never doubted the machine's perseverance, even when the symptoms seemed so grave only one day before.
It wasn't long enough on these expansive lanes before we hooked into Weirs Beach, and the dense holiday crowds of thousands of people and too many bikes to count. In this motorcycle mecca, our parade of one was barely unique. Dodging the clueless pedestrians at every corner or near corner, was frustrating. And devinning our way to a diner was becoming tiresome. One-ways, wrong-ways and trolling patrol cars made finding a place to park and eat a dance of dodge, stop and squint. Finally, we found a quiet lot, with spots to spare and a good looking lunch menu nailed to the fence. Dismounting the bike, my leathers were heavy, hot and more than I wanted to wear in the mid-afternoon sun. I broke out my folding cane, shiny black with Rhine stone ring at the collar, it at least looked 'hard-core' if a walking stick can. We strolled to the door only to find that it closed 20 minutes ago. "Damn" was all I could spit out of my mouth in despair, "I'm stauvvven!" I leaned on the fence rail while biker man strolled down the walk toward a sandwich board. He returned with a smile and a hurry-up lope. "...come on, I found someplace good...you'll love it." In a short distance was the famed George's Diner with plenty of seating and a full serve menu inside the air conditioned cottage. At that moment, we were the only bikers inside and enjoyed ample portions of fish and chips while we swapped stories with the RI couple across the tight isle. Chocolate pie for desert and a map check to head for VT got the waitress's attention. And while my driver looked like George, it did not get us a free lunch or even accurate directions; seems she's never been there. Bill paid, we were off to find our way back to the Green Mtn State and overnight at his home in Brookfield.
Finding rte 25c, we enjoyed still more smooth road, almost to the border between these twin states. New Hampshire hospitality may be thin, but their road conditions make up for it. The bike was purring over the miles and the air was feeling a bit heavier. We were riding 'into weather' and the cloudscape was looking menacing to the northwest. It would be a race for creature comforts and I smelled rain. By the time we reached the lattice bridge crossing the CT river, a few random drops of rain would tag our windshield. There was no time to stop for rain suits as we turned south and west from Fairlee VT. He knew we were less than an hour from his house, the sky was dark but not low, so we had a chance at staying dry. Over each mile and past each landmark I smiled and pondered the grand ride of this day. Plenty of breaks, velvety roads, new sites, a flawless bike, and a worthy driver made for a sparkling day. 
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