While the bike was waiting, we went for a walk down to the cool brook at the foot of his land. Among the shadowy path along it's banks, was the remains of the olde towne road with a decaying bridge crossing the creek. It was too high over the rocky waters and too slippery for my slick boots for me to risk it. When I told him so, he smiled and mentioned that it "...was the first time he'd ever heard me say anything was too risky..." I laughed; I love my thrills but I love living to tell the story just as much. The cool air by the water was soothing to my hot face;
stopping by a pool of the clear tonic, little "brookies" could be seen darting in the depths. We'll go fishing here some afternoon and have a fry for breakfast. It was time to head for the bike and take the flag into the North Country.
Following back roads at the best speed they would allow, cruising past forgotten cemeteries where once there were hamlets, past restored farmsteads and rustic Appalachian cabins, we popped out on a paved state road. Rte 110 delighting us with straight roads to a quick break at the "modern" flood water marvel in East Barre. This was my second example of a civil works response to the flash floods of the last century. It was a paternal government's promise to the people during a time when our mountainous state was barren of trees, their crowns and vital under-stories. A time when the hillsides were clean and views were expansive like no other time, before or since, in VT history. The sudden and frequent heavy rains in the early 20th century decimated towns and industries in the canyons of the Green Mtn spines without the green canopy to wick up the waters. These heavily fortified dams and spillways were constructed to ensure lives would not be lost to such flooding ever again. It was encouraging to see the responsible effort of the long-ago government to protect it's constituents, as we stood upon it in a more contemporary molment when we are suspect of our political leadership.
As the bike stood idle atop the berm, the great flag billowed gently so. To myself I thought; '...we each have the power to elect and direct such beneficial governing...one person, one vote and we, the non-elite, have 99% of that voting power; we need to use it and re-balance the government to serve all of us...' With that thought, I mounted behind my biker man and we journeyed onward to rte302 taking the junction north on 232. It was late in the day, and finally getting cooler, I was happy for my second tee shirt, especially when we entered the Groton State Park area. The long, clean lake made the air still cooler despite being a ways from our spiraling road. "If they ever pave this whole road, it will perfect for motorcycles..."was my driver's exclamation. It was great fun to grind the hairpins and blind curves as we were deep in the woods. Not a soul shared the lane and our only vigilance would be for deer or bear popping in front of us. No amount of conspicuity would help us then; only the acute reflexes of my driver would give us any chance, if there was one to have.
After driving by the first massive park sign, we elected to try the next one in hopes of finding a scenic road around the lake. Instead we found a long, smooth access road to a small ranger station announcing the eventual State park and beach. We talked our way it, "just to check it out" and ended at the beachfront parking lot. I wanted to walk down to the water, but there was no place to park the bike and time was starting become important. We wanted our own bed tonight, not another motel. He entered the parking lot and was met by a minivan driver's door ajar in the lane, no driver in the car. "No problem..." for him as he navigated off lane barely missing the door to our right and the tree to our left, I pulled in my knees and huffed about etiquette in such a busy place and wondered aloud: "...why is it so hard for people to think of others in such a public place?" Back on our road, we continued in search of more blacktop and another state sign putting us closer to home.
All the while our flag elicited smiles and good wishes; a visual treat for the occasional Vermonter in a distant garden or weary farm yard. On these more desolate stretches of road, I would imagine a Vermont of a hundred years ago and ponder the sameness of it all. While each tiny town, each crossroad was unique to itself, they were all as much similar. The commanding mountain ranges, the steep slopes halting in narrow canyon bottoms with frigid creeks cutting through their valley floors. Ultimately, they would converge in a village or town that long-ago harnessed that power in their mills. Grain, saw wood, looms. Often, the derricks and foundations remained in historic tribute to a more sustainable time. In some places, the mill buildings remained, either living new lives or as abandoned relics. I imagine the clever people who built such structures and those who did the daily work. But now, as we hurtled past, they were fallow while the water beside them ran quick as always. '...how did we let ourselves get so dependent upon outside power sources? why did we walk away from this resource? surely our new technologies could make it worth using for the smaller scale industrials...' It's a luxury for me to ride this gleaming bike, seated snugly behind my partner and ponder all of everything else while he wrangles the physics of the ride. I thank him often, but still I know, he makes it possible for me to see and feel the all of it. I lean into his back to assure him of this reckoning and he replies with a pat on my left knee until we rolled into our next junction.
Crossing rte2 onto 215, the lines of our mapped thruways were getting thinner as we motored over state roads that were sometimes went to dirt when the populous became thin. This piece of pavement brought us into Cabot, the land of Cabot cheese and their champion cheddar. By the late afternoon, as we trolled down their main street, the parade was long gone and not a trace of the fabulous Cabot sharp that they throw to onlookers could be found. We couldn't find any gas for the bike either. We knew we weren't too far from rte15 which would take us home, but also knew we needed gas...soon. Our winding road took us to Walden Station and there was no fuel in that cross-hair either. We pointed toward Hardwick, located some fuel but the Village Dinner was closed so our bellies would have to wait.
It was becoming twilight, the prettiest part of the day to ride. The air gets thinner and lighter on our faces, the sky softens as the sun eases behind the mountains, the chaos of the day retreats into homes evidenced by the glow of televisions in so many roadside houses as we pass. "...poor bastards..."says he,"...they're inside watching someone else's life and we're out here creating our own..." All I could say was, "Yup." and agree with a squeeze 'round his chest. We are blessed and I was hungry; "I know a dinner with awesome fries, going into Morristown, I gotta eat." Fifteen minutes later, we found our place and noted the dozens of patrons lined up for creemes, even at this late hour. From the camp ground across the highway, they came to enjoy any of the 65 flavors, swap stories of the day, flirt with the opposite sex, taunt their siblings as they waited for the frozen wonders. When we came to a stop behind the line, the rumble of the pipes got their attention, but
the flag brought them to a brief hush.
It was the fourth of July and this was a justly end. Kids with big eyes while their dads pulled them away. "...don't touch his bike, it is beautiful but don't touch it..."
We were 26miles from my home and all it's comforts, but this place was abuzz with Vermont and her collage of life; a fun place to sit and watch people. Seeing some kids, I thought of my sons that same age. "...hey outlaw, tomorrow is my boys' birthday; can we show up with the bike?", my child like plead...
"sure..." was my tired, happy, proud biker's reply; he has a soft heart for little kids and he still dreams their dreams for me... "a flag, a really big flag on the back of your bike and let's take it everywhere...
still to come, just one more day... luv, peace, ride ~ ell
He brought her up to my place as I'm on a paved road and have ample space in my barn. We even found an ace shovel-head mechanic for his vintage low ride. He might even get the bike fit enough to pass inspection and dawn a legal sticker. I'll need a new nickname for my driver then, but that remains to be seen. Still though, it'll be exciting to assist in the low-ride's rehab and learn the mechanical details of the chrome pony I've come to love as dearly as my awesome brown horses.
Pausing only for a brief picture of him next to the banks of snow, as we toured the snow-littered spring time, I couldn't recognize our summer landmarks. The vistas that were so green and comforting in July were frozen and foreboding in this early April spin. Not a time of year to break down and no room on the roadside to push a dead bike. Fortunately, our ride ran flawlessly, purring without hesitation in the effort. Seeming like even she wanted to bust lose of winter and stretch her chrome features against the bare roads. As we wound our way home, we had covered a pristine 44 miles in our first ride out for this promising season ahead.
