Day 66 - Calais, Me. to Gorham, N.H.

Long day, but no rain!

Ah, the White Mountains...

It was about an hour and a half (hoff) south of here that I first strapped downhill skis to my feet and learned to ski. That and the fact that Cheryl Sargent was pregnant, led me to meet my best friend in October of 1972 (details on the Cheryl Sargent thing available upon request).

I packed up a little earlier today, to get a few miles down the road before breakfast. It was a simple matter of heading north on U.S. 1 to the border crossing town of Houlton, Me. It was there that I met Melvin Charette and his wife Lisa served me breakfast. Let me explain...

while looking for a nice cafe for breakfast I spotted this work of art and had to stop and take a picture

That was when I met Melvin, the owner of Bordertown Cycles in Houlton. He repairs all makes of bikes from Harleys to "metric" bikes as they call the Japanese imports now. His shop is celebrating its one year anniversary and he has a real nice set up. It's clean and appears to be spacious and well organized. 

After chatting for a few minutes I rode about a stones throw down the street and ate at the Elm Tree Diner. The waitress asked about my bike and told me she rides. She owns a Harley Dyna-Glide Low Boy and loves it. That's when she told me she was Lisa Charette, Melvin's wife! Small world, or small town anyway!

At Melvin's suggestion I intended to ride highway 2A southwest out of town, join highway 2, then take it all the way to Bangor. Melvin said it wasn't a very interesting ride because all you can see is trees. But after riding across Arizona and New Mexico, trees was exactly what I longed for. As I cruised down highway U.S. 1, I was impressed with the little towns and villages I came to. 

This was exactly what I was looking for. Each one was every bit New England yet uniquely different. It seemed that they all had the tall steepled white church from the early 1800's or earlier, colonial homes, small (or not so small) cemeteries with well aged headstones, each one different than the next. Even the businesses were unique, from Melvin's art work to creative names. No branch offices, just local business people that you knew could work out a fair deal with a hand-shake instead of a meeting of lawyers. All of the towns were bedecked with flags in preparation for the Holiday Weekend and many of the towns had a large, proud statue and/or monument honoring their veterans. Many of the monuments listed Veterans names who had died in the wars, usually going back to the Revolutionary and Civil Wars.

the rest of WWII heroes were on the next slate, they accounted for 10% of the population!

Yet, as I said, they were all unique. From the beautiful creek flowing through Milo

the 100 year old monument honoring Mattawamkeag's war heroes back to the Revolutionary war

 to Dover-Foxcroft that used to be two towns, but when they decided to join forces they held a wedding ceremony and had people stand in for each of the towns and exchange vows! Restaurants with personality and attitude, not franchise fees. 

So much history, so much personality.

The Girls were up and at it first thing this morning and were doing a great job, that is until they put me on a highway heading north toward Canada, then went silent. I finally stopped at a grocery store (IGA) in a resort by a mountain lake (Rangeley) only to discover that the battery had died on my phone and silenced them. So I plugged it into my remote charging system on the bike and circled around Rangeley and circled 75 miles back to highway 2. It worked out fine because I had wanted to stay further north in Maine without going into Canada and this route met that criteria better than if I had stayed on 2 all the way. I had by-passed Bangor and got to see some beautiful country.

I would have to say that Maine is two very distinct regions. The coastal communities remind me of Connecticut and coastal Massachussetts - lots of fishing villages, resort hotels in many places and people, too many people for some of us, in certain places. If you go inland, Maine becomes much like upstate New Hampshire (or New Hampsha, if you prefer). Green, lush foliage everywhere, increasingly rocky with lakes and ungulating roads, magnificent vistas and these great little towns. Most of the highways run north and south however so as to connect the coastal communities to Canada, it seems. So if you are upstate you need to get into the right "drainage", then head north.

Because of my side trip to Rangeley, I ended up going 388 miles today but, unlike what Melvin had foretold if I went straight to Bangor, it was incredible riding. 

Day 65 - Bar Harbor to Calais, Me

The extension to Eastport is actually stopped at Lubec, on the Canadian border

Bar Harbor area to Calais or where is that submarine when you could really use it?

I woke up this morning with little sleep and many options. The lack of sleep was a combination of my state of mind after publishing my blog last night and my neighbors departing on their Harley at 7 a.m. Mix in a number of loud, repetitive noises (refrigerator compressor and what sounded like a whole line-up of cars kicking off rush hour by spinning their tires on gravel - yeh, I know, weird, but I'm just the messenger) and you get the afore mentioned short night.

The options were:

1) back track slightly to the local airstrip to get details on their offering of riding in a glider

2) back track to the tourism information building just across the bridge and see if they have information on the ferry service that Ron had mentioned from Bar Harbor to Nova Scotia

3) Ride into Bar Harbor to see if I could get information about ferry times and cost directly from the source

4) Forget about all of that and head northeast on Highway 1

When I stepped outside and saw a thick fog hanging heavy over the island I immediately crossed #1 off the list and felt that # 3 was not going to work as well as #2. If the ferry was not running or delayed because of fog (or faag) I was flushing an hour down the drain. I figured I was better off riding back a short distance to get the information I wanted, so I opted for #2. But the fog in the air, combined with the early morning fog in my mind, allowed me to ride right past the information building and not realize it until I rode past the airport. Oh well, they probably weren't open yet anyway.

So #4 took me a few miles back on highway 3 to connect to highway 1 where I turned right and set my sights on Edmunds, Me. 

The terrain has changed drastically. the Evergreens have been replaced with Maple and Birch

 the flat acres on each side have turned to rock walls

and the sandy beaches have transformed to muddy low-tide bogs.

I thought I would have my choice of morning eateries but did not find one until I pulled into Milbridge. Across the street from the Milbridge House sat this place

Even Ron could find this place on the map!

I gave my order to Jessica and while I waited I thought again about something that has been formulating in my mind since I hit Mississippi, or before. One of the things that has always endured the south and New England to me is the accents. Each state, and often counties or even smaller geographic entities has had its own special flavor, except Florida - the melting pot of the south. I have not been in New England since 1987 for any length of time. Before that it was 1970 - 1972, when I was in the Navy and travelled to race my motorcycle in various regions.

This trip has been different in that, with very few exceptions, I have heard few, or very limited, accents. I had hoped to hear it laid on heavy in Mississippi, Alabama, perhaps the Carolinas, definitely New York, New Jersey, and my favorite, Maine.

So I asked Jessica, who was born and raised in Milbridge and, with the exception of a few words, had no discernible accent, if she thought that the Maine accent was being diluted and lost because of the mobility of the populace. She said she thought she still had her accent after having gone away to college for four years, but had not noticed in others that there was less of an accent. She'd say it was an interesting point. Then a couple a few tables away chimed in. They were from Tennessee, and had noticed the same thing. They thought it was due to the influences of TV and the movies over the younger people.

In talking to this couple I was touched by the fact that they were able to do what Betty and I had hoped to do. They were full-timers, as they say in the RV world, and had visited all of the states in the lower 48 except North Dakota. She was quick to add that you can't count it unless you do or visit something in the state (our family had ruled that you had to leave the airport to count as an official visit). He said they noticed that, if they got away from whatever the major highway in the area was (in this case either I-95 or highway 1), the accents are still alive and well. This would lead me to believe that tourism and those who move to an area and work with tourist are the main "culprit". He encouraged me to take highway 187 into Jonesport, go into a hardware store as if buying a hammer, and listen to the locals.

As I rolled east on highway 1, I thought maybe I had verbalized something that the experts had not yet investigated - is the distinctive accent of specific areas being diluted and, if so, why? Who might have noticed this phenomenon more than someone who deals with the ebb and flow of the populace, a realtor? 

It just so happened that the first business I found upon entering Jonesport was a reality office and inside I found Julie Farris, broker extraordinaire. She sat and discussed this with me for 20-30 minutes, what a sweetheart. She agreed that there is dilution but added that if I talked to her for 10 minutes I would no longer think so (she was wrong). A delightful lady, she added that the dilution was due to education. She gave as an example the local high school. Their graduating class this year was approximately 18 (she didn't know if Jimmy brought his math grade up high enough to graduate). Of those, she estimated that 85% went on to college (that's 15.3, looks like Jimmy is taking summer classes), all outside their area. Even if they come back in 4-8 years they will have changed their speech patterns. She said she gets questioned on vacation in New Brunswick, Canada about being from Boston (Baastun). Really?

So I think I've hit on something here that should qualify for a Federal Grant to investigate. Who's with me?

After my investigative work in Jonesport was done I headed to another town that the gentleman in Milbridge had suggested, Lubec, the eastern-most town in the U.S. 

If you ever get "down east" do yourself a favor and visit Lubec, right on the Canadian border across from Eastport. In addition to the aforementioned claim to fame they were at one time the sardine capital of the world. A tour of the local museum and a couple hours spent with the ever-enlightening Barbara is a must for such a visit.

The small town was founded in 1798 as part of a group known as Eastport, but filed for their own charter in 1811. Hopley Yeaton was the first officer commissioned by George Washington to stop smuggling of goods in the area by the British to keep from paying taxes to support the new government (how does taxation without representation feel on the other foot King George?). He is widely credited as the Father of the U.S. Coast Guard and it was here that he carried out his orders. The town went on to house 26 companies that canned sardines and smoked herring. (Trivia time - the only difference between herring and sardines is size! The smaller ones that can't be sold as sardines get smoked and become known as herring, makes no difference to me, I ain't eating them!). During WWII the government issued a contract for all the canned sardines they could produce to feed the troops in the field where refrigeration was not available. After the war, the contract dried up and they discovered that their old customers had gone to other sources. The town never recovered completely. In the '70 s the government told the factories that they could not throw the unused parts of the fish back in the water as they had done for generations. When the waste was disposed of instead, that eliminated this food source for the sardines which then no longer migrated to these waters, thus killing the entire industry. Today there is no sardine or herring processing in town whatsoever, and not a lot of love is lost for government regulations.

But there was one other industry that brought investors to town to seek there riches

I purchased a book about this, which Barbara said was a precursor to Bernie Madoff's investment scheme. I'll let you read it when I'm done (but be forewarned, it took me 3.5 years to read H.D. Thoreau's "Walden Pond")!

The whole museum was incredible, the town was exactly the type I had hoped to discover on this trip, rich with history and intrigue.

I ate lunch in Lubec after going to the post office to mail my book to myself (the post mistress had family roots tracing back to 1744 when the area was still unchartered). Had an interesting discussion with a couple from South Carolina that I met at the restaurant. He was a (Honda) Goldwing rider and had a friend who had ridden the "four corners" (as many cyclist call my route) twice!

When I returned to my bike the fog had started to drip. I put on my rain pants and leather jacket (which I had already fitted with the arm gussets in the interest of warmth). By the time I made it back out to highway 1 (5 miles) it had rained hard enough to get me soaked, then quit. I pulled into a gas station to put the rain coat under the leather coat and the pavement was dry. Every town I've ever lived in is proud to claim as their own the old adage " if you don't like our weather, wait five minutes and it will change". Maine has modified that. If you don't like our weather drive five miles and it will be different!

I questioned whether or not I was doing the right thing by putting the rain gear on, but by the time I rode the requisite five miles it was pouring. And it continued to rain all afternoon. Rain suit or not I got soaked, just like back in the Florida Keys and southern New Jersey's Cape May, but this time the road drained better so I only hit one sizable puddle. I did however continue to ride for another 30 miles or so before calling it quits. By that time I had traffic backed up behind me and could no longer see where I was going. 

I rolled into Calais, Me and got a room at the first motel I could find. But it is a nice one. They have an in-house restaurant with cloth napkins (a good thing when your hands are soaked) and an Olympic sized pool, or so I thought. The sign on the front clearly said they had one but the front desk said they are remodeling. They haven't got the pool in yet, only the sign.

Next up is a trip through north central Maine which will be difficult without The Girls, who by the way showed up this morning and got me all the way to Lubec before taking the afternoon off. There is no one non-Interstate highway that traverses the state. It will take a number of highways strung together at the right points to get to New Hampshire (or is Vermont next? Girls???).

For what it's worth

Day 64 - Kittery, Maine to Bar Harbor, Me.

It was the best of days, it was the worst of days

I woke up this morning thinking I was going to ride in long sleeves, sans leather. Based on the weather forecast the previous evening it sounded like dry warm weather was on the agenda.

When I stepped outside to begin loading my bike it was obvious from the puddles in the parking lot that it had rained overnight. Looking upward, it appeared that it would continue to rain lightly most of the morning, at least.

My choice of attire changed to include leather over long sleeves. I headed northeast on highway 1 and, not wanting to appear that I was stalking Presidents, I turned onto highway 9 and headed for the coast instead of going into Kennebunk. By 9:30 I found myself in Kennebunkport, Me. Oops! I didn't realize that they were two separate towns. So as long as I was in the neighborhood...

Who does a stranger ask to find a former president's residence? Well, I didn't need to ask anyone where the Bush's lived or vacationed. I was following highway 9 through town carefully, so as to not lose the route, when I came to this T in the road.

The Lone Star flag flying in Maine clearly announces the Bush connection to this museum

I figured that I needed to give equal time to the GOP after visiting the Kennedy Museum a couple of days ago, so I stopped. Unfortunately, the museum did not open until 10 and it was raining, so I moved on.

After I crossed the Saco River I looked for a place to stop for lunch. I happened to spot a place on the left that claimed on their sign that they had been rated the Best Food in New England for 5 years in a row. Wow, how lucky am I? 

I had to chuckle at the sign that gave the hours of operation, followed by "six days a week". Which day are they not open? I figured I'd give them a hard time about their sign, until I got to the door and saw the closed sign. Closed on Tuesday? Yep, how lucky am I?

After lunch I decided to proceed without my rain suit as the rain had stopped. I was only a few miles down the road when I decided to put the rain suit back on, for warmth! What a difference a week makes!

Somewhere I came upon a large building which housed Garmin. I figured it was the headquarters of the GPS giant so I stopped to see if The Girls wanted to go to lunch. Turns out they've been out sick with laryngitis for a week.

I continued east to a very interesting bridge. They had a roadside observation point where placards told the history of the bridge that first spanned the Nobleboro River near Waldoboro (there you are, everyone one's been looking for you!). It was originally built in 1931 for $1M, and was a toll bridge until it was finally paid off in the '50s. During a major refurbishment in 2003 it was found that many of the support cables were badly corroded (inspectors found 300 bad spots). Engineers decided the damage could not be repaired so they reduced the load capacity and began building a new bridge.

I eventually got a motel just north of Arcadia National Park and Bar Harbor. I checked into the motel apparently looking as tired as I was. The lady who gave me the room suggested I take a nap then go into the park and go to Cadillac Mountain by 7:50 to see the sunset. I remember being in Arcadia in 1987 with a gaggle of kids and my wife was able to get them to sit still and watch and appreciate the sunset while she snapped a great picture.

So I took the nap, then went into Bar Harbor to eat and wait for the clock to advance to sunset o'clock. This was also when my day began to decay. As I rolled through downtown Bar Harbor I suddenly became uncomfortably aware of my anxiety in crowds. The tiny village of Bar Harbor that lived in my mind for the last 29 years was teeming with people. (In actuality, Bar Harbor has grown from 4100 to 5200 people during those years). Crowds gathered everywhere. I remembered a few small businesses and the area is now hotels being held up by restaurants and ice cream parlors. I began to get very uncomfortable and thought about turning around and riding back to my motel. As I did my U-Turn a parking place presented itself, so I inserted my vehicle and, helmet in hand, started down the sidewalk looking for a suitable cuisine to match my narrow tastes. The first place I stopped at was Cuban influenced!? The nice young lady suggested McKays down the street.

It was very nice. With a choice of indoor or outdoor tables, nice temperatures, beautiful blue skies, a laid-back guitarist playing easy listening versions of old standards. Betty would have loved it, and I would have loved that she loved it. I found myself fighting back the tears. The half hour wait at the Bush museum would have been acceptable with her there, we wouldn't have been rushing to something/somewhere else. The wait for our meal would have been an idyllic respite, spent chit chatting about nothing, probably holding hands or laughing. It was perfect, and I hated it for its perfection.

As I paid the bill I realized that the incredible sunset at Cadillac Mountain held no intrigue for me, so I returned to the motel. That which was once captured in a beautiful picture at Cadillac Mountain, lit by the setting sun and the bright light in the smile of the mother behind the camera will remain my memory of Acadia National Park.

Fog settles over the cove north of Bar Harbor

Here is the picture referenced above

For men only

I gave a "tease" about this post in my previous notes.

While in Salem I went to a Jimmy John's. While there, I went to the men's room but just had to return to the table - to get my camera. Although the walls of the hallway were decorated as many are, with motivational or humorous posters, the walls (all four of them) displayed some placards that I thought were hilarious. If you don't wish to Jew these, or explain them to your small children you can stop here.

Here first is an example of the posters in the hallway (one of a half dozen).

So now for the four walls of Jimmy John's:

and you gals thought it was just a matter of poor aiming...

I warned you

A long ride but not much fun...

I started this morning from Provincetown without The Girls (my GPS voices) talking to me still. My route, as usual, was being tracked on Strava, for later posting. So why isn't it posted elsewhere? Read on.

The route was somewhat simple. I was to take a combination of routes 6, 6A, 3, 3A, 1 and 1A. Not too hard right? The morning (I was on the bike by 8:30) was cool enough that I opted for the leather jacket this morning (it covers my poor wrists and gives my other long sleeve garment a break). 

I had some fun with the names of the towns: Going back through Dennis, I confirmed that they do not have a Denny's. Because it sits at the major crossing point over the Cape Cod canal I sensed, just riding through, a feeling of Supremacy in Bourne. I passed on the urge to grab a bite to eat in Sandwich. Then later, when I did stop for lunch, I asked if there was a "Which 'which" store in Salem.

I made it off the Cape and across the Cape Canal by a little after 10. The highway immediately north of the Sagamore bridge is a nice divided highway which allowed for a rapid approach to Boston, or Bastun as they say. It didn't last too long however until everything came screeching to a halt - rush hour traffic jam at 10:45! I have driven in a number of large cities now, many notorious for their traffic problems. But I still contend that Boston is the worst. The combination of bad roads, confusing traffic patterns and people that should never be allowed to drive anywhere else. I'm throwing the suburbs in the mix too. It seems that the region spent their entire budget for the next millennium on th "Big Dig", which by the way, was part of my rout through the city. It is amazing. It should be; it is the most expensive road project in U.S. history at $14.8 billion dollars and 16 years before hey finally cried "no mas". It not only relocated I-93 from a bridge to a tunnel, but there are exit and entry ramps within the tunnel. It's beautiful but U.S. Tax payers paid for it. Maybe Trump can send the Mayor a bill? It won't be paid off until 2035, or something like that!

Once I came up out of the unbelievable I located highway 1 for a trip over to Salem. About 14 miles from the tunnel I pulled over in a big parking lot to take a picture of the Tripometer as it flipped over to 10,000 miles. Much to my chagrin, it didn't. It went from 9999.9 to 0!

Before I realized where I was (it turned out one Salem) I spotted a Verizon store. I had decided to take The Girls in to see the Doctor, to see if they had laryngitis or something more sinister. I told them I did not want top date my phone and because I could not tell them the password on my account, they got over that hurdle quickly. The guy turned the phone off, then back on. He urged Navigator off, then back on, then the settings within Navigator, off then on. He even tried the Google Maps app which took us to the same place. We now had a very faint voice that could barely be heard in the quiet of the store so he turned the volume up and proclaimed it "cured". I told him I'd try it, though I knew it would never work, and it didn't. The only thing it will do is direct me to the first turn before I start my bike. But he did accomplish one thing. He managed to turn Strava off and erase my morning trek through Boston, along with the accompanying data.

As I continued into Salem I stopped, of all places, at a Jimmy John's to ask if here was a Which Wich in town. They had never heard of the chain of sandwich shops (even though a search tells me there is one in Boston - they need to get out more). But while there I used the restroom and came back out laughing. I had to get my camera and go back to take pictures. The reason will be posted later under the title "For men only" so anyone that wishes to avoid it can do so.

After lunch I located the Witch museum. They have a two part presentation, the first telling the history of the 1692 hysteria that left 20 people dead and 150 townspeople suffering the symptoms of being accused. It was pretty good, but then we were led into another room where the next 15 minutes were spent explaining what witches were through the centuries, followed by an Op/Ed piece on other "witch hunts" in U.S. History. This last could easily been eliminated as it was, in my opinion, off the mark, perhaps an attempt to project a sense of understanding in what happened over 300 years ago.

I made it back to my bike before the meter ran out and headed again northward. I soon crossed the Essex bridge into Beverly, named after a sweet lady that can out hike all of us! From there highway 1A carried me north until it was supposed to reunite me with highway 1 for a trip across the Merrimack River into New Hampshire. I missed a turn somewhere (thanks Girls) and ended up getting on I-95 which, luckily, had a welcome center at a rest area right on the New Hampshire border. So I stopped and got my picture.

 From there I don't know where I went. As I got on the Freeway there were signs that it was not to be free and I had a toll booth coming up in a mile. So I got off at the first exit to avoid the toll (I didn't want to be on I-95 anyway, I wanted highway 1 again. 

As I reached the bottom of the ramp I came to a toll booth! So much for planning ahead. After paying up I found myself on a highway headed inland. So I did a U-Turn (which are getting much better if I do say o myself) and headed back east, toward the coast. I figured, and correctly so, that I would cross highway 1 before my tires got wet. I turned left on 1 and, almost that quickly, I Lund myself entering Portsmouth. By taking the 1- bypass, I found myself crossing the Piscataqua River into Maine.

 I stopped to take another picture, this time from right underneath the sign, then went less than a mile to a Days Inn, where I got a very reasonably priced room with Wi-Fi of yet undetermined quality.

So I ha do download pictures and make-up a map for Strava. Other than that, all's well until tomorrow. I'll be scampering up the cost and, perhaps, take a ferry to Nova Scotia, hey?

Day 63 - It's never as bad as it appears

In this case, there was a good 150 miles on the front end of this route. Explanation to come in tonight's blog.

The Cape Crusader

I had a deliberately slow start this morning so that I could do a couple of things before heading east. Church, breakfast and back track, just far enough to find a "welcome to Massachusetts" sign. Even after all that, this was the best I could do

Oh crud, my pictures are on my phone and I'm at another "sure we have Wi-Fi, really we do" motel. More on that later.

It was after 11:00 when I rolled past the motel where I had spent the night! My route was basically highway 6 to Cape Cod, then take highway 28 South along the coast of southern Cape Cod until it returns to highway 6, then run it all the way out to Provincetown.

I had just gone through New Bedford where Denny and Noris were married many, many years ago when I crossed the bridge into Fairhaven. I was flabbergasted to see a huge structure on the left and knew I had to do a U-Turn and go back to take pictures of it. I did not know it was a school until I pulled up in front of it. Not only was the front of the building incredibly huge and ornate with gargoyles and arches, but there was an extension off to the east that was as big in itself as most schools, and the depth of the structure went back an entire city block. The only way to describe it would be immense! The building itself could hold any of several towns in Idaho!!!

The section on the right was duplicated on the left, hardly visible on the far right was a fourth section

I also went through the town of Dennis, which ironically, doesn't have a Denny's!

Proceeding east I crossed the Bourne Bridge over the Cape Cod Canal (which I didn't even know existed!). It flows between Cape Cod Bay and the picturesque Buzzards Bay. Highway 28 South was a divided highway for the first many miles as I rode south toward Falmouth, not to be confused with JayZs hometown of Foulmouth. From there I changed directions from south to east, even though the highway was still 28 South.

As I headed east I began to wonder if the route would take me toward Hyannisport, the famous sight of the Kennedy Estate. It didn't, but I did discover that just to the south side of highway 28 S was Barnstable, which is the home of the Kennedy Museum (not the Presidential Library, which is in Boston). So I stopped by to see if it was open on Sundays. Not only was it open but they had a special exhibit dealing with the brotherly bond between JFK and Robert. I gladly paid the admission fee and spent the next hour or more looking at the many exhibits which included many of the personal family pictures. They had an entire section on Rose and her legacy. She lived to the age of 104, and was still doing political and non-profit campaigns into her 80s. It was a very personal occasion for me, one I am grateful I thought of while "in the neighborhood".

Famous photo taken during the Cuban Missile Crisis

... and I can hear my wife yelling "a woman's success too"

After leaving the museum I rode to Chatham where my direction again changed, this time from east to north, still on 28 South! Eventually the highway merged with highway 6 again for the trek up the Cape toward Provincetown. Before I got there however I spotted a sign for the Highland Lighthouse and museum which gave an excellent view of the north end of the Cape and, on a clear day, Plymouth, Ma, 32 miles away. The Lighthouse was erected in 1797, but was moved inland 140 yards in 1996, when erosion eventually moved the shoreline to within 100 feet of the lighthouse.

 

After my tour I headed to the end-of-the-road, which ended up being a loop through an area of sand dunes which led to a bog across the road from the Moor Inn, where I'm spending the night, in Provincetown.

Provincetown is an interesting little town that sits in the middle of earliest American History. The Pilgrams actually landed on Cape Cod and explored here before relocating to the mainland at Plymouth. There is a tall tower commemorating the fact, though the exact location they landed was long ago washed into the ocean because of erosion. 

The first Governor of Plymouth Plantation was William Bradford, another of my ancestors. He actually suffered a tragic loss here on Cape Cod, shortly after landing, his wife Dorothy fell overboard and drown. Can you imagine making it all the way across the ocean, then losing your wife that held joint custody of all your dreams shortly after landing where you thought you were finally safe? I must say, I feel very sorry for him. 

Marriage back then was a matter of purpose, sharing the load, perhaps more than today. So William sent away for a new wife who was shipped off to the New World. They married the following autumn, as the crops were harvested. A large party followed to celebrate this new union and some of the local tribe members were invited to share in Williams feast. This was, according to some records, the first Thanksgiving! It is from their son William Jr. that we are descended.

As for current day Provincetown, let's just say there are a lot of men in town.

More tomorrow when I'm able to get my pictures uploaded. This motel has free Wi-Fi, worth every penny without a rating system!

It is incredible to see structures like this in every little town

This church celebrated it's tri-centennial in 2008!

Day 61 - Branford, Ct. to North Dartmouth, Ma

With the unexplained changes to Strava this is about the best I can do:

Tonight's menu - pizza and a little chilly

What a perfect day to ride a motorcycle! The morning temperature was perfect, not a cloud in the sky, riding highway U.S.1 through quaint, historic Connecticut settlements many of which have already celebrated their tri-centennial! Old churches, incredible old New England homes from the 18th century, and huge cemeteries with grave stones that have withstood wars and hurricanes.

I said goodbye to Peter, who was nice enough to pose with his beautiful 1983 Shovel Head Harley. If you ever make it to Idaho buddy, I've got a room for you! Thanks!

I followed U.S. 1 for most of the morning until I reached Old Saybrook, one of my points of interest. On the way I saw, and had to take a picture of, a restaurant, the name of which is very special, even if there is no Kurley Kone next door.

I stopped at a grocery store to ask directions of a local. I was looking for a statue of an ancestor that was "The hero of the Pequid (Indian) War". The local I had selected in the parking lot was actually from nearby Old Lyme but she gave me directions to the library where she thought they could answer my question. She was so excited about me looking for an ancestor that, when we happened to pull out of the parking lot at the same time, she drove out of her way to "lead me" to the library!

Cute statue outside the library

It turns out that my ancestor is no longer the "Hero" of the Pequiod Indian wars but, instead, has become controversial. Back in the '80s the ancestors of the Pequiod tribe filed for and received recognition from the government as an indigenous people (I believe the story was that some additional land came with the recognition). They then got together with some of the towns people and protested the statue of Capt. John Mason that was placed in Mystic, Connecticut (my bad, I thought it was Old Saybrook). I had read a partial account of his actions against the (enemy) Indians and was surprised at the brutality used. Turns out that the Indians had attacked settlers in the area and were hold up in Fort Mystic. Capt. Mason brought his army to fight them but after several hours he ordered the fort to be burned, killing all of the Indians, including women and children, within. Because of the protests his statue was relocated to Windsor where he was one of the settlers and a resident of the first town in Connecticut. After being relocated the statue was vandalized several times before the protestors tired of that cause and went on to picket a Trump Rally.

So, it being such a beautiful day, I chose to ride 50 miles off route to see the statue and, while I was in Windsor, visited their museum next door to the park where the statue now lives, along with some of the neighboring houses which are among the oldest in the state.

The statue currently resides in a park in Historic Windsor

Just down the street from

A house built in 1699 and...

across from the oldest church in the state, built by the "Massachusetts Pilgrims" in 1630!

I then made the return trip to Old Saybrook, then pointed my front wheel east again. Around New London I noticed that, for what ever reason, the battery for my phone was nearly dead. In fact, the next time I tried to take a picture, it shut off. As luck would have it, just down the road was a Harley dealer who had the cord I needed to reach from the plug on my bike (intended for trickle charging the battery) to my saddle bag, where I could plug in the phone and charge it while riding! Works great!

I eventually crossed into Rhode Island 

and after some manual route finding, made my way to the Claiborne Pell bridge over Narraganset Bay (more commonly known as the Newport Bridge).

The three nice young men that carried me off of the bridge say the public is not allowed to walk to the middle to get a better picture!

Once on the Newport side I took a very, very slow ride through traffic, past the Bellevue Mansions and out along Oceanside Drive. At one time this was the playground of the Rockefellers and Vanderbilts. Many of the old mansions still sit behind locked gates, barely visible to most. The four guys that pulled me off the wall said the public is not allowed to take pictures.

While I was out near the end of Oceanside Drive I stopped to take a picture

When I returned to my bike a lady was walking up to look at it. She asked, in very broken English, if she could take a picture. I said "sure". So she hands her camera/phone to her husband and sits side saddle and does about a half dozen poses (April through August, I believe). I was waiting for her husband to start encouraging her to "verk vit me, verk vit me". I asked them where they were from and they told me Pennsylvania. Right, and the Cone Heads are from France!

I managed to duck out the back door and escape down past the public beaches near Middletown, instead of going back through Newport traffic.

By this time it was getting late and I tried a number of hotels (saw very few motels) before finding an available room. This may be the first time during this trip that I was unable to get a room. Finally I found a motel named the Capri. I haven't found any bugs but the A/C doesn't work so I can't dissapate the heat that built up during the day. It's actually a little bit chilly out tonight (as experienced when I rode down the highway for a pizza). I don't really want to open a window though, having looked in the "back yard". So the bad news is no A/C. The good news is the shower

I think I can get the bike in there to wash it!