Day 9
October 9th, 2001
Camden, Maine
I walked out the door and and was greeted by 27 degrees worth of cold air.
The bikes are right outside the door, so loading up is not a problem.
Americana as it gets. Borlin
Motel, Camden, Maine
photo Phil Derryberry
The sun is out, the wind is calm, and I make a prediction to Phillip- the day
will warm quickly.
We rode out the dirt driveway, past the front office of the Borlin. I was
saddened to think what will happen when Miss Borlin is gone. Her heirs are
likely to sell off the motel and property to Marriot, and they will replace it
with a shiny, new structure. Gone will be another piece of
Americana. I watched the motel fade in my mirror as we rode south on US 1.
Camden is coming to life as we hit town. The mail trucks are lined up on
the side of Post Office, waiting for the carriers to sort the mail and then take
to the road. Boats in the harbor are making their way out to sea, school
kids are climbing on buses. Everyone needs to visit Camden in fall.
The air is cold and brisk. The sun shines over the ocean to our left,
lighting the waves in a white tint.
South of town we pull into Wal Mart so I can buy a new phone card, and pick up a
few supplies. Phil rides back north for a few more pics of the coast,
while I go in.
Camden, Maine in the fall
photo Phil Derryberry
We left Wal Mart and continued south on US 1. South, home to the cotton
fields that will soon be ripe for picking, south to fall baseball, south to the
hot sun and warm Gulf breezes that blow across my homeland all year.
Something about southern boys, and the land. It is never far from our mind
and hearts. We sing about it in our music, and weave stories in books for
children. It is passed down from father to son.
We charge down US 1 and go over to I-95 south. We are held hostage to the
speed limit. Maine folks are the most law abiding folks I have ever come
across. Everyone drives the speed limit, and so do we.
I see the Kennebunkport exit and think, "hey isn't that where George Sr.
lives?". We exit and troll into town.
Kennebunkport is hustling this fine day. We ride through the business
district, the shops are busy.
We begin looking for a place to eat. I ride past a good place, but Phil
notices it, and directs me back to it. Inside, I had a good interpretation
of pancakes and sausage. We get directions from the waitress on how to get
to the President's residence.
We take SR 9 along the coast and have a short, but great ride next to the
shoreline. It is rocky and the sand dark. A stark contrast to
smooth, sugar white sand in the Florida Panhandle I am so familiar with.
We stop and take pics, and just enjoy the day.
The Presidents home is easily found. Located on a point with a guard house
at the entrance.
We make a wrong turn leaving Kennebunkport, but quickly notice it, and
turnaround. We stop for gas at a Exxon station back on US 1.
It is time to put down some miles. We leave the Maine Coast and go to I-95
south. I pay a toll but I am not sure if it goes to the Maine or New
Hampshire coffers. These roads are terrible, what do the do with all this
tax money and toll money they rake from these poor people? Everywhere I
go, my hand is in my Roadcrafter paying somebody to let me use something that
tax money is collected for.
I-95 cuts a short swatch across east New Hampshire, we are not there long.
We cross into Massachusetts, and settle in to make the 495 slog, avoiding the
parking lot known as Boston. Back roads in East Massachusetts are just not
practical. Too much congestion and too many lights. It would take
hours to ride border to border in the Boston area.
When some joker puts his blinker on in Massachusetts it means he is NOT asking
to let him back in, but he IS coming back in.
It seems like forever to get off 495 but we finally make it to SR 16, and drop
down into Milford. A town with a most intriguing courthouse. The row
houses come all the way down to road's edge. If you step off the front
porch you better be looking BOTH ways because you are standing on the road.
We stop in a store and I pick up a bag of chips and Mountain Dew. School
is out and the town is busy. Cars everywhere. I tried to talk to a
cop in the parking lot, but we failed to communicate. I could not
understand HIM, and he could NOT understand ME. He spoke something about
"carhs" "jawbs" and "guies". Most of the
time I was just nodding my head.
The weather is warm now. The warmest since Indiana, and I remove my vest
and sweatshirt and go to medium gloves. It was a whole 68 degrees.
We leave Milford bound for Rhode Island. Why? So we can say we were
there.
We make a costly mistake, and miss the route numbers to take us to Western Rhode
Island. Instead we are on SR 126 and find ourselves in Woonsocket.
Oh man, let me tell you about this place. Everything is crammed.
Houses, stores, and factories. Narrow roads packed with cages.
Some bright guy decides to resurface a major road in Woonsocket, and traffic is
snarled all over town. I have never seen a traffic jam in a town this size
before. We reach the construction area and a state trooper wearing the
funniest uniform I ever saw is trying to get things straightened out. His
pants are so tight, they look painted on, they are bloused in his hip brown
boots. I almost ass ended Phil laughing. I would loooove to see a
female Rhode Island trooper in that uniform. I might think she is
harboring whips and chains in her cruiser.
We finally make it out of Woonsocket and pull into a closed down bar parking lot
to see how to get around Providence. The by pass is 295, so we take it, and get
off on US 44 west. Where we should have been in the first place coming out of
Massachusetts.
In traffic, and on these short interstate excursions I sorely miss my right
mirror.
We stop in Chepachet at a busy grocery store and pick up some pork chops for
supper. We plan on riding to Mashamoquet State Park and camp for the
night.
We cross into Connecticut in the early afternoon. All trip long, we have
to ride longer then planned to make our goals. Looks like today we will
arrive with plenty of light, to set up camp and relax.
We are in what I call the "shoebox states". In my vernacular that
would be Vermont, New Hampshire, Massachusetts, Rhode Island, and
Connecticut. Lots of stuff crammed into small spaces. Road maps look
like spaghetti with so many routes covering such a small area.
We make the state park and shut the bikes down. All the buildings look
closed and locked. I walk up to door window on the office and peer
in. Empty and dark. It was then we noticed a barricade across the
road to the campground. The sign hanging on it reads "Closed for the
Season". I say to Phil-
"lets just go around it, camp and be outta here at first light"
"nah, might get in trouble"
"Phil, rangers are state workers, they have gone home for the day, they are
NOT leaving their homes to come back out to see if any guys are camping.
State workers are not gonna do anything extra, it is not in their DNA"
"the sheriff might come"
"And do what? Tell us to leave? Besides a deputy would have to
park his car and WALK a half mile to check, and he aint gonna do that. I
am telling ya they don't care if we camp'
"but someone might have seen us ride in"
I yield, and follow Phil west. It is late afternoon. We decide to ride on
and look for a motel. There are no more campgrounds nearby. Even so,
it is a safe a bet ALL state campgrounds are shut down for the season.
We take SR 244 and ride west. Late afternoon rides always seem to be the
best. We are winding down a wonderful day of riding, and now we find
ourselves on a curvy, scenic road.
Riding SR 244 takes us under a long tree canopy. The leaves are yellow,
and orange. They filter the sunlight down to us, and the atmosphere is
dream like. It makes me feel like I have amber lens in my glasses.
I watch Phil leaning in front. He maneuvers his loaded bike very
well. I watch him split falling leaves. So many falling leaves in fact, it
appears as if someone is overhead turning baskets over on us. A leaf even
manages get in my helmet via my flipped up face shield.
I catch a whiff of wood burning in some distant fireplace. It reminds me
of leave raking duty in Virginia, and the smell of our fireplace in the crisp
cold air.
The road takes us past a boys prep school. The highway splitting the
campus. I see students walking to the library, under trees in full fall
color. Leaves are strewn everywhere. Boys playing soccer. I think
about how much it must cost to go to school at such a place. I try to
picture my son going to high school here. Cold, no baseball, no Levis, no
Friday night football, and NO girls. I would have found him altering his
birth certificate in some hidden room, and telling me we brought him home by
mistake.
We stop to confer at a crossroads. We have not seen anything close to a
motel, and it is fast getting dark. This is Connecticut, you are never far
away from ANYTHING. The map says 84 is close by, so we ride to it.
The interstate will have what we are looking for. If not, we will go into
Hartford and hole up.
I notice my left PIAA is out. My right faded just prior
to leaving Prattville, so I ordered 2 lights, assuming the second would also
quit in the near future. I packed the spare figuring it would die
somewhere on this trip. I pat myself on the back for such foresight.
I will replace the light before morning.
Riding south on 84 we take the Wellington exit, and check out a Sleep Inn.
The clerk gives a rate of 84 bucks. "Cheapest in Connecticut", he
boasts. Yeah right. We take it, and throw our stuff in room
103. At least we are on the ground floor.
We think about firing up our stoves and cooking chops in the
parking lot, but think the better of it. I mean if they get pissed at
camping in a closed campground, no telling what they would do if they find 2
"good ole boys" cooking in the parking lot.
We walk over to the nearby truck stop, and I have a mediocre
meal of country steak and gravy. After supper, I strolled the truck
stop. Phil is looking for a small cooler, to keep the pork chops in.
I am surprised to see we managed to ride 375 miles.
Back in the room, Phil fashions a cooler with zip locs and
some kind of plastic. The most resourceful guy I ever met.
I get sleepy watching TLC and click the TV off about 11pm.
Tomorrow is a big day. A 500 plus mile slab ride to Front Royal, Virginia.
