The Shortest/Longest Day

Day 8
States: 23
Miles: 5507

My hotel in Erie offered a reasonably good breakfast.  I decided to take advantage of it, and was immediately sorry that I did.  Among the offerings of cereal and muffins were those cook-them-yourself waffles.  At the table next to me was a young woman who obviously likes these waffles very much, for she had two of them, one stacked atop another.  I can hardly eat one half of one of these, and she was chowing down on two?  The stack was so high it looked like she was pouring syrup on a Saturn V booster rocket.  Oddly, her young husband/boyfriend was rather slight in size, while she was fairly hefty.  I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt and concluded that she was pregnant.  With quintuplets.  I decided I didn't need much breakfast after all and got out of there. 

As I started from Erie, I was unsure of where I was going, really.  My goal was to get to New Hampshire where friend and fellow Harley enthusiast Rick had graciously invited me to stay.  This would be my shortest leg of the trip - or so I thought.  I decided to leave it to Beatrice to choose the best route to Rick's home.  She decided that it would be best to go through Buffalo, then cut over to Albany.  So that's the direction in which I headed -  up the New York Thruway.  My first stop came at one of several service plazas that are set up to service the bathroom, food, and fuel needs of travelers on the Thruway, all bargain priced, of course.  After satisfying each of those needs, I returned to find Herm surrounded by other motorcycles and several fellow riders who suffer from hemorrhoidal issues.  

I know this because of the presence of big fluffy pillows placed strategically on the bike seats.  This didn't seem to be stopping them from having a good time, though.  These guys were a riot, and they were heading up to Maine for a book signing by Sebastian Junger, the author of The Perfect Storm, the story of the loss of the Andrea Gail. 

Now this was what a bike trip should be.  I wished them good luck and bid them farewell.  I admired their fortitude in overcoming the physical challenge in pursuit of an adventure. 

The Thruway was much more beautiful than I had expected.  It is lined with trees and lacks the garish billboards and other such advertising that have been present on so much of the ride.  The exception is the signs warning of the presence of deer.  My hemmorhoidal friends and Rick had warned me of deer along this corridor.  I was being extra vigilant in trying to keep a look-out for anything that looked like it might dart into my path.  What struck me as odd, though, was the limitations in which deer seemed to be present.  Signs warned of deer over the next 5 miles, next 7 miles - these made sense.  Signs indicating deer present for the next 1 1/2 mile, even one stating that deer might be around throughout the next 3/4 mile struck me as odd.  There didn't seem to be any physical separation that would limit a deer from wandering beyond the 3/4 mile limit.  I found myself wondering how the deer knew what their limits were.  Is there some agreement between the deer and the operators of the Thruway?  What happens if a deer is spotted beyond the 3/4 mile point?  Do they have to then replace the sign with one advising that deer might be present over the next 7/8 mile?  You have a lot of time to ponder such things when you are alone on a long trip like this. 

Eventually I got to Albany (without coming across a single deer) and I called Rick to advise when I would be rolling in, for he and his wife were planning to welcome me with a delicious meal featuring Maine lobster.  I had originally planned to access Manchester in New Hampshire, which would take me through Vermont along the way.  Maybe it was the excitement of the lobster or a night without requiring a hotel, but I replotted my trip somewhat because Rick and Cathy live In Kingston, a bit south of Manchester.  After discussing with Rick various options and what we expected meeting times might be, I set off for my newly plotted destination.  About 15 minutes down the road, apparently both Rick and I came to the same realization: "What about Vermont?!?!"  As his text flashed up on the iPhone in front of me, I made a quick exit off of the Thruway and headed in the direction that I thought might be that of Vermont.  It turns out I have no idea where Vermont really is. And neither, apparently does Beatrice.  After traveling back and forth on virtually every one of Albany's freeways I pulled off on an exit, got out the old trusty travel atlas and pinpointed Bennington, Vermont.  I took command of Beatrice and told her that's where we were going.  She grudgingly agreed and we were rewarded with not only a terrific ride, but in the opposite lane was a procession stretching for what I guessed was four to five miles of classic cars.  Model A's, Model T's, Studebakers, you name it, if it was more than 50 years old it was probably in this procession.  I tried to take some pictures from the moving bike, but ended up succeeding in mostly getting shots of my fuel tank and the sky.  One, though came through.  

I'm going to have to work on this technique.  Once in Bennington, I was transported back in time - to about 200 years ago.  American flags hung from virtually every available mounting point - street lights, store fronts, garbage cans - everything sports Old Glory.  It is an amazingly beautiful town that has gone to great lengths to preserve the colonial look.  I wanted to stop and spend some time, but I was already late for my lobster dinner.  I asked Beatrice how to get to Rick and Kathy's home and she responded by taking me eastward out of Bennington via highway 9.  I don't care If you are a motorcycle rider, a car driver, or a mule rider, this road is a must-see.  Winding through the Green Mountain National Forest, the scenery and the terrain are spectacular.  I made a note to return to this place some day.

Now it was time to find New Hampshire.  That wasn't so much of a challenge, but finding Kingston was.  I called Rick again, because I was falling hopelessly behind schedule.  And I was still far from Kingston.  As I spewed out the intended route, Rick sounded confused - especially when I passed along the information that advised I was still 200 miles away.  That's when I realized that Beatrice was not taking me to Kingston NH, but instead Kingston, Massachusetts.  Terrific.  It turns out Beatrice had no idea where Kingston, NH was.  She could find a two-bit abandoned postage stamp of a town in Missouri, but couldn't get me to a reasonably sized town in New Hampshire.  We finally settled on Manchester, where I would have to go old school - directions spewed out from Rick, me trying to write them down on a scrap of paper.  The lobster was getting cold.  Finally I made my way somewhere close to Kingston, but Rick and Kathy's home is better hidden than the Unabomber's cabin, so Rick advised that I meet him at a convenience store.  He said he would ride up and meet me.  I arrived at the meeting spot first and shut down, awaiting his arrival.  Soon thereafter, two of the coolest occurrences of the trip took place.  Up rode Rick in his sidecar Ural, with what I was led to believe was his wife on the back.  To my great surprise and delight, climbing off of the back of the Ural was not Kathy, but instead old work mate and more importantly, old friend Jim, whom I hadn't seen in probably seven or eight years.  Rick had been trying to get him on the bike for years, but it took this to convince him.  It was a tremendously pleasant surprise.  The second cool thing was the greeting I got from the coolest biker dog in the world, Sidecar Stanley, Rick and Kathy's awesome dog.  

Stanley is a beautiful Golden Retriever who loves nothing more than sitting in the sidecar of the Ural while exploring the wonderful roads of New Hampshire.  He wears biker goggles and when it's chilly out he even dons a biker hat and loves to have his picture taken.  Plus he's got the official approval of the area Hells Angels chapter.  It doesn't get much better than that. 

It was well over four hours behind the intended dinner hour, but we finally sat down to enjoy the lobster that had been prepared in my honor, and it was terrific to have a home-cooked meal and a home to stay in after so many days of hotels and restaurants.  We talked for hours about the trip and riding and just catching up on things in general.  Rick had been trying to get me to the area for many years and had finally succeeded, and I was glad to have finally arrived. It was my shortest day in terms of miles.  Somehow it had turned into one of my longest days in terms of time.  But I wouldn't have changed a thing. 

Unusual things seen on the road today:

• A girl eating way too many waffles
• A tow truck - towing a tow truck.