Rumford, Maine

 

I spent little more than twenty-four hours in New Hampshire cutting across the northern neck of the state, long enough to gather three Carnegies, but not long enough to encounter any presidential hopefuls, though it may be a little early for them.  There were campaign signs to be seen, but all for local elections.

Someone did point out an opera house in Littleton that had been the site of many a debate between those on the presidential trail.  Littleton was the first town on my trail of Carnegies.  It was a quite lively town that had made a recent list of the twelve most quintessential towns in New England.  There were two movie theaters on its Main Street, one of which was playing the Taylor Swift movie.  A church on the street had a full-fledged, help-yourself food pantry.

The Carnegie was also on the Main Street on a slight rise. A plaque out front described it as “an eclectic blend of Georgian and neoclassical styles with decoration of a richness rare for a structure of its size.”  There was no entry as it was closed for the week to replace its carpeting.  While I gazed upon it a fifty-year old guy stopped to ask about my travels and added he’d had a few long tours himself. “Coast-to-coast?” I asked.

“Yes, seven times,” he replied.  “I used to work for a touring company out of Indianapolis and led rides.  On one it rained twice, once for twenty-three days and the other for sixteen.”

Another of his long rides was in Russia in 1991, when it had yet to be westernized with McDonald’s and all.  The roads were bad and the food and accommodations left a lot to be desired.  His group camped as well as stayed in hotels.  When they returned to the US they made the mistake to check the box on their custom forms that they had stayed on farms on occasion and had their bikes impounded for thirty days.

I could only look upon the next Carnegie in Whitefield too, as it wasn’t open on Mondays.  That was extra bad news as I was in need of an electrical outlet to charge.  I had gone all of Sunday without charging, only spending a handful of minutes inside, first at a Dollar Store and then at Ian Boswell’s house.  I was counting on plopping down an hour or so at either the Littleton or Whitefield libraries to catch up.  Whitefield was much smaller and quieter than Littleton and didn’t offer a cafe, so I had to push on hoping what charge I was gaining from my generator hub could keep my iPad alive.

The terrain was hillier than Vermont and the foliage more colorful, but a lot less touristy.  Maybe the threat of moose kept them away.  A sign warned of the many fatalities of those who had plowed into one.  

When it became clear I wasn’t going to make it to the next Carnegie in Berlin in time for some charging I hoped a motel might turn up, as I also had wet shoes and socks that needed drying.  None did so I kept alive my streak of every night in my tent. I was at least able to take advantage of an outlet at a rest area to gain enough juice to use my iPad without worries of draining in the tent that night.  The rest room was the only time I set foot inside all day, a not unworthy accomplishment.

I arrived at the Berlin Carnegie  too early to end my fast of not settimg foot inside a building. Its exterior had some extra adornments, so its interior could have been special too.  The exterior was accompanied by an Oldenburg-inspired over-sized book giving the library’s hours. 

The terrain flattened considerably when I entered Maine, some of it along rivers.  The first Carnegie came in Rumford on the Androssgoggan River.  An addition to its rear had large windows looking down upon the river.  A large sign on the door prohibited food and drink and there were similar signs on all the tables.  I had to be discreet taking an occasional handful of gorp, as I couldn’t sit without fueling.

I keep checking the weather in Nova Scotia.  It’s been very similar to what I’ve been experiencing so far, daily highs in the fifties and night time lows in the forties. I’ve had rain nearly every day, so what rain awaits me there isn’t too daunting so long as it’s no more than the drizzles I’ve mostly been inflicted with.

I won’t reach Canada for five days, as Maine is much larger than Vermont and New Hampshire, and I have seven more Carnegies to get to with one stretch of 155 miles between two of them.  The rain puts a dent into my riding time and also the shortening days.  Heading east adds to the shortness at the end of the day.  I’d been able to ride until nearly seven at the start of these travels.  Now dark is closing in by six.  At least it’s not as cold as last year’s fall ride, when I encountered snow in Canada north of Minnesota.  It’s been no colder than the low forties so far here.