Leaf-peeping: Middle of October.
How could I live in NH and not ride up through the Kanc. Highway and not pay homage to trees saving energy for the Winter? Of course I couldn't, so I mounted my trusty steed Xeno and headed north early in the morning one weekend (I forget the exact date) to avoid as much traffic as possible.
My plan was simple: follow route 28 north to Wolfeboro, then hop onto 16 towards the dreaded North Conway. For those "not in the know," North Conway is a pilgrimage site for those mired in the world of consumerism. Smack-dab in the middle of some of the most beautiful land in NH lie more "outlet" shops than any normal human could need. Just how many "irregular" pairs of polar-fleece socks can people buy, anyhow?
That question would have to wait for an answer, for before I even started my little journey, something else demanded my full attention. My bike simply didn't sound right. It normally takes poor old Xeno a few minutes to warm up at the best of times, but this morning something was amiss. I poked and prodded things, adjusted this and that, and then focused my attention on the spark plugs. I performed the tried-and-true "pull the cable off the spark plugs when the engine is running to see what happens," and my heart skipped a beat.
Number 4 did not seem to be firing.
I was now faced with a troubling choice: ride "as it is," or delay my ride by an undetermined number of days to get this fixed. The choice, as it happened, was easy -- ride now. After all, the foliage would only be peaking for so long.
So, I limped my way north along 28 early in the morning, wondering what harm I was doing to my engine all the while. Xeno didn't deserve this kind of treatment, but there was no choice. It was today or never.
However, as the ride progressed, the engine wasn't bothering me nearly as much as the cold was. My fingers were getting really cold, to the point that I was having difficulty working the clutch and brake levers. This was not good, and I was totally unaccustomed to "cold riding." Remember that this is my first season riding, and I was totally unprepared for what the effects of continual wind-chill on a cold morning can be.
Suffice it to say that by the time I reached Wolfeboro, I was in much worse shape than Xeno. I was shivering, barely able to move my fingers enough to undo the strap holding on my helmet. Luckily my legs weren't too cold (they were being warmed by the engine), but I clearly had dropped my core temperature to an unhealthy low.
Shivering like an idiot, I purchased a large hot chocolate from a nearby coffee boutique (everything's a "boutique" in Wolfeboro). This helped, but what I really needed was warmer weather and the sun on my back.
As luck would have it, right next to the coffee boutique was a sports equipment store, which (also as luck would have it) was having a sale. Clearly, I needed some warm clothing, so in I went. I left with only a pair of glove-liners, for by the time I almost bought an additional expensive sweatshirt, Sol had pushed the temperature upwards.
While riding route 16 north, something miraculous happened to Xeno -- number 4 came back to life with a vengeance! In fact, it's easy to say that it now has more power and better performance than at any point in my short riding career. What happened? I have no idea. All I can say is that while navigating some little hills around Wolfeboro, my bike began "surging" when I accelerated, and then a little later the "surging" turned into "eye-popping acceleration." Xeno had finally decided to earn that "Super" in its name.
So, enjoying the reborn Xeno, I had to make one more stop for gas right before North Conway. On the Kanc, there is no gas for 32 miles, so you might want to gas up there, too. It's important to note that I made a conscious decision to ride the Kanc from east to west, for I assumed that most of the traffic would be in the other direction.
As it turned out, this was the right choice. Half a mile before the turn off for the Kanc, route 16 north comes to a stand-still with the road being stuffed to the gills with RV's and Buicks filled with people looking for that "just one more" pair of "irregular" polar-fleece socks ("Ooh! What a bargain!"). So, I said my good-byes to them and got onto the Kanc easily (again, the benefit of riding a bike). There, the fun began. I was warm, there was no traffic, and the leaves were glorious, back-lit by a bright cloudless sky. I had made the right choice and was in leaf-peeping heaven.
At this point, wearing the "Sh*t Eating Grin(tm)" of a really happy biker, I took every opportunity to stop and admire the scenery. The first stop was at an officially designated tourist stop, and it was fairly full of people. However, all I had to do was hike up the nearby river for about 500 feet, and it seemed that the entire mountain range was mine, and mine alone. I practiced at being a lizard, resting on a large boulder surrounded by burbling water, and let the sun warm me.
Then a bus parked a few yards away from where I was resting and ruined everything. Time to move on.
Thrilled with the ability to throttle my way up the twisties with such newfound power, my next stop was at the top of the Kanc. Pass, where I decided to have lunch. This was my chance to sit, eat, and stare at the foliage-covered mountainsides.
It turned out that a pair of chipmunks occupied my attention more than anything else. The picnic area abutted a grassy mountain-side that 2 chipmunks had taken residence in. As soon as they realized that someone was nearby with food (ie. me), they immediately began circling the picnic table I was sitting at like a pair of small, furry, hyperactive sharks. Of course I fed them -- they got an apple-core from me.
During my brief lunch, I shared the picnic area with what appeared to be a tour bus full of Japanese tourists. They finished their break before I did, and one of them (must have been the driver), came over to me and said (in broken English), "Excuse me. I don't want to hit your bike!" and pointed to the bus. Apparently he was afraid that when he backed out he would hit my bike. I laughed and immediately moved Xeno farther away, but I was sure he wouldn't have hit Xeno in the first place.
From there on, it was pretty much the same: downhill, lots of leaves, and lots of fun. There was little traffic going in my direction, but I noticed that the other direction was slowing to a crawl. In no time the remaining miles disappeared underneath me, and I soon found myself traveling south on route 93 (the main multi-laned N/S highway in NH).
Normally Xeno likes puttering at around 55-65 MPH while riding on 93, but ever since its rebirth after Wolfeboro, Xeno had a hard time keeping below 75. However, even at this speed I was getting passed by mini-vans. How embarrassing.
One toll later (my first toll ever paid while riding, I might add), and I was home. 250 miles left me feeling tired (and a little sore), but glad that I had done it. Now I know why so many other people said that, "Ya gotta ride the Kanc! It's great!"
Now, alas, as I write this, Xeno is put away for the Winter.
During my first season of riding, I rode 2,409 miles. Not bad for a bike that, little more than a year ago, was once a rusting heap. And not bad for a rider who, little more than a year ago, looked quizzically at motorcycles and though, "I just don't get it."
Now I'm counting the days 'till Spring and waiting for each issue of _Rider_ magazine as if it were a letter from a long-lost relative.
Ride safe!
Saturday, Sept. 14th.
Turning out to be a favorite ride.
Well, this Saturday's ride was intended to be a tour of southern NH, but as Murphy would have it, that is not how it turned out.
My intent was to follow route 130 west until I hit the Vermont border. But, once I left Brookline and reached the intersection of 130 and 13 north, something odd happened. The map was wrong. What I thought was a road that was going to bring me to the next town to the west actually looped northward and brought me onto route 13 north. Going west was not an option, it seems.
So, I followed route 13 north, which wasn't so bad, since I have taken this road many times before and actually liked it. When I find myself on this route, I usually have no choice but to follow it to New Boston, where I revel in a brief respit at the diner/store/gathering place there. They serve a mean piece of pizza, and always have a goodly amount of cold strawberry Yoohoo to quench my thirst.
This particular ride is becoming one of my favorites: from Derry, I take 102 west into Nashua, where I then jump onto 130 though Hollis. There, I take a right onto 13 north, pass though some wonderful little towns, and eventually reach New Boston. I take a break there, turn around, and take the same roads back (there are some breath-taking vistas on the way back that you miss on the way up).
This time, however, I made sure to do something that I normally eschew: I stopped. Frequently. Since I was now comfortable with the ride (and not worrying about where the next difficult-to-spot intersection might pop up), I tried my best to stop along these roads and see what was there.
The first such stop was right in Londonderry, on route 102. A craft fair: something that, were I in a car, I would not have stopped for. But, since I was on my trusty 2-wheeled transportation, I stopped. I may have only stopped for a few minutes (car or not, there simply wasn't too much there that interested me), it was worth the pause in my journey simply to watch all the cars looking for a place to park while I just found a convenient niche and planted myself there, right near an exit.
Next, I stopped at a barn sale in Hollis. And what a barn it was! Creaky floor-boards, huge timbers holding the roof up, and a smell that bespake of "old." I didn't buy anything (my bike doesn't allow too much "shopping" to be done), but the conversation was worth it anyway.
The last stop I made before making the journey back home was at the corner store in New Boston, where I downed a nice piece of pizza and a strawberry YooHoo. Mmm-mmm-good!
On the way back, I stopped along a little pond (unnamed) and enjoyed watching baby turtles (one, actually) and pollywogs snap at bugs dancing on the surface of the water. Two kids were fishing nearby, but they took no notice of me (perhaps they were a tad frightened of me and my outfit, thundering in on my ancient Japanese iron). Anyhow, the silence of the place was refreshing, and I recharged my mental batteries there. As nice as they ride is, it always is nice to stop for places like this. When I left, though, I did leave behind another of my inexpensive kickstand fobs. I do this all the time, and I replenish my supply of them at the local hardware store. I buy 10 at a time (at $0.25 each, they're not that expensive, and I can afford to be absent minded with them).
Had I not been completely tired by the time I reached Nashua, I would have stopped for the festival they were having there. However, my butt was sore, and I was hankerin' for some home-cooking, so I passed it by and continued home.
Food would have to wait, though, as I noticed that my headlight wasn't on. Thinking that the bulb had finally burnt out (it was 20 years old), I stopped by a local bike shop on 102. It was closed, so buying a replacement there was not an option. However, since I was stopped there anyhow, I decided to see if the headlight had passed on to the other side, and was somewhat scared to see that both filiments were in A-OK shape. A shudder passed through me as I realized that if the bulb was OK, then the problem must reside someplace in the wiring harness.
So, off came the side cover, and I checked the fuses. The one for the headlight /looked/ OK, but following a hunch I replaced it anyhow. The light sprang back to life. The old fuse fell apart in my hand. These 20-year-old fuses were rotten, and it was only pure luck that was allowing them to pass a current. They needed to be replaced immediately, lest my 15-amp main fuse go south and leave me stranded on 102.
Next stop: a hardware store. They had fuses, but they were all the automotive blade-type. I limped my way home after that.
A good ride, and one that will be repeated again (perhaps during leaf-peeping season?).
08/03/1997
Chester Town Fair and Salem's "Mystery Hill" (NH, USA)
It's been a while since I had anything of note to write about in my somewhat limited world of motorcycling, but yesterday was a pleasant change of pace.
For the past month or so, I've been riding Xeno (my beat-up 1978 Honda CB750F) hither and yon, but not to anything that was worth writing about. Even the rides themselves have been fun, but not noteworthy.
However, yesterday's ride to the Chester Town Fair and Salem's "Mytery Hill" (now officially called "America's Stonehenge", a name that I don't think is nearly as interesting as "Mystery Hill") was full of fun.
First, let me tell you about Chester's Town Fair.
To get to it, all I had to do was take a right after leaving my apartment complex and ride for a few miles. After passing through Chester's only light (a blinking yellow, I might add -- no red lights here!), a very friendly policeman directed me towards a parking lot that looked closed, but for us motorcycle riders there was plenty of parking space. Those people unfortunate enough to have ridden a car there were forced to travel another 1/2 mile down the road to alternative parking lot that was much farther way from the action. Too bad.
So, after stalling the bike in front of the traffic-directing uniform, I parked and took in the air of an old-time Fair. And by "Old Time" (and not the overly commercialized moniker "Olde Tyme" that you see emblazened on every yuppie boutique from here to California), I mean that there were no modern annoyances of booths trying to convince you that Coke or Pepsi is the better tasting carbonated and colored sugar water. Commericial activity was limited to buying tickets for the "Cow Plop Bingo" scheduled for later in the day and local girl-scout troups selling 50-cent brownies. The brownies were good.
But, being the motor-head wanna-be that I am, there was only so many sheep-shearing demonstrations I could take, and only so many sack-races I could watch (my threshold was exactly one of each, actually). That's when I broke off from the main crowd and took a short walk through a near-by apple orchard to the other seemingly unadvertised part of the fair.
From this area I could hear funny sounding chuggs and bangs, the like of which I had never heard before. However, that budding motor-head part of me know precisely what it was that I was hearing: motors. Engines. Stuff that makes things go. Of course I had to see!
And I was not disappointed. There were old John-Deere tractors from the 20's and 30's, old semi-diesel engines that happily chugged along, boldly stating that they had no need for modern conveniences like carbs, ignitions, and the like. I wondered how the kept going without exploding.
I also imagined these engines in place, doing work back in the 30's. Each machine (engine doesn't sound grand enough for these works of art) having a group of people tending its every need throughout the day. One person making sure this "thingy" is adjusted correctly, that "doo-hickey" is lubed properly, and so on. I also pictured the hideous accidents that could have occurred (and I imagine must have) with huge 7-foot cast iron fly-wheels zipping around with enough inertia to turn limbs into broken and crushed images of their former selves, as a bicycle's wheel would to a small willow branch. Without missing a beat.
Luckily, though, no such mishap occurred while I was there. So, after filling my brain with as many memories as I could, I mounted up and headed off to my next adventure. A small trip south, and I was at the entrance to Mystery Hill.
Mystery Hill (now officially named "America's Stonehenge", but I'll still call it "Mystery Hill") is in Salem, easily accessible from both 93 and 28. Just jump onto 111 east and follow it for a while.
At least, that's what the map I was using said. True, it was on 111 east, but there were no signs to point the way. I had to stop at a local convenience store to see if I had passed it. I hadn't, and I soon was there (complete directions -- copied verbatim from their brochure -- can be found at the bottom of this seemingly never-ending babble).
Unlike the Chester Town Fair, this little excursion was not free. Parking cost nothing (and beware, the lot is not paved), but the self-guided tour cost $7.00. Fear not, however -- your $7.00 is well spent.
Mystery Hill is, as its informative brochure announces, "A Giant Megalithic Astronical Complex Constructed Over 4000 Years Ago." It comprises of a main house/gift shop/artifact museum and the megaliths themselves. They can be visited via a self-guided tour on a nice walk along a well-worn path that takes you from the main building, to the site, and then back again. It took me about 2 hours to do the entire tour, but then again, I like this kind stuff. Those less impressed by well-worn astonomically-arranged stones and stone huts may not take that long to take it all in. Even if you have NO interest whatsoever in paleoastronomy, the tour winds its way through some astounding vistas and remote woods, so you nature lovers out there have a good chance at enjoying this place, too.
Here's how to get there (again, transcribed directly from their brochure):
From Interstate 93 - exit 3, take Rte 111 east (approx. 5 mi.) to Island Pond and Haverill Rds. Follow Haverill Rd. south to the entrance.
In case these directions aren't too clear, you can call them at (603) 893-8300 and talk to them directly.
And if you do go, bring along a flashlight -- one of the ruins is quite dark, and there's no lighting available. Also, beware the entrance to "America's Stonehenge" itself; it's a sharp right hand turn, up a steep driveway which turns immediately into a non-paved surface covered with small stone chips that my bike had lots of fun swerving around in.
Have fun!
July 4th ride to Alton Bay & Wolfeboro (NH, USA).
As a ride goes, the road from Derry to the southern tip of Like Winnepesaukee is about a straight as one can get: get onto route 28 north and follow it until you get there. So, if many twisting turns and adventure is what you're looking for, this is not it. However, despite this seeming lack of worth, there are some things the entice the rider to make this trip. This is a "going someplace" ride, and not an "enjoy the road" ride, though there are parts of 28 that are positively beautiful.
As I made the ride early on Friday morning, the sky was somewhat clear with only a few big puffy clouds providing some fun shadow-chasing down the road. Most of it is a 50-55mph zone, but beware the dreaded MA driver: I was making good time travelling 60-65mph, but still got passed twice by some rather impatient MA drivers. Some people are always in a hurry.
The Bear Brook State Park is one place that calls these "busy" people to a stop, so make sure you're not in a road-trance when this place passes by (on your right as you travel north). I'll be stopping there myself this summer for a weekend of camping.
About 60 miles (and 4 traffic-circles) later, I found myself in Alton Bay, making a pest of myself and generally doing my best not to overstay my welcome at my friends' lakehouse there. It's a good thing there was a lakehouse, too, as those benevolent puffy clouds started dumping the wet stuff off-and-on for the remainder of the afternoon.
So, no more riding was done this weekend, preferring to, instead, ride in my friend's Volvo to/from Wolfeboro. The 4th was in full swing there, so I partook of ice cream, pizza, and other such non-motorcycle related touristy things.
As usual with any motorcycle trip, you're bound to find things that entrance and disturb at the same time. Here's a short list:
* A private arsenal of Jello. An entire cupboard full of sorted and /dated/ boxes of the gelatenous substance. And the owner apparently never actually eats the stuff, either. Weird.
* A toystore of exquisite (sp?) joy, stuffed to the gills with every type of toy, book, and puzzle to keep the immature (like me) happy for a LONG time. I wish I could remember its name, but it's easy to find as it sits on the main street of Wolfeboro across from "Wolfeboro House of Pizza" (and it's good pizza, too).
* In the same house that stores the wonderful world of Jello, there was something that shook the foundation of my understanding of physics. "What could that be?" you ask. A Weeble bed. If you don't know what a Weeble is, don't bother reading any further.
For those of you what know what a Weeble is, imagine the horror of seeing something that negates that long-held truth: "Weebles Wobble, But They Don't Fall Down." That horror is the Weeble bed -- put a Weeble in it, and without so much as a magnet to hold the Weeble down, the Weeble /stays/ down. Lovecraft's writings pale in comparison to this visual conundrum.
May 20th, 1997,
I finally have come up with a name for my poor bike: "Xeno, the Warrior Motorcycle." Xeno was a philosopher, and one of his many odd ideas was that motion is in the mind -- something that I think describes my view of motorcycle riding in general.
Also, now that the restoration is complete, I've decided to refocus this page on the rides I'm taking. My first ever "tour" was last weekend (May 18th), and here's what I did:
150 miles of pure fun on the roads of Hillsborough County (Southern NH, USA)
Sunday, May 18th.
The day's festivities started at around 10:00am, where I rode from Derry to Londonderry to meet up with Noel. He and his 1978 Moto-Guzzi V50 joined me and my 1978 CB750F, and together we rode along 102 west into Nashua where we had breakfast in what could only be called a dive. The food was cheap and good, though, so the day was certainly off to a good start.
We then travelled west along 130 until we reached Hollis. We intended to intersect with route 13 north in Brookline, but we zigged when we should have zagged, and ended up on 122 north. A brief map-checking later, we made a right hand turn and were on our way along 130 west again.
We soon entered Brookline and took a jog north along route 13. This is where the scenic part of the trip really starts (though parts of 130 through Hollis are certainly worth a post-card or two).
Our next stop was determined by Noel's keen eyes. Right before we reached Milford, he saw that a family yard sale hid a beauty -- a '77 CB750F in red. It was beautiful, even though missing side covers and tank emblems. I admired the bike (no, it wasn't for sale). The owner (a teenage kid) admired the fact that I paid $75 for my 750F. Noel admired a photograph of what must have been the ugliest bike I have ever seen -- some sort of Italian V-twin chopped cruiser.
We soon tired of all this mutual admiration and got back on the road again. In no time we found ourselves passing through Mont Vernon and ended up in a pleasant little hamlet called New Boston. If you forgot to bring along a camera (like I did), be aware that the nice convenience store on the intersections of 13 and 77 does carry film, but not the disposable cameras you (and I) may so desperately need.
We stopped here for a few minutes to whet our whistles, but the road soon called to us again. Unfortunately, we didn't listen closely enough and found ourselves zagging instead of zigging.
Our plan was to go north along 77 and go west along 149. However, we missed the "This way to 149" sign and soon found north of Weare at the divergence of 77 and 114 north. Another brief back-track, and we were soon back on 149 west.
Somewhere around here (it may have been earlier, but my addled brain can't remember) Noel and his eagle-eyes spied another gem along the side of the road, this time 4-wheeled. A VW Vanagon Weekender for sale was something he had to stop for, and so we did.
Our next stop was in Deering, where we were nearly carried away by mutant swarms of black fies. The view of the hills and surrounding countryside was worth the buzzing monstrocities, though (but I still wish I had a camera to record all this beauty). After a brief word with a local Deering-ite (who was dressed from tip to toe in protective anti-bug mesh), we soon were having fun along more hills and twisties. Not a bad bit of road to be found around here.
Hillsborough was next, and the best I can say about it was that it seemed to be a tourist trap. The traffic was a bit heavy, and there was at least one bus full of "blue haired old ladies" giving us a collective evil eye. But that didn't last long, as we immediately took 202 south.
Our next concern was gas (we had travelled 90 miles so far), and a chance to visit a convenient lavoratory. Antrim looked friendly, and so we stopped. The black flies were here, too, and the headlight of Noel's V50 looked like a bug magnet. My bike fared a little better, but my helmet made up for the difference in protein accumulation.
The remainder of the ride on 202 was fast and pleasant. We reached Peterbrough at around 4:30 PM and decided to take 101 back home. This was the least pleasant part of the journey.
By now I was pretty tired, and 101a was a lot of speedy stop-and-goes. I was amazed that, even with a posted speed limit of 30mph (for the most part), I had to maintain a 45-55mph speed just to keep up with traffic. What's up with that? Is everybody really in that much of a hurry?
But that bit of weirdness did not diminish the the overall ride, and I can say without hesiation that, as my first tour ever, it was an untarnished success. My ol' 1978 Honda CB750F performed admirably (probably better than its rider), and Noel's Guzzi V50 did its job well, too (even though I could see Noel working on the carbs sometimes while we were riding, and his discovery of a "squeak" in the front brakes).
I highly recommend the ride to a novice biker (like myself), but my only caveat would be to take a different way home (avoiding the commuter madness of 101a, if possible). The next time I take this ride, I'll probably continue to take 202 south until Jaffrey, then get onto 124 east through New Ipswitch, High Bridge, Mason, and finally Brookline (and route 130 east).