Day 66. Hancock to East Thetford, 54 miles

Today’s song and energy: “Get Out the Map” (Indigo Girls).

Today’s fact: Firewood costs $5, whether a bundle, a bin, a rack, a square, or any other name for the standard measurement. That is the cost of firewood (or camp fire wood or camp wood, soft, dry, kiln-dried, premium, however) everywhere across the northern U.S. Somebody please employ that fact for something useful; I have worked very hard in the data gathering process.

I woke up to a dewy tent. The inside was dry, if a bit clammy, but the fly and footprint were soaked and the bottom of the tent damp. It was also quite chilly—low to mid 50s when I emerged. I was glad not to have sent home the down jacket, though just days ago I’d been grousing to Andrew about having held onto it. Not wanting to get my bike shoes and socks soaked, I shuffled around in the grass in my sandals, my feet wet and freezing, as I went about my morning business.

I had hoped to get going around 8 to get to Thetford on the early end and get max Katrina time, but the sun came out as I was gathering my things, and given the forecast for an overcast day it seemed prudent to give my tent and towel some drying time. Plus there are only so many items you can bungee to your panniers and trunk rack bag for drying—limited real estate back there. And I do like to maintain the fiction that my towel is clean, which is hard to do if I’m riding around with it outside my bag collecting road dust. But also being cleaned by the detoxifying power of the sun!

The stories we tell ourselves aside, I thought it best to give my items a chance to dry off and me to take advantage of the WiFi, since cell service had gone scarce again since I got back in the mountains.

So I hung around until nearly 9, succeeding enough in my drying efforts to get my tent and footprint packed away, with room for the fly and towel on my bike’s bum. A glamorous life. Leaving my leggings on (!) and casting a second glance at my Smartwool before packing it up, I set out into the morning and glided the rest of the way downhill into Hancock proper.

Today is Saturday, and each day of the week is now my last my last one on tour: today will be my final Saturday riding, and I have all the mixed and bittersweet feelings you might expect: relief, a sense of pending accomplishment, excitement, sadness, disbelief, and an autumnal melancholy. I am also in my first new state since Montana, I realize; I’ve ridden through NY when Joyce and I did Big Apple by Bike, though I covered a lot of new territory there this time around, but Vermont, New Hampshire, and Maine are all new to me. There’s a nice symmetry to wrapping up tour with new (mountainous) states, just as I began it. But before it’s in the bag I have some riding to do, some steep northeastern hills to surmount. Onward!

In Rochester, I got provisions, including a replacement plug for my USB cables. After hanging onto that small, important chunk of plastic for two months (!!), I’d left it at Brookwood or lost it somewhere along the way. Since the zipper on my trunk rack has finally given out, and the bag is held shut by the bungee cords across it, the latter is a distinct possibility.

I also stopped in Rochester for a sit on the White River, which I followed for most of the morning.

Bethel had some cool fish mosaic murals.

I passed through some Royaltons—North, plain old, South.

Late in my riding day I got to my major climb, a steep 1500 foot hill. I had been all “1500 feet, whatever,” but in the offing I was internally whining about how long it seemed to be going on when suddenly I crested and was on the exhilarating and sweet rush down. I hit 39 mph! WHEEEEEEEEE!

I couldn’t refrain from stopping at the river every good chance I had, and I saw little reason to. At Post Mills, just a few miles shy of Thetford, where Katrina was meeting me and with time to spare, I found a particularly lovely little spot on the river where I munched on sugar snap peas and Snyder’s (Hot Buffalo Wings, sorry folks).

I lingered, knowing I had only a few miles left, but I hadn’t looked closely at the elevation map after the big climb and found myself puffing over two more real hills (duh, I guess there’s a reason it’s called Thetford Hill) before my final destination. Whoops. I got to East Thetford red and sweaty and texted Katrina, who arrived a few minutes later. After hugs and hellos—we hadn’t seen each other in nearly 30 years!—she helped me load my bike into her car and we headed for her place about 15 minutes away.

Her place, which was lovely and peaceful and charming, with huge picture windows overlooking a wildflower-covered hill. And at which we sat outside and caught up and moved past catching up to talking just like old friends. She made me salad ☺️ and pasta with pesto and gave me delicious local gin, and it was a perfect evening.