July 17, 2019
Penbobscot Bay
Waldoboro to Orland
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Jackie’s avg speed: 9.0 mph
Scott’s avg speed: 10.4
Weather: 60-80 degrees, pleasant and breezy morning, humid afternoon
Moody’s Diner had a $6.99 special: two eggs any style, two pancakes (69 cents extra for blueberry), and two pieces of either bacon, link sausage, or patties. I spent the extra pennies for the wild Maine blueberries, another local specialty. When Scott was placing his order, he specified, “fried hard.” I thought maybe this time he would get his round yolks because the waitress repeated back, “turned over, fried hard.” Alas, when the waitress set our plates down a few minutes later, there was the yolk, splashed flat into the white. I said maybe the yolk broke when the cook was flipping it. Scott said his Mom never had a problem with that.
The place was starting to fill up as we were strapping on our helmets and straddling the crossbars. It was just 07:05 when we eased onto Highway One. We still had plenty of Maine hills to get up, it was just so much easier on this highway than on the back roads. Almost half of today’s designated route to Orland was on Highway One, aka “Atlantic Highway,” which traced the coastline of West Penobscot Bay and Penobscot Bay. When we came to State Road 90, we ignored the cue sheet and continued south toward the bay towns, eight altogether. We had been on backroads and in the woods for the last three days and wanted a change of scenery. The designated route meandered north and cut back south to Rockport and Camden anyway, so this was not a radical move.
We rolled into Rockland, the first port of the day. It was still early and cool, a fresh saltwater breeze was coming off the lower edge of West Penobscot Bay. A convertible with the top down went by and I smiled to myself. My Surly was my convertible, the ultimate open vehicle, at one with the ground, the light, and air. No matter how long or hard the ride the day before, mornings always reinvigorate my love of the bike. The road turned away from the tall masts bobbing in the port and into rolling green terrain cut through by marshes and small streams. With rested muscles and a full tank of carbos, it was easy pedaling.
Next up on the coast was Rockport, a truly prosperous city, not the “wilderness” those duped Germans found in proto-Waldoboro. Traveling with minimal weight, we were not tempted by the fine wares in the tourist boutiques. Nor did we stop in the cafes, it was still too close to the Moody breakfast. I was tempted to jump in the smooth water at the beach. But we had many miles to go and it would have chewed up too much time. Rockport blended seamlessly into Camden, and Highway One became Bay View Drive for a while, taking us past trophy properties on the bluffs overlooking the bay.
So far, Highway One had been our friend and had shaved off a little mileage. Where it intersected with State Road 52 on the east side of Camden, the cue sheet told us to “continue straight uphill onto Mountain Street/State Road 52.” Uphill on Mountain Street? Nope. We stuck with Highway One. We didn’t know it at the time, but 52 looks flat on a topo map, since it skirts around the edge of the Camden Hills State Park.
Full disclosure, the map notes warn cyclists not to skip the backroads for Highway One. In a few minutes we understood why. A seven-mile stretch of the highway from east Camden to east Lincolnville has no shoulder and heavy traffic from the state park. Seven hilly miles with loaded panniers equals roughly 45 minutes of riding. That’s how long we were holding our own with fast cars, pickups, and eighteen-wheelers. It was my preference to ignore the cue sheet, and I regretted putting us both at unnecessary risk. But then the entire trip exposed us to risk, so maybe regret was moot. Scott didn’t care, he’s not intimidated by traffic.
We took a break at Dot’s Market about five miles east of Camden, which looks like a suburban house, but is actually a gourmet convenience store. For anyone else who goes rogue and rides this stretch of road, Dot provides sandwiches to order and fresh baked goods. We fortified ourselves with donuts, coffee, and iced tea and got back in the game. The road had a couple passing lanes which gave us and the drivers plenty of room on the uphills. Between Lincolnville and Northport, we started up another long hill with a passing lane. We got to the top and saw the passing lane became a wide shoulder. The white knuckle stress was behind us, and more seaside towns and Atlantic views ahead.
The Adventure Cycling route information cautions cyclists about the heavy tourist traffic in Vacationland, particularly on the coast. For whatever happy reason, the flow was tolerable on the days we were there. Or maybe we had become used to it. We cruised along the waterfront path of historic Belfast, a town where General Waldo left his mark.
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He bought a patent in 1720 that basically gave him the rights and land to conduct trade, primarily in fur, with local Native Americans. His heirs sold the land to Scots-Irish from New Hampshire who named it Belfast after the Northern Ireland city. It was incorporated as a town in 1773 and went through many stages of economic evolution – shipbuilding, shoe manufacturing, and poultry farming. The poultry industry folded in the 1970s and the population declined. In the next few decades, artsy types and college graduates, and people going back to the land moved in, attracted by cheap land and the beautiful setting. In the 1990s, the credit card company MNBA established two facilities here, and the Hutchinson Center, part of the university of Maine system. A company specializing in shipbuilding and yacht restorations set up shop in the mid 90s, then a boatyard opened in 2013. Through the cycles of boom and bust, the one immutable factor in the fate of Belfast was its situation on Penobscot Bay. The location drew farmers, artists, educators, and commerce back after economic downturns. That winning combination that kept the town vital.
Every few miles on the bay we would go around a bend and behold another memorable view. Next up was the Penobscot Narrows Bridge and Observatory that connects Verona Island to the mainland near the town of Bucksport. The bridge uses an innovative cable-stay design that is easier and less expensive to maintain than the previous Waldo Hancock suspension bridge that became corroded beyond repair. The pylons are modeled after the Washington Monument in Washington, DC, and both are built with Maine granite. An observatory sits on top of one pylon, the tallest public bridge observatory in the world.
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The bridge took us across to the tip of Verona Island, then we crossed another smaller bridge to Bucksport. Being the town where Patrick Dempsey went to high school doesn’t count when a cyclist is hungry at three in the afternoon and wants some seafood. McCleod’s Restaurant closed at 14:00 on this Tuesday, contrary to the hours posted on the website. Glenn’s Place wasn’t open either. Grrrr. We shared the last protein bar and set our sights on Orland, two miles down the road, where we would spend the night. In Orland we stopped at Hannaford’s supermarket for yoghurt, granola, donuts, and peanut M&Ms. There were no diners close to the KOA, so we would have to make our own breakfast.
With business taken care of, we rewarded ourselves with pleasure. Carrier’s Mainely Lobster restaurant was right on the highway, a kind of no frills fast food sea food shack. Why would we order clam strips and crab cakes in a place specializing in lobster? Choices! It’s what we craved after 59 miles.
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Sixty miles on the next-to-last day is legit. After we unrolled the sleeping bags at the KOA cabin, we got in the pool for our well deserved cool down. The forecast called for rain the next day, but rain comes when it will, and we did not want to pack up a wet tent the next morning. We slept without worry in a snug shelter.
Today's ride: 60 miles (97 km)
Total: 2,983 miles (4,801 km)
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