Bar Harbor to Portland (Maine) – 384 miles

Is it just me? I seem to have this way of assuming that, whatever I’m doing, everyone else is doing the same. If I’m on holiday, then everybody else must be on holiday (waiters, shopkeepers, commuters etc presumably hate me). If I’m working 9 to 5, I imagine that everyone else is working 9 to 5, plus evenings and weekends for free. So it only figures that cycling around the world is on trend right now. No? From all the evidence I’ve accumulated so far, it appears that this might not be so.

Portland, Maine. What a cool city. I’m currently sitting outside a burger joint waiting to be fed, to celebrate having just been awarded a Northern Writers’ Award for Poetry, the ceremony for which I watched online. For sure, I wish I’d been there – for the afternoon with fellow writers, definitely. To trip over my own shoelaces and knock the massive bouquet of flowers over and send Andrew McMillan (poet, novelist and host for the evening) flying into the audience to surf the crowds. I wish I’d been in Newcastle, in the dark and cold, not in Portland. A balmy 28 degrees early evening, about to eat a burger with bacon and a yard of fries – a sliver of gherkin the only vegetable in sight (said burger just arrived. No gherkin). But didn’t everyone just receive a Northern Writers’ Award for Poetry this afternoon? Honestly though? I’m made up. Thrilled. I’ve never won an award before for my writing, and I love how New Writing North created these awards for works-in-progress rather than finished books. It’s for my new draft collection, which in its far more personal content is a huge change in direction for my writing; this award provides much needed validation. Permission to continue, as US poet Lyn Hejinian once said. However continuing might look. It’s funny how I’ve become a ‘northerner’ these past years (decades now) – when the north of England is ‘down souf’ of where I’m from. But it is where I’ve made my writing life.

Returning to the idea of continuing…like, continuing cycling? I’ve kept on. And I’ll keep on. No matter how hard it has felt these last days in a physical capacity. Last night when I arrived in Portland I was more physically fatigued than I’ve felt all trip. My legs were ok with freewheeling downhill. And kind of ok with relying on momentum cycling along the flat. But uphill. ‘Aaaaaaargh,’ I exclaimed at loud volume, just as (unbeknownst to me) a cyclist appeared on my shoulder to say, ‘don’t give up.’ By this point I’d already pulled into the long grass at the verge.

‘Just a swig of water. Right?’ Look cool Lucy. Look cool. They must be earlier on their round-the-world trip than me. Cycling carbon. Travelling without luggage. A new kind of minimalism. Light. In that moment I hated them their encouragement. Their legs were presumably not made of rubber.

Since I last wrote I’ve been mainly in a new country. The old US of A. The ferry crossing was more bumpy than I’d expected, and I was surprised to feel my stomach turn. I was busy messaging a friend in Canada, who was telling me how friendly Americans were (if a little dumb – his words, not mine) when a woman walked in a door with a large ‘USE THE OTHER DOOR’ sign on it. She only noticed the sign having already passed through, so out she went, back through the same door she wasn’t meant to have come through in the first place, out onto the deck, and back in the authorised door. When I heard her speaking, I could have sworn she sounded Canadian. I smiled. Slept.

County Maine welcomed me with the second of a two-day heatwave. If on the first day of cycling in Nova Scotia I’d had to deal with 11 degrees Celsius plus rain, now I had 36 degrees plus sun. But only 21 miles to ride. Bar Harbor, the small port town in which I arrived, was also the most touristy place I’d visited. I had barely made it into its touristy heart when I leant my bike against some clapboard railings to enjoy the last sitting of a café breakfast. Nothing like ordering a scrambled egg Mexican tortilla plus a black bean side to make you realise how hungry you are, and how lacking protein perhaps. I hate egg. Eggs wobble, and they look at me. Yet for the first time in my life these particular eggs on the menu were looking right at me, and soon wobbling away inside my stomach disconcertingly. Wow, they tasted good.

In Maine, I was arguably even less likely to encounter bears than in Nova Scotia, and once again I tried and failed to procure a bear-proof food container with later in my trip at the forefront of my mind. My procrastination before riding over the hill to my National Park campsite at Seawall, on the ‘quiet side’ of Acadia National Park, even extended to chatting to a guy who was darting around trying to find the staging dock for the boat back to the massive cruiseliner parked in the bay.

‘Where have you been?’ I asked.

The guy sighed. World weary. ‘Started Boston, out to Bermuda a couple days, up here. Back to Boston.’

‘Is it comfortable?’ I asked, for want of knowing what else to say. I actually wanted to know about the swimming pool. I’ve always been fascinated by swimming pools on boats. Floating water on water. But swimming pools wouldn’t form themselves into a question.

‘Oh. It’s ok I guess,’ the guy replied.

Different worlds. Lives. Beds. Swimming pools – I bet he hasn’t even swum in it.

I’ve moaned quite a lot lately about being the unluckiest person around. And as of late, I’ve truly not had a great deal of luck in life. Things haven’t quite worked out for me (violins etc), but maybe this has turned – the little things right enough, but those that matter to me right now. For the third time this trip, the rains waited until my tent was pitched before letting rip. That particular evening, the thunder storms plopped two big drops of rain on my arms as I erected my shelter, then waited. Erupted. I can sit up in my tent. I can lie down. I can read. I can sleep. I decided against cooking that night, threw some raw food down my throat, and chose sleeping. By the time I awoke the next morning, the sun was drifting down through the elongated pine trees with their spindly heads. Today was to be play day. My first day all trip of adventuring without luggage, and the first time I planned to run. I’ve missed mountain running. Off I headed, back up the ‘quiet side’ peninsula, stopping into Southwest Cycle in Southwest Harbor to see if they sold a mobile phone handlebar mount to make it easier to navigate in transit.

‘How can I help?’ asked a guy, whose name I learnt was Bob. I explained what I was looking for, and him and the bike shop owner (also Bob) led me to a stand with two options. Bike shop owner Bob recommended the cheaper one, which is always a good sign for a bike shop. We got chatting, me and Bob and Bob. Bob 1 said he wanted to see my round-the-world bike. Bob 2 did too. They both had British bikes. Every cyclist who is a cyclist in the USA has a British bike, didn’t I know? Bob 2 had a 1983 Roberts frame. A third guy, obviously a regular, whose name I didn’t catch who I named Probably-Bob, followed us as we traipsed outside to see Spike.

‘She isn’t too flash to look at,’ I said, suddenly a little bit embarrassed. ‘But she rides like a dream.’ As I said it, I knew that Spike-the-bike would get her revenge on me soon. How dare I? Wasn’t she the best looker this side of – well, anything to be frank?

‘The best touring bikes don’t look flashy,’ agreed Bob and Bob and Prob’ly Bob. They were right. Spike wasn’t convinced, she being a stunner and all.

‘This is the best bike shop in Acadia,’ said Prob’ly Bob. I didn’t doubt him.

My play day in Acadia National Park was as awesome as expected. 54 miles of cycling, a good amount of it offroad on the local traffic-free carriage roads. A 7 mile run up Cadillac Mountain (appropriately named I discovered at the car park summit, busy with those who had decided to book and pay to drive). Unsurprisingly my legs had nothing in them for the run, and within only a quarter mile I caught my toe on a branch and went flying. I’d smiled smugly at the family I’d just run past, as if to say, ‘yes, yes, I can run up this you know?’ They’d looked weary. Walking.

‘You ok?’ called the woman, looking back concerned. Walking. Unscathed.

I ran out of time to swim that evening. There was only just time to make it to supermarket in Bar Harbor to pick up a beer and something vaguely appealing to eat before Maine-lining it back across to Seawall before (almost) dark.

In slang, mainlining means injecting something intravenously. And I guess that’s kind of how it works with endorphin in cycling (more dodgy science. Just leave it there, ok? I’m a doctor of poetry…) It just felt necessary to write my own Maine pun having seen many along the way. Maine St. In the Maine. You get the drift. Maine-ly raining. Not a pun I’ve seen. But it applies. The next two days I’d once again define as ‘getting there’ days. Rain. Route 1 highway. Mileage. My first 1,000 miles of mileage celebrated with a peanut butter cookie and a cappuccino near the bridge from Mount Desert Island onto the Maine-land. More roadside ‘antique’ shops (aka vintage junk) than I could throw a stick at. Many Stars and Stripes flags, as if I might forget where I was. If I were in England and there were this many Union Jacks and St George’s Cross flags flying, I’d feel terrified about the nationalism. Admittedly I’m less prejudiced against the Scottish flag. But pride is relative when you’ve just been ejected from the Euros after three games and no shots on target (I exaggerate – we didn’t even have that many).

Ellsworth. That’s where I soon was. ‘Where is your accent from?’ asked the young guy who served me in a café for lunch. The place had a nice vibe. Lots of young people working on laptops. Reading. An older guy (cyclist) checked whether I needed a bed for the night. I slightly regretted not telling the young barista about my trip. He was excited even that I was Scottish. As I rode out of town, I was struck by how much God there was hereabouts. In all flavours. Nothing against God or religion. All (inclusive) beliefs welcome here. This was a question of volume. Variety:

The Church of Life and Praise

United Baptist Church

First Congregational Church

St Joseph Catholic Church

Unitarian Universalist Church

St Andrew Lutheran Church

St Dunstan’s Episcopal Church

Union Congregational Church

The Church of Jesus Christ of Latterday Saints

Assembly of God

Community of Christ

Church of the Nazarane

The Inclusive Church of Mediocre Banjo Players

Like, that’s a lot of flavours of God. How would one choose? At the local Church of Scotland where my parents took me when I was young (my Grandpa on Mum’s side had been a minister), there had been around 15 to 20 congregation members. All almost dead, and unable to sing, if the latter is at all relevant. How would they agree to share out their numbers? The Inclusive Church of Mediocre Banjo Players sadly closed its doors…

That evening I camped up, on the recommendation of a warmshowers host who wasn’t able to host me at last minute (fair enough), in the lesser visited reaches of Moose Point State Park, pitching my tent once the park rangers had headed home at sunset. The local fireflies celebrated this event with the most stunning display. Thank goodness I’d noticed them before heading to bed. The intense flashing light right above my head as I tried to drift off wouldn’t have been a pretty moment.

The next day, for the first time all trip, I finally nailed getting on the road before 8am, which I need to do if I’m to continue with the current mileages. Just to make everything more relaxed. I’d had high hopes for this day, not least interrupting my cycling with a short run up Mount Battie in Camden Hills state park on the recommendation of my US born poet friend Jonathan Skinner. Amazing views of the bay, he’d said. If  visibility had been more than 20 metres. If it hadn’t been already raining. Heavily. I wish I’d had more time to spend in Belfast, Maine, which struck me as a lively place, even at 8.15am on a Sunday morning (the warmshowers hosts I’d contacted for a bed there had all sounded really interesting. Alternative thinking). Camden, down the road, had also appealed. Renowned for a large artistic community. By the time I arrived there it was raining properly. I was soaked. Hungry. 22 miles in. Bacon, maple syrup, pancakes… Camden Deli’s breakfast menu called to me. But no! The waiter took down the breakfast menu as I locked up my bike and by the time I was indoors and ready to order they declined my breakfast request. It was 10.33am, and already lunchtime apparently. Their lunchtime sandwich was nice. Small. Their Americano coffee weak. I had three top ups on account of its weakness. Only fair. But by the time I headed outside, the rain was proper downpour. Bouncing off the road. Off car roofs. The road like a stream. A guy even backtracked in pity from walking along the pavement (sidewalk – see below) to ask me if I wanted a ride. I hate pity. Yet I did. No shame. If only he hadn’t been heading to Belfast, back the way I’d come.

The good thing about heavy rain is that it can’t continue like that forever. Surely. Within half an hour it had dried up enough to continue. Thus far I’d mainly followed Route 1 on the basis that it followed the coast – if only there hadn’t been a permanent forest curtain between me and said coast. So from Camden I decided to follow the Komoot app’s AI generated expertise along backroads further inland, before heading down to Boothbay and my host for that night, and it was so much more enjoyable. However, by the time I arrived I was already broken tired. Spike’s revenge had already begun. I excused myself from being sociable; my eyes were closing when I heard the ‘severe storms’ which had been forecast all day land. I love storms – when inside, dry, in a bed. I was way too tired to care.

My last day to Portland was by far the best. It’s amazing how much difference the weather, and quieter roads, can make to any bike trip. I’d never have made my way along these country backroads without the app (or a whole load of route-finding faff). The sun was shining. A woman shouted out of her truck window how amazing I was. I pretended to blush modestly while saying ‘get in’ under my breath. The café in Bath served a proper cappuccino and a chocolate croissant from an array of baked goods that made me dizzy. ‘Sorry, you’re going to have to give me a moment,’ I said to the staff member as I gathered myself. The zebra crossing was painted rainbow pride colours.

Onwards, south to Brunswick, where I dropped into Gulf of Maine bookshop, again on Jonathan’s recommendation, which had the most incredible poetry selection I’ve ever seen. I could have eaten it, but then I’d have weighed way too far to cycle any further, snd can you only imagine the linguistic constipation? It was great to meet and chat to Beth, and a shame to miss Gary (the poet of the two owners). ‘Cycle safe,’ Beth said as I made my way. Always. Always. Beyond Brunswick the landscape began to open out. At times, if it hadn’t been for the clapboard houses, I could have believed I was in the south of England. As I neared Portland, it was a lovely surprise not to have miles of concrete jungle to navigate on my way into town. Cycle paths. Rich houses. One bridge. Second bridge. Sidewalks. Town. City. I found a beer garden and had a beer, since that’s what you do. in a beer garden. More likely than gardening anyway… People were watching the Euros football. Italy scored at the last gasp and half the bar cheered and the other half held their heads in their hands. The USA was playing that same evening in the Copa America, but no one seemed to care.

And then to my Warmshowers host. I’m not going to stop eulogising about Warmshowers, and I’m going to have a huge debt to repay the cycling community when I get home. I enjoyed the most wonderful evening with Doug in his hip harbourside apartment, hanging out with his adorable Golden Retriever Slicker, sharing pizza and salads and the company of his two young local friends Ray and Monica. We talked bikes, travel, poiltics. I moaned about the Conservatives and the NHS. They asked me, ‘was I serious? Wasn’t I aware of the US system?’ Ray pressed me on what was different so far about the US. The scale of the landscape. Everything changes slower. The Americans see more open. Less cynical than us Brite. Words, and language. For sure. I asked a woman in the apartment block this morning where the ‘lift’ was. She’d been to the UK, so understood my search for the elevator. Sidewalks. Trash cans. Highways. My favourite – redemption centre for bottle bank, which fits well with one of my exes calling trips to the bottle bank ‘the walk of shame.’

‘Dear bottle bank, i have drunked again!’

‘Dear child thou must drink one Bloody Mary for each hangover thou has sufferedest, and thou shallt be redeemed.’

It has struck me that things surprised me less here than in Nova Scotia, perhaps because they had become to normalise. I almost mentioned how Nova Scotian cars had no front numberplates but Maine cars do. I edited myself – sometimes the things you enjoy on the road are best left there.

So I’ve enjoyed Maine-lining. It could become a ‘thing’. Although once again I wish I’d had more time for detours. I figure that everyone else who is cycling around the world right is found down one of the many peninsulas enjoying the coastal views having made better choices. But me? I’ve enjoyed my little dose of city. I’ve got 4kg of luggage ready to post home tomorrow, which should make things a little bit easier once I hit the hills that are a-coming – I left in such a hurried chaos that I was inevitably going to bring too much.

Somewhere, sometime, other people might be found working 9 to 5 and weekends and evenings for free. Or perhaps everybody is now on holiday. Did I tell you that I won a prize? Cool hey? All things being right, I reckon you deserve one too, however that looks. I reckon winning prizes should become a ‘thing’. Everyone deserves one. That. That’s the mainline.

Ps route map to follow. It’s bed time now!