New Hamp Hump

I'd been in Bristol for twelve days. We've been studying Phoenix Rising Yoga Therapy, stress the therapy part over the yoga part. As amazing as it is, half of our training is receiving the technique from someone else in the workshop. So, basically, I've gone through two therapy sessions a day, for twelve days. I've no therapy experience whatsoever, and this is more therapy than the majority of human beings get in their lifetime. All this poking and prodding had left me fried, both physically and emotionally.

So with three days off I decided to roam. Through a sheer accident of serendipity, my brother Eric was camped out twenty minutes south of Bristol. He coaches a cross country team in Indiana, and was driving the boys around the Northeast in a Winnebago , camping and running. I hung out with them for a mosquito-filled night and morning. Then I pushed on east.

Through the Green Mountains along the Middlebury Gap. Incredible rivers butt their white heads into boulders. Trees like pine cones, trees like bristles. I startle a young moose on the road. He doesn't seem to know which way to go and lingers on an apparently well-used deer trail, looking back at me. He seems nervous and mama must be nearby. I get back in my car and point it east again. Stalking rivers through wild and calm, over high iron bridges, measuring their limbs. Vermont magic ends. Crossing into New Hampshire, I remember that I'm in the States. The road cuts through forest in a broad swathe, leading to quaint villages and small terminal cities, in both senses of the word. The downtowns appear to be rotting, the empty shops lining both sides of the main street. The remaining shops try to catch up with the outside world, for better or worse. One restaurant has Korean, Japanese, AND Thai food. Just outside the city limits I see the stripmalls and fast food chains. Walmart may as well be holding a smoking gun. Ironically, I'm currently traveling the Daniel Webster Highway, but it appears that in this version, the Devil wins.

I move through a maze of tall trees which hide perspective. The low clouds and creepy vibe of CocoRosie on the CD further enhances the telescope effect. I'm hungry and looking for a small mom and pop place, but all I see is pizza joints. Pizza is my favorite food, so the amazing exclusion of anything else feels like something from a Buddhist parable. Pizza Karma. Make me one with everything.

I ride on, cruising the New Hampshire mountain tops, past hillsides awash in rape and lavender, past lakes of impossible blue. The road straightens out alongside Lake Winnipesaukee . The view is magnificent. This massive body of water is punctuated with small islands, each dotted with small cottages. I think "Matsushima Ya," but ya's pronunciation is closer to Stephen King than to Basho. I'm looking for a place to eat on the water, but the few that appear are more bar-types, and each has dozens of motorcyles in their lots. I'd noticed the "biker's welcome" signs in front of many restaurants and motels, and probably passed a few hundred hogs along this stretch. There is obviously a Run happening this week here. It's not that they intimidate me as much as I'm practicing simple martial arts-inspired avoidence of potential hot spots. Entering a den of drunk rowdy bikers doesn't make for a mellow break from the road. The number of bikes is incredible and the majority are the big beautiful American make. Lots of polished chrome--if the sun were out the glare would be intense. Choppers still trump all and turn the heads of all the other riders. I'm flanked by bikers for a couple hours. The low "gata gata gata gata" rumble is like the presence of a small insect; not annoying, just present. By Maine they'll be gone.

I'd never been to Maine before and had looked forward to this part of the trip. Somehow, I missed the sign marking the border, and immediately became lost. I knew the road on which I travelled lead north, but I rode on, trusting fate to lead me somewhere interesting. The road narrowed, the trees hemmed in, the forest darkened. I followed this grey line until the trees stopped.

That place is Ogunquit, in a gorgeous Victorian B&B called the Yellow Monkey, a place chosen for the name's ironic value. About an hour after checking in, I notice that most of the others staying here are young, handsome, and male. I quickly realize that I've accidently picked a place which lodges these "confirmed bachelors." I'd forgotten that there is a large gay community here, and the gentle care in which the kind owner checked me in should have been a hint. And the way he mentioned that the jacuzzi was clothing optional...
I read awhile on the balcony, then go up the road for the lobster I'd long looked forward to. But I don't remember how to eat one. I tear in the way the Japanese eat crab, tearing and sucking, horrifying the neighboring tables and my server. Blame the wine...


On the turntable: Rusted Root, "When I Woke"