So first and foremost let me just say for the record that I am neither a whoo-er nor a swinger.  When Mr. Moose planned this motorcycle trip to Maine, we’d intended to go with another couple and we’d intended for each couple to have separate hotel rooms each night.  But then L. couldn’t go, and Mr. Moose is a novice at the whole trip planning thing and next thing you know – Voila! – it’s me and two hairy biker dudes sharing hotel rooms from here to Maine and back. 

Shit.  I just reread that first paragraph and it appears that I might just be a whoo-er.  Damn. 

Friday, June 26, 2009:

Motorcyle road trips always sound  fun, but then there’s the cruel reality of  “OWW!!  My ass is freakin’ KILLING me!”.  I whined – a lot.  All the way from Frostburgg, ??  to Conway, N.H. as a matter of fact.  I whined about my helmet being too tight, about my insides being pounded and liquefied on the ridiculously pot-holed roads, about having to go to the bathroom, and about the tragic and untimely death of Jacko. Somehow Mr. Moose exercised restraint and did not bodily eject me from the bike. But only, I think,  because our full face helmets prevented him from actually hearing 90% of my grumblings.  Lucky bastard. He should just imagine how I felt, trapped in that ill fitting helmet with no chance of escape, just listening to a crazy woman bitching and moaning for 400 miles.  It was not pleasant, people. 

I didn’t whine ALL the time, though, because the amazing scenery often distracted me.  We rode 400 miles on some of the prettiest roads imaginable. We went through the Adirondack Mountains in New York State, through the Green Mountains of Vermont and into the White Mountain National Forest in New Hampshire.  We spent a lot of time on the Kancamagus, too. And while “kancamagus” might sound like a skin disease peculiar to marsupials, it is actually a fantastic road for motorcycles – twisty and turny and gorgeous.  There were mountain ranges and forests and rivers and pristine lakes, rivers and water falls around every curve.  Good stuff.

We saw lots of other bikers on the roads, but mostly they were the kind that rode that silly sort of “bike”  – the “bikes” without engines.  We easily and effortlessly outperformed those losers.  Silly, silly “bikers” – they buy all these crazy accessories for their machines but never give them the one thing they need most – a four cylinder 1000 cc Kawasaki.

Once in New Hampshire we saw plenty of moose signs but no actual moose. This was disappointing, but it was only Day One so I decided to not add “lack of moose” to my litany of complaints.  There are other cool signs in New Hampshire, as well, and they say, “Live Free or Die”.  Is that not the best state motto EVER?  It makes me want to go right out, burn my Social Security card and move to Montana with a shackful of M16s.  “Live Free or Die” is printed on every NH license plate, replacing the earlier state motto of “Scenic”.  “SCENIC”????  I’m thinking some monumental sort of coup must have occurred in N.H. to change a peoples’ mindset from the pussified “Scenic” to the aggressive “Live Free or Die”.     

At any rate, there is no helmet law in New Hampshire so for ten blissful miles or so Mr. Moose and I went crazy.  After discovering that “The Muddy Moose” was filled beyond capacity, we rode sans helmet to a Subway and then to a liquor store to pick up dinner. We ate $5 footlongs and drank Mike’s Hard Berry while gazing at the mountains, and if that sounds at all dirty to you it’s just because you’re paying attention.

If there is no mention of running in this here post, it’s only because I didn’t actually run.  At all.  Not even a step.  But I do run on Day Two, so please don’t give up on me yet.

Tune in next time: Bah Hahbah, ME, lobster bibs and four masted schooners.   (And a leetle bit of half assed running, too.)