I realize, Eleven Faithful Readers, that this travel account is not nearly as exciting or as interesting as the one I shared following our trip to Rome.  I’ve no pictures of the Circus Maximus, and no exuberant gelato reviews. But too freakin’ bad, because the economy is in shambles and Maine is about as exotic as it gets for us nowadays.  Just consider yourselves lucky we didn’t decide to go to Delaware.  

Saturday, June 27, 2009:

 I woke up bright and early on Day Two to go for a run.  Ever run in Conway, New Hampshire?  It’s a great town – very runner friendly.  They have a whole lane devoted to us runners.  Or maybe that lane was meant for those silly “bikers”, the ones who ride those pitiful little machines without engines. Either way, I claimed it as my own and ran five miles. 

I’d hoped to score some continental breakfast once back at the hotel, but it was not to be.  WTF, Schoolhouse Motel of Conway, N.H.?  Can I not has muffins and fruit?  We were afraid to ask, thinking they’d just respond with, “Live free without breakfast or DIE!!!”  so we hit the road. 

We rode for 200 miles before reaching our destination of Bar Harbor, Maine. TWO HUNDRED MILES, people!!   On already-sore hienies.  It takes a long time to cover 200 miles on bike, so I amused myself in the following ways:

• punching Mr. Moose in the arm for every VW Beetle and PT Cruiser I saw.
• whining and pouting when Mr. Moose got me first.
• boisterously singing my ZYX’s into my helmet.
• fantasizing about the lobster I’d soon consume.
• adjusting my seating position to make the most of the vibrations. 
• mentally writing this blog post.  (I know, I know – you’d think it would be better written, given that I’ve spent so much time on it.  But I can not has much writerly skillz.)

Once in Bar Harbor, Mr. Moose and I were insufferable.  Have I mentioned that we went to Maine via motorcycle on our honeymoon almost 21 years ago?  Well, we did, and so poor D. had to feign interest as we pointed out EVERYTHING we remembered.  We began all conversations with, “Twenty-one years ago on our honeymoon we…”  We got more than our fair share of funny looks from passersby, and I finally figured out that people might be thinking that “OUR” and “WE” meant Mr. Moose, me and D.  Which would make me a skanky, nasty polyandrist - which is a bad, bad thing to be.  Right?  RIGHT?? Um, uh…right. Yeah…

        

  I swear that I’m only married to one of these men. HINT: He’s the one covered in tomalley.

 

Bar Harbor was cool.  We visited a neat whale museum, and then ate $15.95 lobster dinners.  Mr. Moose gave me his lobster claw, because I love them so much and he is very good to me. I gave him my coleslaw because I hate it so much and he is very good to me.  We all wore lobster bibs, which made us look like real jackoffs, but somehow Mr. Moose still managed to befoul himself with butter and tomalley. This shirt befouling became a recurring theme, as Mr. Moose spilled all manner of food on himself for the remaining days.  And yes, it was the same shirt because – hello? – one has little regard for hygiene whilst on a motorcycle road trip.  Besides, a certain amount of bodily funk and tomalley stain is a good thing.  It keep those nasty polyandrists away.

 

I forgive him the bunny ears only because I’m still

digesting his lobster claw.  No, his actual lobster claw!

NOT a euphamism for fellatio, I swear.

 

After dinner, we took a cruise on a 151′ four masted schooner called the Margaret Todd. We saw a few porpoises, but little else because it was really, really foggy.  There were two dogs on board and I didn’t even fear them, as they were that benign sort of RugDog that rarely attacks. 

Margaret Todd. 

  Tune in next time when we become one with a cloud in Acadia National Park.