Day 8 : Saco, ME to Madawaska, ME

354 miles

It rained all night, and it promises to rain most of the day. I jerry-rig my derailleur to lock into a middle gear, and set off towards Portland. The shop is nice, the staff are friendly, and the fix is quick. I have 354 miles to the finish from my hotel. The ending of this ride seems to be a foregone conclusion. I will ride all day, through the night, and finish in the early morning. I seem predestine to finish the next morning. All the excitement has been taken away from the ride. Riding 560 miles through the night in the rain while being severely sleep deprived was a huge unknown, an immense challenge. 354 miles feels routine and guaranteed. Not easy, but guaranteed, yes. 

I still find joy in the ride. Maine is a wonderful place to ride, especially when the rain stops in the afternoon. I stop outside of Augusta for some food. In the parking lot a motorcyclist is smoking and talking on the phone. His conversation is crass and harsh. I don’t mean to eavesdrop, but he is talking very loudly right next to me as I sit on a pallet of firewood and eat my gas station pizza. As he leaves he throws his cigarette on the ground, even though there is an ashtray just a couple of feet away.

“You dropped something, sir”

I let him look around in confusion for a couple of seconds before clarifying.

“Your cigarette, sir.”

“Oh no, I threw that down.” he replies. I’m almost taken aback by how brash he is. He sees absolutely nothing wrong with what he did.

“Yes, there is an ashtray right there.”

“It’s not hurting anything.”

“Well, there is plastic in the filter, so it is hurting things, and it’s unsightly.” I gesture to the other cigarette butts that litter the ground. 

“There is not plastic in that bitch, what the fuck are you smoking?” He continues berating me and mocking me. I just stand up and pick up his cigarette, and throw it away, silently looking at him straight in the eyes.

“If I see you on the road you better run boy because I’ll fucking run you over.” I smile at him becuase I know he is full of shit.

“Have a wonderful day sir.”

He leaves.

I pedal on, but keep my ear alert for the sound of a Harley engine. 

Bangor passes by uneventfully. The clouds begin to part, gifting me a wonderful sunset. Riding into the evening cements my feeling of inevitability. 

The sun sets at 7:00pm without the promise of return until 6:30am. I’ve ridden through the night many times, but this is the longest night I’ve had to contend with. The moon is full though, helping me understand the world around me better than I would have without it. But my mind is still sleep deprived from the last week of riding. The eight hours of sleep I got last night do little to ease the hallucinations that begin to crop up as I ride into the shadows. I see a moose, but I can’t be sure, because my mind transforms every inanimate shadow and tree stump into a little critters and ghostly figures. I go four hours without seeing a single car. Easily the longest distance I have ever ridden on a road without seeing another vehicle. I have to stop multiple times to go to the bathroom in the woods. Something I ate does not sit well in my stomach. Luckily I took an half a roll of toilet paper from a gas station in preparation for this.

I only have 100 miles to go when I stop in Houlton for a caffeine re-up. It’s warm inside of the gas station, so the 48 degree air bites when I step back outside. The wind slices through my moist arm warmers–none of my gear fully dried from the rain. 

First light works its way over the horizon at 5:30. It isn’t until the sun itself climbs over the horizon that my body is flooded with cortisol, snapping me out of my sleepy haze. The land is beautiful. The Aroostook and St. John Rivers meander across the landscape, piping low-lying fog across the ebbs of melancholy hills. With only 50 miles to go, I stop in Caribou, Maine. I could easily finish the ride without stopping, but I don’t care if my final time is 15 minutes slower. I’d rather give my achilles a break and have a nice cup of hot coffee while I watch the sun rise. I have a final climb, then I drop down to the St. John River. The other side of the river is Canada. The architecture there looks much prettier. My Achilles screams at me to stop. If this route were another 100 miles, I would have had to stop overnight to let my Achilles to recover a bit. As it is, I tell my Achilles to shut up, and push on to the finish. I roll into Madawaska at 9:20 am on September 8th, 8 days, 5 hours, 56 minutes, and 17 seconds after I left Key West, Florida. 

“Done” I text my father. 

And just like that I have another world record. But it doesn’t feel like anything has happened. I lay down in the grass and let the sun bathe me in its warmth. My Achilles is happy I’m done. I don’t feel many emotions. I’m mostly frustrated, but also resigned to my time. I get a motorcyclist to snap a picture of me, then I move on to a Tim Horton’s where I drink coffee for a couple of hours before I can check into a cheap motel.