An exploration of friendship and nature along Vermont’s Scenic Byway.
On a map, Route 100 becomes Route 105 just six kilometres south of Lake Memphremagog in northern Vermont. But it’s the same road, just the signs change. So, pardon me if I begin my journey at one of my favourite hangouts: the Newport marina on the south shore of the lake just a bit south of the Canadian border, in case someone has an issue with my not riding the entire 355 km of asphalt that stretches down the entire length of Vermont.
With my Wingman of the Road strapped to the luggage rack on the back of my Triumph Bonneville, I passed the Rt. 105/Rt. 100 sign and rode south just as the sun peeked over low verdant hills to the east. The trees still had that bright green foliage of spring.
Ahead, Jay Peak, with traces of snow still covering stretches of the ski trails, rose out of the southwest marking the northern terminus of the spine of the Green Mountains. The air was sour; farmers were spraying the fields that extend away from either shoulder with fresh manure.
TYPICAL VERMONT
No cracks, potholes, or frost heaves to watch out for, which permitted me to enjoy the view from my bike of unassuming clapboard houses, some with three-storey barns that loomed commandingly over the human domiciles (as they should, as the dairy cows that sprinkle the fields still take priority over much else here), shabby trailers, yards cluttered with cars and farm equipment, white churches, and tired general stores. This is northern Vermont, where real Vermonters still live.
In Troy, I paused for a while at the Troy General Store for a breakfast burrito and coffee. As I sat on the bench outside basking in the warm sun, my bike attracted a gaggle of admirers, mostly men, though now and again a woman gives the airbrushed “Forever Young” on my fender a double take. I was reminded of being in college and walking across the quad with my English setter, Strauss. Strauss was the best wing man I have ever had. If I was single, the Triumph would do about as well.
BEING IN THE MOVIE
I might be exaggerating a tad, but the difference between driving a car and riding a motorcycle is like watching a movie versus being in the movie. Case in point: in Lowell I passed by a pair of red dumpsters just off the road where I spotted a bulky black shape that was out of place. I pulled over onto the shoulder, just 10 metres from the dumpsters and the black blob.
The black blob stood up and revealed itself to be a black bear, about two metres tall. I straddled the bike, unzipped my jacket, and took out my camera from an interior pocket. I’ve seen bears run; I know that the bear…
