They arose early the following morning to quickly finish off their path to the corner #1. First up was US Route 2.
Once they crossed the state line they were surprised by Route 2’s exceptionally poor conditions. Patchy periods of rain were of little concern. They were discomfited by the road’s numerous, multi-mile long stretches of unpaved and ungraded gravel surfaces. Frost heaves also added to their fun quotient. US 2’s paved surfaces held additional treats — the kind unseen by any of them during their combined 750,000 miles of lifetime riding.
They were repeatedly surprise-launched at 60 MPH off of their bike seats by mammoth steel road plates. These plates were unmarked by warning signs, hard to spot and were like hitting a log. They would still be in low earth orbit if not for the death grips they had on the handlebars.
They were in the belly of state’s spent timberlands. As they had seen earlier during the trip, these areas were accompanied by numerous signs of grinding rural poverty with small towns, businesses and homes gone to seed. Those that weren’t run down had hand painted “for sale by owner” signs tacked to them. Many signs showed their age by the faded and chipped nature of the painted lettering.
People didn’t seem able to afford to live in double wide mobile homes. They observed numerous instances where two differently colored and aged, 12-foot wide trailers were placed end to end. Vivid is the memory of a family of four sitting on the front porch of a dilapidated shack that couldn’t have been larger than 20 by 20.
Numerous unshaven, disheveled and unkempt men were seen trudging along the Route 2 roadside. Many were graying, long haired and wild eyed. It was weird to behold these midday zombies. UNABOMBER weird.
Premium gas was seemingly no longer available. Gas station operators apologetically explained that even luxury car owners could no longer afford gas at prices of $4.59 and up per gallon.
After midday, they found their way onto state route 11.
The destructive wake of the collapse of the logging and lumber mill industry was total and long lasting. It could still be seen 200 years after the area was first sawmilled.
There seemed little regard for the land and its soil. From the looks of the disfigured landscape, inhabitants could as well as been plunderers. They lived by the different ethos of lumbering, cutting the forests wherever they pleased, leaving little of the soil.
Consequently, those who followed could only subsistence farm. The rough life left them intemperate and very poor
Despite being the primary road for the remaining northern logging industry in the state, Route 11 was sublime. The skies were full of clouds reminiscent from the opening scene skies of The Simpsons TV series.
Their bikes gobbled up the gentle landscape rises, while they enjoyed the vistas and whooped as they rollercoastered down these hills’ northerly faces. For many miles they were the only travelers on the road. Only occasionally did they temporarily pick up a local car or two as they passed through quaint little towns with their token white churches.
From Route 11 they jumped onto US 1 into Madawaska. Route 1 curves right along the St. John’s River with the picturesque green hills of Canada just beyond on the far left side. They set about finding and photographing themselves at the northern terminus of US 1 in Fort Kent and the official marker for the Madawaska corner of the trip.
Corner #1 was done.
They are the riders
And they ride and they ride
They ride the country’s backside
They see the stars come out at night
They’re bright in a asphalt black sky
The countryside looks so good at night
Oh, the riders
They ride and they ride
They see things under blue skies
They look through goggled eyes
Over back country there’s a rip in the sky
They’ll ride through the hole tomorrow
See the country’s decayed backsides
They’ll see the winding river valley drive
They’ll see the country’s ripped backsides
They see the things they know are going
They see it under bright and dark skies
They see the country asleep at night
They see the stars are out at night
And all of this is theirs
And all of this is theirs
Oh, they ride and ride and ride and ride
– Marlow journal entry
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