The Coolest 83 year-olds You'll Ever Meet and Other Teenage Stories.

The roads of New Hampshire were empty like Connecticut's. We rolled up and down hills in a canopy of trees, popping out for an adorable village every now and then.

 Brant had called Peter White Cycles earlier that week to schedule an appointment to talk about the malfunctions we were having with "the Plugs" we had purchased from him. So instead of heading northeast towards Portland, ME, we headed northwest to Hillsborough, NH, where his shop is located.

We got to Peter's around 7 pm, just as the sun was about to set. We had not asked if we could sleep in his yard, so Brant and I had a small argument about whether we should just find a place to sleep in the woods instead of assuming that this guy we have to meet in the morning is just going to let us sleep on his property. I felt it was presumptuous. Brant went ahead and asked. Good thing too, because Peter and his wife Linda unreservedly welcomed us to sleep in their yard.

The next morning, as we made our breakfast and drank our coffee, we gawked at the most beautiful bike shop we have ever seen, set in the woods, and in beautiful craftsman wooden barns, Peter White Cycles is a pretty place, not to mention full of uber pretty things. 

Peter came out in the morning explaining that he only had one hour before he was off to the airport to attend a bicycle show in Germany. Brant explained our issues with The Plug (The USB connector powered by our dynamo hubs). And Peter quickly expressed that he knew nearly nothing about the device, but had never received any complaints about them. He promised to ask the manufacturer on his trip to Germany about the issue. And Peter was gone.

We packed up, not exactly knowing where we were headed next. I think we had envisioned spending more time at the shop, actually resolving the issue. Instead, we left for Dunkin Donuts, the only place in Hillsborough with WiFi. So Brant started mapping us toward Portland, ME, until I expressed that Caroline (our Portland friend) wasn't available to host till Friday (four days away). So we sat there, lost for the first time. Dunkin Donuts wasn't helping either, the McDonald's of coffee makes Starbucks look cool. And I think we left more depressed than when we arrived. With directions to Maine we left  DD, confused as to how we would stall ourselves till Friday. The day was getting away from us, so with only 20 miles of riding done, we began to look for water and a place to camp. We pulled over, and I began to look for some Warm Shower's hosts to pedal towards the following day. In doing so, we found the best Warm Shower's host profile I have ever seen:

Don and Barbara Carey:
Active,vegetarian 80 year-olds in a 1788 hilltop farmhouse. Lived for 14 years in India and     West Africa. Have bicycled in Zimbabwe, Eritrea, Ethiopia, Mali, Togo, Benin. Also C2C     1984. Members NE 4000-footers club. Erie Canal at Medicare pace Sept. 2009.

No Joke.

I said to Brant, "We have to try and stay with these people." With that, I dialed their phone number. It rang and rang till their message machine told me to leave my name and number because they screen all of their calls. Before I could finish explaining who we were, Don picked up the phone. After hearing we were calling from Warm Showers he was full of questions about our trip, so full of questions he forgot to ask us logistics of when we would be arriving. I could hear his wife, Barbara, asking in the background, "Don, you can ask them about the size of their tires later. When are they coming?"

We would arrive the following day in the late afternoon.

With a goal ahead of us, we found a gas station to fill up our water reservoirs in Contoocook, NH. When we asked an interested local about a good place to camp, he said, "I have 300 acres if you'd like to camp on my property?" We were super thankful as he ushered us two miles away to his land. John pointed us to the old "Sugar Shack" as a good place to camp. We met the other family members that live on the property, primarily his nephew and his family--who were super welcoming and kind. We were warned that a bear had been roaming around the property early that day. And sure enough, as we were setting up our tent, a black bear cub fumbled just past the sugar shack! We spent some time with the family after setting up tent, admiring their seven year old daughter's skills on a quad track.

3 hours in to our sleep we were awoken by a bear trying to get into the barricaded sugar shack, guarding our food. After that we didn't sleep too well.

The next day we made our way to Don and Barbara's. After climbing the many hills  in between us and Gilford, we arrived at their hilltop farmhouse overlooking Lake Winnipesaukee and the White Mountains that lead to Vermont.

We were greeted by a thriving oasis. Don ran out to check out our rigs and to welcome us inside. From this moment till the time we left the Carey household, Brant and I were wide eyed and full of amazement. The old farmhouse was bustling with music and family members from many generations. Barbara was teaching their great nephew, Peel, who had come to live with them from California, how to make pear jam from their abundant pear tree. I noticed her batik flowy purple pants and I knew I was going to love this woman. She reminded me of our old landlord Sara McEre; I still think they would be friends.

We spent two full days at the Carey house. Meals were beautiful vegetarian feasts, and we always had a full table. Their old lovely house was covered in African and Indian art reflecting their many travels.  Both Brant and I, after listening to the many stories of their very full life together, felt entirely inspired. Don worked as a physician in India for many years researching viruses; he also served as a physician in the Peace Corps in Western Africa; for their 70th birthdays they ran the New York City Marathon; they biked across the country in their sixties; and just a week ago, they set out to cycle the Danube river from Munich to Budapest with one of their daughters. All in all, they are prime examples of people who have pursued life with a fervor, and continue to do so everyday. (Don went on a four mile run in the morning while we were there…most people can't run four miles, let alone 83 year olds!)

We got quite a bit of writing and work done while at the Carey's house. I sat in a wicker chair on their red wooden porch overlooking the lake and the mountains, sipping coffee and writing you all, while also purchasing travel insurance and other impending necessities. We connected with our friend in Portland, Caroline, and she confirmed that she had an extra room waiting for us on Friday. She also pushed for us to think about  cycling to midcoast Maine to meet and stay with her parents in their Belfast farmhouse. She said they host cyclists all the time, let alone friends of their daughter.

We got ready to leave and said sad goodbyes to our fabulous hosts. We tried to express how wonderful and inspiring they were to us, but I don't think we conveyed just how much we loved them. We pedaled down their great hill and wound around the incredible, clearest blue Lake Winnipesaukee. With only 55 miles to go that day, we vowed to stop if we found a public beach. And we sure did. We had to pay five bucks each, but this lake was better than any swimming pool we had paid for, so we felt it was entirely worth the money. The sun drenched this picturesque spot, and Brant and I swam and opened our eyes underwater just to relish in the magic of clear water. We ate lunch and read our books on beach towels. Before long we were back on our bikes, headed for the New Hampshire/Maine border.

If you, like me, imagined all of Maine to be quaint little fishing villages, Sanford would have destroyed this image. Just like when you tell someone you're from California who has never been to California, they always seem to ask, "Do you surf?" No, California isn't a giant beach town with perfect barrels rolling to your doorstep. In the same light,  Maine's culture changes drastically away from the coast. And Sanford is no place anyone wants to visit.

As we made our way through town, we began to look for a good spot to camp. We got a little antsy and camped at what we though looked as good as it was gonna get: a vacant lot for sale. We pedaled down the dirt driveway to find a circular dirt clearing, the kind high school kids do donuts in. There were remnants of old bonfires, but they looked old enough that we didn't think we would be bothered by anyone on this random Thursday night.

We made a fire and set up camp. It was the second campfire for our trip and a good fire always makes camping feel like real camping. So we enjoyed our standard burritos around the glow of a flame. After reading books till the sun went down, we fell fast asleep.

Around 11pm three cars full of local teens pulled in to our little getaway, and we quickly realized that our camp spot was the parking lot for high school "woodsy" parties. Yay. When our tent didn't scare anyone away, all hopes of good sleep left us. In my sleepy state I was like, "Hey, we're in a tent over here" (good one). Some girl said, "Sorry, we'll be quiet" (sure). They laughed and giggled and made way to their pre planned drinking spot. About twenty minutes later, two other cars pulled up. Confused by the tent, one kid thought we were one of his friends and came over to shake it; he was a little startled and apologetic when he realized we were not his peers. Also, randomly, they all thought we owned the property, and kept saying "shhh, those people live here." No, if we actually lived here we would have told ya'll to leave, but we don't belong here just as much as you don't belong here…

So the two new cars full of guys brought back some flashy lights to the woodsy and started screaming, "It's the Police." They ran back out and took off before the rest of the crew came running out of the woods, freaking out that the cops were after them. Then Brant and I got to listen to 16 year old girls frantically make phone calls for someone to pick them up. "I don't know where I am, but I just want out of here."

To top it off, one of the girls lost her keys while running from the "cops." So then the big dilemma became how they were going to get everyone home. Eventually, after Brant  got really fed up, he walked over to the poor teens and said, "Can you please take your drama somewhere else." They left, leaving one car behind.

We woke up in the morning, a little unrested, but laughing over the whole extravaganza.  We got on the road with only a few miles before the trailhead to the part of the East Coast Greenway that would take us all the way to Portland. Only a mile down the road we found approximately eight perfect places to camp. C'est la vie.

The greenway was awesome and took us over spanning estuaries and through miles of woods, before dropping us off in South Portland. We crossed the bridge into Portland and immediately began to love her, a miniature San Francisco: a peninsula city full of cafes and renowned restaurants, surrounded by boats, but with cobblestone streets and colonial charm.