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Bike Touring Journals by Neil Anderson and Sharon Anderson

Partners in Grime

Partners in Grime

Kissing Bridge

"Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
And I'll not look for wine."
~ Benjamin Jonson, Song to Celia

Somewhere after Saint Johnsbury, we were cycling merrily along when we bumped into a bicycles prohibited sign. We stopped. We pondered the sign, wondering what best to do. While pondering, we watched in shock and horror as a slate grey van careered down the four lane highway - speeding the wrong way.

"He must have had the grey matter removal operation," Sharon mused, shaking her head as the vehicle disappeared over a rise in the road.

We had little choice but to pedal on the out-of-bounds road - one eye on the lookout for patrol cars and the other watching for misdirected vans. In a short distance, a small road shunted us off the forbidden highway to North Danville and then past Joe's Pond. Our new route proved hilly, but traffic was sparse. Sleepers River slumbered on our right, walking over rocks. Tree branches swayed in the breeze, applauding our efforts. Best of all, no vans plied our scenic course.

Six kilometres past Hardwick (home of America's studs?), we came upon the old Fischer railway bridge. "This must be one of the last remaining covered wooden railroad bridges in America," I said. Built back in 1908 when coal was king, a high open-sided cupola allowed smoke to escape. The bridge spanned lazy Lamoille River. I traipsed across. Hazardous gaps - wide enough for a horse to fall through - threatened to plunge me into the sluggish river gurgling 20 feet below.

Upon returning to my starting point, we followed along the Lamoille River to Waterville. The town, rich in history, boasted three covered bridges.

Sharon and my favourite was Kissing Bridge. We kissed, of course, then rode onto the one-lane bridge. When we were halfway across, a car approached from the opposite end at high speed. The driver spotted us at the last minute, and slammed on his brakes, laying down a lengthy patch of black rubber on the bridge's wooden deck.

"Hmmm," Sharon said, reconsidering. "I have another theory as to the bridge's name. Cars don't see each other until it's too late, and then they kiss together in the middle."

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