A MAD DASH TO THE EDGE OF AMERICA

Words by Ben Giese | Photography by John Ryan Hebert

The plan was to zigzag our way to the great Atlantic coast of Maine, then turn south along the quiet shores of New Hampshire and Massachusetts to our final destination in Boston. 

Within the first few miles we passed by some old farmhouses decorated with pumpkins and Halloween skeletons, and it was just the kind of October scene I had always imagined. I’ve dreamt of a motorcycle trip like this for many years now, and my long-lost fantasy to experience fall in the Northeast was finally happening. We were officially on our way, off into the autumn wonderland on two brand-new Royal Enfield Continental GTs, with all the miles ahead and all the things to see. I could hardly wait, and having my brother here with me just made the trip that much more special. 

We’ve been riding together as long as I can remember, but we’ve never taken an adventure quite like this. And now that we’ve become adults living in different cities across this great big country, these opportunities and this time together feels a lot more meaningful. 

Dusk began to creep in and the gray skies darkened as we passed through some dreary little East Coast towns. Dim lights illuminated the sleepy streets, and sad old homes with chipped paint were tucked away in the trees, hidden in the hills and forgotten to the world. These lonely towns radiate a kind of sadness, but not the depressing kind you might imagine. It’s more of a beautiful and poetic sadness, with a palpable sense of nostalgia that can only be found in these older parts of America. 

Darkness came quickly and the freezing rain followed, so it was time to seek some food and shelter to warm our bones. We shivered into a cozy restaurant in an old brick building and laughed with joy at our newfound comfort, celebrating with a feast of smoked brisket and delicious local microbrews. Our shelter for the evening was just down the road in a cabin in the woods, where we lost our minds in a swirl of music, laughter and card games late into the night before falling asleep on a dusty couch to the soothing sound of rain on the old metal roof. 

The dark clouds followed us that next morning, and we prepped for a cold and wet day ahead, but the gods of New England were kind and we managed to stay dry the entire ride. We were blown away by the beauty and charm of rural Vermont, so we took the longest way possible to Portland. We followed the backroads south, and then north, slowly creeping toward our destination in the east. We stopped frequently to take in the sights, but never for too long. We had to keep moving. There was too much to do, too much to see, too far to go, and we wanted it all. So we just kept going and stopping and going in a frenzy of excitement for the road ahead. 

The hours melted away with the greenest rolling hills we’d ever seen, and we lost all sense of time and direction wandering the canopied forest as amber leaves rained down on us from the heavens. There were classic old trucks parked in front of big red barns, and little shops in small towns selling Vermont maple syrup. We were surely behind schedule to make Portland by dusk, but it didn’t really matter. There was a fairytale happening all around us, and we never wanted it to end. 

New Hampshire blessed us with more beauty as the sun was getting low and pastel cotton candy clouds gleamed off the endless glassy lakes surrounding us. By this point, we started picking up the pace to make up for lost time, making it to the border of Maine just after dark. We crossed the entire state in blackness, like ships in the night through a daze of darkness and delusion. 

I could see the lights of cottages flashing by in the woods, and I could smell fireplaces and cooking coming from inside. I imagined families at home, resting in their islands of comfort and warmth, with no sense of the crazed riders outside on a mad dash into the cold black abyss. Ghosts from the West, invisible to the world, sailing east through the haunted October trees of Maine.

We never saw the sun in Portland because our madness for the road ahead was pulling us forward to something more spectacular. And as we crested one final hill, the great Atlantic Ocean revealed itself, reflecting the deep-blue early-morning glow of a sun yet to rise. We made it to the end of the earth, 2,000 miles from home at the edge of the American continent, just in time to watch a new day begin. The world was still asleep as we stood on a cliff near the historic Portland Head Lighthouse. Waves crashed on the rocks below, and the sun slowly rose from behind the horizon, and all those crazy miles behind us were well worth the view.

It would be a much more mellow and relaxing day on the coast of Maine. We could finally shed some layers as the temps warmed up and a salty ocean breeze lulled us along the shore through dreamy beachside communities and quaint fishing villages. We made a few detours to check out some lighthouses along the way, and of course we had to try some lobster rolls for lunch, because that’s what you do in Maine. 

When we finally reached the North Shore of Boston, we got tied up in the mania of rush hour traffic, with all the people coming and going, to and from the business of their lives. The defeated faces of Boston workers trying to get home on a Wednesday evening told the story of broken dreams and the search for cheese in a rat race that never ends. I felt badly for those people, and as the sun went down over the Massachusetts Bay, I contemplated how lucky we are to be here. To have this unforgettable experience with my brother, and to escape that mad way of living for a few days. And when I stop to think about the whole point of this whirlwind adventure, I realize there never really was one to begin with. It was simply about seeing a new place. Smelling it and tasting it and experiencing it for all that it is. 

I used to sit and wonder what autumn in the Northeast might be like, but now I can dream about those rolling hills of Vermont and the wise old lighthouses on the coast of Maine. The trees and the farms, the glassy lakes and salty ocean breeze, the briskets and beers, and the sad towns and dark nights. I’ll remember all the little roads between, and all the things we saw along the way. Like ghosts of New England, invisible to the world, passing through for one moment and gone the next. Eyes fixed on the road ahead. The only road we’ve ever known.