It's 7:21pm and I'm sitting on a small rock wall in a beautifully manicured hillside park overlooking the water. The view is of small fishing boats, small islands, someone's yacht, a setting sun. I got here a couple hours ago. The park is full of people, the town is full of people. There's a guy playing mandolin. He's a handsome young guy with a beard who looks like he might have fallen asleep in the sun a few times. His voice is great, he's doing a fine job playing old style tunes I've never heard. I'm sitting on this wall with my shoes off and my socks laying beside my shoes which are airing out next to me. I've had the same shirt on for a few days and it has big rings of salt across the front from all my sweat. I'm still wearing awesome shorts. I'm drinking whisky and Coke out of a soda bottle, pulling chunks off of a plain bagel and eating them. I'm having a little personal moment here. One of those moments where you're thinking about how perfect everything is. The mandolin guy starts playing a song with lyrics giving a reason why you can't love each number, starting at one and getting up to nine. At about four, I walk over and give him a buck and stand near by so I can hear better. I get a refill and put my shoes on and sit closer. He starts playing a song about a fuckin' hen that won't lay eggs, and at this point I start to love him. Busting out the song about the fuckin' hen right in the park with old ladies and children, and it didn't sound one bit obscene.
The sun went down and my plan for the night was already set in motion. Phase one was getting drunk in the park and watching the sun go down. Now I was in phase two. Sit in the park as long as possible and maybe ride to the edge of town if I got really tired, or maybe stay up all night and sleep in the park tomorrow. I wasn't planning to ride the next day. Rest day. Tired legs, feeling the muscle-heat on hills. Bar Harbor is a nice place to stop.
I was sitting on that bench in phase two when a young couple sat on the next bench over and asked if I had a line on some marijuana. I told them I wished I did, but no. They said they just got married. I congratulated them and told them I was drunk and I just rode into town on a bicycle a few hours earlier. They asked if I wanted to stay at their cabin. I gave the mandolin guy a fuckin' 20, because I felt too blessed and drunk to keep it to myself.