THE EAGLE IN THE WIND

Sunday I rode the Montauk north into the White Mountains for a breakfast meeting of The Granite State BMW Riders, a wonderful group of New England riders indeed. Though unknown to their members, I was greeted warmly, both by their members and by the fine waitresses and the oversized Western Omelet served up in Campton at The Sunset Grill.

If one ever needs a good excuse to get out of bed early on an otherwise uncommitted Summer Sunday, a breakfast meeting of the GSBMW Riders at The Sunset Grill is a fine justification for sure.

White Mountain journeys can be accomplished via myriad routes. The fastest, at least from Manchester, is a straight shot up the slab of Route 93. But like all interstates, it is too straight and too monotonous for enjoyable riding. Old Route 3, however, is neither straight nor boring.

In my youth, Route 3 was "the highway." It winds generally north from Massachusetts to Colebrook, NH, being the Main Street of most every town in between. North of Laconia, NH, Route 3 is a pleasure to ride. It's old, and its curves lead to farmlands, old homes in need of repair, and fields of hay and corn. At places the road sweeps along a riverbed flooded with the high waters that flow down from headwaters deep in the Pemi Wilderness. The smells are of musty shores and freshly mown hay. Ideal for a Sunday ride.

Overhead I watched Hawks ride air currents high into the cooling sky. Just north of Plymouth I rounded a bend to see an Eagle glide without effort along an invisible air current sweeping up the hills below it. I was awestruck.

I think of the sadness in London, in Iraq, all over the world. Sadness brought about by hatred and killing. I think of the lonely Eagle in the mountain wind. I wish everyone would just stop what they are doing to others and go for a Sunday ride into the mountains.