An eventful trip to the bike shop on our day off.

Monday, Sept. 20th

When we woke up this morning, the area around Nicole's Achilles tendon was filled with fluid. Not a good sign. We decided that today would be a rest day. I broke the news to Chris, sadly, that he would have to continue without us. Chris was reluctant at first, but in the end we both knew that an injury was an injury and Nicole needed rest.

Nicole pronates somewhat when she walks and bikes, so much so that we needed to install a spacer to prevent her heel from hitting the chainstay. We decided that the Bontrager Race Mountain shoes that I use might be a little bit more comfortable than what she had been using.

The "continental" breakfast provided by the hotel was terrible. Sort of a "food from hell" experience. Fortunately, the city outside awaited us. Portland is a small city of only 60,000 and it has six--count-em six bike shops (seven if you included the downtown location of Gorham Bike and Ski). We found the only Trek dealer among them to get the shoes we needed.

The store had a very impressive layout, the products we needed, and a staff that did not like to interact with customers. Sadly, bike shops like these exist. There were about three people who looked like employees but they were not wearing any matching clothing or name tags to serve as identification. They continually cris-crossed the store while Nicole and I found our way to the shoe section. I spotted the shoe we so badly desired. I took it off the rack and handed it to Nicole. "This is what we need," I  said, as my eyes quickly darted across the room in hopes that somebody in power noticed two customers looking to buy a $100 pair of shoes.

"This is what we need," I said again, to no avail. I didn't know who to ask. Eventually an employee (or somebody who just felt sorry for us) found us.

"Can I help you," he asked.

"Yes," I said. "She needs this shoe in a size 42."
(some of you may not be aware: cycling shoes are European sizing).

"Ohhh," he said, somewhat slow and dramatic. "Okay, a 42."

What followed is a puzzling experience that eludes understanding.

He returned, with a 41 and a 42. He set the 42s aside.

"Here," he said to Nicole, handing her the 41s. "Try these on." He didn't bother to tell her that he had given her the 41s.

"They feel a little snug," she said.

"Hmm," said the un-salesman. "Let my try something else."

Moments later, he returned, this time with a different brand of something that looks enormous on Nicole's feet.

"This feels huge," Nicole said, a rather polite way of saying that she felt like a clown.

"Yeah, that's a men's 41. Let me try something else."

He leaves and returns yet again, no explanation as to why he thought a men's shoe was appropriate. This time he gives her a woman's shoe, different brand than what asked for, in a 41. Nicole tries it on. She can't decided which one she likes best. I can't stand it anymore.

"Can she try on those," I said, pointed the 42s that I had asked for in the first place. Nicole tried them on and smiled. Like Cinderella, it fit just right. She tells the salesman and he seems somewhere between relieved and disappointed.

"Okay," he said, as if he had just received an injection of helpfulness in his body. "I'll put the cleats on for you."

Then came the big one: metatarsal. I tried to be helpful to him: "Do you need me to mark the metatarsal?" I asked.

He looked at me as if I had a third eye in my forehead.

"Positioning the cleat slightly behind the first metatarsal in the foot prevents numbness or tingling in the toes."

He continued to stare at me. Then, he handed me an Allen wrench.

"Here," he said. "You can do it yourself."

Oy gevalt! I lined them up as best I could. Nicole rode it around the parking lot and determined I that I had angled them the wrong way (most cycling cleats must be angled to accommodate the rider's natural pedal motion: someone who walks with one or both feet outward as opposed to perfectly straight must have the cleats aligned accordingly). We angled them the other way, but it still wasn't quite what Nicole was used to, so we determined that we would have to cut into the shoe's tread pattern slightly to fit the cleat.

But that would wait another day. Today we rest! From the bike shop it was back to the hotel and then a short walk to the Dogfish Cafe for lunch. One of the house specialties was a salmon sandwich, of which Nicole and I each feasted. We also enjoyed lunch with some Allegash White Ales, a local brew. Having a few drinks with lunch made me feel like I was living a scene from "Mad Men." Unlike Mad Men, I fell asleep for two and half hours after lunch. I guess a few beers and riding 200 miles in four days will do that to you.

After we woke up, it was time to enjoy Portland again. We decided to walk to what we felt was the nearby Portland Pie Company, an excellent and slightly upscale pizza and pasta joint with reasonable prices. The walk was a bit longer than we remembered, but we did get to see two low flying planes on their way to Portland Jetport, as well as the Casco Bay Bridge in completely vertical position to allow a barge to go through. Indeed, Portland is the New York/London/Paris/Tokyo/Beijing of the great state of Maine.

Dinner was a pleasure, once we finally reached our destination. Nicole was quite pleased to see that Pumpkin Ale was in season, while I stuck with my summertime blueberry.

Ah, the big city!