We buy our eggs from a store eight miles away in a part of town called Taylor City. The state line runs right through it, so one side of Route 153 is Maine. If you ever wanted to see the arbitrariness of political boundaries, this is the place.
According to legend, there are houses in the area split by the state line. So maybe half of our dozen eggs came from Maine. Maybe the whole thing did. Earl Taylor, the "mayor," could tell me.
In 1988 I stopped at Earl's store on my way from the coast to Canada on a 200-mile day ride. At that point in the ride I didn't have 100 miles on me yet. Earl's dog peed on my bike, but Earl himself was encouraging. When the photographer traveling with me told him what I was trying to do, he said, "Make it, boy!" I've never asked him if he remembers that. I didn't move to town for another year after that first encounter, and I live on the other side of town.
The egg run makes a pleasant little ride. My wife has devised padding for the trunk pack on her Cross Check to protect a standard egg box on the trip home. If she's going to get a few vegetables from the farm stand across the street she throws the panniers on, too.
Yesterday's egg run was just a nice excuse to go out on a beautiful, warm day. The hardwoods have not reached peak color yet. A lack of hard frost has made the colors a little dull, same as last year. But the pines have shed their needles in a rust-colored shower, turning the ground a golden orange. The low sun angle side-lights every scene. We enjoyed cycling's blend of practicality and play.