Most days during my lunch hour, I go for a short walk across the World War Memorial Bridge, which spans the Piscataqua River, which serves as the border between New Hampshire and Maine. Monday's crossing was my 29th (yes, I count) which means I've crossed the New Hampshire / Maine border during work hours 58 times. (I started this job two and a half months ago.) The bridge allows cars to go down the middle of it, and there are footpaths on either side.

So I was walking across it shortly after noon, and just after I passed the half way point, I converge with two other people: a worker on the bridge, whose job is to make sure cars and pedestrians are stopped when the bridge needs to be raised to allow tall watercraft to pass by underneath, and a bicyclist who came up behind me. The bicyclist was walking his bike, a sure sign that he was from away (the locals ignore the signs that say bicycles should be walked on the footpaths). I nodded a greeting to the bridge worker and kept walking. The bicyclist, still just a tiny bit behind me, stopped and
asked the bridge worker a question.

"Am I in Maine, now?"

"Yeah, I guess the border is just about here."

"I finally made it. I've come 2000 miles. I can't believe I made it to Maine."

Upon hearing this, I stopped and turned, and observed the bicyclist and the worker exchange a couple more words. The bicyclist was probably in his forties or early fifties, moderately short, thin, and had a long, narrow brown beard that hung over his chest. He wore the usual biking gear and had a big satchel or two strapped over the rear wheel. He parted ways with the bridge worker and walked toward me, and I spoke up.

"Where did you start from?"

"Fort Yukon, Alaska."

"Wow! That's a long way. Good job."

"Now, this is Route 1A...?"

"Nope, this is Route 1--"

"Oh, this is actually Route 1?"

"--Yup. That bridge over there is the Route 1 Bypass, and the big one is 95."

"This is where I want to be. I want to stay close to the coast."

"Ah, yes."

There was a brief pause, and then I said:

"You're in the oldest town in Maine, now."

"Is it?"

"Yep, Kittery."

"I can't believe I finally made it to Maine."

On the other side of the bridge, he stopped to do something, and I kept moving. A few moments later, he rode past, mounted on his bicycle once again. "You have a nice day, now," he said. "You too," I called after him.

Few chance encounters with strangers are so significant. I didn't know this guy and won't likely see him ever again, and yet I got to be around for a very triumphant personal victory in his life, when the people closest to him did not. If I had been five seconds faster or ten seconds slower, I'd have missed him. After 2000 miles* and who knows how many weeks, he made it to Maine.

S "thinks that kind of accomplishment deserves a lot of respect" am

*Seems like 2000 miles is a little short. It's about 3000 miles between the west and east coasts of the United States, but I don't know what route this guy took. If he arced through Canada, would his trip have been that much shorter, since lines of longitude are closer together when you're closer to the poles? Of course, I could have misunderstood him. It sure sounded like he said 2000 miles, but he might have said "over 2000 miles," which could be 2800 (he might have had a strong enough disinclination to exaggerate so as to prefer to round down than up). How many miles IS it from Fort Yukon, Alaska, to Kittery, Maine?