I rode my bike through the tiny town of Sharon, Vermont (population 1,502), famous for being the birthplace of Joseph Smith, the first leader of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (there’s a huge monument).

I was getting soaked by a steady drizzle. The forecast said there was only a 5% to 10% chance of rain. My usual luck was holding up.

It had been weeks since I started my self-supported tour bike ride from Dickinson, North Dakota east along the Northern Tier bike route.

Just past Sharon the route climbs a nasty steep hill. It was here I got a flat rear tire. I pulled over and started to take it off. A man in a truck stopped.

“Is everything all right? You need a hand?”

“It’s raining, on a steep hill, my bike is heavy and I got a flat,” I said, trying to smile.

“Must be your lucky day,” he said with a chuckle.

“Yeah, but what kind?” I said. I replaced the tube and started back up the hill. About a half mile later, the rear tire was flat again.

I stopped to fix it and four Dartmouth College students — two guys, two girls — rode up on road bikes. They looked like Olympic athletes full of fitness and vitality. I was envious of their bikes without heavy panniers hanging on them.

“Can we help?” one of them said.

As they helped me change the tire and tube, they told me they were out on a training ride to stay in shape because they were on the college cross-country ski team. They said some of their ski team sometimes trains in West Yellowstone, Montana. The visit with the students lifted my spirits.

I continued my ride to the Rest N’ Nest Campground in East Thetford, Vermont (part of the Thetford community of about 2,000 folks).

Earlier in the week, as part of my daily check-ins with my sweetheart back in Idaho Falls, she said she was worried I was running out of time (to catch my flight home), so I skipped ahead on my journey a bit and took a train ride through most of New York, getting off the train in Albany, New York. I had ridden to Niagara Falls, New York and Buffalo, New York, before hopping on the train ride.

Niagara Falls is a stunner. If you haven’t seen it, imagine the entire Columbia River downstream from Portland, Oregon suddenly jumping off a 200- or 300-foot cliff. I came to it on the Canadian side and pedaled through hordes of tourists lining the railing ogling the misty sight.

From Albany, it took me a day and a half to get back on route at Sharon.

Getting off route can be an adventure. Julie (my at-home world headquarters and command center) helps me find accommodations along my route as we chat each night. Often the sleeping arrangements determine the distance of the next day’s ride. Some towns simply don’t have any accommodations.

One online camping resource is called “Hipcamp.” Hipcamp often directs you to small farms or homes with big lots where the owners have set up accommodations for campers. One night I slept with alpacas and chickens. In Brandon, Vermont (population 4,129) it was a place with goats and a very friendly 80-pound dog.

On my way to Brandon, I found myself on a dangerous highway. I exited off to the town of Manchester, Vermont (population 4,258). It’s a proud, touristy town with a sign saying it was chartered in 1761 (about 100 years before most Idaho towns).

I stopped downtown to pump some air into my front tire and water squirted out of the pump — no doubt from the last storm I was caught in. After a few pumps, the pump seized up and wouldn’t work. It also let out more air from the tire. I walked the bike to a bike shop several blocks away. While I was buying a new pump, the owner of the shop wrote down turn-by-turn directions for me to Brandon that were more biker-friendly than my original ideas. The pump failure became a positive in the end.

In Brandon, the Hipcamp operator was a truck driver. He wrote down directions to Sharon. “Good luck with Brandon Gap,” he said. “It’s steep and long. But the views are nice.”

The 6-mile hill up Brandon Gap had grades of more than 13% — with 30 plus pounds of packs on my bike, I paused a few times for snack breaks and to slow my heart rate.

After I rode into New Hampshire, one cyclist I met said, “There’s no flat way across New Hampshire.”

I was dreading one hill in particular shown on my Adventure Cycling Association map profile as a giant spike twice as high as any other: The Kancamagus Highway — 12.5 miles of uphill.

While eating a surprisingly good cheese steak sandwich at a convenience store in North Haverhill, New Hampshire (population 1,155), a youngish couple from Boston walked in dressed in cycling clothes and sat at a table next to me to warm themselves with large coffees. The temperatures outside were in the mid-40s.

They were on a 60-mile ride in the area and were chilled from the fast downhills. They were full of questions about tour biking and my route.

“Oh, you’re going over the Kancamagus!” the man said. “That’s a great ride … a big climb, but fun.”

I told him it looked scary hard on the map. He told me how it attracts people from everywhere to see the fall foliage — lots of traffic, especially on the weekends. As my luck would have it, I would be riding it on a Saturday.

As they were leaving, he nearly shouted, “Enjoy the Kanc! You’re going to love it.”

As it turned out, the Kanc wasn’t as hard for me as Brandon Gap. Grades never topped 8% or 9% and usually were less. I did have to pull over and keep adjusting my clothing layers to keep from overheating. The traffic was nonstop with license plates from all around the Northeast. The nearly 20 miles of downhill on the other side was a joy. The clothing layers went back on but I still ended up shivering some.

Entering Maine, my information said, “Maine is far from flat.” While not having any monster climbs, the riding is mostly rolling hills.

I arrived in Bath, Maine (population 4,530) and took a cold shower on my bike courtesy of the usual wet weather.

I’m coming down the home stretch with only a few days to go before journey’s end at the Atlantic Ocean.