Made it about 15 miles down the road Monday. Travel stress , a time change and beautiful Westborough forced me to stop about 55 miles out of Boston. 6:51 p.m. and the aroma of supper hangs heavy between the historic homes of the streets of Westborough.

Addresses on the three story wood frames are in the single digits. The homesteading date is displayed on the opposite side of the front door. Boston House 1883, E. Bush Homestead circa 1855, and Frank W. Forbes House 1882-1950.

Westborough's claim to fame is as the birthplace of Eli Whitney, inventor of the cotton gin. Although Whitney permanently moved out of town at age 7, the community brags about being responsible for inspiring his youth.

Landmarks around Westborough date back to the Indian and Revolutionary wars. In the Midland Cemetery a grand oak stands sentry over headstones from 1816. Common names include Morse, Chamberlain, Blake and Hyde.

At the south end of town, about 20 yards off Lyman road is a weather worn wooden plaque board with a display of an old plat map of Westborough. Properties include H.D. Adams, C.E. Hicks, and Miss M. Maynard, Lyman School for Boys and Westborough Insane Hospital.

Across the street, progress in the shape of Marshalls, Ruby Tuesday's and the local grocery store chain Super Stop & Shop.

Tuesday Morning

Got out of Westborough about 5:30 a.m. and headed west on Hwy 20 into North Grafton. Stopped at Danielle's Pub and Breakfast for eggs and coffee. The morning came to a quick stop when a 23-T Bucket pulled into the drive. It looked like a car from the Munsters.

Big Dick and Little Ric got clamored out the front seat. There were not doors in their bucket and the fellas were not as limber as they used to be. You could have combed your hair looking at the chrome on the car. "It's got a 300 horse with a 350 Chevy engine," said Little Ric who had worked up a sweat and an appetite after finally setting foot on dry land.

Little Ric wasn't all that little. Big Harley kind of a guy. Black motorcycle vest with a couple of HD eagle decals slapped on the back along with a red, white, and blue hand with a peace symbol on the front right shoulder. His lid was a Miller manufacturing baseball hat and a black beard down to the neckline of his t-shirt.

I snapped a couple shots for the web. "I got all trimmed up for this," he said trying to impress. "I'm not going to be on a poster in some cornfield in Wisconsin am I?" I figured I better let Ric alone, which was easy enough with the distraction at the other end of the bar.

"You put on some new perfume," said the old man at the end table who was getting frustrated with the morning puzzle in the paper. I told him I was a little sweaty, but "Smells like gas, go back outside!"

Rodger was a piece of work. Red, white and blue hat that clung tight to his head. He couldn't see the purpose of biking cross country. "I'd be wishin' somebody would steal my bike so I could take the bus home."

Folks at the diner called him Slim. They claimed ownership to him, because they wanted to save the other restaurants in the area. His best selling point was his Rod Stewart blue jeans. I cursed my vision for noticing he dressed to the right. My gaze was locked on his pants because his right front pocket was stitched together with duct tape.

A couple guys at the diner offered their help with directions. One, drew me a map. I asked if he could have a "do over" so I could be able to read it. The waitress asked if he wanted a bigger sheet of paper and some crayons. It wouldn't have done much good. His East to West went right to left and I couldn't even find the first turn.

Ended up going through downtown Worcester. Not a place to stop for photos or a flat. Came upon a three way fork in the road and asked Steve for directions. He was an old man, about in his 70's waiting at the bus stop. Black leather shoes, a blurry blue green tattoo on his forearm, and a nose that looked like it had hit the pavement a few times too many. "Where ya headed," he said good naturedly. "To Milwaukee," I replied thinking he was on top of his game. "No you're not," he laughed. I spent the next five minutes going back and forth and trying to convince dim Steve that I was bicycling back home.

"No you're not," he said with a "you gotta be kidding me" inflection. After a couple rounds and feeling like I was five years old ... I said "Infinite" and pushed off.