Centennial, Wyoming:
We can tell we are truly back in Wyoming. We have seen an elk herd of 200, a gathering
of 75 pronghorn antelope, 50 or so wild horses on the hillside, and a group of
five mule deer eating trees at the edge of our property….yesterday. This is more wildlife in one day than we saw
on the entire bike trip. There is
another sign that the bike trip is over and daily life is returning. We now have both phone service and internet
at the cabin. We have spent the morning,
going through mail, paying bills, and updating all our accounts and
correspondence. Being on the bike was
quite other-worldly. There is such peace in simply being in the
moment, taking in what the world was giving us.
Most of the time we loved it, but getting through New York state was proving
troubling, for reasons both sublime and ridiculous.
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The only accommodation available in Brockport is up the
hill, out of the Mohawk Valley, into the plastic land and at a perfectly
average motel. This is also where we
discover that the word “town” has a different meaning in New England. In the rest of the United States, most towns
are the product of rail lines and grew with the development of cars. The towns are set up in a grid and grow along
straight lines moving out from the center.
In New England, a sign will announce “Entering X town.” There may not be
any cohesive group of homes or businesses for another 5 miles. That grouping will be announced by signs
announcing “X center” or “X village.” A town in this context is roughly
equivalent to a township in Michigan or Wisconsin: a civic jurisdiction. We don’t know that when we see that the
Dollinger Inn is in Brockport Town. We
ride and ride away from the village near the canal. We arrive at the plastic land and I am so
disappointed. Until that point, I
thought this part of New York had evaded the plastic-land scourge. Not so.
It’s just up by the main highway.
The next morning, we return to the canal area and ensconce
at a coffee shop, where I work on the blog and Wes reads the newspaper. As we are leaving, we greet a group of five
cyclists seated outside, enjoying their morning coffee in the bright fall sun. They are all about our age, dressed in full
cycle regalia, with nice bikes and panniers. They are from Pittsburgh, and here
to cycle 200 miles on the Erie Canal. A
woman with her knee taped is quite proud about this distance. Another woman in the group asks about our
travels and is surprised to hear that we have gone more than 3000 miles. She is
very interested in our travels, but one fellow wearing bib cycle shorts and no
shirt, is openly contemptuous and talks over our answers to the woman’s
questions. Although he doesn’t say this,
we see him staring at our floppy shirts and pants and BOB trailers. “Don’t we know we are supposed to give the
impression of speed and aerodynamic styling?” his sneer seemed to say.
We all go to get on the tow path at the same time. Wes and I are just competitive enough to speed
off and leave the group in our wake.
Some miles down the path, we have stopped to read another information
sign. The no-shirt guy and the knee
brace woman come cycling up, the other members of the group nowhere in
sight. We acknowledge their presence,
but cycle off without saying a word. We
never see them again.
We are entering the environs of Rochester, which is a very
big city. The main path of the Erie
Canal passes south of the city, with numerous connecting canals. The route is bit tricky because it is passing
in and out of city parks and sometimes moving away from the water. At one point the path takes us over a
bridge. There is a path leading from the
bridge and we assume it is our path.
Before we know it, we find we are on the campus of IBM Research and
Development, just as the lunch break is beginning. This is a nice campus and all sorts of
corporate types, wearing their blue IBM shirts, are out walking the paths that
circle the man-made lake, and in an out of various buildings. We are obviously out of place as we pass men
with brief cases and women in heels. We
wander about a bit, trying to find a way back to the canal, laughing at
spectacle we are creating. We finally go
back to where we went wrong. There we
discover that the tow path has crossed to the south side of the canal for the first
time since we started following it.
It is odd to ride the canal in the midst of a city. It is loud and we cross under a variety of
freeways. It passes through a number of
neighborhoods and suburbs. It is clear
that Rochester has been hit hard in the Great Recession. We see lots of closed businesses and empty
houses. Some miles after our foray onto
the IBM campus, we are quite hungry and need to find someplace to eat. Just as we are about to cross a busy highway,
an older man with a bright yellow jersey, stops his bike to talk to us. He is slight and quite slender, probably in
his late 60’s. He has a mirror and
lights and flashers on his bike; he announces that he is a Canal Path
Ambassador. Did we have any questions or
concerns about our ride on the Canal?
Yes. Where can we get something
to eat? “Well, it depends on whether you
want to eat now or ride 10 more miles.”
We’re hungry now. “Well, there’s
a restaurant just down this street. A
lot of people eat there. I never
have. But a lot of people do. But ten miles down is Fairport. They have a lot of nice restaurants
there. One difference is that Fairport,
the average per capita income is $40,000.
Around here it is $15,000 per capita.”
We say we are hungry now, bemused by his economic assessment. “Well,” he says, “you should be able to get a
burger or something.” As we cycle off,
he calls to us. “Make sure you stop to
see the city skyline on the ridge after you eat lunch. It is quite impressive!”
By the time we get to café, it is mid-afternoon and we are
the only customers. The cook is sitting
in a booth picking at some soup; the single waitress is sitting next to her,
eating from a sack lunch. Shortly after
we are seated, a big pony-tailed fellow of at least 300 pounds rides up on a
motorcycle. He announces himself as he
comes through the door and is greeted by name by both the waitress and the
cook. He seats himself at a small table
across the room and proceeds to flirt with the waitress. This is an established routine with
them. He calls her sugar and offers to
help with her young daughter. She
cheerfully dismisses everything he says even as he keeps trying. It looks like he will keep trying until he
finally gets a yes…to home repairs, babysitting, car repairs….something that
will establish a deeper relationship with her.
The lunch is notable for two reasons, both of them
ridiculous. On the petty side, this
lunch was the final straw for me. While
Wes had the good sense to order the tuna plate and get some decent handmade
salads, pickles, and tuna, I ordered the special, a chicken cordon blue
sandwich. I received a hunk of slimy corporate
chicken and a cold piece of canned ham, covered with bottled blue cheese
dressing on a squishy white bread bun…accompanied with pre-fab potato-food
fries. Revolting…and the end of chicken
sandwiches and fried food for me…I hope forever.
The second reason had to do with the government
shutdown. It was October 1, and the
shutdown was the lead story on radio and newspaper. A slender, middle-aged man wearing a delivery
service uniform enters the diner, and as soon as he is seated, asks the whole
room. “Didya see about the government shutdown?” The waitress, who was getting him a glass a
water, “Yeah, I saw, but I don’t understand what it it.
Did Obama shut down the government?” Delivery guy, “Naah, It’s
not him….well, it’s not just him…it’s the whole bunch of ‘em. Democrats and Republicans both just trying to
feather their own nests.” Waitress: “I
don’t even understand what they are talking about.” Flirting guy.
“I say to hell with all of ‘em.
Any time someone starts talking politics, even on the TV, I just walk
out the room.” Delivery guy, “Ain’t that
the truth. They’re all a bunch of
corrupt liars….and you know who I blame it all on? Richard Nixon! He’s the one who ruined it for everyone.”
Wes and I don’t add our two cents, but on the way out, while
paying our bill, I say to the waitress. “The Congress is supposed to have a
budget by today, but the Tea Party Republicans won’t agree to a budget unless
Obamacare is de-funded.” She looks at me
blankly, “Oh.” I might as well have been
speaking Navajo.
On the way out of the diner, we ride up the overpass to see
the view touted by the ambassador. To
one side, we see a derelict truck repair yard; right below us, a string of
eight or so sets of railroad tracks. Off
in the distance, we can just make out a tiny view of the Rochester
skyline.
We make our way to Pittsford, which is clearly a higher rent
district. It is warm and sunny; the
leaves are turning. There are a number
of people sitting on benches. Many are eating
ice cream handmade in a nearby shop. We get some coffee from the shop and are
surprised to see that it is also selling a wide variety of African masks,
drums, and handicrafts. The owner had
been a Peace Corps volunteer in the 1980’s.
He returns regularly and brings back various goods. Outside, we sit next to two ladies who are
trying to remember the Erie Canal song. One sings… “Low bridge, everyone down/
Low bridge ‘cause you’re coming to a town/You always know… your friend when you
make you way on the Erie….that’s not right.”
The other sings, “You always know your neighbor, you always know…” We sing, “your pal.” We all sing, “when you’re
ever navigating on the Erie Canal.” We
all laugh and tell how we learned that song.
One says, “I remember the verse was something about 15 years on the Erie
Canal. Shouldn’t it be 15 MILES on the
Erie Canal?” We don’t know, but later, I
do a google search and find out the song originally was written about a “Mule
by the name of Sal” who was pulling barges “15 years on the Erie Canal.”
We are trying to make miles so we pedal off from the warm
sun and the singing ladies. Fairport is
just 10 miles away and supposed to have a variety of accommodations. Not too far out of town, we see three sculls
go by. One is a two person boat, but the
other two are eight person crews…of middle-school and high school girls. They slide down the canal at an impressive
speed. Shortly, thereafter we see a
group of kayakers, a bunch of teenage boys out fishing, numerous hikers and
joggers. Not long after that, two more
sculls glide by, powered by teenage boys, their coaches following in small
motor boat, shouting instructions through a megaphone.
I try all the accommodations in town. No luck.
All full. I look further afield
and end up talking to an innkeeper, who has no room, but gives me a number for
private bed and breakfast. She says, “They
are really nice people, but I can’t vouch for their accommodations.” I call and leave a message. We wander around town, leave another
message. It is starting to get
dark. We wish we had our camping
gear. I remember that the house was very
near the canal. Maybe we can find it. It
takes us a while, but we do find it.
We are really getting worried now.
There is a handwritten note on the door saying they are away and which
gives a different number. We call it and
thank goodness, someone answers, and asks us, “Are you riding bikes
pulling trailers?” They had seen us
wandering about the town. Kathy and
Phil do have a room and we are grateful, even though Wes has an attack of
claustrophobia because the room is so full of trinkets and tchotchkes, he is
afraid to move.
This very long day ended on a high note, however. Our hosts recommend a place to eat on the
canal. In the warm October night, we eat
on the balcony, looking at the winking lights on the docked pleasure boats below. We watch a young couple come in to eat dinner
with the female’s parents. We guess it
is their first meeting. The young man is
wearing a badly tied tie with a short sleeve shirt. He is sits rigidly in front of the father,
who has his arms crossed and is learning back.
At first, the daughter is chattering away, but only the mom responds. By the end
of the dinner, however, conversation is flowing, and the daughter reaches over
and gently, lovingly, touches the young man's shoulder, who visibly relaxes.
We have a great meal, with truly delicious
pumpkin soup. As we are getting ready to leave, we hear the pipping bark of
the coxswain. In the pitch dark, moving
much more slowly down the canal, come the two sculls of young men.
The next day, we will leave the
towpath of the Erie Canal to explore New York’s Lake Ontario shores. 100 miles
of straight flat bicycling is enough, but we have learned a lot and loved a lot
on this peculiar path.
Posted from Centennial, Wyoming
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