T+151: We Don’t Know, We Just Go…

Mile 4084: Meredith, NH

Using my handy-dandy mapping tool, I find a way to take us out of West Lebanon that will allow us to get past the congestion and freeways before returning to US Highway 4.  We are curving around a back road when we spot a tell-tale trail marker just off the road.  The trail does not show up on the program, but this looks quite promising.  We’ll take it. 

Not too far along, we see what appears like college students out for a jog. We hope we haven’t made a bad choice. The conditions begin a little dodgy, but get better as we go along.  The trail is lovely as it crosses back and forth over the Mascoma River.  We don’t know where we are, but we are paralleling Highway 4, so we keep going. 

A few miles in, we are greeted by a handsome 60-something woman and her gregarious Jack Russell dog.  She tells us we are on the Northern Rail trail, and that it goes 30 miles or so all the way up to Grafton.  She also tells us about some the sights up ahead, including Mascoma Lake, with the Shaker village of Enfield across the way.  She asks about our trip and is very surprised to find out that we started in Portland, Oregon.  She tells of a recent trip she and her husband took to the Netherlands.  There, they would ride their bikes during the day, then get on a canal barge at night for their dinner and lodging.   She tells us they enjoyed it so much, she has developed a taste for more bike travel.  We offer “tips of the trade” and we all laugh about the various strategies we have employed to deal with saddle pain.

The ride is spectacular as it passes Mascoma Lake.  Two distinct features tickle our fancy.  In celebration of Halloween, various scarecrows depicting sports deaths are placed on the park land between the trail and the lake.  The bike-wreck scarecrow seemed to be plowing into a giant rock on a small moto-cross bike, with the stuffed rider about to fly right over the handlebars.   The hockey scarecrow had a black eye and broken teeth, and a hockey stick out of his head.  The six or seven of these creations were quite funny and creative---and must have been a big community effort to design, costume, and place these images.
This is also the first place we spot what we soon come to call “New Hampshire add-on houses.”  A house might begin with a small single gabled cottage.  Another generation would add a wing at a right angle, then another might add another gabled cottage addition, which might then have a connected corridor or two with eventually joined the barn. Over the years, simple structures become quite complicated.  I tell Wes that is what we are going to do with our cabin.  He just rolls his eyes.

We follow the rails to trails all the way to Grafton, even though the track is becoming more and more marginal.  There are places where it is hardly more than a sandy two-track.   Sometimes the trail is just a few feet from Highway 4.  We look longingly at the smooth surface, but don’t leave the track, choosing no competition with vehicles over an easy ride.   The trail takes us through a variety of huge culvert tunnels, which strikes us as a good solution for contested intersections.  

We are getting discouraged at our slow progress.  We are working pretty hard and not going very fast.  It is nearly noon and we have only gone about 12 miles.  We enter a rock cut where the train track was cut through 12 foot tall granite walls, and see a small brass marker.  We have just passed the Orange Summit, the highest point on the trail, and the highest point the railroad reached between the coast and its terminus at White River Junction at the Connecticut River.  Although we had been seeing  Mount Cardigan before and beside us, we didn’t realize we had been climbing all morning. 

We stop for a break at Danbury, where we will turn off to take a road to the little town of Meredith on the shores of Lake Winnipesaukee.  By the time we get there, we are tired, crabby, and worried.  I know we have to go a total of 60 miles to get to our bed and breakfast.  It has taken us until after 1pm to go 20 miles.  How on earth will we ever make it the rest of the way before we lose the light?    We have an uncomfortable break at the small country store.  Both of us are picking at each other.  My phone doesn’t work and there is no wi-fi, so we can’t scout the road ahead.   A young man and several senior ladies out for a bike ride try to allay our fears about the route ahead, but I, for one, am not having it.  One lady says, “It’s not bad.  There are ups and downs, but it’s just like life, isn’t it?” 

We are still sniping at each other when we head out on Highway 104.  It is pretty easy and quite beautiful, but we are both convinced these good times will end momentarily, leaving us to slog up the mountain to the Lake.  The miles start to slip by.  We’re cruising along.  Wait!  Where’s the climb into the White Mountains?  This part of the ride has been no problem whatsoever. 

As we ride along, we see lots of the “Add-on Houses.”   However, very few of these look like working farms.  There are no animals, no tractors, no work-trucks.  The fields lie fallow even as the houses are well-maintained.  We pass the grounds of the private Hampton School, and realize that this is probably the third private residential school we have seen since entering New Hampshire.   Although the road is fairly populated, there are very few commercial establishments.  I ask Wes, “How are people making their livings here?”   He answers, “Maybe they aren’t.”   This is obviously not a place where people are trying to make a living and can’t, as we have seen in New York and Washington.  This is a place where the living is coming from elsewhere.

I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop and the ride to get much harder, as we zip along to Bristol and the crossing with Interstate 93.   There is a little outbreak of plastic land close to the freeway.   We have about 15 miles to go when the climb in the foothills of the White Mountains begins.  We spend the rest of the afternoon climbing, climbing, climbing.  We have just cleared one good sized hill when we see a long-haired hippie-ish looking fellow standing next to his station wagon.  He has pulled his car into the little verge between our road and a right turn.  He has been watching us hump up the hill and as we go by, he calls to us, “Do you have a place to stay for the night?”  We answer that we have a bed and breakfast waiting for us.  “Too bad.” He says, “I was gonna offer you a room at my house.  Where you headed?”  We tell him, and he sighs, “Man, you got a big hill ahead of you.  Good luck.”

He wasn’t kidding.  The country we are entering reminds me a lot of the glacial highlands of the Rockies.  There are deep, cold lakes surrounded by granite shelves.  In the distance we can see foothills with the occasional glance at the rocky highlands beyond.  We are about 5 miles from the town of Meredith and we look up to see what should be called a cliff climb.   We’re beat, but too bad.  Up we go until we can’t.  Then it is off our bikes and time for pushing. 

At the top of this steep hill, our road joins the Daniel Webster Highway and the traffic increases.  Now we are tired, it is close to dusk, and we are still not there.  It is spectacularly beautiful alongside the shores of Lake Winnipesaukee, but hard to appreciate it because of the dangerous road conditions.  We feel a surge of energy, however, when we get to the town of Meredith.  It is a lovely tourist town, dominated by large, white 19^th century hotels which overlook the lake.  The town is a warren of 18^th and 19^th century buildings sitting cheek to jowl on the hills just above the lake.  Like all tourist towns, it is full of restaurants, bars, and cute little shops. 

We need to make our way to the Tuckernuck Bed and Breakfast.  When I had made the reservation, the innkeeper was thrilled to hear that we were cross country bicyclists. Her husband, she told me, was an Ironman, and had participated in many super long distance triathlons.  I told her we were far from Ironmen and that a 60 mile day was a pretty long day for us.   It had been a long day, and we were feeling every bit of those 60 miles, when we found the street on which the inn was located, and saw that it was another big climb.  We were pushing our bikes up the hill, on our last legs, when a young police officer, in a Meredith Police Department sedan, pulled alongside us.  “Don’t you know you are supposed to be riding up this hill?”  It took us a moment to realize he was joking before we had the presence of mind to assure him that this was just our “cool-down.”

Our brains are fogged by exhaustion as we get to the house on the top of the hill: our inn.  We drag our bikes around to the side and meet a young couple who say, “You must be the bicyclists!  Kim has told us all about your trip!  We can hardly wait to hear your stories!”   They take us to meet the landlady, an effusive, petite blonde with a somewhat raspy voice, who welcomes us mightily and tells us how excited she is to have us staying there.   We don’t feel special, just tired, sweaty, and hungry.  She gives us a great deal on a beautiful suite at the top of the house.   It is all we can do not to fall asleep right then and there.

After a shower, we feel slightly less exhausted and want to get some dinner.  Our landlady gives us a bunch of menus and guidance.  She also tells us that the other guests in the house are the young couple we had earlier met; they were newlyweds on their honeymoon.  There is also a threesome from England, fellow innkeepers enjoying a holiday in various beauty spots of eastern and western United States.  She assured us that they were all very interested to meet us and hear our stories tomorrow at breakfast.  Apparently, there would be no sitting back and listening to other’s stories for us in the morning.
Oh, how we wished we had been better able to follow our landlady’s advice about eating establishments.  We had seen a little brewpub on the way in to town.  We thought it would be a good place to eat and listen to the Tigers/Red Sox baseball game that night.  It was a fail on both counts.  The place was packed with sports fans, all right, football fans cheering loudly, then not so loudly, as the New England Patriots barely beat the New Orleans Saints.

After a disappointing corporate plastic goo-fest for dinner, we walk around the town, follow the lakeshore and explore the historic inns.  In one, we were sitting by the blazing fire, when a distraught man came in, trailed by a manager.  His wife had lost her phone.   Could we please move so they could check the overstuffed sofas where we were seated.  We do, but no phone is found.  Off they go, the man almost wailing, “What are we going to do?  Where can it be?”

We find the town charming, but we’re too tired to do much, so we go back to our inn.  We turn on the game, but fall asleep with the Tigers comfortably ahead 5-1 in the 7^th inning.  The next morning, as we make our way to breakfast, our landlady asks us, “Did you hear what happened in the game last night?”  Her husband, who had driven the 2 hours to attend the game in Boston, called her around midnight to tell her that game was now tied and there was still one more inning to go.  He was going to be very late getting back. She woke up to find out that Red Sox had won, in one of the most stunning comebacks in baseball history. 

At breakfast, all eyes are on us.  We start by telling them about how much economic distress we have seen as we travelled across the country.  Not very romantic, to be sure, but it does get the newlyweds going.  They are from Rochester, New York and in their mid-twenties.  He has a degree in civil engineering; she in marketing.   Together, they have sent more than 500 letters of inquiry.  They have gotten a few bites, but they see people with lots more experience getting the jobs.  They wonder how they will ever get a start, but they were still hoping a job would materialize for them.   The Brits are shocked at this.  They didn’t know the economy was that bad in the US.

We tell stories of our bicycle trip through England, Ireland, Wales and Scotland and make the Brits laugh with those “innocents abroad” adventures.  We all end up telling stories of our favorite places to visit.  I don’t think we ended up talking much about our ride across the country, but it was good fun anyway.

When we make our departure, our landlady, who had generously volunteered to find our next lodging, tells us how much difficulty she had making arrangements in the little town of Cornish, Maine.  After numerous attempts, she was able to find a place for us not too far from the town.  We thank her and commiserate with her.   Who would have thought securing lodging would have become such an on-going hassle?  She tells us of one set of bicyclists who had stayed with her.  They had arranged their entire lodging six months in advance.  Only once did they miss their reservation.  It’s clear we are not that rigid or that well-organized.

As we prepare to leave, I stop to stare at a topographic map on the wall.  Just to the northwest of Lake Winnipesaukee lies a circular range of mountains called the Ossipees.  Surely, this must have been an ancient volcano.  I show Wes and he agrees with me.  We ask Kim.  No, no volcanos around here.  Wondering what else could make such a distinctive outline, we vow to look more closely as we ride by.  Our route out of New Hampshire will take us half way round this strange feature.  By the end of this day, we will be in Maine.  Almost there.  Somehow or another.

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Posted from Centennial, Wyoming

T+133: Up and down and all around

Laramie, Wyoming: Wes woke this morning and just had to have a proper café latte, so we are sitting in Coal Creek Coffee in Laramie, Wyoming.  The place is full of all sorts of people enjoying a leisurely Saturday morning in this college town.  We were greeted by a well-behaved Shepherd/Terrier mix dog, who was waiting for his parent, and sat untethered and patient outside.  It is hard to imagine our dog Louie ever being that calm and focused. 

Animals are such a feature of Wyoming life.  Dogs are ubiquitous and welcome in shops, bars, and some restaurants.  This is mid-size dog territory with lots of Australian shepherds and cattle dogs, boxers, Labs, border collies, and all their mixes.  This is in contrast to New England, which is big dog territory.  Big chocolate labs and squirming mastiffs wriggled through social gatherings and traveled in cars.  In Washington State, little dogs like terriers and Chihuahuas were common.  Even the biggest, burliest (former) lumberjack carried tiny, often yappy, dogs.  Dog discrimination was in full force around Minnesota, Wisconsin, and Michigan, where there were often signs forbidding dogs on paths, in parks, and in public places.  Dogs were definitely not welcome in bars, cafes, or stores.

Here in Wyoming, we also have daily contact with a range of wildlife.  As we went up to town (so-called for this tiny village of 100), we drove past a gathering of 60 deer, feeding on the sedges at the edge of an irrigation ditch just north of our cabin.  There is a group of 5 mule deer who are permanent residents on the 6 Bar E Ranch where our cabin is located.  We see them every morning on our sunrise walk.  They stare at us, and as long as we don’t make any move toward them, are content to let us pass.  Yesterday, we came across the antelope herd.   They dashed in their long legged loping way to the prairie about 75 yards south of us, then moved as we moved, stopping to stare at us.  Finally, they streaked across the ridge until they came to high spot about 200 yards away, then turned to stare at us once again.  

The coyotes cry outside our door.  Sometimes they are quite close.  Other times, we hear them singing from the hogback ridge about a quarter mile away.  Yesterday, in the fresh snow, we follow the little loping tracks of a fox, no doubt looking for the rabbits and chipmunks which live in the cottonwoods near the creek.

We were surprised at how little wildlife we saw as we travelled across the continent.  Granted, bicycle riding is a road activity.  But even so, we were often in fairly outback places.  Even in the wilds of Montana, along the High Line, humans have overtaken the landscape and left no space for other living beings.  Humans have overtaken nearly every available space.   The way of life and the type of economies varied enormously, often in quite small distances.  Nowhere was this more obvious than in the small patch of land between Palmyra, Sodus Point, and Fulton, NY.

After a lovely breakfast with our hosts, we returned to the Canal for the last short ride to the town of Palmyra.  The canal is changing in this section, making greater use of existing waterways.   It becomes more anomalous and harder to follow, no longer the hard edged aqueduct it has often been in the previous miles.  At one point, just before Palmyra, we are on a little path surrounded by water in a low swampy region 30 feet below the farmhouses above.

When come to the road that will take us away from the Erie Canal, we are a little sentimental about leaving the path.  Part of us wants to continue on this time traveling path through America’s first “superhighway.”  Another part wants to climb out of this valley and look around at bigger skies and hear other stories.  We visit downtown Palmyra, where there are signs of a culture war taking place. 

Palmyra is the town where the Church of Latter Day Saints was founded by Joseph Smith in the 1830’s.  It has become a pilgrimage spot for contemporary Mormons.  There are Mormon shops and inns.  There are also big Protestant churches throughout this town, including the largest Christian Scientist edifice we have seen thus far.  One church sign says, “Looking for true religion? Look no further.  Come on in.”  A few shops carry endorsements from the LDS church; most don’t.  The town doesn’t look particularly prosperous, but it is far from the dysfunction of Albion, but also far from high end shops and bistros of Pittsford and Fairport.

We make our way to a little coffee shop, where we sit on the balcony and enjoy the sun.  There is an older woman and man sitting a few feet from us.  They ask about our travels and were surprised to discover we had started in Portland, Oregon.  It is not long before Wes discovers that they are former teachers and long-time friends.  He was from Syracuse; she was from the Finger Lakes area.  It takes one second before they are deep in teacher talk.  They both have been retired for a while, and are happy to be receiving full pensions.  Wes asks if they have been experiencing the attacks on teachers, their benefits, and their pensions that have been endemic in Michigan, Illinois, and Wisconsin.  The answer is no.  Teachers have not been demonized in New York.   They were surprised to hear that teachers are fighting to maintain health benefits, tenure, and full pensions.  They were glad they missed that. 

Like every upstate New Yorker we met, they had a long list of complaints with their legislature and the influence of New York City.  The complained mightily about their high taxes, but did admit that they received good services for their money.   They allow that their state government is rotten, but perhaps not quite as self-seeking as other states.

We tell them we are headed up to the Ontario shore line.  She immediately becomes quite concerned.  She tells us that her husband is an avid bicyclist who takes groups of seniors out on rides through this country.  He spends hours trying to find routes without hills for these rides through that beautiful landscape.  At the time, I don’t think much about her concern and his effort.  24 hours later, I will be singing a different tune. 

Our route takes us due north.  Just outside of town, we stop at a curious farmhouse built entirely of fist sized rocks.  There is a sign telling us that these “Pebble Houses” were built by German masons after the completion of the Erie Canal.  These houses were made with shore stones from Lake Ontario and can only be found in upstate New York.  This house was also the very house where Joseph Smith was employed when he reported that he found the golden plates which became the source of the Book of Mormon.  His 19^th century employer believed him and became one of the first converts to the new church.  However, the same cannot be said for the current owners.  The sign says people are welcome to look at the house, but that NO TOURS will be given. PLEASE RESPECT OUR PRIVACY!

The road north passes through the drumlins of the glaciers.  These are the first steep hills of any consequence we have traveled since the Rocky Mountains.  Once we clear these hills, we enter a vast area of apple orchards.  For as far as the eye can see, there are trees bearing red, yellow, russet, and green apples.  As we ride by, we brazenly pluck two apples from two trees.  They are sweet and fragrant and crunchy.  There is little traffic except apple wagons loaded with tens of 4’x4’ crates on their way to farm distribution warehouses.  Every so often, we pass orchards full of big Ford pick-up trucks and the oom-pah sounds of Mexican Norteña music.  Even more rarely, we see the pickers.  We wave and they wave back.

At the lake town of Pultneyville, we stop at a deli, where we are waited on by a bored teenager and are shocked by the high prices.  The deli was in a re-furbished barn, which had served as farmer’s coop for years.  Now it was decorated with sailor themes and all sorts of nautical kitsch. 

The landscape becomes decidedly hilly, the result of ravine like watercourses making their way to Lake Ontario.  About 4 miles from our destination for the evening, Sodus Point, another cyclist rides alongside us.  We see the plastic box pannier, the full beard.  Wes says, “Bruce!  We thought you’d be miles from here by now.”  The rider says, “I’m Scott.  Bruce is down in Ithaca now.”  As it turns out, this fellow was one of Bruce’s original riding companions---which is why their panniers matched and their beards were about the same length.  Upon closer inspection, he was more ruggedly built than Bruce and had more grey in his beard.  Bruce had told Scott about us.  He had wondered if he would see us.   We visited a bit.  He told us his destination for the evening was a full twenty miles beyond where we were going.  He also said that his girlfriend was “some miles back.  We might see her coming along.” With that, we all jumped on our bikes and rode as hard as we could down the steep hill in hopes of powering up the much steeper hill just ahead.  Scott clears the hill before we do and soon is out of sight.  We never did see the girlfriend.  We both thought it was strange that they were not riding together.  Our motto on this whole trip has been, “When you jump, I jump.”  It has meant that we have both had practice patience and adjust to each other’s rhythms and idiosyncrasies.

Sodus Point is small sandy point that began as a fishing village, but is now a center for pleasure craft.  It has long sandy beaches, made longer by the addition of the rocks of the original lighthouse after its demolition.  The rocks changed the flow of the water and built a quarter mile of sandy spit onto the point.  This spit is now completely filled with vacation and summer homes, most of them quite large and elaborate.  On either side of the point, there is docking for numerous sailboats and yachts.  The restaurants and dinner clubs cater to the boating set, with more dockage than parking.

We have made arrangements for a bed and breakfast stay.  When I call, our host tells us that they will be out of the evening, and that if we arrive after 5pm, we should just let ourselves in and make ourselves at home.  This is not the first time this has happened on the trip, but it always strikes this long-time resident of Detroit as remarkably trusting.   We get there before 5, so the question is moot.  The place was built in the 1870’s and has been wonderfully restored.  It is simple and elegant, quite a change from the overwhelming “thinginess” of last night’s lodging.  There are homey touches like fresh baked banana bread and warm cider.  Paul and his wife (whom we see for only one brief moment) have been innkeepers for just a few years after many years in Wisconsin.  Paul gives us guidance on places to eat, then hurriedly takes his leave.  We are alone in their big mansion. 

After a little while, we make our way to one of the dockside restaurants, where the local yacht club has just finished its business meeting and is now turning its attention to the more serious business of drinking and eating…and drinking some more.  They are keeping the lone waiter and single female bartender on their toes.  Finally, the waiter comes over and introduces himself as Eldrum.  He has an accent we can’t quite place. Nor do we recognize the origin of his name.  His hip-hop styling, earrings, and small goatee is a sharp contrast to the chino wearing white folks drinking and laughing across the bar.   We try to place the accent.  Portuguese?  Brazilian?  Could he be Macedonian?  Greek?  Nope.  None of the above.  He is Puerto Rican, born and raised in Brooklyn.  Sheesh.

The meal is okay and overpriced.  At the end of the meal, I order a brandy.  The waiter stares at me, “I’ll see if we have some.”  We see him in hot conference with the petite 20-something bartender.  A few minutes later, he returns with a whiskey glass filled to the brim with brandy. 

The next morning, our hosts have returned, although the only person we see is Paul.  As we visit over breakfast, we find out that Paul is retired from Cargill, where he worked in the meat processing division in Wisconsin for many years.   This sets off alarms for us, thinking of the turkey torture farm we had seen in Wisconsin, and our knowledge of the brutal labor struggles that have occurred in Wisconsin meat packing plants.  We proceed gingerly.  As it turns out, Paul was and still is active the humane treatment of animals movement.  He is the editor of the national journal and a close associate of Temple Grandin, whose pioneering studies on slaughter houses have utterly changed the industry.  It was Paul’s job to see that Cargill plants enacted these reforms.  We talk a long time about the ethics of meat production.  Paul understood perfectly why many people forswear meat, but he believed passionately that if animals are to be used for meat, the least we can do is reduce their suffering.  It was better for the animal, better for the worker, and better for the consumer.  Paul tells us that the use of intensive animal production is in a rapid decline throughout the industry.  We are heartened by our conversation and glad we decided to listen before judging.  If only we could always remember to do so.

The ride the next day is one super steep hill after another.  We are charging the hills, that is, peddling hard down a hill to provide momentum up the next hill.  This is fun for a while, but loses its charm after the 20^th effort.  After a while, my right knee is screaming on every pedal and I am cursing the routemakers when I see that there is a ridge ride just in from the coast that will move us along more quickly and with less effort.  Not too long before our lunch stop, I am reduced to walking my bike up the hills.  I am feeling surly and aggravated, walking my bike up yet another 8 percent grade, when we are overtaken by super skinny bicyclist traveling fast on a lightly packed road bike.  He is crossing the country on the Northern Tier and staying inn to inn, just as we are.  However, he had left Anacortes in mid-August and expected to reach the Bar Harbor within the week.  He rode 100-120 miles everyday, and had already covered 50 miles this morning.   Most touring cyclists will take the Anacortes to Bar Harbor journey in 70 days.  He will do it in 50.  It will take us 85.  I grump about needing to re-establish my hill-climbing skills after the easy rides of the last 1000 miles.  He says, “Oh, well, it will get us ready for the climb over the Appalachians,” then speeds off.

When we stop for lunch, the fast rider is already there.  He does not acknowledge our presence, just eats his food in silence, then is back on the bike without a look right or left.  My right knee is visibly swelling and I am crabby as person can be.  As we are getting ready to leave, two more ultra-bikers come to the restaurant.  I’m not fit for company, but Wes engages them and finds out that this route is notorious among biking professionals who use it for endurance training. 

The afternoon is a real pain in the knee.  Every hill has to be walked up, even small ones, because the slightest pressure sends shooting pains up and down my leg.  I am grateful that Wes is not Scott, leaving me to make my way as best I can while he rides away.  It is clear we have to stop soon and let my knee recover.  The closest town of any size is Fulton.  We will make our way there and take a day of rest.  Fulton is a revelation.  Although it is just a few miles away from the tony shores of Lake Ontario, and bustling acres of apples, there’s little prosperity, hope, or confidence in this little town.   The economic devastation rivals anything we have seen on this trip…or in Michigan.   We were there for two unforgettable days full of all sorts of lessons in the ways of American capitalism.  That will be the topic of the next post.

T+129: Navigating on the Erie Canal, Pt. 2.

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

 

T+128: Navigating on the Erie Canal

Centennial, Wyoming: Wes and I returned to our little cabin in the mountains of Wyoming.  We grin madly as we get the cabin open, sweeping up the jillions of dead flies, uncovering the furniture,  and getting the well started again.   Wes, whose emotions are always on his shirt sleeves, stops to jump for joy on occasion. We bask in the glow of domesticity. We delight in cooking in our kitchen, which we have completely stocked with food.   We enjoy cooking in my own pots and pans, and setting a candle-lit dinner, while listening to classical guitar of Sharon Isbin followed by Schubert’s suite for piano and flute.

Little things, like wearing slippers and a bathrobe, feel utterly delicious.  How nice it is to use my electric toothbrush and waterpik.  We both put on clothes from our drawers.  We are glad to get out of those dratted bike clothes.  We show each other how big our clothes have become.  I gloat, “I need to take in these pants!”  Wes pulls his pants’ waistband out several inches and says, “I gotta put another notch in this belt.”  All of this feels so good, but it is tempered by the recognition that we must maintain what we have learned (and earned) and not let the lessons and fitness of our journey slip away.

 

It takes a good while before we can get out of the shadow of the border.  We are following the Adventure Cycling route, and true to form, the route takes us away from services and the city, wending around back ways with a complicated set of turnings.   The route is following the highlands of the Niagara Escarpment, the tall ridge of granite encrusted limestone that runs all the way from Niagara through the Bruce Peninsula, forming the backbone of Georgian Bay.   Also true to form, Wes and I miss a critical turn and ride off the 300 foot escarpment.  At the bottom, we realize the error of our ways and are trying to figure out what to do, when we are joined by a slightly pudgy cyclist who pulls out of a pack of speeding road bicyclists.

He asks where we are going and if we have secured a place for the night.  We tell him that we are going to the Erie Canal and we don’t have a place yet.   He says that he would have offered us a place, but he is just 15 miles into a century ride, but if we want to get to the Erie Canal without the giant climb, we should take this road then take this alternative route to Lockport.   While we are there, we should go see the locks.  They are pretty amazing.

We thank him for his advice, and follow his directions, but think we won’t go see the locks.  We have seen the locks for the giant ships at Sault Ste. Marie, after all.  How interesting could these be?  Pretty damn interesting, as it turns out.  Using the route described by our friendly biker, we returned to the top of the escarpment where the pretty canal town of Lockport is located.  There, we were astounded to watch boats being lifted up from valley floor to the top of the escarpment. Through a series of 7 or 8 locks, each raised the boats about 15 feet.  No wonder the Erie Canal was the engineering marvel of the 19^th century.  It was impressive to watch when the locks were using electric pumps and hydraulics.  We still can’t understand how they did it in 1825.

After visiting with some former New Yorkers who currently live in Key West and have ridden their motorcycle up to see family, we make our way down the toll path.  Just as a note, the range and variety of people who ride motorcycles all over the country is amazing.  This couple was in their late 60’s; he was a former firefighter with slicked-back hair.  She used to work for the Catholic Church and is very religious.  I don’t believe I have ever been blessed with the sign of the cross so many times within a single conversation.

Riding the Erie Canal toll path is like entering a time machine.  The canal pre-dates almost everything around it.  Its construction changed both New York and the rest of the country.  We stop and read all the information markers.  While I had been given a rudimentary background on the Erie Canal during my elementary and junior high schooling, Wes did not.  However, we are both surprised to find out that the Erie Canal is responsible for New York state being called the Empire State, and New York City becoming the financial center of the country.  “Clinton’s Ditch”, as it was first called in derision of the governor who championed it, made boomtowns and millionaires wherever it went.  It made cities like Cleveland and Detroit possible, by bringing people and goods to the whole Great Lakes Basin. 

It went through three construction periods, growing ever larger, wider and deeper, and was still carrying barge traffic until the late 1950’s.  Some of the towns have successfully transformed from shipping to recreation and tourism towns.  Some have not.  As we bike along the smooth, flat, graveled surface, I look for buildings and businesses from the 19^th century.  There are quite a number of Federal style buildings (identified by their low second story windows) still being occupied.  There are an even larger number of stores and shops from the 1890’s, with their characteristic eyebrow windows and boxy shapes.  They bump up against houses from the 20^th century.  Occasionally, the Erie Canal passes by an outbreak of plastic land, that ubiquitous, ugly amalgamation of chain stores and fast food joints that ring small and large cities and towns alike.  We wonder how many of these pressboard and plastic monstrosities will be useable in 50 years, much less 200 years.

However, mostly it passes through quiet countryside, with the occasional village thrown in.  The first we visit is a town called Medina, where we have made last minute arrangements to stay at the Garden Bed and Breakfast.   After making arrangements with the bored proprietress, who hands us off to her sunburned and chatty husband, Wes and I ride into town for dinner.   The road to town passes by one gigantic mansion after another, with a very few derelict wrecks thrown in.  The downtown has been restored and has both cute shops and functioning businesses in its 1890 storefronts.  The town in just in the midst of restoring its massive 1906 opera house, which has sat empty for more than 50 years.  It is the last big piece of real estate sitting empty in the downtown area.  When we mention how impressed we were by the town and the efforts with the opera house, we get the first and only smile from our landlady, who sits on the board for the opera house restoration.

The next morning, I sleep in while Wes goes downstairs and has a meager breakfast with the hosts.  He asks about the many signs we have seen along the roads, including one on their drive, which says “Repeal New York SAFE act.”  When he does, the proprietress jumps up from the table and stomps from the room from the room saying, “Let’s not get into THAT!”  We find out later that there is big controversy about the gun registration law recently passed by the New York legislature.  Apparently, this is yet another example of what one fellow tell us is “legislation being forced down the throats of real New Yorkers by arrogant New York City and Long Island snobs.”  Resentment against downstate money and power is a constant, palpable theme in our interactions with upstate New Yorkers.  Many people said they wished that New York City would just secede from New York State.  I wonder if they would miss the city’s tax revenues.

 

The canal is a man-made river. The trees are just beginning to turn color, and the water is slow moving and as reflective as a lake.   Often it is high above the surrounding landscape, more like an aqueduct than anything else.  Natural rivers actually pass beneath it.  Even so, it has become a haven for all sorts of birds.  The second day of our ride along the Erie Canal, we spook eight great blue herons, who wait until we are practically alongside their perch, before they grumpily and majestically remove themselves to the other side of the canal.  We laugh at a braggart osprey, who after plunging down and successfully catching a wriggling fish, screams happily up and down the water before flying to its hidden nest.  He seemed to be saying, “Look! Look! I caught a big one!  A big one, I tell ya!”

After the commercial bustle of Medina, the next community we visit is Albion.  Our tires are taking a beating on the gravel path and need air.  I need more supplies to deal with the never ending pain and abrasion in my netherparts.  Albion has a finer collection of 1890’s brick storefronts than Medina.  The workmanship is better; the buildings are larger.  There is a sweep and presence to its canal side business district unseen in either Lockport or Medina.  However, that is where the similarity ends.  Most of the buildings are empty.  If they are being used, it is with marginal businesses like thrift shops.  There is a large social service presence with signs telling people where they can food or energy assistance.  We see a young mom, with a bad and grown out blonde dye job, pushing a stroller to an aid agency.  She is having a raucous verbal confrontation with a tattooed, baggy pants young man whom we assume is the father of the silent, big eyed toddler.

I find a car repair garage in a former livery barn.  Inside, a young man is covered in grease, working on a beater pick-up truck, while a grizzled old man with a patchy beard peers into the open hood and tells of the truck’s many problems.  They are unaware of me.  Finally, I say, “Excuse me, could I trouble you for some air?”  Startled, they both turn to look at me and they are even more startled.  I suspect middle aged female bicycle tourists are not common in these parts.  Actually, I suspect tourists are not common in these parts.  They recover themselves, and after wiping his hands, the young man fills all my tires with air.  We visit a bit, then I ask if there is drug store around here.  They puzzle for a minute, then remember, “There’s a Rite-Aid up on the highway about mile and half from here.  If you go up the hill over there, you’ll find it.”  As I get ready to leave, the older man calls after me.  “Make sure you don’t leave your bike unlocked when you go in the store, it’ll be stole for sure.”

When I tell Wes about the location of the drug store, he says, “Let’s just get out of here.”  Our creeped-out feeling was confirmed when we were making our way back to the canal path when two young men, sporting what looks like gang colors, flounce up to us, and grant us no room on the sidewalk to pass them.  We have to step into the street to get by.  After passing us, the more burly of the pair, goes out into the middle of the street and starts yelling something we can’t make out.  It is clear he is intoxicated.  From the second floor of a building we thought was unoccupied, another young man wearing a bandana head-wrap, pulls aside a board from the window, and yells back.  We think the street yeller might be making arrangements to pick up or get drugs later.   As we return to the canal, we see a derelict 19^th century mansion just above the toll path.  A group of about 6 young men, both African American and European-American, are sitting on the steps, passing a pipe.  We wave.  One fellow waves back.  We are glad to get out of there.

The contrast of this impoverished community with its active drug presence with the next town was quite stark.  Brockport has embraced its tourist and recreation present and is full of brewpubs, eateries, bookshops and the like.   Medina, Albion, and Brockport are only about 15 miles apart from each other.  We wonder about the civic culture in each town that has led them to their current state. 

The next day is also a study in contrasts as we traverse Rochester and its environs.  But that is a story for the next post.

Posted from Centennial, Wyoming

T+125: Fellow Travelers, Part 1

Return Mile 0: BROOKLIN, MAINE

Bar Harbor with Cruiser
 

The biking portion of our journey is really, truly over.  Yesterday, we drove our car to Bar Harbor (or as they might say here “drove th’ cah t’ Bah Hahbah”), where we had our bikes and Bobs boxed, and ate the most astonishing and delicious meal.  After wandering the tourist town which was full of German tourists who had just disembarked from a cruise ship, we looked at a variety of restaurants, but nothing appealed.  We asked one of the guys at the bike shop where we could get “some real food for real people.”  He thought for a moment, then leaned in as if to tell us a secret. “Well,” he whispered, “if you go down the driveway next to the shop, and go a little ways further, you’ll find a bagel shop.  You have to be nice to the German lady there, and you can get some of the best food you will ever eat.” 

We walked down the dirt alley, past a big fellow woodworking in the warm fall sun, into a rough courtyard, where there was a small, rather rundown building marked Bagel Factory.  Inside, there were two tiny tables, and one woman working the ovens.  We ask what kind of bagels she has, and she replies, “None.”  We were taken aback.  “But if you wait 4 minutes, I’ll have the next batch right out of the oven.”  Great.  I order poppy seed and Wes orders sesame.  We ask about the beans and rice scrawled on the chalkboard menu.  “That’s gone.  The only thing I’ve got is chili.”  That’s fine. “If you want something to drink, I have coffee, tea, and some hot spiced cider that has some hard cider in it, but I think all the alcohol has burnt off.”   We’ll have some cider too.

The fresh, hot bagels were the best I have ever tasted.  The vegie chili with tofu, dried tomatoes, and bits of fresh rosemary was deeply savory, and the cider crackling without being overly sweet.  While we are oohing and aahing over the simple, great food, while visiting with the proprietor/chef Agnes, another fellow comes in, tries to order the beans and rice, only to be steered to the chili by Agnes, with our enthusiastic endorsement.  Why the beans and rice dish is not erased from the board, I can’t say.  When we go to pay the bill, Agnes tots the charge and says $8.60.  Back at the bike shop, when we tell of our experience in this “only the locals know” diner, the bike guys nod. “Agnes is a treasure…and a master chef…you’ll never get better.”  We would have to agree.

But back in the story of our journey across the continent, we are still on the North Shore of Lake Erie, about to meet some of the most memorable people of the trip…..

 --------------------------------------

The back and forth cycling from the highway to the shore and back again has made for a very long day.  When we finally arrive in the town of Dunnville, the sun is glowing red on the horizon.  The town, with its crooked High Street and the Queen’s Gate Pub right on the corner, looks like it was lifted from Britain’s Midlands and plopped down in Canada’s flat farmlands.  We make our way up the river road to the one and only motel in this town of about 5,000 people.  The Riverview looks quite typical when we pull in and we think we are in for another night in plastic-land.  The room, however, was such a pleasant surprise.  Not only was it big, clean, and well-equipped (as well as reasonably priced), it has a really beautiful view of the lush and lovely Grand River not 30 feet out the window.   We open the curtains as wide as possible and watch the shimmering river turn red, then orange, then pink, then purple as the sun slips away.   We see geese, swans, and ducks.  In the distance, we hear the clattering of cranes.

Instead of walking into the quaint downtown, as recommended by our hosts Zina and George, we choose to go the Chinese restaurant next door.  The hostess is a very tiny, round faced woman with softly curled hair and a frightened expression.  Her English is quite limited and she seems new to her job, and perhaps to this continent.   She tries to steer us to the buffet, but that is more food than we want, so she seats us alone in a separate dining room away from the other guests.  This particular Chinese restaurant has a full bar, and lists a martini on the menu, which Wes decides to order.  The hostess had heard of a martini.   She runs into the next room and grabs the lone Anglo waitress, who comes back and asks, “What did you order?”  A gin martini, Wes replies.  The waitress says, “Well, I’ve never made one before, but I’ll give it a try.” 

Less brave souls would have rescinded their order at this point, but not Wes.   It takes several minutes and two more stops at our table, “What’s the other alcohol that goes in the drink?”  Vermouth.  “I don’t know if we have any vermouth…”  In the end, Wes got a chilled shot of gin with no vermouth and no olive or twist in whiskey glass.   Then the hostess forgot to put the drink on our bill, and ended up chasing us down in the parking lot as we walked back to the motel.   “Mister, mister…you need to pay for drink!”

Up the next morning, we have to satisfy Wes’ latte addiction, so we make our way to the teeming Tim Horton’s.  While enjoying our yogurt and coffee, a fellow comes up to us and asks if we are the owners of the bikes outside.   When we confirm we are, he launches into a big disquisition about how we need to get electric motors on those bikes.  “Sure does make goin’ up those hills easier.  But you want to know the best part?”  Sure, why not?  “You can go as fast as motorcycle with them motors, but you don’t have to get ‘em licensed like a motorcycle.  When I was living up by Toronto and had my license taken away, that’s what I did.  I got me an electric bike and I could go everywhere and didn’t think nuthin’ of it.” 

The fellow is a bit of a blatherskite and in the next few minutes, we find out that he is pro-windmill, anti-gun, thinks Canadian politicians are as crooked as American, calls his wife “The Boss”, and has a son in prison.  When we are leaving, he and “The Boss” are having a noisy confrontation over her desire to buy an ice cream birthday cake a week in advance.  “But, Honey, if you buy it now, you will just eat now and we’ll have to buy it again.”

Our powers of observation are not so keen, however, when we return to the highway.  Some miles later, when we haven’t returned to the lakeshore, and certain expected landmarks haven’t appeared, it finally dawns on us that the road sign has a crown on it, meaning we have been following Canada National Highway 3 instead Haldimand County 3.   We finally come to an intersection where we are faced with a choice: leave the national highway and take the long scenic way to Port Colborne, or take the short busy way to town.  Long scenic wins.

We have just turned the corner to return to the lake when another cyclist pulls up beside us.  He is a tall, lean, older man riding a mountain bike.  He asks about our trip and we begin a long conversation that takes us nearly to Port Colburne, where he lives in a beautiful house on the shores of Lake Erie.  His name is Chris.  He was raised in the wilds of Quebec 400 miles north of Montreal, in the French speaking outback near Hudson Bay.  He had come to this area at the age of 19.  He was 70 now, although he had the body and the bearing of a much younger man.  He had worked for years at the Nanticoke Generating Station, the continent’s largest coal powered power plant.  

We had cycled past this enormous—and shuttered-- edifice the day before and were shocked by the 20 foot tall pipes bringing water from the lake to plant.  When Wes asks Chris about the wind turbines, he responds by talking about how much he disagreed with closing the power plant.  He insisted that it was possible to use coal cleanly.  He also talked about the huge disruption created by closing the plant.  Not only were many thousands of union power plant workers released, but it affected all sorts of coal shipping jobs, railroad jobs, and power line transmission jobs.  The turbines weren’t adding the local economy at all, in his view.   Still, he was retired with a good pension and had turned his attention to becoming a wind surfer.  He said that the winds were quite odd this summer (as we had experienced this summer with our endless southeast winds).  On normal years, he said, westerly winds raised 20 foot waves on the eastern end of the lake where he lived.  It was considered one of the prime wind-surfing areas in the world. 

When we came to his house, he asked if we wanted any water, but we demurred.  (I wish we had; it would have been interesting to see his place).  Instead, we asked where was a good place to get something to eat.  He immediately mentioned a place we heard as the Eatery, but soon find out is Eataly.  The food is Italian and delicious and we find ourselves in conversation with a group of bikers both older and more out of shape than we are.   They are immodestly dressed in bikers’ jerseys and ask all sorts of questions about our trip and our equipment.  An older blonde woman spent a good bit of time trying to cajole her pudgy husband that THEY needed to take a bike trip, too.

After all our company leaves, and Wes and I have to make our way to the bike route which begins at the intersection of the Welland Canal, which connects Lakes Erie and Ontario and the Erie/Niagara Parkway.  We are crabby as hell.  This general malaise has occurred on and off throughout the trip.  There was not one thing either of us was doing right (according to the other), and the afternoon promised to be a long slog of sniping at each other as we pedaled along.  We had just made about 5 miles when a young man with full panniers pulls up beside us, engages us in conversation and changes that moment and the rest of the day, night, and next morning…

That is a story for the next installment….

Posted from Des Moines, Iowa