And Beyond

DEREK
Into the void we cycled–Algonquin Park is canoeist heaven. It seemed as if there was more lake area than land area. With so many ideal swimming holes, it was a shame that the weather remained uncooperative. When cycling through thunderstorms in wet clothes, swimming loses its appeal. So we blasted onward, stopping for a brief celebration when Erika reached one thousand miles on her odometer, thus completing her benefit ride for the Alzheimer’s Association! But she’s not ready to stop riding yet.



ERIKA

After twenty-nine days and only one day without cycling, I reached one thousand miles since Pawling, NY!

If You Don't Know, You Wilno

DEREK
We were relaxing on the deck of the Pickles and Quilts quilt shop and deli in Wilno, Ontario, catching up on emails, enjoying some coffee, groovin’ to some music, playing cards, reading books, and waiting to build up an appetite for dinner, when Helene, the owner, approached us with a proposition. She offered us dinner, laundry, a hot shower, and beds for the night in her lakefront home if we were willing to endure a twenty-minute drive with a couple of errand stops along the way. How could we say no?





We heaved our bicycles into her shop and vaulted ourselves into the car. Twenty minutes later, we rolled up to her lakefront paradise known as "The Answer." We were given the grand tour and our choice of any of the five queen-sized beds on the top floor. As soon as her husband, Kirk arrived from work, burgers were on the grill and the party was underway.


Unfortunately, the weather wasn’t cooperating and we decided to skip out on a cruise on their pontoon boat. Instead, we took a ride back into Wilno and joined the party at the local pub, where we enjoyed some live music and dancing.


Local artist "Dancing Andy," sketched our picture in the pub while the musicians rocked out nearby.

ERIKA
We had first noticed Dancing Andy when he got up to hang a woman’s portrait on the pub's bulletin board. I was impressed by how lifelike it was. Andy was dynamic: not a minute had passed by after he tacked up the portrait before he was grooving like a pro on the dance floor.


Helen and Kirk suggested that Derek and I be drawn. Dancing Andy was keen and took his work very seriously. We sat still together for half an hour.





DEREK
After a few more drinks and songs, we cruised back to the lake for a snug night’s sleep on a real mattress, with sheets and blankets to boot! The following morning was made complete with a satisfying and sizable breakfast. We were then chauffeured back to our awaiting bicycles at Pickles and Quilts, where Helene hooked us up with some Wilno t-shirts and drinks to go. Fantastic! Thanks to all the people of Wilno for showing us a good time!


We said our goodbyes and were off, refreshed and ready to take on Algonquin Park. But our plans took a sudden change as we cycled alongside Bark Lake. We were crossing a bridge when we took notice of a family laughing and hollering at the waterfront not far from the highway.


ERIKA
Rope swing! I thought as I rolled across the bridge watching some folks swinging into the water. A glance at the sky showed dark clouds, and an all-too-familiar feeling in the air said rain was coming soon. This is what happens when you go an entire month with only one rain-free day. You can smell it miles away; you can tell it like a clock.


We pulled into the dirt road by the lake, intending to find a place to pitch the tent. As we passed the clearing with the rope swing, we saw that the family was clearing out. There weren’t any private property signs, and no one was around except the occasional canoeist on Bark Lake. We ate dinner and jumped into the tent just as the rain started. Our timing was perfect.


Our quiet and rainy night went undisturbed by neither partying teenagers nor disgruntled property owners, and in the morning we waited for the clouds to part so we could swing in the sun. Sure enough, the sun came out and we were soon swinging like monkeys.


The setup was fantastic: a huge tree with massive roots sticking out in all directions sat high up, leaning out toward the water’s edge. A ladder had been built for climbing the six feet or so from the water level to the ground. We were having a blast.








After so many swings, I was ready for something more daring. I told Derek I was going to swing out as far as possible, as the rope was very long with a lot of potential for distance. I needed to get some momentum to do this, so I jumped up on the tree root I was standing on, intending to curl up and hold on while I was propelled far out onto the lake.


I did everything too fast, and hadn’t accounted for my hands being slippery with lake water. The extra force incurred on my hands was too much for them to hold on, so I swung a short curve before my hands slipped off and I fell, face down, SMACK onto the water, narrowly missing the edge of the bank.


DEREK
10! 10! 10! A perfect score six-foot belly flop complete with a resonant smack. At first I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or jump in and help. I couldn’t keep the laughter down as she waded back to the ladder, cracking up with embarrassment at what just happened. Slightly dazed and traumatized, we enjoyed a few more swings before departing towards Algonquin Park.


ERIKA
Later at a picnic table, an extremely gregarious squirrel approached us who seemed to want to say he liked our bikes. His name could only be Gunther. We forfeited the peanut butter he sought. Ask and you shall receive.

Gunther very much enjoyed the PB!

DEREK
We’re continuing westward, dodging the daily violent thunderstorms to the best of our ability, enjoying the remote beauty of the Muskoka region, at war with the mosquitoes, and hopeful for an improvement in the weather and a safe ride through northern Ontario.

Battle of the Blogs

ERIKA
Derek and I have decided to combine blogs, especially since we are now spending nearly every moment in each other’s company. After two days of rest in Ottawa, and a brief visit at the Otesha House, an organization that Derek was a part of for two months last summer, we began our venture into the back roads of northern Ontario. I've come to find out that this area is infested with mosquitoes, deer flies, and countless other flying and crawling things that when flying around one's head and landing on one's face can render a person incapable of performing even the simplest task. Each day, it is us versus them.

The first night after leaving Ottawa, we found a great spot by a lake where we could cool off for an evening dip. Little did Derek and his Dad know, I harbor an irrational fear of lakes. I went in anyway, as one of my countless futile attempts to overcome this fear. Derek plunged right in, swimming way out, wondering why I stuck close to the shore. When my pride got the best of me, I decided to forge bravery and hitch a ride on Derek’s back. Unfortunately, I nearly drowned him.

DEREK
With Erika in tow, I paddled with power and grace, effortlessly delivering her safely to shore. Following a gourmet Kraft Dinner meal, we partook in a stone skipping contest, in which my Dad was the undisputed champion.


We set up for a waterfront campfire, and just as the flames grew high, the mosquitoes arrived in a bloodthirsty happy hour frenzy. The flames were immediately extinguished and we sprinted to the safe haven of our tents.


My Dad had come to the conclusion that he had seen enough of the country and it was time for him to catch a plane back to Vernon. In the morning we said our goodbyes and parted ways. See you in a couple months Dad, thanks for the company!

ERIKA
Derek and I set out west, with our sights set on a small town not far past Algonquin Park called Magnetawan, where we plan to meet up with two of Derek's friends. We have about two hundred and fifty miles to cover in ten days, which leaves us a lot of slack.


While cycling on one of many back roads, the scent of nearby strawberry fields got us in the mood for fresh fruit. We stopped at a berry farm for an hour-long, quart-sized berry gorge. Just when we couldn’t think of eating another morsel, the owner of the farm started asking us about our loaded bikes. Amazed by our journey, she treated us to another pint of raspberries, which we graciously accepted.

DEREK
Quiet farm roads the following day led us to the Bonnechere Caves, a little-known tourist destination. For a small fee we joined a tour group that we followed ninety feet underground into the "young" 12,000 year-old abyss. In the claustrophobic darkness we traveled through the history and tales of the caves.

As fascinating as the caves proved to be, what we were more interested in was the rocky waterfalls that churned and crashed nearby.


As we enjoyed the scenery, I noticed how the rock shelves bordering the river would made an ideal platform for a tent. It was an opportunity that couldn’t be passed. Following our spelunking expedition, we stopped to visit the falls and have a snack. 

We washed up in a surprisingly warm pool of water at the edge of the river while trying to stay out of view from the waves of camera toting tourists passing by on the opposite side. Our original plan of laying out our sleeping bags directly on the rock shelf, and spending the night tent-free, was foiled. True to their schedule, out came the mosquitoes with an aching hunger, and we were driven back into the safety of the mesh. But luckily, we were still able to enjoy the stars, as the sky was open and the tent fly remained rolled up. Mosquito issues aside, we still had the pleasure of a nearly perfect night.

ERIKA
The following day, we supposed we would zip through Eganville, but the rain had other plans for us. We made a pit stop at the Country Store, where we drank coffee and hung out on the couch. After a sufficient rest, Derek said, "Ready to go?" A look out the window showed rain, lots of it. We decided to wait it out. But how would we occupy ourselves?


Derek trying out the Inversion Table at the Country Store in Eganville:



It didn’t take long before "Popeye the Good News Man, Ambassador for Jesus," selected us as his new students. With no escape route in sight, we were made to listen to tales of his truck-driving days in New York, stories involving armed robberies and thieving prostitutes.

DEREK
Maintaining a conversation with someone like Popeye is simple enough. With a bit of eye contact, the occasional nod, and a few affirmative grunts, the one-sided discussion can flow for hours. But in time, this becomes draining and we begin searching for an escape route. "Wow, look at the time!"


But as luck would have it, a man with a striking resemblance to Willie Nelson stepped in and took over for Popeye. With what started as a conversation about camp stoves quickly escalated into a full-on demonstration of how to properly wash windows, with a piece-by-piece explanation of every tool needed to make a storefront display window shine and sparkle like crystal.


What I was really hoping to see was not clear glass, but clear skies. Although this seemed doubtful, there was a break in the rain, so we jumped on our bikes and fled Eganville as quickly as possible. It was imperative that we put some distance between ourselves and this exceedingly verbose village. We needed some peace and quiet.


Now we’re relaxing in the town of Wilno, famous for carrying the title of "Canada’s first ever Polish settlement." Here’s a shout out to all you people of Poland.

DERIKA
Bye for now!

Oh Canada

The scope of the trip has changed since I met up with Derek and his Dad in Lévis, a small city across the river from Québec city. Since then, we've been cycling forty to seventy miles every day until today...hence why I haven't posted until now. 

At a campground a few nights ago, we were all set up and the sky was nearly black. I was treated to a haircut by Derek Scissorhands who tackled my wig with but a tiny pair of folding scissors, and I was examining my new trim when Derek said, "Hey, there's a cat!"


My eyes darted in the darkness and landed on a small, pale figure slinking about our camp. At first our visitor seemed shy, but we were too interested to let her off the hook. This was not a mangy stray with matted fur or a foamy mouth. This was a healthy, beautiful kitten.


It didn't take much coaxing before she was in Derek's arms purring. We were bemused. Where did she come from? Her coat was soft, and she wasn't thin, but no collar. With so many other folks staying at the campground, so many possibilities of an owner, we didn't know what to do with her.




I've long dreamed of finding a pet out on the road that could to ride with me on bicycle tours. As I sat there stroking this precious, purring ball of fur, I imagined this kitten, Derek and I traveling through Québec farm country with Kitty riding in a basket on the handlebars, ears flapping in the breeze--


Derek snapped me out it. "We can't keep her. Maybe we should leave her by the bathrooms. Hopefully someone might adopt her."





I reluctantly trudged with them to the bathrooms where Derek set her down in a lit area. We watched as she sniffed the grass and rolled in the dirt. She seemed okay. Derek pulled me away before I could change my mind.

At one campground after passing through Montréal, we were pleasantly surprised to find lovely riverside accommodations. After hiding in our tents during a short downpour, we stepped outside to find a FULL RAINBOW right in front of us, resting on the Saint Lawrence River.

(Sorry, I can't find the other half, but I swear it was a FULL rainbow.) 




So far we have visited three of the biggest cities in Canada: Québec, Montréal, and Ottawa. Floundering in French has been fun. Now in Ottawa, where everything is half French, half English, I find myself missing the chaos and confusion of trying to get by in a land where I don't speak the language. Derek mainly misses the poutine.

It's has been a different kind of experience cycling with two others. There are pros and cons to it, but mostly I feel safer and more secure because I know that no matter where we end up, we'll be together.

From Park Bench to Room Service

On Thursday I passed through the U.S.-Canadian border at Rouses Point, which is situated at the northern tip of Lake Champlain, where New York and Vermont meet. My introduction to Canada was less than hospitable.


I queued up with the cars and crawled forward, waiting to approach the border guards. I wasn't worried. Who would suspect I was hiding something when I barely had enough room my panniers for peanut butter?


"Pazzeport, please," said the young, French, male border guard who, little did I know, would soon become intimately acquainted with my personal life. By the look in his eye, it seemed he was not accustomed to (and perhaps not fond of) twenty-year-old girls bicycling alone across his border.


I delivered my passport, and after some scrutinization of my setup, he asked me if I had any weapons. I told him I carried a few different knives, plus pepper spray. The pepper spray raised an eyebrow.


"Zat is illegal in zis country. Step aside please. Go over zer," he said, pointing to what looked like an empty car wash stall. I wasn't worried. I had nothing to hide. He told me to empty all of my bags onto the table, which was quite a hassle, but everyone knows you don't argue with someone who speaks another language, because, well, you can't.


Seemed like a lifetime before he came to check my belongings. In the meantime, he had taken my pepper spray. I was not happy about it. That small piece of plastic with some mystical ooze in it gave me a great sense of security oftentimes while riding through certain areas. I always kept it clipped onto my shirt, and more than once I had grabbed it when I heard a dog barking at me and thought it was going to come chasing after me. Thankfully, I never had to use it.


When he returned to hand me a receipt for the destruction of my pepper spray, he took the liberty of shuffling through all of my belongings. It turned out the item of greatest interest to him was my journal. He flipped through the pages with increasing eagerness, eventually settling on a date I guessed to be about a week beforehand. We then stood there in silence for several minutes as he read my journal.


I sort of giggled to myself. I thought, a French Canadian border guard is reading my private thoughts, and there is nothing I can do about it. 


When all was said and done, he asked me if I had a map of Québec.


"I don't," I said.


"You are very unprepared," he sneered, but didn't give me a map. On that note, I was set free into the marvelous Québec countryside. Free, but feeling a lot less safe without my pepper spray.

I made it to Saint-Jean-sur-Richelieu, QC by evening, where I rolled around, lost, until about 11 PM when I crossed a bridge and came upon a park in Iberville. I sat on a bench facing the river, the city lights casting a beautiful reflection on the water.





With no one in the vicinity and feeling relatively safe, I lay my head on the bench and contemplated the stars. This must be what it feels like to be homeless, I thought, and closed my eyes.


At 4:30 AM, with birds chirping and the sky beginning to light up, I awoke. I was freezing, mostly because and my legs were covered in dew. A cold sweat coated the inside of my jacket. Yuck. Looking around, the only sign of life I could see was an ambulance parked about twenty feet away. Someone inside was watching a movie on a laptop. I wondered if they might have thought to look out for me. Teeth chattering uncontrollably, I pedaled out of the park in search of something hot to drink, and to find a bus stop.


An hour later, cured of the chills, I took a seat on the sidewalk at a bus stop, to wait for a bus that would hopefully come, that would hopefully be able to carry my bike, that would go to the central bus station, where I would take another bus to Montréal, where I would catch another bus to Québec city. I had made the decision to take a shortcut and join paths with Derek sooner than we had originally planned.


Three hours later, the bus came. The driver spoke no English, but made it clear that I was not allowed to put my bike on the bus. He drove away, and I stood there, helplessly, wondering what to do next. A minute later, a retirement-aged couple rolled past on bicycles. "Excusez-moi! Parlez-vous Anglais?" I said.


"Oui!"


After a sorry explanation of my situation, they told me that the central bus station was confusing to get to, but not to worry, they would take me there. What a relief. We rode several kilometers to the station. Once we were there, I went in to get a ticket. Just when it seemed everything was going to work out, the woman at the counter told me that their buses do not transport bikes, but the ones out of Montréal do.

I thought, well, Montréal can't be too far.


I went outside to relay this to the couple, who were waiting like saints to make sure everything turned out okay. They replied, no problem, they would lead me to a direct road toward Montréal, which would connect with a bike path into the city. It sounded easy enough. I followed them a few more miles before we parted ways, thanking them for going so far out their way for me, and waving enthusiastically until they disappeared from view.


Twenty kilometers later, after some confusion (and redirection from yet another stranger), I found the bike path. Almost there! I thought. I soon came to a directional sign: "Montréal, 17 km." Hm...well, okay. No problem.


Two kilometers later on the path, I came to a closed gate. It appeared that the bike path ended there. I could not believe it. I stood there, wondering what to do next. One minute later, a man on a bicycle came around the closed gate from the side that was closed and said something in French. Then, sensing my confusion, in English, "This path is closed."


"But," he said, "we can go over the bridge and ride on the other side."


I said, "I'll follow you."


He let me cycle with him (or perhaps he had no choice) the remaining distance, nearly into Montréal. It was a good thing, too, because I am certain I would have gotten lost with the numerous twists and divergences from the path that only someone familiar with the area would know how to navigate. He knew the way to the bus station in Longueuil, from which I could get to Québec City. He was even so kind as to go right up to the ticket counter with me. He did all the talking, and after transactions were completed, a firm handshake, and an earnest thank you, I was so relieved and grateful for my luck, for these angels who appeared to assist me.


After a lively conversation with my Mom, detailing the events of the day, she convinced me to get a hotel room. Within a few hours after reaching Québec, I found a room at the chic Hotel Pur, near the river.


Then this morning, I ordered breakfast in bed. Picked the Frenchest thing off the menu. Whatever it was, it was delicious.

Adirondacks

On Sunday evening I had passed through the town of Crown Point, NY, and expected to make it to Westport before nightfall. Cycling along 9N, I noticed Lake Champlain glistening through the trees. I had to get a better look.

Ditching my bike in the grass and ducking into the bushes, I came out onto a large boulder. The scenery was magnificent. Gentle ripples lapped at the rocky shore, which was lined by train tracks. Every so often a speed boat would pass, but other than that, no one was around. My cell phone was out of service, so unfortunately I could not let my Mom know where I was, which I was supposed to do each night.

The rock itself, roughly cubic in shape and about fifteen feet tall, appeared a perfect place to sleep. It had a crease just deep enough to serve as a sort of bed, and it would take a lot of rolling for me to fall off in the middle of the night. The only issue was that I would not be able to sleep in my tent, in case of rain or other hazards that might cause me to slide off the rock.

I decided to be brave and go tent-less. I set up my sleeping arrangements, took some photos, did laundry, and splashed around in the lake. As the full moon rose and I snuggled up in my sleeping bag, I could hardly believe I'd found this ideal spot. Night set in, and the traffic on the road (about thirty feet away) thinned out. I considered the possible risks:

1. Someone could come upon my spot and we might have an unpleasant encounter.

2. A wild animal could smell the food in my panniers, and decide to have a midnight snack, which would scare the shit out of me and cause me to catapult off the rock.

3. I could get hurt somehow, and if I couldn't get help, I could die because no one would know where to look for me.

At first, #3 weighed most heavily on my mind. Besides, I knew my Mom would worry no matter what, as I was supposed to call her and hadn't. I thought more about wild animals. What kinds of things lived around here? I wasn't sure. I assumed black bears, and I can't say I felt comfortable with them, but what really occupied my unfortunately vivid imagination were wolves.

A scene played over and over in my mind: I would awake in the middle of the night to a group of hungry wolves surrounding my sleeping bag. Snarling, they would move in and I'd be forced off the rock. I'd tumble down and land with a splat on the railroad tracks, where they would pounce and eat me alive.

With my headlamp on and pepper spray gripped tightly in hand, I lay there, wide-eyed, considering all of this. Feeling a hot rush of adrenaline every time I heard something move in the bushes, I realized that if I were to stay, I would not be able to get any sleep.

It must have been about ten p.m. when I decided that this was not going to work. I opted to go on foot rather than bike in the dark. I grabbed my hydro pack with my essentials in it, and with my survival knife and pepper spray each in hand, I climbed down from the rock, leaving everything else behind, to search for help.

With my headlamp and a full moon to light the way, I took off north down the railroad tracks. Scared, and with no idea where I was going, I ran until I reached a dirt road. I continued on the dirt road, which luckily led back to 9N. On the road I switched directions, and started running south (intending to stay as close as possible to my rock), and took mental notes on the houses as I ran past them. Most were dingy-looking and unkempt, with paint peeling off the shutters and patches of weeds serving as lawns. When I came upon a piece of property that looked decent by comparison, I decided to investigate. It appeared to be the home of a retired couple. When I knocked on the door a craggy old man in boxer briefs answered.

"I'm really sorry to bother you, but I hoped that I could borrow your telephone to call my mother." He looked skeptical, but went to fetch the phone.

After a short conversation with my Mom, I returned the phone and asked if I could stick around until daylight. Ignoring my request, he directed me to a nearby campground. I thanked him, though I was just as scared as before, and ran back north on 9N. I wasn't confident about the existence of the campground, but I kept going, as my options seemed slim.

I finally came to a campground sign and wandered in. I approached the first person I saw still awake. It was a man, probably about sixty years old.

"Hi, I'm really sorry to bother you, but..." and went on to explain my predicament in the simplest way I could put it.

"Well now I don't quite understand," he started with an eerie southern drawl, all too reminiscent of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. "What are you doing out here all alone?" he asked accusingly.

I explained it all again, getting agitated that he couldn't understand what I was asking. "I hoped I could stay around this campsite where there are people until daylight when I can go back to my stuff and continue on." I knew it was an odd thing to ask.

"You see now, around here, people don't do things like that. Where are you from? How old are you?"

Realizing this was a waste of energy, I said goodbye and walked away.

I noticed a group of six people, thirty-somethings, sitting around a campfire. I approached them, delivered my story, and waited in awkward silence for a response. When they finally said yes, I burst into tears, embarrassed at how silly I must have sounded when I said, "I had a nice camp spot by the lake, but I got scared of wild animals and came here instead." They agreed to let me sleep in the back of their car. I was utterly relieved.

I was holding their flashlight as they cleared a place for me when a tall man approached from the side. "Hello there," he said, his face only half visible from my flashlight.

"Hi," I said, with a sinking feeling in my gut.

"My name is Officer —, K-9 unit, how are you doing tonight?" he said with a detectable Bronx accent. I noticed the creepy chainsaw guy standing at bit back from us. 

"Would you like to go for a walk?" he said. By this point I was so screwed up in the head I believed he might not be an officer at all, but actually a murderer working for the chainsaw guy, who had killed a real cop and was wearing his uniform.

The first man I spoke to turned out to be the campground caretaker, and he had called the police. From the information I'd given him, I appeared to be a "runaway." After a load of questions from the officer and a phone call to my Mom, this proved untrue, though it left me bitter and wondering what the difference was, according to them, between myself and a runaway.

After a teary-eyed phone conversation with my mom in the campground office, in which I told her all the scary details I'd left out in our conversation earlier, the police officer asked if I'd like him to help me go search for my stuff back at the rock. Then the chainsaw guy said I could set up camp there at no charge when I got back. The night was beginning to turn around.

When the officer asked how far from we were from my stuff, I estimated it to be about a mile. We hopped into his K-9 SUV with German Shepard on guard in the rear, and took off down the road in search of my rock. I directed him onto the dirt road, we drove for maybe half a mile, and parked when we couldn't go any further because we'd met the tracks. "Ready to go for a walk?" he asked.

"Yeah!" I said, too enthusiastically. We started south down the tracks.

It turned out the officer knew a little bit about bikes. So we talked about that, among other insignificant things while we trudged through the darkness, unacknowledging the present ridiculous task.

"Are we getting close?" he asked. It turned out that I had run further than originally estimated.

"Almost there," I said less than confidently.

When we came to the general area, I must have led him back and forth five times, each way getting more frustrated that I could not locate my rock. Everything looked different in the dark, and aside from the moon, all we had to light the way was the weak flashlight I had accidentally taken from the folks who were about to put me up for the night in their car. Why didn't he have a flashlight of his own? I didn't ask.

I suggested that we climb up to the road to search from there, because with a flashlight shining into the woods, it would be easier to spot the reflectors on my bicycle, which I'd locked to a tree. He agreed, and we ascended haphazardly upward through the darkness of rocks and trees.

Walking along the dark road, it wasn't long before we spotted my bike. We hurried over, and when we came out onto the rock, he looked around and said, "Wow...you've got quite a spot here." The fact I had planned to camp illegally didn't seem to be an issue. I didn't mention that either.

Once I'd collected my stuff, we set off walking down 9N toward the car, him lighting the way with the flashlight, and me wheeling my bike behind. He called a friend, who met us on the road in a small sedan. The officer thought I could put my bike inside so we could get back to the K-9 vehicle quickly. I told him my bike wasn't going to fit. He was anxious to get back to his vehicle as soon as possible for some reason, so we decided that I would cycle the rest of the way while he drove back with his friend. They took off, and I was left alone again pedaling in the darkness, thinking this night couldn't get any more bizarre.

As the night came to end, I relaxed inside of my tent in the campground, grateful for a safe place to lay my head, at least for one night.

Between the Raindrops

July 4th
Church field campsite in Kingsbury, NY. Went in and asked if I could camp out here. Church woman seemed skeptical but said sure.


July 5th
At the division line of Adirondack State Park. Something foreboding about this place.





A spectacular campsite I chanced upon:





Not long after this photo was taken, my perfectly picturesque spot turned into a nightmarish tale so horrifying, so ridiculous, so embarrassing...that I will have to save that story for the next post.

Encounter with the Law

As it went, I spent the rest of last night after laundromat fun in the Central Albany Police Station, as it seemed like the safest place to hide out until daylight. It had gotten too dark to ride any further while I was still in the city, and I was not wanting to ride through the outskirts after dark.


"Where are you headed?" the officer asked.


"Montréal," I said.


"By yourself?"


This conversation always amuses me, because I know beforehand what the reaction will be: a look of disbelief.


I had the bench in the front lobby to myself, but it had an armrest in the middle so I could not stretch out. Never before have I had so many cramps in various parts of my body. I dreamt of a soft sleeping bag as the television droned through the night.


Before I left this morning, I asked the officer how often he hears of something happening to a person on a bicycle tour. "Not often," he said. I suspect he never has.


We got to talking about why it is that some people are horrified by the idea of traveling alone on a bicycle. He said that they probably imagine a perilous journey, constantly fighting the weather, traffic, and scary people. I would say that yes, these dangers do exist, and must be confronted on a regular basis, but this usually accounts for about 5% of riding time. The other 95% is pleasant, refreshing, or challenging/rewarding.


Northward ho!

Soggy Starts

Ferocious rain storms have caused a bit more adventure than I bargained for. But right now I'm at the College of Saint Rose in Albany, mostly dry, and have shelter for the next three and a half hours. After that, I'm headed for the laundromat. After that, who knows.


Picking up where I left off, I departed the Hillside Firehouse Tuesday morning and cycled along Route 9 until Livingston. Then it started to rain, and I heard thunder in the distance. I called my Mom to check the weather, and she said the storm was expected to last for days, so I decided to suck it up and and try to make into Hudson or somewhere close, maybe hide out in a diner if it got really bad.


A mile from Hudson, the wind and rain picked up, and the lightning began crashing closer. Flying down a hill with the rain hitting me like pebbles, my glasses acting as a windshield without wipers, I thought, I've got to get out of this. Sopping wet and cringing with every lightning strike, I wheeled my bike across a lawn to a nondescript blue-gray building with no visible signs of what it contained. It had an awning above the front door, and that's all I cared about.


But as I rolled my bike up the walk, there happened to be a woman peering out the glass. She appeared surprised to see me out there and opened the door to let me in. Her name was Lisa, and she was saying to me, "What are you doing?" as she somewhat reluctantly led me into her office. We got to talking about my predicament. Before I knew it, she was making a phone call to hook me up with her friends Joe and Linda, who lived on a farm just north of Hudson, about five miles away.


By about 4:30 PM, the rain had subsided and I had my directions. I thanked Lisa and her coworkers, and was on my way. I hadn't made it even a mile before my rear wheel for some reason became impossible to turn, and I found myself squatted on the side of the road trying to figure out what the problem was. I kept releasing and retightening the wheel, hopping back on and trying to get moving again. Every time, the alignment would slip left, and I'd be stuck again. I thought it might have had something to do with riding in the rain. Then the storm returned.


After a struggle involving all my stuff falling into the mud twice, getting dirt in my mouth, and in the process getting soaked all over again, a pickup truck pulled into the parking lot. I saw a hand wave through the wet, foggy windshield. It was Lisa. She ran out, and before I could even explain, all of my belongings were being tossed into the truck, and we were off to the farm.


On the way there, Lisa told me she had been on her way home, and it was a lucky thing that I had broken down where I did, because if I had gone another mile, Lisa would have turned and never seen me.


Joe and Linda turned out to be an interesting couple. They spend their days working at a soup kitchen in Hudson, regularly feeding at least one hundred people. They have an extra house on their property that they are working on turning into a shelter for disabled veterans. They offered me a shower, dinner, and a couch to sleep on, all of which I graciously accepted. The next morning, I was on my way.

Thanks Joe and Linda!


I was on my way by eight a.m., and to my relief, the sun shone all morning and early afternoon, and the sky was a promising light blue.


On the bridge over the Hudson River into Albany, I met a group of four Canadian bicycle travelers from Ottawa. We exchanged some greetings, I gave them a map I no longer needed in the direction they were going, and they gave me a Canadian flag pin, as today is Canada Day. I had no idea!




Once in the city, I decided to take a detour and visit my old high school. To my delight there were plenty of people around who remembered me. It was great to catch up with folks I haven't seen in three years.