Day 56. Erie to Irving, NY, 72 miles

I woke up a little before 6 to the sound of waves. As I ambled toward the bathroom for my morning ablutions, a squad of women was sweeping the leaves and sand off the road and cleaning the common areas. Sara’s Campground is, it appears, a pretty well-oiled machine.

I headed out into the morning around 8:30, NY-bound. To my last region: the East! (Is PA in the East? I guess it must be, and thank you for noting the milestone, Wendy!) Though it isn’t always trail—sometimes just a shoulder and signs telling cars to share the road—I was on PA Bike Route Z, which was nicely signed. This is a plus, since the turn-by-turn cues are glitching a bit on my device. When “128.7 miles until next cue” came up, I thought to myself “that’s an awfully long distance between cues; that’s unusual, especially in denser places.” Turns out the device maybe didn’t catch some cues? In any case, I have the device map to guide me, as well as paper maps, and it’s been fine so far.

I made a quick stop for snacks. The yogurt bar is not very good, but I’ve gotten it a couple of times for virtue. The hint was a boon, tucked away on one row of the top shelf of the drink cooler.

There was some public art. This piece was titled “The Blue Frog (I’m in Love With).”

It was hot as heck. In keeping with the grand human trait of loving to give bad news—“lotta steep hills coming up, whew!” or “hot and rainy today!”—one of the women at the campground had told me it was supposed to top 90. Spoiler alert: it did. I worked on keeping myself sunscreened and hydrated and practiced my panting.

I ran across a cemetery and cremation garden (?), also called a “garden of memories.”

I was taking a photo of the sign and puzzling over the cannon pictogram, when I caught sight of an historical marker on the median of the boulevard I was riding next to.

Oboy, and now this story. I’d seen a bike tourist up ahead at some point, and because it turns out I really mostly don’t want to see tourists going in my direction I’d slowed down a bit; I was within 30 minutes or so of a break, and I figured by the time I was done they’d be long gone. And it seemed to work! But then I hit the New York state line, and when I slowed to take a picture I realized that—of course—dude was there, taking a picture. He’d been talking to some motorcyclists across the road, but walked back over when he saw me coming and stopped right in front of my bike. We greeted each other, and I said I was just stopping for a quick picture. He offered to take one of me and the bike, and I said a friendly no thanks; he brushed me off and reached for my phone. “Come on, what kind of cycle tourist doesn’t want their picture taken with the sign??” Before I could stop myself, I said “The kind of cycle tourist who doesn’t like to be told how to do it.” Whoops. But also true. He apologized for his presumption, and we chatted slightly awkwardly for a couple of minutes; he complained about the boring flatness, told me a major storm system was coming, then took off, and I let him get out of sight before moving on. I’m not sure how I come out looking here, honestly, and I clearly already didn’t want to be interacting with the poor guy independent of his own merits or lack thereof. But that shit made me bristle.

I stopped for a sit break in the shade.

In Westfield I saw a small lighthouse.

I took a sit break in a largely Polish and half-empty (of graves) cemetery with a breathtaking view of Lake Erie behind a tangle of trees and brush; because of the bluffs, there’s no real lake access, which I guess makes it less valuable real estate. Speaking of which: so many vineyards! I did not know they were growing all these grapes up on Lake Erie! I passed vineyard after winery, and the shoulder was stenciled with bottles marking stops on a wine tour.

The elevation continued, with about 1700 feet of total climbing for the day and a few hundred less of descent; I’m climbing toward Niagara Falls, presumably. I sweated my way to Evangola State Park, where Joyce and I have stayed twice before. During our first, memorable stay, a high school graduation camping trip was transpiring, but the cop making rounds (?) kept busting the teens with beer and ultimately made them stand in a circle and pour it all out. The irate teen peeling out of the parking lot, shouting “This SUCKS!” has become part of the lexicon of bike tour and beyond. The second time we were there, there was also a cop; he told us some guys drunk and high on Xanax had driven their car off the bluff, but they were fine. This go-round was much less exciting, about which I have no complaints. I walked down to the beach and, still sticky from my ride pre-shower, waded into the lake to cool down. Em noted the other day that nothing beats this after a hot ride, and she was 100% correct.

For the third night in a row, I got to fall asleep to the low roar of lake surf, and if that isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.