Category: 8. Orchard Park, NY to Ticonderoga, NY

I woke up once at 3 to a tiny stampede of feet and rustling foliage outside my tent. I wasn’t alarmed; as Andrew commented, bears are not surreptitious creatures. And my food was in the bathroom. But I did want to make sure my dismissal of raccoons in my previous post hadn’t summoned legions now prodding my panniers with their strangely hand-like paws. Nope. It was likely ground squirrels. I got back in my tent and promptly fell right back asleep. In the morning, all was cool fog and soft edges. My tent was, miraculously, pretty much dry but for the footprint. I packed up slowly and a little regretfully: this is definitely one of my favorite campsites of the trip. Before leaving, I sat looking out at what had been the lake before a curtain of mist obscured it, and a tiny hummingbird came and did its business with the water flowers.

And then I set off into the morning. It was chilly enough that I didn’t mind some hard work first thing, a good frame of mind since I climbed right away from that pretty little lake.

I did some leisurely riding, with ups and downs and all of it pleasant. The sun came out and burned off the fog, but it was that perfect temperature where you kinda want to be in the sun because it’s warm, but shade feels nice too.

I was starting down a hill and saw a couple of cars parked in a pullout, which was odd because there was no sign indicating a parking area; I glanced over and saw a waterfall down the embankment. Screeeeech. (Not actually—my brakes are doing great; thank you, Steve.) I pulled over, spotted the trail to the falls, stashed my bike, and trotted on down.

Magic. There were a couple of sets of small falls, and I was warm enough from the climbing and the sun to take advantage. I found myself a rock, took off my shoes, and hung out for a while cooling my toes and listening to the water. Then I clambered around for a bit before heading back to my bike to continue the day’s ride.

It was hilly, but nothing I couldn’t handle. Mostly it was just pretty and rural; real towns were a fair distance apart. I wish you could smell it. [Insert my customary lament about the non-existence of smell prints.] It’s a piney smell, but not that sharply astringent winter pine smell (which I also love!). The heat mellows it and makes it muskier and rich, and I keep breathing deeply just to inhale the scent.

More lakes, including Paradox Lake, whose main paradox appeared to be the large stretches of its beach that were private and this sign I had to practically bushwhack my way to.

There is a state park, so maybe that’s it? Or what’s left of it? Perfunctory internet research turned up nothing, unsurprisingly.

I arrived outside Ticonderoga late afternoon, still lollygagging, because I could.

The Brookwood RV Resort was expensive (more than Joyce and I paid for motels when we started touring!) and perfectly pleasant. The store sold good single beers!

But also the shower cost 50 cents and its water pressure was the worst. The worst of the trip, of any campground, of maybe my life.

As I finished my ablutions around 8, it started pouring, so I hid out in the bathhouse until it stopped then dashed to my tent for the night.

Today was great. The Adirondacks are great. Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt.

It was cool and overcast for much of the day, which was grand. I didn’t drip sweat once. Because Andrew and I split up some days here and because I decided to turn my fifth planned rest day into shorter penultimate and final days, I am moving at a very relaxed-feeling pace. I have one 70-mile day, but the rest are all mid-50s and below. When the very warm and lovely owner of a market/outdoor rental place near my campground told me to savor the final days, it was nice to be able to say “I am, I will.” She had been running the place for 29 years and was getting toward wanting to have her own summer adventures. I enjoyed the heck out of talking with her while I downed a coconut water (“con trocitos!”). She also told me that they don’t usually see things slow down for another two weeks, but while they’re definitely still seeing higher traffic post-COVID, the season looks like it’s already ending. Selfishly, I hope this means Bar Harbor and Acadia aren’t so mobbed, both for the sake of traffic and camping and for Andrew’s and my day of touristing.

I was anticipating a hard day. A few days ago I’d read the map’s road conditions summary, and the final line had stuck in my head: “East of Lake Ontario it gets hilly, east of Old Forge mountainous.” I mean, OF COURSE: mountain ranges tend to be that way. And, frankly, I’d found the last day on Ontario pretty dang hilly anyway. But the line had stayed with me, and I went into the day expecting it to be tough like those 13% grades. It wasn’t? I dunno. I climbed a lot, though not as much and steeply as I will. It wasn’t hot. It wasn’t that hard. I didn’t have tons of miles to cover, so I could take breaks at my pleasure.

The wind seemed mostly low; I couldn’t really tell where it was coming from, which was fine. Which was great! It didn’t matter much in terms of speed; with 3900 feet of climbing by the end of the day, it was a slow one for good stretches. But also 32 mph at a couple of points! And only 32 because I was pumping the brakes–there were some sweet, fun downhills.

I rode through a string of lakes called Fulton Chain; there are so many lakes that they just number them instead of naming.

Which turns out to be a better approach than they took to naming other bodies of water.

At the top of one hill I took a break to gaze at a lake, and as I was gazing a pair of riders came up. Brian and Jamie, retirees from Maine and Colorado respectively, are doing a loosely itinerized westbound tour, currently headed toward the UP. He was new to touring, but Jamie was a veteran, having ridden the Natchez Trace, the Pacific coast, and the continental divide, among others. She was so cool, and I hope to be her when I keep not growing up. We exchanged some stories and intel from the road and then parted ways.

In a town called Inlet I stopped for a sit break. Andrew, knowing I love loon calls, had asked if I heard any at Nicks Lake, but sadly I hadn’t. That was remedied in Inlet.

I passed through Blue Mountain Lake and Long Lake. So much water! 💙

I had originally intended to camp near Long Lake, but the riding was beautiful and I had a short day, so I decided to go 15 miles or so more to Newcomb, where there was another NYS campground at Harris Lake.

A strange thing happened while I was riding. As I was about to head out from a break, a solo female passed by headed in my direction. I let a minute or two pass, figuring either she’d get ahead and lose me or, assuming I caught up, I could just pass her. I did catch up. She was riding a pink bike too! I rode with her to chat for a couple of minutes; she turned out to be with a group of 14 but was, as she put it, “the slowest gazelle in the herd.” They were all staying at the place near Long Lake. (Can you guess when I made my final call on going the extra 15 miles?) I dug talking with her, and now the weird part: after a few minutes, I was like “well, I’m going to head on,” and we said our goodbyes, and I pulled ahead and was gone. I would never have thought I’d be the one taking my leave at will, at the pleasure of my legs and lungs, even with the slowest gazelle. I am the slowest gazelle! But apparently not right now. It was a glowing sort of feeling.

On my last sit break I was texting with Andrew, and he was all “You’ve done your big climb for the day! Oh whoops, no you haven’t.” This map section doesn’t bother with an elevation profile, so I didn’t even know there was a big climb in the cards, lol. But it turned out maybe I had already done it or maybe it wasn’t so bad, because I never did figure out where it was. Today was that kind of day ❤️

I crossed the Hudson River! Much farther downstate, I run along that river when I visit my mom, and it felt like a thread (a river?) of connection. Also it was gorgeous, and the day had turned from overcast to gloriously cool and sunny as I neared the campground. It was that kind of day, like I said.

I descended from Newcomb toward the lake and the campground, dismissing for the moment thoughts of the climb back out in the morning. My site was quiet and wooded and a bit above the camp road, so I could see the lake but was in a less open spot. Dreamy.

I took care of my set-up business then found a sit spot by the lake.

Later the moon rose over the lake, and it was so beautiful it made me catch my breath. I tried for photos, but we all know about shooting the moon on a phone, so I won’t tarnish the experience with a lame and pathetic shot.

I climbed into my tent with a full heart, looking forward to a cozy night; I even took the risk of keeping the fly up on both tent doors to enjoy the view of the lake and the chilly night air. That kind of day.

I woke up blessedly chilly, packed up, and got the hell out of dodge.

Things were quiet and damp after overnight rain, and it had cooled down significantly. 🙌 As I left Rome, I went down streets with dilapidated and abandoned houses and a few little charmers.

I also saw my first Confederate flag of the trip; as Emily notes, surprising it took so long.

I was headed back north and east to Old Forge, Adirondacks-bound, so I knew to expect the terrain to get lively. It was chill at first, and then I made a turn onto SR 28, and shit got real. I began climbing and then kept on climbing, and soon I hit two hills so steep I had to walk my bike the last bit for the first time this tour. I checked the grade, and it was 13%! *squeaks with indignation* But it calmed down soon after, and the road resumed its more reasonably-graded ups and downs: challenging, but not brutal.

I crossed the Mohawk River.

I passed through some fairly run-down territory, places that had, presumably, seen fat-cow years but were now barely hanging on.

In Boonville I hit a snack bonanza. Salt & vinegar peanuts! The day was truly turning out kind.

More riding, more up and down, mostly up; it ended up being a day of 3k+ climbing with only 1900 feet of descent. Those climbs got me back up to 1800+ feet, working my way up from the great basin that is the Midwest.

I crossed the Moose River.

I was headed for Nicks Lake Campground, a NYS campground that sounded peaceful and picturesque, and I was looking forward to the palate cleanser after Rome. And indeed as I entered the Central Adirondacks Communities, things got cute. NY is committed to the brown road sign with yellow text—so natural!—and the Adirondacks took that theme seriously; everything was quaint and rustic and low-key (read: old money) and, I must admit, totally up my alley. I am from the East, let’s remember.

I stopped in town for a PBR and supplemental snacks. I’d like to note that I’m not normally much of a beer drinker. I mean, I like a nice lager or Pilsner with Chinese food or burgers, but I’m not wild for beer. But I would posit that any cycle tourist who drinks craves a nice yellow beer at the end of the day. Cold, refreshing light skunkiness, and, I’m told, essential electrolytes!

I got a terrific site, one the ranger told me was generally booked all the time; he assumed someone had canceled. It was wooded and right on the lake, and I could not have been happier. (Technical note: NYS campgrounds, which are generally great in my experience, have a two-night minimum for reservations; you can get one night as a walk-in, but you can’t reserve in advance, which can be nervous-making. But they generally give a direct campground number, and I call ahead to see if there are ample sites available.)

I plunked myself down on rock by the lake and watched the cheeky ducks, and then set up, showered, made dinner, and went right back to my rock to watch the evening coming on. I had to sign a bear waiver on registration; turns out they’ve been seeing bears in the area. So I stashed my food in the bathroom with a note. Andrew asked about raccoons, and I should recognize and express my gratitude that it’s been a miraculously raccoon-free tour; I haven’t seen a single one that wasn’t roadkill. Far cry from the year a raccoon ate a hole in the tent. Must have been a cold winter?

It was cool enough for the leggings I hadn’t pulled out for weeks and my sweater, and getting into my sleeping bag and snuggling down was a joy.

I woke up knowing I was going to Rome today; it was hot and sticky already, and I didn’t have a ride with no shower in me. I was pretty miserable about the cost of a crappy motel in Rome, NY, one of the most expensive motel cities of the trip for reasons beyond my fathoming. But I was gratefully able and willing to pay the price to have a cool shower and room for the night. So I put the ACA route aside and mistrustful turned back to Googlemaps.

The mistrust was validated when Googlemaps tried to put me on a snowmobile trail, currently a lushly grassy path; I took the reins and got myself back to the secondary road I’d been on, which had a posh shoulder and reasonable traffic.

Honestly, it was just HOT. And SO humid. The thought of a shower and AC sustained me, though. When the trail turned to something that Googlemaps deemed paved or improved (indicated with a continuous green line), I dropped down to it. The Oswego County Recreational Trail is indeed intended for biking, among other activities (snowmobiling, hiking, walking your dog), the sign indicated. I’m not sure fully loaded riding was the kind they had in mind, though.

Still, it was tree-lined and quiet, but for all the catbirds whining amusingly at me, and totally deserted save one ATV (not permitted). I rode it until it was unpleasant—it ran through a lot of water, and it was clear that the trail was frequently flooded, with the resulting erosion causing huge rocky pits—and then jumped off onto the nearby road.

I also began hugging the north coast of Lake Oneida, which meant some nice lake views and towns with more money. In the town of Cleveland, I stopped for a break at a tiny public park—really a scenic pull-out—that looked to be the beneficiary of every charitable impulse the town’s citizens had ever had. There were several benches in honor of people scattered about, as well as a brick walkway. The main feature was a 9/11 Memorial Gazebo.

I sat there snacking and cooling off and contemplating the lake and the flowers and the pavilion. Then I moved on.

Then I was back on the Erie Canal Trail briefly, though a less loved section of it.

I arrived in Rome, and guys, my motel was bleak. It was maybe the saddest place I’ve stayed, outside the Rodeway Inn that Joyce and I got stuck at in Georgetown, SC. I didn’t feel unsafe, but I certainly didn’t feel like anyone I saw at the motel was okay. Meth, I think, and maybe prostitution? It was a sad place. But the shower and AC worked fine, and my needs are few and my standards low, fortunately.

Speaking of needs! I found a laundromat and Subway within walking distance, so after a shower I pulled my foul-smelling load (hot! no showers!) together and headed out. While my stuff was in the washer I want to futuristic and somehow still depressing Subway for dinner.

Then I walked back, threw my things in the dryer, and spent the drying time walking the perimeter of reconstructed Fort Stanwix, a British colonial fort.

I went back to the motel with my laundry planning to head out again for more touristing, but the storm that had arrived with me in Rome and then retreated made a comeback, and instead I hung out in my enjoyably chilly motel room and amused myself until bedtime. I made one foray outside, during which I saw an ambulance and police car pull out of the lot, no sirens.

Grateful for Andrew’s suggestion, I tucked myself into a bed I’d checked for evidence of bedbugs and drifted off.

As you’ve already read, I have mostly positive interactions with people, including some truly wonderful connections that I cherish and that inspire me. But I’ve also limited my interactions; I do as much avoidance and gate-keeping as I can because, well, I thought I could just say “because I’m the kind of person who wants to ride across the country alone.” But it turns out many people who also want to do that are social, really enjoy conversations with the people they meet along the way. For me that’s being on, and it can be hard. Talking to strangers is not my favorite thing. I do like it, the same way I like all things: on my own terms. But I also accept that I’m highly visible (literally wearing a high-viz vest) and I do want to be gracious and a good ambassador of bike tourists. And I genuinely *like* some of the people I meet—they feel like friends I’m just meeting—which you’ve read about. Others have been so kind and I never even got to know them at all. But people can be work for me. I say all this by way of contextualizing these technical notes.

Final prefatory note: When I state things as facts, know that I’m aware they’re perspective. It’s just a lot to keep typing “I think” and really messes with the narrative flow, man.

On bike tour there’s a sense of being a public good, like an information kiosk or a really good interactive museum display. And it’s true that while you’ve gone sort of feral and slipped the reins and rhythms of workaday life, you’re very visible and existing primarily in public or quasi-public spaces. Other than in a motel room, you live outside or in commercial spaces, where anyone has a right to be. Joyce and I could at least form a closed unit; folks still sometimes approached us, but we had cover in each other. Alone I’m wide open. People talk to me outside gas stations and stores, in parks, at campgrounds, on street corners as I’m looking at directions.

When people approach they usually have questions: where from/to; how far do I go each day; really, all alone? (Do solo men get asked that same question?) Sometimes they want to tell you about bike trips they’ve taken, and sometimes they want to tell you how cool it is that you’re doing it. Sometimes they want to tell you you’re crazy. I’m thinking of the bulldozer guy outside Munising, for example, cheerily telling me I couldn’t be having any fun as I was trudging through road work muck pushing my bike in the pouring rain. The pilot truck driver had rolled down his window as I pulled up to yell that I was nuts as well. (I told him to watch out for the 80-person teen church group riding through the next day. More on them shortly.)

I’ve found I prefer talking to women over men. That’s not universally true; the owner of Java Junction and I had a great conversation as he made my coffee and puttered around doing opening activities. Kevin at Sully Creek was fascinating; I would have loved to talk to him for hours. I don’t know if it’s them or me, even. I do know that fewer women feel free to approach me at my campsite while I’m eating or on my phone or setting up my tent, and I am more open to random, informal (not, e.g., commercial) interactions with women.

An illustration of the different feel of the interactions comes to mind: Sometimes when it’s really break time and I can’t find a spot to lean my bike near shade, I’ll lay my bike down on the side of the road and sit near it. It can look like I’m in distress, and a few times folks have pulled over to check on me. On this occasion (Michigan? Probably. I basically moved there for a while.), I was taking such a break, and a woman going the other way stopped, turned around, and pulled up to see if I was okay. An hour or two later at a gas station I was stashing my snacks, and a guy getting into his car asked “Oh was that you I saw broken down at the side of the road earlier?” 😒

As I said, the approaching to talk also happens at campsites, which I struggle with more, since it’s sort of constructively private, and we mostly try to maintain that polite fiction. Macedon was probably my most public campsite, or at least it felt that way, so this is an extreme case, but the following is sort of an evening in the life.

As I sat at the picnic table at my “site,” I was approached by a young man named Von who’d just moved there from 165th and Jerome in NYC; he wanted to know about the trip and told me about how he didn’t yet know anyone in Macedon. He invited me to a bonfire with his friends later, but was unbothered when I laughed at said I was usually asleep by 9:30.

After Von rode away to find entertainment elsewhere, a woman with two dogs and guy who turned out to be her son walked by. He washed something in the spigot, but she lingered with intention and eventually asked me a question about the trip. She said she was 68 and had recently tried her first long trip—78 miles in two days—and told me a bit about it. I was genuinely excited. Good on her! We chatted for 10-15 minutes, and I was encouraging, and then the dogs got itchy and her son had wandered off, and she took her leave.

I got myself set up and started dinner, and soon after Steve, the cyclist from the pavilion, walked over to say hello. He was gregarious and had a strong NY accent; as it turned out he’s a retired cop from the Bronx. We talked the day a little, and as I finished making dinner, he asked if he could sit down. I hesitated internally for a moment, but he wasn’t bothering me, and I was too hot and tired to object. We had a good conversation, one I enjoyed somewhat despite myself, and when I was done I sort of waved my pot and made noises about washing it, and he promptly and gracefully excused himself.

Lastly, sometime thereafter, as it was nearing dark, another cyclist arrived. I saw him go chat with Steve, and then he worked his way to me. He rode up and said “You know you don’t have to camp all the way over here.” We never even got to an exchange of names; he mumbled some stuff, and I made perfunctory but polite replies, and then I waved my toothbrush around and said I was going to wash up, and he headed off to talk to yet another cyclist apparently camped there, whom I didn’t see until morning. Luis taught me more than two decades ago to trust my instincts about people. Maybe it’s something obvious, like someone mansplaining camping at a place he’s just arrived at, or maybe it’s just a twinge or body language. But I get good feels for people and less good ones, and I try to attend to them.

Which gets me to the category of folks I’ve been avoiding writing about: other cycle tourists. Kathy asked me when I was staying with her I’m Bismarck whether anyone ever wanted to ride together, and I said “I live in dread of someone asking.” I love seeing cycle tourists across the road and waving and the occasional chat with someone going in the other direction. And I really dug talking with Katherine and Tom in Glacier and Chris in East Glacier. And no one has asked me to ride with them, let me be clear; this is my own problem. But I like being solo. Joyce was my perfect touring partner—and will be again, I hope!—just as Wendy was my perfect roommate, and I lived alone after she and I moved apart (until Andrew!). I don’t want to ride with anyone else, unless it’s a visiting friend; it’s hard enough work already without having to make conversation with a stranger, and I like the anonymity of the road.

The one time I briefly rode with folks was when I encountered the church group from Greenville, Illinois. They were doing a supported 700-mile trip, about 80 adults and teens, they told me. They were very dispersed, and a couple of clusters of them passed me; the adult in each cluster would ride next to me for a few, ask some questions, tell me about their trip, then pull ahead. Then a group led by a young woman pulled up next to me and began chatting; she was warm and personable and had lots of questions, and there were several teens behind her, and eventually I had to say that I didn’t want to hold up her group and they should go ahead, and she asked if she could say a prayer for me before they did. And I assented, and she prayed over my tires and my accommodations and my hydration, and then her group pulled ahead. I saw a bunch more of them pulling into the KOA in Munising as I rode past to wherever I was going, and that was the last I saw of them.

Bike tour, too, turns out to be made of people.

I woke up a bit earlier than usual, gathered my bathrooms things in the dark, and rode the half mile to the gas station, where already a gaggle of older men was gathered gossiping and drinking coffee. One of them asked if I wasn’t scared of the boogeyman traveling all alone; when I said I grew up in NYC and wasn’t scared that easily, he snorted and said “that hellhole.” Excuse you. I got some coffee and snacks for the day and headed back to pack up.

I was on the road by 7, after stopping by the pavilion to say goodbye to cyclist Steve, who was also heading out shortly. We leapfrogged each other for the first 20 minutes or so—I stopped for photos and notes a couple of times—and then I got ahead and that was the last I saw of him.

The morning started on my final stretch of canal trail through Palmyra, a rough but pretty bit of riding.

A bridge that claimed to be closed turned out to be open enough for cycling, always a stroke of good fortune.

Another stroke of good fortune! I ran across a farm stand that had fruit I could carry! Often they sell in such bulk I can’t buy anything or have only sweet corn and tomatoes (wish I could! I haven’t had a good tomato yet this summer), but this place had pints of freshly-picked raspberries that I transferred to a ziploc for portability, not that it mattered since they were gone in no time.

At Pulteyville, I got my first real look at Lake Ontario; the route had been running along the canal and thus south of the lake, but at Pulteyville we popped north for a bit. After Michigan, Lakes Erie and Huron are, from what I have seen, the best lakes for actual lakeside riding on the U.S. side. Traveling along Superior and Ontario, it’s more of an occasional glimpse.

Through the west and the plains I regularly encountered historical markers, as you know. The Midwest, always more circumspect and closed-mouthed, had nearly none that I saw, but now that I’m in the east they’re freaking everywhere. I mean, it’s much older and more established; I’m basically moving backward in colonization/settlement time as I head east, so there are a lot more historical sites to cover. It’s intense, and I can’t possibly stop for every one; along the canal there was one for everything from the year construction was started on that section to the northernmost point on the canal. It’s a lotta facts.

I stopped for my first real sit break at a park on the lake and classed up the place in my usual fashion.

Then onward into the sweltering day, watching the sunscreen melt off my body and feeling it drip down my face and chin. I was well aware of how dirty and ripe I was and a little embarrassed every time time I went into a store. But in good news, a second alleged detour turned out to be a cyclist-only stretch of road for me, given that it was a Sunday and no work was being done, a third stroke of good luck I’d be ungrateful and remiss not to memorialize.

Onward to Sodus Point, a bay town that was hopping on a hot Sunday late morning.

Back down away from the lake, Wolcott looked once charming but a bit down on its luck.

But there was another surprise waterfall tucked away in a poorly-maintained park with no bathroom!

One more brief jaunt up to the coast to the perky little town of Fair Haven, where I took a break in some shade behind their public square, and it was back south and goodbye to Lake Ontario.

The day also somehow included 3200+ feet of climbing, all of a sudden. Oboy! I arrived at the North Bay campground overheated and desperately in want of a shower, only to find the office closed and signs on the bathrooms saying Out of Order. 🥵🥺 I poked around the place until Mary, whom I’d talked to yesterday, spotted me. She reassured me there was a functioning bathhouse with showers 😊 and gave me a bottle of ice cold water. I drank the whole thing and then laid down on the grass in the shade sweating and smelling bad. Once I was able, I got my tent set up, trying not to drip sunscreeny sweat onto it, and pulled my shower things together. The bathroom was fairly dismal: hotter than outside and stuffy to boot. But showers!

Y’all the water was HOT. Not like, if you let it run it’ll cool down type hot. Like, there was no cold water; it was just one handle you turned on, and it was set to tolerable hot on the assumption that’s what you wanted. I tried everything: turning the handle only a little, turning it halfway, letting it run, turning the shower on in the other stall, using the other shower. There was cold water in the sink taps! But the shower was @&€#%%^*! hot. I couldn’t not be mad about it. I was sweating the moment I dried off, and when I looked in the bathroom mirror my face was still bright pink. I shortcut my routine and headed back to the tent to lie down with both doors open and let the nonexistent breeze blow through until I was cool enough to make dinner. Andrew and I texted a bit about the misery and my plans for tomorrow, which currently entailed camping behind a place called Hilltop Market (whee!) with no showers. Together we poked around on Googlemaps, but couldn’t find alternatives; the ACA route goes through a very remote part of the state here. Uncertain if I could hack no showers again, especially after what would be a 75-mile day, I took Andrew’s advice to reroute to Rome under consideration; as he noted, it would make tomorrow shorter and only add 10 miles overall. Feeling better with an option on hand, I settled in and waited for fatigue to overcome sweatiness.

Today was hot and humid as heck. I woke up at my usual 5:30/45 and after checking out what was around and open, I walked over to the canal and watched the town wake up. Just before 7, I parked myself on the bench in front of Java Junction, which was recommended by one of the cyclists I met last night.

When the owner came to put the tables out, we started chatting, and we continued talking as he made me a latte and bagel with cream cheese. I’d sort of forgotten I was in NY, so when I hesitated asking about an onion bagel and he reassured me they were made by a woman named Miriam who ran a kosher bakery, it felt like being home. The bagel was great. I wished for whipped cream cheese. Is that just me?

I lounged in the coffee shop watching regulars, the early weekend risers, come and go. There weren’t many. But things were heating up when I walked back to the canal after a stroll through town: kayak rentals, big converted passenger boats maybe? with bikes strapped to the rail of the prow, cyclists and runners on the canal path.

I found a shady picnic bench on the canal and sat there for a while enjoying the morning and writing a post. Eventually I made my way back to the house—somehow feeling guilty about lingering—and got myself packed, closed up the place, and headed to a gas station for supplies. It was another short day on trail, one that promised to end without showers, sadly. Did I mention how hot it is? V hot.

I got back on my trail and headed out of town for another full day on it. My bike was getting awfully dusty and is definitely in need of a chain wipe down and oil after the trail days. It was also incredibly humid, and I kept thinking my photos had sun flare, until I realize the lenses were fogged up.

More importantly, I got strawberries! They were not farm fresh or anything, but they were delightful.

I passed around Rochester with barely a ripple: the trail got temporarily more urban (graffiti, larger number of casual day users, paved trail, city parks) then schmancy.

Soon I was past all that and back on my crushed rock trail, pumping along through small central NY towns, landing for the night at Canal Lock 30 in Macedon. The canal authority has hiker-biker-boater camping at some locks to make it easier to travel along the canal; there are picnic tables and a porta potty (unless, like Holley, there’s a park with a bathroom).

This was a larger park, and there were a few car campers as well, though no bathroom. The bridge official gave me the run down and told me another cyclist was set up in the pavilion because of potential rain and I was welcome to set up there as well. I did a round of the place and set up away from most of the tents, near the porta potty and spigot.

Steve, the bridge guy, had told me there was a gas station just down the road, so I went there and got a PBR tallboy and some snacks and scoped out the bathroom for the morning. Back at my site—really just a picnic table in an open grassy area with some trees scattered about—I sat still and tried to cool down. Various people came over to chat, and I’ll write more about them in an upcoming technical post addressing the topic of People. But in short, I talked to a 68-year old woman who had tried one longer bike tour ☺️, a young man who’d just moved to Macedon from NYC a month ago, and the cyclist from under the pavilion, as well as a brief chat with a cyclist who came in later. Steve, the cyclist who came over to chat (confusing, I know), sat with me while I chowed down on Chef Boyardee spaghetti & meatballs (h/t Sean) with a cheddar cheese bar and hot & spicy cheez-its. We swapped some road stories and talked gear a bit. He lamented that his wife of 40 years didn’t share his retirement dream of riding bikes places, though we both admitted with some chagrin that there wasn’t much appeal to the current situation.

And then tooth brushing and face washing in the spigot and into the tent for a sticky, hot night of sleep. One item I am very grateful to have purchased for this trip: silk sleeping bag liner. On hot nights I don’t bother with the sleeping bag at all, and having not showered it’s great not to be in the sleeping bag all sticky and gritty.

I woke up around 5:45 and cracked the curtains; it was pouring rain. Feeling smug about my decisions, I made myself a cup of coffee, climbed back into bed, and caught up on my Heather Cox Richardson, read some articles, futzed with the spreadsheet, cemented my last weekend night’s accommodations 🥺, and enjoyed being able to move around the room and brush my teeth and all while it continued to pour rain outside. Outside where I did not live today because of good decisions!

When the rain let up around 9:30, I walked to the gas station for provisions and then walked around a bit.

I stayed at the motel until nearly checkout, enjoying the luxury of a dry, cool room, knowing I had a night of no-shower camping ahead of me and a short, super chill day on trail. ALL ON TRAIL.

It was a short ride down a big hill to get to the trail. But there was a cute park with an historical marker on the way, and I stopped for a quick learn ‘n sit. Did you know about Gargling Oil? I did not. What human ailments was it used to treat? I have questions.

The section of trail from Buffalo to Lockport had been paved and tree lined and just a dream to ride. I knew that after Lockport it turned to what they call crusher fines, which is crushed rock. Because I am lazy and prefer the easiest possible ride (and because I am riding fully loaded), paved is my favorite surface. But crusher fines can be an excellent surface as well, and I was all about a full day on trail. One drawback of crusher fines, though, is drainage: it can get thick and gluey in spots where water gathers, and the trail surface can get corrugated and irregular. And indeed because of the recent rain the trail provided some real resistance for the first few miles, until the sun kicked into high gear and began to dry it. Sun! The one real downside to this lovely trail (and then I’ll turn to all the good stuff) is that it is shadeless: the trees are far enough back from the bank and trail to provide no shade. I assumed this was to protect the canal, and a woman I chatted with in Holley told me the banks used to be tree lined, but they’d ripped out all the trees recently due to erosion concerns. As I used to type endlessly in my baby lawyer days, “I am without sufficient information to form a belief as to the truth or falsity of the allegation.” Not being a practicing lawyer anymore, I will not therefore deny same. In any case, it almost certainly makes maintenance easier.

Okay! Those were the kvetches and cavils (plus a little headwind for the northward bits…)! It was grand. And it was grand for long enough that eventually I desisted from video and photo taking because it was just how I lived for now: on a totally flat, lovely trail alongside a calm, green canal, with absolutely no one on it for some reason, and regularly spaced bridges that provided a shady sit spot.

Sometimes the trail wasn’t so much a trail.

Sometimes there were surprise waterfalls!

Mainly it was just very sticky, fairly slow, and still eminently enjoyable riding. I don’t know why there weren’t more people out; on a Friday afternoon I’d’ve expected more traffic. I put on music for a bit, one of only two times I’ve done so on tour; Yael’s playlist and then my usual wormhole dive into 80s pop kept my energy up for a fun stretch. When I tired of that, I went back to listening to the birds and bugs and soft lapping of the canal waters. I loved waving to the people on boats that would occasionally motor slowly by; what a perfect level of social interaction along a quiet trail!

I arrived in Holley around 5 and found the bridge tower next to which I’d be camping. It was early yet, and there was a guy fishing right across the way, so I went across the road to the park and checked out the restrooms and various gazebos and picnic tables. While I was parked at one, a woman walked by and we started chatting. She told me about the tree removal along the canal and also that there was a waterfall right nearby and also that on Friday nights there are concerts from 6:30-8:30 at the gazebo across the road from the bridge tower.

Armed with all this new and helpful information, I revised my plan: I’d call Ave, whom I’d been trying to connect with, check out this waterfall, make dinner in a playground-adjacent gazebo a ways from concert, and set up after folks left. Not ideal, but así es 🤷🏼‍♀️.

Ave and I caught up 💜, and while talking to her I formulated a new aspect of my plan: I’d go get dinner in town at a bar & grill, then come back, hear some concert, wait for folks to leave, and set up. I also saw the waterfall! It was from a distance, and there wasn’t a good shot to be taken, so no photos for posterity. I intended to go back to the foot of the falls after dinner, but that’s not how things went.

At the restaurant I sat at the bar and ordered a beer and burger, the first one I’ve actually gotten cooked medium rare and the best burger of the trip so far. Holley Falls Bar & Grill, folks! Just as my dinner arrived, a group of bicyclists did as well, several couples a little older than I, it looked like. They asked if it was my bike outside and had all sorts of good questions, but a merciful gentleman among them told them to leave me be until I had eaten, and I thanked him and promised I’d love to answer questions as soon as I’d eaten. Which I did! It turned out one of the guys runs bike tours, and he’d gotten the rest of them into biking. He came over and chatted, and they asked where I was staying. They said Brockport, 5 miles on, had camping with showers, which I hadn’t known/realized. I knew a bike shop provided bike camping, but no showers, but these folks said the visitors center had showers and allowed camping. Unfortunately, the center itself closed at 8, so the showers wouldn’t be available maybe, and it was around 7:15 now. Regretfully, I decided to stick to my plan, unsure if it was the right decision. A few minutes later, the bike tour guy came back and said he’d been setting up a planned biker Airbnb on the second floor of a place he and his wife (who was there and had been asking some of the questions) owned in Brockport, and it wasn’t totally done, but I was welcome to stay there if I wished, that it had a shower and would be quiet. I nearly plotzed, you guys. I mean.

I accepted without hesitation, and he gave me the lockbox code and address and refused any payment, asked me to pay it forward, which: this trip has given me so many gifts to pay forward, and I only hope I can live up to that responsibility. Keep me accountable, y’all! Generosity of spirit is a quality I try to cultivate, but it takes attention and work. I texted Andrew, restarted tracking, and jumped on my bike, reluctantly turning down an offer of a beer from the couple sitting next to me. On the way out of town on the trail I caught a snippet of the concert from across the canal. It was a very sweet scene, very small town America.

The light was strange, all heavy grey and gold, and I felt so fortunate, so uplifted. Being a white woman on the road is interesting: everyone is very protective of you—and often paternalistic—and while the general sentiment is that it’s dangerous out there and I need to be careful, there are an awful lot of people taking good and much-appreciated care of me. The world, as I’ve said to many folks, has never really given me much reason to be afraid of it, and so I’m not. I’m still a New Yorker by birth! I am careful in various ways I won’t enumerate, but I am comfortable moving around in the world, and that is a gift I want to recognize and acknowledge.

I arrived in Brockport, and the light was gorgeous and pink on the gracious brick buildings and the town adorable, but all I wanted was a shower, and I knew I’d have time to linger in the morning because I had another shorter day. (This is one of the ones Andrew and I split up in Ann Arbor.) So I went straight to the place, let myself in and got my stuff upstairs, opened some windows, and took a shower. After texting with Andrew for a bit, I called it a night.