It was tedious, it hurt and it felt good.
Caramel Pig
Peddling the Dirt across North America
Fairy Lights in the Barn
Stage 11
Rochester, New York – North Hudson, New York
287.11 Miles – 473.73 Kilometres
Total distance ridden 4077.06 Miles – 6727.15 Kilometres
Millie spent the night on the couch while we slept in her bed. As usual I was first to rise and didn't want to wake anyone up. I spent at least a hour peacefully sitting in a comfy chair writing my log and reading Anne.
Rochester, New York – North Hudson, New York
287.11 Miles – 473.73 Kilometres
Total distance ridden 4077.06 Miles – 6727.15 Kilometres
Millie spent the night on the couch while we slept in her bed. As usual I was first to rise and didn't want to wake anyone up. I spent at least a hour peacefully sitting in a comfy chair writing my log and reading Anne.
We had a lovely breakfast and then, as requested, Millie dropped us off at church. For some reason we were quite early so wandered over to the Highland Park Diner. This joint was straight from the movies. It was prefabricated in 1948 by the Orleans Diner Company and presumably was transported the 41 miles from Albion by truck. In short, it kind of looked like an oversize train carriage, with a bar on one side and booths on the other. The place was cram-packed full of large people eating heart-attack food. We had to wait a decent amount of time to order our coffees. Totally gaga, we sat on stools and gawked at everything. It was the oddest of all feelings, sitting in a genuine sitcom. Everything seemed as American as America could be.
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From here we ventured to the nearby Monroe Park Vineyard Church. This was a wonderful experience where we felt quite at home. The room was full of colourful characters who would have struggled as part of mainstream congregations. Their prayers were mostly focused on mental health, addictions and a recent hurricane. I learned a lot from my short time there and hope one day we can provide a similarly safe environment.
After lunch and doing work on my maps, we visited an REI outdoor store. For the last 20 years I had owned a compact sleeping bag and rather than down, theunderside had a slip to fit a sleeping mat. In theory this was a good system but in practice it made my bed rather wide. In small, narrow tents I tended to push against the side wall and wake up with a wet sleeping bag. Autumn was well upon us and we were having trouble venting condensation, so rather hesitantly I replaced it. I wrote in my log book that night that 'time would tell if I did the right thing'. Time has told me replacing my Macpac Névé for a Nemo Disco was an excellent and toasty move.
This evening marked a turning point in our trip. So far most of our emotional time had been focused on the past and leaving behind our struggles and hurts. At this very point, probably somewhere around 6 p.m., the focus moved from us mourning leaving Lithuania to preparing for our future life of church planting in New Zealand.
After lunch and doing work on my maps, we visited an REI outdoor store. For the last 20 years I had owned a compact sleeping bag and rather than down, theunderside had a slip to fit a sleeping mat. In theory this was a good system but in practice it made my bed rather wide. In small, narrow tents I tended to push against the side wall and wake up with a wet sleeping bag. Autumn was well upon us and we were having trouble venting condensation, so rather hesitantly I replaced it. I wrote in my log book that night that 'time would tell if I did the right thing'. Time has told me replacing my Macpac Névé for a Nemo Disco was an excellent and toasty move.
This evening marked a turning point in our trip. So far most of our emotional time had been focused on the past and leaving behind our struggles and hurts. At this very point, probably somewhere around 6 p.m., the focus moved from us mourning leaving Lithuania to preparing for our future life of church planting in New Zealand.
Millie took us out for tea and invited a friend along. Her name was Ruth Anna, she had a PhD in English and was perhaps the most inspiring person I have ever met. Poor Millie and Ruth Anna didn't really get to eat that much. I hammered Ruth Anna with questions while Millie translated my Kiwi English into American Sign Language. Ruth Anna would answer and Millie would translate back out into my English. Gosh, I so wished I could have spoken ASL. Ruth Anna shared her experiences in caring and advocating for her local deaf community. She totally pulled my nose out of my sweaty cycling bellybutton and moved my focus on to how can we touch, enable and love our marginalised communities. It was a truly valuable time.
Sadly after such an emotional meal we returned home packed, showered and slept. Up again at 5:30 a.m. and after a quick breakie, we dragged our panniers down three flights of stairs, clipped and strapped them to our bikes, hugged Millie good-bye and rode off, wrapped up against the cool morning air. |
The towpath and surrounds once again were beautiful. The sky was blue, reflecting leaves which were just starting to turn, and fish were jumping. Overall the Erie Canal Bike Trail was easy riding with lots of services. Every peddle stroke was well worth it. Sadly we only cycled from Lockport to Palmyra - it would have been nice to do more.
Following the ACA route, we turned north off the towpath up Church St, Maple Ave and on to the 210. We spent the afternoon on quiet, intimate roads until rounding a corner at Pultneyville where we were thrust into the dramatic shadow of Lake Ontario.
Following the ACA route, we turned north off the towpath up Church St, Maple Ave and on to the 210. We spent the afternoon on quiet, intimate roads until rounding a corner at Pultneyville where we were thrust into the dramatic shadow of Lake Ontario.
These Great Lakes are called great because they are jaw-droppingly ginormous and gorgeously great. We floated into B Forman Park and dismounted by a bench close to both toilets and drinking water. Together we sat there in the fading autumnal light, reading the lake. I was in the process of dreaming where we would pitch our tent when we overheard someone locking the toilets. Unbelievably, it was at this time that Sharon announced she urgently needed the dunny. I knew there was a mooring up the road, so we jumped on our vehicles and beelined for Hughes Marina & Campground.
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For the grand total of $25 we scored a shower, toilet and a wee island to camp on. After watching the sun gracefully slide into azure water, we slid into our sleeping bags and listened to dreamy waves lapping upon the tired shore.
We rose again at 5:30 a.m. to the sounds and sights of boats and people fleeing the land and ferrying their way on to the lake. Lulled by the tranquillity of the harbour, we drifted aimlessly around camp before eventually pulling up anchor and cycling out around 7:45 a.m.
Hills, oh my goodness, hills. Other than cycling the banks of the Mississippi, these were the first serious hills we had encountered for around 3000 km. It was hard work, but gosh it felt so good to be communicating with our calf muscles again. All day was up and down, up and down and then some more up and down. It was tedious, it hurt and it felt good.
We stopped early in the morning and purchased fresh bread and smoked curds and ate these for panihapon. American curds are very squeaky. It kind of felt like munching on docking rings, or if you are not a farm kid, then it was similar to chewing a thick balloon. Interesting, entertaining, but not something you would do twice.
This morning I became very excited when we stumbled upon Fowler Farms. Unfortunately my kin were not very hospitable. On their single roadside post there were three placards all reading 'No Trespassing', and two of these warned 'violators will be prosecuted'. We had long been desensitised to America's move-and-we'll-shoot-you culture, so I snorted, harrumphed and peddled on. What on earth has led to all these nasty signs? Have they been harangued by transgressors stealing their apples? And why is the selfish sanctity of land so endemic to the USA? Sorry, I don't like it.
Eventually after a very tiring 38 miles, we rolled into the uninspiring town of Hannibal. It was election night and we set up camp on the concrete floor of a pavilion next to a polling booth. We felt a little conspicuous and were relieved no one entered our campsite or the porta-potty next door.
We slept very well: hard floors were definitely becoming softer. There was a heavy dew outside but our tent was dry, which made our unpleasant and very public campsite well worth it.
The morning was a bit foggy and again my glasses steamed. I placed the silly things right on the end of my nose and spent my time peering over them.
We stopped at the First Congregational Church in New Haven, hoping to sit on their stairs for second breakfast. We had only been there a few minutes when Pastor David jumped out to give us water, apple pie and apples for the road and offer use of their restrooms. We gratefully said yes to everything.
Bellies full, we continued cycling along the lake. We were aware we'd be turning east towards the Atlantic at Port Ontario, so were hoping to find a nice little portside cafe where cyclists could pop their noses into their books whilst enjoying a well earned coffee. Disappointingly, the best we could find was a grassy bank and a soft serve ice cream. This was not a fitting way to bid adieu to the Great Lakes.
So east and up we turned, and stopped in the gorgeous and cosy town of Pulaski. Whilst we sat in the town park munching our apples, a man came up and asked a whole bunch of questions and told a few stories, then five minutes later a woman who was presumably his wife walked up and asked exactly the same questions, backed up with the very same stories. It was a weird and slightly cute experience.
We rose again at 5:30 a.m. to the sounds and sights of boats and people fleeing the land and ferrying their way on to the lake. Lulled by the tranquillity of the harbour, we drifted aimlessly around camp before eventually pulling up anchor and cycling out around 7:45 a.m.
Hills, oh my goodness, hills. Other than cycling the banks of the Mississippi, these were the first serious hills we had encountered for around 3000 km. It was hard work, but gosh it felt so good to be communicating with our calf muscles again. All day was up and down, up and down and then some more up and down. It was tedious, it hurt and it felt good.
We stopped early in the morning and purchased fresh bread and smoked curds and ate these for panihapon. American curds are very squeaky. It kind of felt like munching on docking rings, or if you are not a farm kid, then it was similar to chewing a thick balloon. Interesting, entertaining, but not something you would do twice.
This morning I became very excited when we stumbled upon Fowler Farms. Unfortunately my kin were not very hospitable. On their single roadside post there were three placards all reading 'No Trespassing', and two of these warned 'violators will be prosecuted'. We had long been desensitised to America's move-and-we'll-shoot-you culture, so I snorted, harrumphed and peddled on. What on earth has led to all these nasty signs? Have they been harangued by transgressors stealing their apples? And why is the selfish sanctity of land so endemic to the USA? Sorry, I don't like it.
Eventually after a very tiring 38 miles, we rolled into the uninspiring town of Hannibal. It was election night and we set up camp on the concrete floor of a pavilion next to a polling booth. We felt a little conspicuous and were relieved no one entered our campsite or the porta-potty next door.
We slept very well: hard floors were definitely becoming softer. There was a heavy dew outside but our tent was dry, which made our unpleasant and very public campsite well worth it.
The morning was a bit foggy and again my glasses steamed. I placed the silly things right on the end of my nose and spent my time peering over them.
We stopped at the First Congregational Church in New Haven, hoping to sit on their stairs for second breakfast. We had only been there a few minutes when Pastor David jumped out to give us water, apple pie and apples for the road and offer use of their restrooms. We gratefully said yes to everything.
Bellies full, we continued cycling along the lake. We were aware we'd be turning east towards the Atlantic at Port Ontario, so were hoping to find a nice little portside cafe where cyclists could pop their noses into their books whilst enjoying a well earned coffee. Disappointingly, the best we could find was a grassy bank and a soft serve ice cream. This was not a fitting way to bid adieu to the Great Lakes.
So east and up we turned, and stopped in the gorgeous and cosy town of Pulaski. Whilst we sat in the town park munching our apples, a man came up and asked a whole bunch of questions and told a few stories, then five minutes later a woman who was presumably his wife walked up and asked exactly the same questions, backed up with the very same stories. It was a weird and slightly cute experience.
Somewhere up the road we stopped at an Amish veggie stand, wanting to buy maple syrup. We couldn't carry a whole pint so didn't buy any. The poverty and isolation that this black-clad Amish woman lived in was quite horrifying. At a guess, her local knowledge, or even her worldview, extended no further than a five mile radius. She asked if we were from a-ways far. She had never heard of New Zealand and didn't seem to know where Australia or even Antarctica was. It was sad and she herself also seemed very sad.
We continued our slow climb all the way to the rather run-down town of Redfield, where we found a large shelter near the fire brigade. It was a bit scuzzy, but provided cover from the sun and dew, as well as a good place to dry our wet clothes. The toilets were closed but the general store and gas station up the road had facilities that could be used. |
We cooked lunch there and chatted with Noel and Kate, a cycling couple from Australia. While doing the dishes, some grumpy, territorial woman wearing a fire-person's tee-shirt dumped her sucky attitude all over us. She told us we were on private fire department property and weren't allowed to be there. We apologised and asked if it was okay if we camped there and said we would respect the place. She never said no, but just continued to grumble on about how terrible the situation was. At one stage she looked at Sharon's washing drying and stated that she didn't know what that was about. She sure had the gift of making people feel unwelcome, I sighed with relief when she eventually turned on her haunches and waddled off.
Feeling crappy, we pushed our bikes over to a church. They were advertising that this evening they were holding a games night. We don't like games, but like doing nothing a whole lot less. Sharon and I decided to spend the afternoon in the sun on their stairs reading our books before going to their fun evening. At the advertised time of six o'clock the church was still totally empty, so I gave them a call, hoping to discover a change of venue. The phone rang through to an answering machine so I left our phone number, but no one ever called back.
So after dark, we slunk back to the fire brigade's shelter and quietly pitched tent for another concrete sleep.
In the morning we quietly felled the tent and walked up to the gas station to use their loos. These people were lovely and kind.
On our way out of town, we rode past the Salmon River Reservoir. The lake was awash with warm autumn's hues and paddling fishermen. At the boat ramp there was a sign that said the area was open to the public without discrimination. This was such an interesting thing to have to state on a sign, but after our encounter with one firefighter we could totally understand its placement.
Feeling crappy, we pushed our bikes over to a church. They were advertising that this evening they were holding a games night. We don't like games, but like doing nothing a whole lot less. Sharon and I decided to spend the afternoon in the sun on their stairs reading our books before going to their fun evening. At the advertised time of six o'clock the church was still totally empty, so I gave them a call, hoping to discover a change of venue. The phone rang through to an answering machine so I left our phone number, but no one ever called back.
So after dark, we slunk back to the fire brigade's shelter and quietly pitched tent for another concrete sleep.
In the morning we quietly felled the tent and walked up to the gas station to use their loos. These people were lovely and kind.
On our way out of town, we rode past the Salmon River Reservoir. The lake was awash with warm autumn's hues and paddling fishermen. At the boat ramp there was a sign that said the area was open to the public without discrimination. This was such an interesting thing to have to state on a sign, but after our encounter with one firefighter we could totally understand its placement.
Just eight miles down the road, we stopped in the remarkably friendly town of Osceola. The village itself was little more than one playground and the extremely rustic World Famous Osceola Hotel. The reason I know it was world famous is because that is what the sign above the door said. This pub was so cool that we took photos of each other riding past. It was too early to stop, but we couldn't resist the town's charm and paused at the hotel for coffee and a snack. Everyone was really friendly while continuously complaining about the upcoming fluoridation of their water supply.
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It was sad to mount our saddles and sidle out of town. Our next stop was third breakfast in a randomly found Prussian Settlement Cemetery. This caused us much excitement. We had spent the last 14 years living in the one time capital of Prussia and had been missing the architecture.
While wandering around, we found a grave for Joseph Phillip Rinaldo who was born July 4, 1952 and died July 4, 2032. Considering we were in the cemetery in 2017, I find this rather odd and what is odder still is that Google cannot tell me why it is odd.
We continued cycling along a busy and rough road to Boonville. Sharon went to the supermarket and I sat on the footpath protecting our bicycles and wrote in my log.
While wandering around, we found a grave for Joseph Phillip Rinaldo who was born July 4, 1952 and died July 4, 2032. Considering we were in the cemetery in 2017, I find this rather odd and what is odder still is that Google cannot tell me why it is odd.
We continued cycling along a busy and rough road to Boonville. Sharon went to the supermarket and I sat on the footpath protecting our bicycles and wrote in my log.
From here, rather loaded, we rode the few miles to Stysh's Brown Barn Campground. This was a planned stop because I had found it online about 18 months previously. In short, it was a big ole, you guessed it, brown barn. The oversized shed was spick and span, ready to hold weddings. The lovely hosts showed us around and after some discussion, allowed us to wheel our bikes right in and lay our sleeping mats out on the barn floor.
But first was a cooked lunch of sausages, eggs, chips and tomatoes. This was an utter treat made possible by their fully equipped kitchen. We spent our afternoon doing washing, reading and avoiding the world's ugliest cat. The poor fat, mangy animal looked deformed and diseased. |
We slept under a million fairy lights and in the slight breeze that crept up through the floorboards. It by no means could have been called a good sleep, but it was a fun one.
I think it is important to note that now we were back in the hills with cool temperatures, it was feeling like every day was a good day.
The morning greeted us with horrific mist and we couldn't see more than 10 metres in front of us. For the first time in ages, we thought we should ride with flashing lights. The little buggers were buried deep in our panniers. It took a good 20 minutes to find them and insert the batteries. By the time we had done this, the fog had lifted a little and we didn't really need them.
I think it is important to note that now we were back in the hills with cool temperatures, it was feeling like every day was a good day.
The morning greeted us with horrific mist and we couldn't see more than 10 metres in front of us. For the first time in ages, we thought we should ride with flashing lights. The little buggers were buried deep in our panniers. It took a good 20 minutes to find them and insert the batteries. By the time we had done this, the fog had lifted a little and we didn't really need them.
It was a leaf peeping, sunny and hilly day, we loved every minute of it and perhaps noticed every hanging yellow leaf and every falling red one. For some reason we had not anticipated the splendour of a North American fall. The far side of every hillock, and the round of every corner, surprised us over and over again with flamboyant beauty. We were aware that though our bodies were tiring, we were very privileged to be slowly watching the birth of this new season.
Eventually we drifted into the tourist town of Old Forge and beelined to the fire station looking for water, only to discover they had an open day. There were far too many people there for solitary cyclists to feel content, however we did find water, cheap yummy donuts and bucket-loads of free candy. It was a pleasant enough trip to the cutsie town of Inlet. Once again we had been searching for a place to get our bikes serviced. Tour cycling is very hard on gear; with continual use our faithful bicycles wore out very quickly. I was delighted when, unexpectedly, I found Pedal and Petals bike shop. Without hesitating, we wheeled our bikes into the store. It was a bit confusing, the place seemed to be full of knick-knacks and junk with petals. Out of nowhere, a very grumpy voice demanded that we get our bikes out of the building. Offended and somewhat flabbergasted, I mumbled, 'we thought this was a bike shop, we wanted a service'. Sternly the voice told us to push our bikes around the corner into the basement. |
We obeyed and found a pleasant enough mechanic operating out of a dungeon who gave our bikes a good service. I forgot to tell him to ask before changing anything and came back to discover I had new brake-pads. They weren't really ready to be changed and it was a job that would have taken me a few minutes. I had posh new ones in my tool kit that I was wanting to use. Never mind.
While the bike was being serviced, we sat on a jetty in the canal behind the shop and cooked our lunch.
It was our goal to camp at Raquette Lake. This was a pretty enough place nestled among the hills, but perhaps better suited to car travellers with fat credit cards. We couldn't find a town park to camp in, so went and asked for advice at the local pub. They had rooms for fifty dollars and knowing we were planning on paying for accommodation for the next two nights, we said, 'no thanks'. The kind lady behind the counter gave us directions to a free lakeside campsite a few miles up the road.
This was perfect, private and quiet with long-drop dunnies. We found a lovely spot right on the water's edge and then went and introduced ourselves to our neighbours. I had learned years ago in Mexico, if the people sleeping beside you know your name and where you are from, then if things go wrong during the night, they are more likely to help.
There was a bit of traffic noise during the wee hours and a few mossies in the morning, but in the absence of flood lights, we slept well. We spent the morning climbing along lake shores, it was a lovely time. We stumbled upon a place called 'The Park in Long Lake'. Sharon asked if we could buy a coffee and use their tables for our panihapon. This little roadside kiosk provided us with perhaps one of our best coffees so far. I was very enthusiastic and in my excitement lavishly compliminted them. It seems the thrill was contagious and they asked me to repeat myself on video. For a whole afternoon I was the star of their Facebook page.
We continued climbing to Newcomb and stopped at the beautifully named Cloudsplitter Outfitters. Among other things, they had a very well-stocked tiny store. The shop attendants were friendly, warm and inviting. There was no need to open our wallets, but wanting to bless their business, we purchased some Gatorade and Cliff Bars. The plan was that this would hold us over until lunch at the end of our riding day.
But this excellent sunny autumn day suddenly got slow and hilly. We should have stopped and eaten, but it is so frustrating doing this when you are only a handful of miles from your destination. We snacked on old bagels and leftover ginger nuts.
While the bike was being serviced, we sat on a jetty in the canal behind the shop and cooked our lunch.
It was our goal to camp at Raquette Lake. This was a pretty enough place nestled among the hills, but perhaps better suited to car travellers with fat credit cards. We couldn't find a town park to camp in, so went and asked for advice at the local pub. They had rooms for fifty dollars and knowing we were planning on paying for accommodation for the next two nights, we said, 'no thanks'. The kind lady behind the counter gave us directions to a free lakeside campsite a few miles up the road.
This was perfect, private and quiet with long-drop dunnies. We found a lovely spot right on the water's edge and then went and introduced ourselves to our neighbours. I had learned years ago in Mexico, if the people sleeping beside you know your name and where you are from, then if things go wrong during the night, they are more likely to help.
There was a bit of traffic noise during the wee hours and a few mossies in the morning, but in the absence of flood lights, we slept well. We spent the morning climbing along lake shores, it was a lovely time. We stumbled upon a place called 'The Park in Long Lake'. Sharon asked if we could buy a coffee and use their tables for our panihapon. This little roadside kiosk provided us with perhaps one of our best coffees so far. I was very enthusiastic and in my excitement lavishly compliminted them. It seems the thrill was contagious and they asked me to repeat myself on video. For a whole afternoon I was the star of their Facebook page.
We continued climbing to Newcomb and stopped at the beautifully named Cloudsplitter Outfitters. Among other things, they had a very well-stocked tiny store. The shop attendants were friendly, warm and inviting. There was no need to open our wallets, but wanting to bless their business, we purchased some Gatorade and Cliff Bars. The plan was that this would hold us over until lunch at the end of our riding day.
But this excellent sunny autumn day suddenly got slow and hilly. We should have stopped and eaten, but it is so frustrating doing this when you are only a handful of miles from your destination. We snacked on old bagels and leftover ginger nuts.
After a lot more climbing, we reached the top and discovered there was a 10 mile descent in front of us. Hungry and cranky, we decided to push on. Seven miles down the hill, Sharon thought she was bonking - having your body shut down on you is not a pleasant experience. We spied some sort of 'bison meat shop', and out of desperation stopped to explore. They sold cake and root beer so we gobbled and drank and used the fuel to coast down the hill to North Hudson.
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We had booked two nights in the Yogi Bear campground. Without a doubt, this was our worst accommodation experience of our whole trip. We arrived around 4 p.m., to be greeted by non-existent service and when we finally found someone, they were terribly unfriendly. We had to clean our rustic cabin before we could use it. I loosened the lock of their cleaning room and borrowed some stuff so we could clean their showers before we used them. We were able to do a couple of loads of washing and cook a basic meal on our stove. In the evening, we walked down the road to a petrol station and purchased a beer and bag of chips each to celebrate 4000 miles on the road. It was a rather sad end to this chapter of our ride.
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