Biking 'Cross the Country for Food Allergies

Day 62

2009-02-10T12:02:00.000-08:00

I'm home from school sick today, and I remembered that I still have some days left... I'd pretty much forgot.

August 9 Lincoln, NH to North Waterford, ME

Leaving the condo in Lincoln, we immediately began the climb up to Kancamangus Pass... about twelve miles and 2000 or so feet. The rain from the night before had stopped, but the ground was wet and fog hung in the valleys and rose off of the trees in little plumes. Our maps showed this climb as one of the worst in New England (after the Middlebury Gap), but in truth it was a pretty easy climb. We reached the top around mid morning, and after getting our picture taken at the sign, started down the other side. The road dropped steeply down the other side for about six miles, before levelling off to a more gradual descent for the next fifteen miles into Conway.

From Conway, we struck out onto a rather busy road that would take us into Fryburg, the first town in our last state. We kept our heads down and rode for the first few miles, staying in the shoulder and trying not to inhale too much Carbon Monoxide. Half way to Fryburg, we came to the beautiful blue sign declaring "Welcome to Maine." Everyone posed for multiple pictures in front of the sign before starting off again down the road; at the time it was almost surreal, but as we rode away from the sign, I began to realize that we were REALLY IN MAINE! I began to think of all the miles and days we had put in to get here. I remembered the people who had taken us in, and the cyclist we had met along the way. It all suddenly seemed much more monumental.

We stopped for lunch in Fryburg at a rather slow restaurant, and called home to let everyone know we had made it to Maine. Then we pushed on, hoping to make it to a campground in North Waterford. Everything went normally, the road dropping and rising through a series of shallow valleys, until we had nearly made it to the campground. As we glided down one side of a valley, we saw ahead of us the road climbing back out at a grade just shy of vertical. All five of us began to pedal frantically in order to build momentum for the climb back out; within a hundred yards of starting up the other side, our momentum was gone, we were all in our very smallest of gears, and were standing in our pedals just to keep from toppling over. We inched our way up the other side, weaving dangerously back and forth when our speed dipped too low. None of us dared to stop because we knew we'd never get started again. Finally, we made it to the top and all stopped to congratulate each other. "Whew... that was crazy." I said.

My dad laughed giddily, "Jeez! I can't believe that hill!"

"You're a man now, after climbing that hill, Seth... we're all men now." Rick panted.

Michael grinned, "I can feel chest hair growing."

"My altimeter says that hill was a twenty-four percent grade!" my dad added. We all lapsed into silence, both in awe of our accomplishment, and for lack of breath.

It started to rain as we finally rolled into our campground, and we were left hiding in the convenience store until it let up. Our final night camping was also our most expensive one, with the site costing $58. Luckily, the rain let up and the ground was only mostly muddy, so we had a reasonably comfortable night. We made a big batch of spaghetti for all of us, and then dad made a blue berry cake for desert. As it started to get dark, we retreated into our tents for the final night on the trip.

Day 61

2008-11-03T18:20:00.000-08:00

AUGUST 8 Sharon, VT to Lincoln, NH

The day began with another New England hill: short (well, relatively short at only four miles... looking back now when I'm not in shape, I doubt it would have seemed so short) but fairly steep. We crossed into New Hampshire late in the morning, then wove back into Vermont a few miles down the road for a second breakfast. After breakfast, we returned to New Hampshire, for good this time.

That afternoon we came to an intersection flanked by fair trucks and orange tape. They were directing traffic away to the left because the flood had damaged the road ahead of us. "There was another cyclist earlier," one of the firemen told us, "he just rode straight through... he didn't even stop to ask for directions." All four of us (Jerry was still eating his second sandwich at a sub shop back up the road) shared a knowing glance: this could only be Steve's handi-work. The detour, though a bit longer, was also much gentler than the road we avoided (which the map said was quite steep.) We rolled along for the extra mile and a half before coming to the real climb... and the rain. As we began the ascent, the sky darkened, then began to spit lightly. We made our way to a shallow valley between two hills before the rain really struck.

The ground was already soaked, and within minutes there was standing water on the road. The rain fell harder. Suddenly, Michael, then Rick, and then dad veered off to the left. Instinctively I followed. Ahead of us was a the yellow opening of a battered old garage, with a car up on stilts blocking most of the entrance. Rick rolled up to one of the mechanics, "Mind if we watch you work on that truck?" he asked dryly.

The mechanic shook his head and grinned, "Nope. Ya can come in all the way if ya want." A woman appeared around the side of the car and beckoned us all further into the garage. Our coats dripping on the floor, we watched the mechanics work replacing a wheel. At one point I dug out my bag of goldfish from my panniers and I heard the mechanics joking with dad, "Yeah, lookit that one. Eatin' his goldfish!"

"I would be too." A second mechanic said.

When the rain seemed to have slackened as much as we could hope for, we set off up the other said of the valley. The rain stopped entirely, and the sky stayed a murky gray for the rest of the climb. The sky grew progressively darker as we rode down the other side, and by the time we reached the bottom, it began to rain again. As we began frantically searching for a hotel in Lincoln, Michael got a call on from Jerry, "Hello, this is Jerry and I don't want to camp!" Michael assured him that we didn't either, and that we'd have a hotel by the time he arrived in Lincoln.

Surprisingly, most of the hotels were already full, and we were just checking into a condo (not too expensive when split five ways) when Jerry arrived. The rain kicked up to full throttle as we stashed out bikes on the porch and hauled our bags into the living area. The dripping, muddy pile on the floor looked like something from a refugee camp. We all showered, and I made myself a cup of hot chocolate, then we ordered pizza. "I'll have a small garlic and anchovy." Rick said. My dad gave him a disbelieving look, "No really, I'm serious. It's delicious! That's how my wife and I knew we were meant for each other: I took her out for pizza on our first date, and she said, 'It's sort of weird, but I want a garlic and anchovy.' and I said, 'Me too!'" The rest of us ordered pizzas and salads. As we ate, the TV got switched to some old Clint Eastwood western... none of us really watched, but it added to the masculine mood. After dinner, a couple of Michael and Rick's friends stopped by; they had been taking a chocolate making class in Vermont, and as dad said in his journal, "they brought free samples!"

P.S. Sorry for the quality above writing... so far after the fact, everything seems rather surreal and vague. Sometimes it seems hard to remember that all of this actually happened to me. I remember the images and settings quite clearly, but only the occasional dialogue. This is also the part of the trip that I gave up keeping a journal on because I'd just cover it in the blog as soon as I got home... well, three months later it's a lot harder to do that than I imagined. So, my apologies if it feels rushed or vague, and my apologies for taking so long to get this far (I can't imagine anyone has really put up with me procrastinating this long...). Hopefully (but no promises) I can finish the last four days by the end of the month(?).

~Seth

Day 60

2008-10-05T19:01:00.000-07:00

AUGUST 7 Brandon to Sharon, VT

We had breakfast at the Inn the next morning along with an Elder Hostel group who were hiking the Appalachian Trail "the gentleman's way"; they spent each night at the Inn, then drove out to the trail each morning to hike a segment. As we ate, we all prayed that the road over the gap would be open. The rest had been nice, but we were all anxious to move on. We left the Inn around 8:45, but not before Rick threw out his back while loading his panniers. The sky was clear and the roads dry, but we were surrounded by signs of the flooding: flattened grass, debris on the road, and orange "road closed" signs. The ride began casually, then started to climb, up over the Brandon Gap. The climb began gradually, similar to many of the roads in the Cascades, but then we turned a corner and the road shot upward, "Uh-oh!" Michael said when he saw the increase. The last two miles of the climb were some of the steepest on the trip. I was in my lowest possible gear (which is lower than on most bikes) and I still had to stand in the pedals and hammer to get to the top (If only I knew about the hill that was yet to come!)

Dad and I reached the top first (me in none to pleasant of a mood). My face was bright red, and I felt like I had taken a shower in sweat. Looking back, I could see the countryside below, at the bottom of the hills. The brick buildings and rolling fields tiny from such a distance. Dad took pictures of Michael and Rick as they reached the top (Rick still in excruciating pain because of his back), then we all pulled rain coats over our sticky bodies to keep us warm on the 12% descent. "I'm trying not to use my breaks," Michael told us before we started down what would be one of the steepest downhills of the trip, "They're pretty worn out, so I'm trying to save them as much as possible." I had no such limitations, and part way down Michael flew by me and quickly closed the gap between himself and dad.

We finished the day in the town of Sharon, just before another major climb. Jerry had been trying to reserve a motel room all day, but he hadn't found any. We flopped our bikes down behind the Congregational Church, and dad rode off to try and find a place to stay. Rick (quite painfully) tightened some loose spokes, then sat down next to Michael and I in the grass to wait for dad.

"Well, the hotel is closed," dad told us when he came back, "But I met a man who said we could camp in his year." His eyes turned to the church, "Wouldn't it be great if we could stay here? Look, there's even a canopy we could cook under if that thunderstorm gets any closer." We had already all noticed the sky slowly bruising to a dark purple, threatening another deluge.

"We should send Seth to ask at the church," Michael suggested, "He knows a lot about religion."

"And he's young and cute and can act pathetic." dad added.

It turned out that dad, Michael, and I all went to ask if we could stay at the church. First, we tried the door to the church itself, but it was locked, so we wandered our way over to the neighboring house. The lights were on, music was playing, and the door was open, but no one seemed to be around. We called around the yard for a second, and had just decided no one was home, when a man stepped out carrying a thin strip of lumber. He stared at us in shock for a second, and dad hastened to explain, "We're cross-country cyclists, and were looking to stay at the church, but no one was there, so we came to see if you knew anything."

"Ah, sorry, I don't." he paused for a second, "Y'know who you could ask... two doors down there's a carpenter, Ronald Potter. His wife, Phyllis, is the organist at the church. You might try asking her. And if that doesn't work out, you could stay in my barn; it's big, and clean, and you'd have a roof over your heads. Bathrooms might be an issue, though..."

"Thank you!" dad said, and Michael and I echoed him, "And what was your name?"

"Oh, I'm Hull." He saw the blank looks on our faces and added, "H-U-L-L."

"Well, thanks Hull. Have a nice day."

We found Phyllis in her yard with three other ladies, all chatting politely. "Excuse me, is one of you Phyllis?" Dad interrupted their conversation.

"Yes." the oldest said, "That would be me." she was easily a head shorter than her companions, and she had a warm, grandmotherly air to her, "What can I do for you?"

"Well, we're cross-country cyclists and we heard that you were the organist for the church up the road there, and we were hoping to stay there tonight..."

"I'll see what I can do." she said. First, she introduced us to her guests, a woman from the town and her pen-pal from Ireland, then made her way inside to make some phone calls. The guests wished us well and walked off. Phyllis came back a few moments later, "Well, I made some phone calls, and I'm trying to reach the deacon. It'll be a while if you want to have a seat." she gestured to the deck, but we all sat down on the lawn, "Used to be we left the church unlocked all the time. But then they put in the interstate, and we started to worry about bums going in there and smoking in the pews. We don't really have anything valuable in there, but we couldn't risk the church burning down." She shook her head for a moment. "Now, I'm gonna go in to finish my poies."

As she walked into the house, I saw Michael mouthing "Pies!!" to me across the lawn.

I grinned back, "Now we just have to look really pathetic..." Despite our best efforts to evoke sympathy, we never even saw a slice of pie. Instead, we got to spend the night in the Congregational Church of Sharon... more than a fair trade.

We set up our sleeping bags in the upstairs Sunday school room, showered at a house across the street, and picked up dinner from a convenience store a short walk away. We cooked our dinner in the kitchen down stair (the church was definitely equipped to support cyclists.) After our meal (for dad and I, a stir-fry followed up by a quart of Ben&Jerry's), we returned to the Sunday school room. Rick stretched his back, Jerry called home, dad updated his journal, and Michael and I engaged in a grueling game of Biblopoly. After that, we all headed off to bed.

Day 59

2008-09-13T09:38:00.000-07:00

AUGUST 6 East Middlebury to Brandon, VT

In the middle of the night, I woke to the persistent sound of raindrops on my tent, a few of them finding their way in through my open rain fly. Groggily, I zipped my fly door close, then drifted back to sleep.

By 6:00, I was half awake, listening to the raindrops still hammering on my tent, waiting for them to stop so I could get out of my tent. I waited for an hour and the rain didn't slacken even once. Around 7:00, my whole tent suddenly shook. Ah, great, hear come the winds. I thought, wondering if we were still planning to meet up with Michael and Steve at 8:30. "Hey bud," I heard dad's voice and realized he had shaken my tent, "Time to get up." I mumbled a response, then started packing up my gear.

As I rolled up my thermarest, I noticed that the floor under it was the only wet spot in my entire tent. I put my hand on the wet spot to see how much water had really got in, and the whole floor rippled: a lake was forming under my tent! I redoubled my efforts to pack up my gear and get ready to leave. As I crawled out of my tent, I saw dad already loading bags onto his bike, "I was figuring we'll skip breakfast and pick something up later," I nodded emphatically, my head already soaked from the ten seconds I'd been outside, "How'd your tent hold up?"

"Pretty good. The floor's leaking some, but then there's a bit of a lake under it." I strapped one of my bags onto my bike, "How about yours?"

"Sierra Design is getting a letter from me when we get home. The fly leaked, the floor leaked. I have standing water in their right now." We both rushed to get everything on the bikes, taking down our tents very last. "Y'know, Seth. I'm thinking today would be a good day to find a hotel and dry everything out. We can ride again tomorrow when it's not so bad out." I nodded hesitantly, reluctant to stay behind a day if Steve, Michael, and Jerry planned to keep going.

We got to the gas station we had met Steve, Michael, and Rick at the night before around 8:00. Dad had just pulled out his cell phone to call them about maybe not riding today, when all of them, plus Jerry, rode up out of the rain. After an hour of eating gas station muffins and breakfast sandwiches and drinking gas station tea, Steve had us all at least mostly convinced we should push on (dad still wanted to go find a hotel some where, but I wasn't ready to lose all of them after just catching up the day before, so we pushed on).

At 9:00, we decided that the rain didn't look like it would get much better, and started off, riding toward the Middlebury Gap (what an ideal situation? Going up an incredibly steep climb in a Noah-style deluge.) Nearing the base of the hill, we heard a roar and began catching whiffs of a muddy, rotten smell. Around the next corner, we discovered the source: a river, swollen by the rains and turned the color of hot chocolate by all the mud in it, raged along next to the road. Beneath the the overall roar, we also heard a dull thumping: boulders rolling along the bottom of the river.

We crossed a bridge, but stopped in the middle of it to take pictures of the river. A green Subaru zipped down the mountain, then stopped next to us on the bridge, "Are you planning on going over?" we all nodded, "There's four or five inches of water on the inside of the road, and the outside is crumbling away as you watch-"

He was interrupted by a little white car coming down the road and honking. When it came level with us, it stopped and the driver stuck her head out the window, "You can't stop here!" she said angrily, "It's not safe! Get off the road!" The man in the Subaru shrugged helplessly and drove off. We started up the climb.

Dad and I chugged away up front in our smallest gears for about a quarter of a mile. "Turn back! Turn Back!" Rick started to shout from behind us, "The road's completely washed out!" Looking back, we saw him talking to the driver of a truck.

As we started to turn around, a little blue car drove down the mountain. Dad and I waved frantically at it and it squealed to a sudden halt, "How is it?" dad called to the driver.

"Terrible!" she told us, "Half of the road is gone, and the other half is under three to five feet of water. It was the scariest experience in my life!"

"That makes the decision pretty easy." Michael said as she drove away.

"Yeah, it sounded pretty conclusive." I agreed

Just as we decided to turn around, Jerry came puffing up the mountain, "Whew, what a climb."

"Bad news, Jer." Rick said, "We have to go back down. The roads washed out."

"We have to go back down? Aw, gee..." We all did an about face and rode through the continuing rain back down the road, stopping at the bottom of the hill in a small parking lot. Steve went inside to ask for an alternative route, Dad called a bike store to ask for direction, and Michael looked over his map. The rest of us watched as a road crew drove up and stopped in front of the parking lot. They unloaded a "Road Closed" sign from the back of their truck and began shutting down the road and re-routing traffic. An hour later, we left the parking lot headed south, hoping to cut over the Green Mountains down the road. The weather cleared as we pedaled, and eventually we had all stripped off out rain jackets and thinking we might actually make some miles before the day was over.

Apparently we had hoped too soon: a few miles down the road, we pulled into a small convenience store, big clouds growing overhead. Steve wandered in to ask directions to a hotel or camp ground. He returned a few moments later, "Well, they're saying the road behind us has been washed out, and the road we want to turn on has standing water a couple of feet deep. We can camp here, or there's a campsite a coupla miles down the road. And there're two B&Bs around here."

"We can't really camp." dad said, gesturing at himself and me, "Everything we have is soaked. It would be completely miserable."

"Why don't we look for the B&B's?" Michael suggested.

"If everything's flooding, they'll be full." Steve waved off the idea, "Lets try and ride on. We either make it over the gap or stay at the campground up the road."

"Seth and I can't camp." dad said.

"And that standing water..." Michael said, "It won't be just standing still. It'll be rushing across the road."

"Well, if it's rushing, we won't go through it." Steve said. At that point, there wasn't much use left in arguing. We tried dissuading him for a few more minutes, but before long we were back in the saddle, riding on towards the Green Mountains.

By the time we had reached our first patch of water, about 100 feet across and clearly rushing, Steve had changed his mind, "Ah, that doesn't look so bad! I'm gonna try going across." He pedalled off, water spraying up behind his back wheel.

Michael shook his head, "Y'know, they say not to do that in a car! And here Steve is on a bicycle."

"I think Steve likes all this shit!" Jerry said.

"I know Steve likes all this shit!" Michael agreed.

Before any of the rest of us followed Steve across the water, a sheriff car pulled up, "Where ya all headed?" the man inside called to us.

"We're going to Bethel, over the Brandon Gap."

"No you're not." the sheriff said, "I just came down this road, and I past through at least a dozen spots like this. And I haven't even been to Goshen; it's always worse up there. You'd be crazy to try to go over the gap today. Your best bet is probably Brandon, about five miles south of here."

"Is there any hotel there?" dad asked.

"Yeah, the Brandon Inn. It's pretty nice." We thanked him and headed off, but not before asking a car driving across the water to tell Steve (who was already out of site) where we were going.

The Brandon Inn was a beautiful brick building first built in 1786. Before long we were checked into our rooms and spreading our gear across the furniture to dry. For the rest of the afternoon we lounged about, eating lunch at a local cafe, and wandering the town. A river runs through Brandon, over a small set of rapids; when we first saw it at lunch, it had over flowed its banks, flowing the same muddy color we had seen that morning. The pub situated above the river, which normally had a nice view of the waterfall, was closed in case the supports gave way under the torrent of water. After such an eventful morning, it was nice to have so much free time in the afternoon (although I didn't get a chance to write on my blog since the Library closed down it's computers in case of lightening strikes).

After checking in at the library, I wandered back to the hotel and crawled into bed for a nap. When I woke up, the room was empty. I wandered the halls, searching for dad, Rick, Michael, or Jerry, but I couldn't find any of them. When I couldn't find him in the inn, I became more frantic, expanding my search to the neighboring buildings: the bookstore/cafe, the antique/ice cream shop, the library (where I asked if the librarian had seen any other cyclists dressed in goofy clothes come through). I even walked down to the waterfall and the surrounding restaurants.

As I walked back to the hotel, beginning to panic (the dark sky had already set the mood, and I was beginning to wonder if I had been dropped into some horror movie, and everyone else had been axed) a woman in a pink sweater, wearing a gaudy white necklace, stopped me, "Have you been to the water works?"

I nodded distractedly, "Yeah, they're pretty full. Have you seen any other cyclists around? Four guys wandering around somewhere?"

"I haven't, but I'm going up Franklin Street, so if I see them, I'll tell them.... what was your name?"

"I'm Seth."

"I'll tell them Seth was looking for them. Where are you riding to?"

"We want to get to Bethel, over the Brandon Gap."

"Oh... I think 73 and all of 100 are closed. Those are the roads over the Gap." her tone changed slightly, "Don't go near the water: it's so dangerous! I saw some boys over by the falls looking at the current. I warned them to be careful. This water just scares me! Well, Seth, good luck finding your friends." I thanked her, promised to be careful, then walked into the hotel.

As soon as I stepped in, I spotted dad in the back. I hurried over to him, and discovered that he, Rick, Jerry, and Michael had been in the bar all along. "Always check the bar first!" Rick told me. We went out to dinner (bland shepherd's pie) at the tavern over the waterfall, now open for business because the water had receded. Then, we went back to the inn, organized our gear, and went to bed.

Day 58

2008-09-11T16:56:00.000-07:00

AUGUST 5 Middlebury to East Middlebury, VT 15 miles

Another lazy day as we planned to visit Middlebury College that afternoon, then only ride a little way out of town to spend the night in a campground just before the Middlebury gap. We lounged around our hotel room until we were forced to leave at noon, then made our way to a bakery to pick up lunch. As we rode through town, a man by the side of the road waved us down; we slowed to a stop before realizing it was the miss-matched-sock-man from the night before. "I saw you riding!" he called, "Too bad, if I'd known you were staying in town last night, I could have found you a place to stay. I have some pals at the AA hall who'd 'a bin more'n happy to let you stay there." As he spoke, I noticed he was still wearing his clothes from the night before, miss-matched socks and all.

"Ahhh...." dad managed, trying to sound regretful. "too bad..." his voice trailed off as he decided not to even try.

Luckily, the man didn't seem to notice, "Now, come over here an' tell me where yer goin'." Reluctantly we rode over and pulled out our maps. He didn't bother to look at them. "You should go down to Manchester. It's a bit outta yer way, but ya miss all the hills that way, an' there's a good place to stay. The Friendlies. Tell 'em yer on bicycles an' they'll let you stay with them." Dad and I nodded politely as he spoke until we managed to disengage ourselves.

"So, wanna stay at the AA hall?" dad joked as we rode away.

I shook my head emphatically, "And Manchester..." I started, "It's all the way at the bottom of the state. Probably a hundred miles away!" Both of us laughing, we picked up sandwiches at the bakery, then ate them sitting on a lawn at the college.

Middlebury was one of the neatest colleges we've seen. They have awesome language and international studies program, a quidditch team, and a beautiful campus. Our tour ended at three, and both dad and I changed into our bike clothes then set off into the overly-hot afternoon sunshine.

Midway through our short ride, dad suddenly stuck out his arm to signal a turn, then darted across the busy road into a gas station parking lot. Sighing, I made to follow, wondering what dad was playing at, when I saw Steve standing at the edge of the parking lot, leaning against his bike. "Hey buddies!" he called, "Long time no see!" Dad got off his bike to give him a hug while I hung back sort of awkwardly (for some reason, I'm always nervous about hugging people). "Let's go get some snacks and sit out here on a bench!" Steve said, as enthusiastic as ever. We all walked over to the convenience store and leaned our bikes against the stucco-textured wall. As dad and I took off our helmets, Steve (who still wore his) suddenly stared at my head, "Whoa! You have hair!" I grinned as we all walked into the store together.

Eating our snacks outside the gas station, we saw Michael and another cyclist ride past. "Hey!" Steve yelled, then got up and ran over to wave them over to where we sat. Dad hugged Michael and we both introduced ourselves to his friend, Rick, who had ridden with them since Buffalo, New York. In a way, it felt monumental to meet back up with them after weeks a part. But another part of me felt like it was completely natural and we were just picking up where we left off. After 15 minutes of talking, with no sign of Jerry, Steve was itching to get back on the road. While the rest of us sat and talked, he was straddling his bike and trying to encourage Michael and Rick that it was time to go. They gave in and headed off to the hotel they were staying in for the night; before they left, we all made plans to meet at the East Middlebury post office at 8:30 the next morning.

Dad and I wound up staying in an expensive, 'resort' campground that night, in a small spot sandwiched between to other two other campsites. Dad went off to shower and I started in on dinner. I set up our stove, then carefully allowed a little fuel seep into a holding cup; you're supposed to light this on fire to warm up the metal before starting the stove up all the way. A lit a match and touched it to the fuel. Flame sprang up, then reached beyond on the little stove, a plume of fire flickering towards our fuel bottle. "Oh, Shit!" I muttered as a snatched the fuel bottle out of the way.

"I heard that!" a dark haired woman in the site to our left scolded. Then she smiled, "I'm just kidding. I don't mind, the kids aren't around to pick it up."

"Sorry anyway." I said glancing over at her, "The fire just sort of shot out..." I went back to cooking, "By the way, what book are you reading?" I asked.

"Oh, just some fantasy novel. I read anything with swords and magic and dragons." We talked about fantasy novels until dad got back and took over with dinner while I went for a shower. When I got back, she had given us a zucchini and offered us sausage for breakfast the next morning.

After dinner, a man wearing running shorts and a jersey unzipped to his belly-button, and eating gruel from a little metal bowl came over to out site. "'ello! Other bike tourists! What-do-you think about the sites. Twenty-six dollars for a night! Dirty rotten swindlers! It's scandalous! Just came over to say 'ello!"

"Hi. What's your name?" dad asked.

"Ah, I'm Smilin' Joe!" Smilin' Joe had left Portland on June 10th, came up through Seattle and "Spokin", then stopped in Cour'de Lane, where he volunteered at the Iron Man wearing a grass skirt and a coconut bra. Then he went down to Wyoming and Yellow Stone and cut his way back up to Michigan, "Only they wouldn't let me go inta Canada because... well, I have a bit of a record, and the papers I needed to get through hadn't arrived yet, so I had to go aroun', down through Michigan right by Detroit." He suddenly turned to look at me, "You keep your hinnie strait! You don't want no criminal record! It'll come back to bite ya latter! Ah... the bug's are comin' out, so I hafta keep movin' fellas. G'night!" Smilin' Joe made his way back to his site and dad and I crawled into our tents to escape the mosquitoes. As soon as we were inside, the woman in the campsite to our right (who we hadn't met yet) walked over.

"I know you can't carry any wood on your bikes, but I have a fire if you want to come over and sit by it" When dad and I arrived, we found her sitting in a campchair, a puzzle book in her lap, in front of a large tent with two young girls inside. "I'm Katheryn." she introduced herself, "I bet you have some pretty crazy stories!" For the next twenty minutes she listened intently, watching us with eager eyes, as we told her about our trip. Finally, dad and I said goodnight, then retreated to our tents. I wrote for a while, then went to sleep with the door to my rainfly folded open to let in a little breeze.

Day 57

2008-09-07T10:27:00.000-07:00

August 4 Fort Ticoneroga NY to Middlebury VT

Exhausted after our ride into Fort Ticonderoga, dad and I slept in till nearly 8:00 the next morning. When I woke up, my tent was full of sunlight and I heard dad talking to a couple in the next camp site. Ron and Suzanne were just on a weekend vacation up to the Adirondacks from their home a couple hour drive away. "We've had some weird weather." Ron told us, "about six days of sunshine in all of June. The rests been all rain."

"There was even a tornado up in Vermont last year!" Suzanne put in. This trend of strange weather had been true all across the country: the great plains were a lot wetter than usual, which explained why they were so green (I expected North Dakota to be a dead brown) and why there were so many mosquitoes; Ontario, and now New England, were being doused by rain; and every time we called home to mom, she told us about the weather in Oregon, which certainly didn't sound normal. The odd weather did have some pluses: we never rode in extreme heat (I expected 120 degree days, but the worst we had was in the upper 90s); and the humidity, though annoying, was never absurd.

Dad and I took a lazy morning, stopping for breakfast in the town of Fort Ticonderoga (I had some blueberry pancakes that left me nauseous for the rest of the morning) then rode a short ways to visit the historic fort. Leaving the fort at about 11, we crossed a cable-ferry into the state of Vermont (state number nine!) The ferry deposited us on the opposite shore, and we rode off along narrow winding roads, through rolling farm land and wooded hills. The scene, with the sun shining as it hadn't for the past week, looked like it came out of a story book about quaint, rural America. Unfortunately, the roads steadily deteriorated the farther we got into Vermont: after stopping for a picture of an 18th century blacksmith shop, fissures and pot holes began appearing in greater numbers, ready to grab our wheels and pull us to the pavement. After 20 miles, our shortest 'riding' day of the trip so far, we entered the town of Middlebury, home to Middlebury college, and full of stone buildings and surprisingly patient drivers.

Dad and I maneuvered our bikes through the streets, searching both for a bike shop to fix my rack, and a hotel to stay in. We found a bike shop first, and I went in to ask about replacement parts while dad tried phoning hotels in the town. "Ah, excuse me." I said to the mechanic, "I'm on a bike tour and my rack's broken... you wouldn't happen to have any replacement parts, would you?"

"Oh, I bet not. But how but we take a look at your bike and see what we can do." He came out to look at the broken supports and shook his head, "Nah, the best I could do is sell you a new rack, and that's probably more than you want to spend on this. Hmmmm... You could try the bike shop just down the street; they usually have more of these spare parts just kicking around. And if they don't, c'mon on back. I have some zip ties and we'll see what we can do."

"Thank you." I said, beginning to panic that I would be stuck with a broken rack all the way to Maine. I picked up dad and we rode over to the second shop.

The second shop looked much more like a true, hard-core bike shop: where the first had been on the main street, advertising skies, snow boards, and bikes in the window, this one was tucked away on the far side of a little plaza; it's single window was plastered with bicycling posters, and the inside was dark, lit by a dull yellow light coming from in back. Bikes lined the floor, and hung from the ceiling, and bike posters covered the walls. The mechanic, a white haired man, leaned on the counter talking to a customer about an up coming bike race. As I walked in uncertainly, my eyes adjusting to the dark interior, the customer looked over, "Looks like you have some business." he said to the mechanic, "Talk to you later."

"You too." the mechanic replied, then turned to me, "So, what can I do for ya?"

"I'm on a bike tour, and the support from my rack to my seat stay is broken... do you have a replacement part?"

"I bet so... Let's see the bike." he followed me outside and waited as I took off my panniers. He glanced at the broken parts and nodded, "Yeah, I have some of those." he wandered back inside and reappeared moments later with the pieces I needed, "En garde!" he said, waving one in the air and then handing it to me. He and dad watched as I sweated (partially from the heat, partially from the scrutiny) to remove the broken pieces and replace them with the new ones.

"That piece there looks like it's been held together." the mechanic said, pointing at the contraption of bolts and washers.

"Yeah, a mechanic in Ithaca did that. He said that it should hold together until we got to Bar Harbor. He was sort of right: that was all that was really holding the rack together till now."

"This mechanic... was he an older fellow?"

"Yeah, probably in his 50s or 60s. He's a machinist at Cornell and runs a bike shop at night. I guess he used to be a pretty good bike racer."

"Yeah, I know him." the mechanic nodded, "Glen something or other. I used to be faster than him."

"So, are all the roads round here as bad as the one we came in on?" dad asked,

"You think the one you came in on was bad? That's the good road for around here. Wait till tomorrow... you're going over the Middlebury Gap, right? That road is terrible. And steep! It starts out at 18%. And going down the other side..." he shook his head, grinning bemusedly, "just as steep and the road is even worse! You have to be really careful." I finished the repairs and dad paid the mechanic 3 dollars total for the pieces, and then we went off in search of our hotel.

The Middlebury Inn was a ritzy hotel, but then, all the hotels in Middlebury are pretty ritzy; the whole town is a bit of a tourist trap. We got to the hotel just in time for afternoon tea. When dad checked in, we both took a couple of the complimentary scones, then, after dropping off our bags, we returned for more. We sat in the fancy, high backed chairs in the lobby, feasting on scones, cookies, and lemonade, leaving a healthy halo of crumbs. "This is probably the last time they let cyclists stay here!" dad joked.

"They should expect this if they offer us free food." I replied.

Dad and I lounged for the rest of the evening, going out for pizza and wandering through the cute little town. As we wandered down a side road, a man with matted blond hair and mismatched socks stared at us, not looking away for even a second. Disconcerted, we hurried on, stopping to look at the town's waterfall before returning to the hotel to go to bed.

Day 56

2008-09-01T12:57:00.000-07:00

AUGUST 3 Blue Mountain Lake to Fort Ticonderoga, NY

As I loaded my panniers onto my bike the next morning, I noticed a little problem: the supports from my rack to my seat stay had broken, just like in Ithaca. Only now, the only thing holding my rack in place was the little contraption of screws and washers that the mechanic used to fix my rack in the first place; if that broke, my rack would likely fall backwards, hit my wheel, and send me flying into the pavement. Not a very happy scenario. "Ah, dad? My bike's broken."

Dad walked over and I pointed at the broken rack, "Ughh. Why do we only notice these things right when we're getting ready to ride!" He tried to imitate the mechanics jerry-rigged support, but the parts we had didn't quite cut it. "Oh! I know!" dad suddenly said, walking over to a stump on one side of the camp site. He picked up a little piece of string that had been left there be some earlier camper, "It's funny, when we first got here, I had a feeling that this string was important." he said as he walked back and began to tie it around my rack. When he was finished, the string connected my rack to my seat post, "Now, at least if the last support does break, the rack won't immediately fall off. Still, we need to find a way to fix this really soon. I don't want to be stuck in the middle of no where when the rack goes." Despite the fix, dad and I spent a half hour sullenly silent, both of us terrified that the rack would break.

I'm sure some of this is beginning to sound a little repetitive: we rode all day and the sky was gray; it rained some; we stopped for a second breakfast in town X (in this case, in Long Lake, and the timing was perfect! As soon as we were inside, the sky split open and it rained the entire time we ate, but stopped before we got outside); it rained some more. The truth is, the time in New York, though beautiful, largely was repetitive! That said, every day was different, and something special always happened. The special part of August 3rd was our descent out of the Adirondacks.

All day we had been climbing short, steep hills, that were always followed by short steep descents, which left us feeling like we were back at square one. Apparently, the descents weren't quite as far as the climbs, so by the end of the day we found ourselves on a hill overlooking the town of Fort Ticonderoga. The clouds were big and purple, glossed lightly yellow on the bottom by the sun; the road twisted out of the hills and forests of the Adirondacks, dropping to the valley and fields below; the town was visible in the distance. Exhausted, and fearing the impending rain, dad and I didn't stop to appreciate the view: we took the hill head on. As the road slanted away, I felt myself picking up speed and thoroughly enjoying it. I coasted most of the way into Fort Ticonderoga. It was only after we had stopped, at the bottom of the hill, that dad and I bothered to enjoy the view: behind, the road wove its way back into the green and gray of the mountains, fog rose off the forests, and the sun glowed faintly behind it all.

We stopped for dinner supplies in town, then rode a couple of miles off route to a camp ground. The first camp site we were assigned to was all mud, with large puddles and patches of muck that sucked at your shoes. As we set up our tents, dad finally shook his head in frustration, "You finish setting up the tents and I'll go see if there's an open spot nearby that we can switch to." He walked off and I finished setting up my tent, then put on the rain fly, then put on dad's rain fly... what seemed like a long time later he returned, "Well, I've got some good news and some bad news. Good news: I got us a dryer site; bad news: it's on the other side of the campground."

"Isn't there one just over there?" I asked, pointing at a vacant site just across the road.

"It's reserved. C'mon, lets just bundle the tents up... no need to roll 'em up... then we can strap 'em to the bikes." We repacked our tents then slowly rode to the other site. "Oh... I think this looks too wet!" dad joked, "I'll go see if we can switch."

I glared at him, "There could be a lake in this site and I wouldn't move!" I said, "I'm dead." We put up our tents, and I went to shower while dad made dinner. When dinner was over, I did dishes as the sun sank below the trees, finishing in the dark. Without my headlight, I fumbled my way to my tent, flopped inside, and fell asleep without bothering to write.

Day 55 continued

2008-09-01T12:16:00.001-07:00

This is my first post back at home... It's great being back, but now it's harder to focus on writing my blog. My rough plan, subject to change: I will have our days spent in New York written about by the end of today, and the rest of our trip done by the end of next weekend. Hopefully, I'll be done by September 7. Of course, I go back to school tomorrow, so that date might get pushed back a little.

When dad and I arrived in the town of Blue Mountain Lake, the sky still hadn't cleared up. We pulled into the gas station and asked for directions to the nearest camp ground, "Oh, there's a state one about 3 miles down the road that way." the clerk pointed in a direction we didn't want to go.
Sighing, dad and I perused the convenience store for any last minute additions to our dinner (we already had some packets of ramen noodle and fresh vegetables in our packs.) "Where are you from in Oregon?" one of the shoppers suddenly asked. I stared dumbfounded for a second, then realized I was wearing my bright yellow jersey with 'Oregon' written across the chest.
"Ahm... Oregon City. It's a little town just south of Portland." I said.
"I know where Oregon City is! I used to go to Canby High School." For a second time in 30 seconds I found myself dumbfounded.
"I go to Canby High School." I said shakily.
The woman laughed, "Really? Oh, then I have to ask if this one teacher is still there. He was my favorite teacher... he really changed my life. Sort of weird, though." She thought about it for a second, "He was my literature teacher..."
"Was it Mr. Mikulec?" I asked quickly.
"Yes! Yes! He's still there?"
"Yeah, I just had him last year."
"Oh, wow. I can only imagine what he's like now. I mean, he was strange when I had him." I found myself grinning as she spoke.
"He's definitely a different sort of person." I agreed, "So do you still live in Oregon?"
"No," the woman shook her head, "I graduated in '82, and now I live just south of here in Saratoga." She nodded silently for a moment, "So, did you ride out here?" I nodded, "Wow! Well, good luck on your trip!"
"Thanks!" I said as she left the convenience store.

Our campground was a state park just south of the route. We were given a site slightly removed from the road, that could only be reached by a short trail. Dad and I wheeled our bikes up the path, then raced to set up our tents before the rains came. Since the campground was already almost full, dad and I crammed our tents together in one corner of our site, so that if Liz, Cate, and Sarah showed up they would have some where to put their tent. Dad and I hurled our gear into our tents, then scurried in after it just as the first drops started to fall. For the next fifteen minutes, we both sat in our tents, munching on goldfish, gorp, and snickers bars, and listening to the rain fall. As the drops became fewer and farther between, I heard dad climb out of his tent, "I'm gonna go take a shower." he said, "I'll probably get more wet on the walk than in the shower, but oh well... When I get back, I'll start dinner." I heard him shuffle off to the shower while I slowly started to organize my gear (very early in the trip, I developed the nightly routine of listening to my iPod while repacking my bags, pulling out the clothes I'd need for the next day, and so on.)

When dad returned from the shower, the rain had stopped almost entirely, so I took my turn to clean up. I gathered together my 'street clothes' (by that I mean, non-lycra clothing) and my towel, then headed down to the bathrooms. Unfortunately, after I had peeled off my wet bike clothes, I realized I didn't know how to operate the shower (I couldn't figure out where I was supposed to put in my quarter to make the water run.) After five embarrassing minutes of fiddling with the controls, I gave up and switched shower stalls, not bothering to get dressed again (luckily, no one else was in the bathroom to see me hurry into the other stall). After my shower, I went back to camp to help dad finish dinner (ramen noodles with chopped up salami, and a corn, cucumber, and balsamic vinegrette salad that we had seen the girls make the night before.) I got the dishes, and then crawled in my tent at about 8:00.

Ooops

2008-08-26T16:52:00.000-07:00

I didn't mean to post the last post yet, so it's only half done... I'll finish the rest of it next time I'm on a computer.

~Seth

Day 55

2008-08-26T16:26:00.000-07:00

AUGUST 2 Boonville to Blue Mountain Lake, NY

Dad and I had started to break down our tents by the time the girls woke up. Again, dad wandered over to talk to them with me in tow, and soon we were helping eat their pancake breakfast. Cate mixed up the pancake batter, then while it was in the pan, Sarah shaved pieces of chocolate (from a mass of chocolate chips that had melted then hardened together) into the it and added slices of a tart apricot. The overall effect was quite good: sour, but sweet enough to be tasty without any syrup. We all ate them with our hands as soon as they came out of the pan. When we left, dad promised that if we camped with them again we would make them a cake using the double-boiler method Pat had taught us.

I played a game with myself as we rode, making up characters using names I saw on signs: the name Joslin on a mailbox became Sir Joslin, a young knight who wears glasses and fights with a mace; the town of Woodgate became Gregoire Woodgate, a traveling wizard who collects flowers; Timberlane Road became the Timberlane family, who rule a small barony as part of a larger kingdom. By the end of the day, I had created 15 such characters, all together on a Chaucerian pillgrimage across an imaginary world. Though not my most.... memorable characters, they certainly helped pass the hours of sitting on a bicycle seat.

Just under a mile from Old Forge, where we planned to stop for a second breakfast, dad's tire went flat with a sudden rush of air. As he pulled to the side of the road and began changing the tube, it began to rain. Gritting his teeth in frusteration, he continued the process, finally replacing the tube and jerking his wheel back into place. We started riding again, the rain letting off now that the tire was changed, and were suddenly confronted by more people in one place than we'd seen since Niagara Falls. Apparently Old Forge, as well as most of the Adirondacks, serve as a popular vactaion spot, especially on weekends (it was just our luck that the days we were riding through the Adirondacks were a Saturday and Sunday.) We managed to squeeze our way into a restuarant for breakfast, then left town in a hurry.

The rest of the day passed smoothly; the landscape was some of the best on the entire trip: at times, we felt that we were back in the Skagit River Valley in Western Washington. The weather was damp, but not wet, and the skly remained an exciting swirl of gray clouds. For the first time since Montatna, we were surrounded by more pines and firs than oaks, maples, or birches.

Day 54

2008-08-21T16:11:00.000-07:00

AUGUST 1 Fulton to Boonville NY

We were up and out of the Fulton campground early the next morning, still enjoying the thrill of being back on the road. After a brief detour to view Lake Ontario (our third Great Lake), and an encounter with a rider from French Canada, Guyton Champagne, dad and I arrived in the town of Pulaski around 10:30 in the morning. Since our ride was going to be on the shorter side, we decided to stop for an hour or so to use the computers in the Pulaski Public Library. We rode up to the library and propped our bikes against a wall. A man leaning on the wall a few paces down looked over at us, "Where ya comin' from?" he asked.
"Washington State, just above Seattle."
"Gah'!" he exclaimed in an east coast accent, "An' where're ya goin' to?"
"Bar Harbor, Maine."
"Chris'! You guys're crazy! Good luck!" He stood up, shaking his head and smiling, and wandered away.

I walked into the library, still grinning at his surprise, and confidently stepped up to the Librarian, "Can I get on a computer here?" I asked.
She eyed me suspiciously, clearly thinking Another one of these cyclists!?! How many are there? and gestured at a sheet of paper, "You can sign in there, but there's a 45 minute wait." Crestfallen, I scrawled my name on the line and walked back outside, shaking my head at dad.

I pulled out the bag of gorp, and dad and I were just planning our next move (Lunch in the park? Wait the 45 minutes? Ride on?) when a man walked out of the library and right up to us, "Sorry, I have to ask, cross country?" He said eagerly, grinning like a kid.
"Yeah."
"West to East or East to West?" he asked.
"West to East. We..."
"I don't know why anyone would do it the other way! The head winds would be awful! So, are you ending in Bar Harbor?"
"Yeah... How do you know so much about this? Have you followed the Adventure Cycling Route?" dad asked.
"No, just lots of cross country riders pass through Pulaski. Following AC, then? Going into the Adirondacks?" he didn't wait for a reply, "So, tonight you'll stay in... West Leyden?"
"That's the plan..." dad responded.
"It's beautiful up there... here, let me see your map!" he sat down on a stone wall next to the road, letting his feet dangle above the ground. Dad and I climbed up on either side of him, "Oh, here in Old Forge, they rent Kayaks... and there's a really nice hike up over here, up to an old viewpoint... and over here..." he listed off all the possible tourist attractions in the area. "Well, I have to go, off to my own bike tour. We ride through Canada every year. You should check out the park... the Lion's club is barbecuing chickens as a fundraiser. Have a great trip, guys."
"You too!" we called as he walked away, waving over his shoulder. Dad and I ate a chicken lunch in the park, watching the BMXers do a very different kind of biking, then left Pulaski.

The hills began just outside of West Leyden, the first since Montana. The pavement dropped out below our front wheels, then rose steeply in front of us, time and again. By the time we reached the town, both of us were more then ready to stop for the day. We pulled into a convenience store that our map said let cyclists camp out back. As soon as we stopped, a quartet of mountain bikers made their way over to us, "You don't happen to have a pump for presta tubes? The little valves?" the lead one asked; he wore a cowboy hat and jeans, and had a scraggly brown beard.
"Yeah, actually we do!" dad said as I took my frame pump off my bike . Although dad had drilled both of our tires to accommodate Schraeder valves (the big ones), because they are easier to find in small towns, our pumps could be converted for use with the presta valves as well. I switched my pump around and handed it to the man in the cowboy hat.
"Thanks, man." he said and began furiously inflating his tires, "So, where're you guys headin'?"
"Maine." I said casually. He looked up at me, his eyes round.
"Really?" cooed the girl standing next to him, "That's a long ways."
"And where are you comin' from?" a third mountain biker asked.
"Washington." dad said in the same casual voice I had used.
"As in State?" the girl asked. Dad and I spent the next five minutes reveling in our celebrity status until the leader had pumped up the tires. "Good luck!" they all called, heaving their mountain bikes into the back of a muddy pick up truck and driving away.
As soon as they left, dad looked at me with a mischievous grin on his face, "Wow... she was... well-endowed. I kept telling myself, look at her face, Chip, look at her face!"
I laughed, mildlyshocked, "I kinda notcied that too, but I don't know if you're allowed to think that!" I said indignantly, "You're my dad!"
"What's that got to do with anything? I was just noticing it..." he turned around and walked into the store. Minutes later, he returned, rolling his eyes, "They don't know anything about letting cyclists camp out back. They said Fred and Glenda who used to own the store might have done something like that..."
Sighing, I pulled out the map, "Looks like our next option is in ten miles: Stysh's Big Barn... that sounds sort of ominous."
"Don't really have much choice, do we?" dad asked, climbing onto his saddle. I shook my head, and we rode on to Stysh's Big Barn.

It turns out there was nothing ominous about the Big Barn. In fact, it was the very opposite: our site was cheap, the showers were free, and we even had a little kitchenette to use for cooking dinner. Dad and I showered and ate, and were just starting the dishes, when the three girls rode into camp. We finished cleaning up, then walked over to talk to them. The oldest, Liz, who we had met in the library, was showering, but her two younger sisters were starting to cook dinner: Cate, who has just finished college, boiled water for noodles, while Sarah, who is a freshman studying physics at Princeton, diced a Cucumber. Dad started talking to them about the ride, while I stood on shyly listening to the conversation. Liz returned and set up their tent, then joined the conversation. "So, whose on the Trek 520?" dad asked, pointing at a bike identical to ours.
"That's Cate's." Liz said, "Sarah and I decided to go with the cyclo-cross bikes. Cate just wanted something different."
"Her name's Wanda." Cate interjected.
"So how're the cyclo-cross bikes working?" dad asked.
"Fine for me..." Liz said, "Sarah's has had a few problems..." Dad raised an eyebrow questioningly.
"Well, I broke a spoke, and the back wheel is getting more and more out of true." Sarah said, "We just keep loosening up the brakes when it starts to rub."
"We haven't been able to find any good bike shops around." Cate said, "Like one of the ones we found was called Pedals and Petals, as in they sell bikes and flowers."
"We had nicknames for ourselves in the beginning." Sarah put in, "So I was Gravel Panda Bear at first, because I fell down whenever I hit gravel, and now I'm just General Chaos Panda Bear."
"Hear that, Seth." dad teased, "Your not the only one who has trouble staying vertical." he turned to Sarah, "General Chaos? Has something else happened to you?"
"Well, besides the spoke, I lost a pannier..." she said.
"Lost it?"
"Well, yeah. I was riding down the road and I looked down and realized one of my front panniers was missing. We rode back ten miles to the spot that I thought I had lost it, but we never found it."
"Wait, you rode ten miles without noticing your pannier was gone?" Sarah nodded, "And you're a physics major at Princeton?"
"I know, my parents gave me a lot of crap for that." she laughed, "I kept saying, 'Can't you give me some sympathy?'"
"So you're still riding with a broken spoke?" dad asked. She nodded again.
"We met some people who were having wheel problems." I put in, thinking of Greg and Caroline. I stared at the table while I spoke, for some reason too nervous to make eye contact, "And I read on their blog that they just got skunked...." Everyone grimaced.
"I heard somewhere that if you get sprayed by a skunk, you're supposed to capture it." Cate said, "And then you take it to the vet to get de-stinked. Then you can keep it as a pet."
"I wouldn't think that's a very good idea...." dad said.
"But they're so cute!" Cate said.
"And they have sharp teeth."
"Ah, well...." We spent hours talking to them that evening until it finally got to dark to see. They invited us to eat pancakes with them the next morning, then we all headed off to bed.

Day 53

2008-08-21T05:24:00.000-07:00

JULY 31 Ithaca to Fulton, NY

Leaving Ithaca, it felt great to be back on the bike... there was a certain sweetness in my legs as I pedalled, a very contented, eager feeling. Unfortunately, large purple clouds were building on the horizon, and a few scattered drops fell from the sky. In my bags, I carried the latest batch of letters from Aunt Kathy's first graders, one of my most prized possessions on the trip, and I was terrified they'd get drenched. After a few tense minutes, dad spotted a solution: a post office. We sent the letters home, along with a few extra items we decided to purge from our bags. Of course, when we walked out to our bikes after mailing the letters, the sky was perfectly clear.

The rest of our ride that morning passed easily along the eastern shore of Lake Cayuga, until that afternoon, we rode back onto the Adventure Cycle route. A few miles shy of our destination, dad spotted a vegetable stand by the side of the road, advertising "Sweet Corn" on a fading wooden sign. He paused a second, staring at the sign, then turned around and rode back to the stand. Before we even stopped, the woman behind the counter had two cucumbers in each hand, "Here, take these, they have a high water content... a good way to stay hydrated." Thanking her, we took the gifts and stowed them in our bag. Three dollars later, we had enough corn, potatoes, zucchini, and broccoli for dinner for the next few days.
I proffered our water bottles, "Do you think you could fill a couple of these for us?" I asked.
"Sure!" she said, taking the bottles behind the counter and filling them with ice water from a small refrigerator she had to store produce. "And take some of these!" she gave us some packets of Crystal Lite powder to add to our water.

We set up our camp then rode into the town of Fulton to use the computers in the library. As I wandered in, clad in lycra, my bike cleats clicking faintly on the floor, a red head at one of the computers looked up, "Are you biking across the country?" she asked. I nodded, surprised that she had guessed so easily, "We are too!" she said, then glanced around her, "Well, I'm the only one here... I'm riding with my two sisters."
"Are you staying in the campground just outside of town?" dad asked, "We saw you ride in... but you were unloaded, so we didn't figure..."
"Oh, our parents met us for a couple of days, and they carried our bags. It's been so nice for our knees... but they're leaving tomorrow." she grimaced, "I'm not looking forward to riding a loaded bike again."
By now, dad and I had both settled down in front of a computer, "You should come over this evening," dad prompted, "It'd be great to hear about your trip."
"Oh, definitely." the girl agreed, turning back to her computer screen.

Back at camp, we showered, ate dinner (which was excellent thanks to all of the fresh vegetables), then went out for ice cream at a near by store. When we got back from our ice cream run, I wandered off to the bathroom while dad looked around the camp, making sure everything was put away. Returning to camp, I found it empty and assumed dad had gone to bed. I crawled in my tent and began writing in my journal until it was too dark to see the page. Just after I had closed my journal and slipped inside my sleeping bag, dad walked into camp, "Oh, hey." I said, surprised he wasn't asleep, "Where were you?".
"I was talking to those girls." He said, "I ran into their dad while I was taking pictures of the lake, and then we started talking, and then...." he grinned, "Well, you know how much I can talk. I finally decided it was time to leave when it started getting dark. I think they're planning to stay the same place we are tomorrow night, so you'll probably get to meet them then. Good night!"
"Good night, dad." I replied as he climbed into his tent and went to sleep.

Days 49, 50, 51, & 52

2008-08-14T07:51:00.000-07:00

JULY 27 Pittsford to Seneca Falls, NY

We woke up late and had a long breakfast with Mike and Pnina: omelets, fresh veggies (tomatoes and avocados), toast, jam, and Cantaloupe. Mike brought out a glass jar filled with a murky, white fluid; white chunks floated in the mixture, "What's that?" I asked.

"It's herring. It's a... kind of fish?" he looked questioningly at dad, who nodded, "I thought so, but I couldn't remember if that was the name of the process done to it. I've only ever seen it pickled. Try some." He offered me the jar. Hesitantly, I took a tiny piece and an even tinier bite. "Now you can say you've tried herring."

"And I don't think he'll ever try any again." dad smiled, catching the look on my face.

Reluctantly, we left Mike and Pnina's house around 10:00 (one of our latest starts). They offered to let us stay for a "day of rest", but we were nearly to Amelia's house in Ithaca, and had to decline. "Thank you for everything!" we said as we left.

"Thank you for being kind to Yoni." Mike replied. Our night at Mike and Pnina's was one of my favorite stops on the trip.

We rode along the Erie Canal for much of the morning. About 20 miles into our ride, we spotted two cyclists up ahead. As we rode ast, I recognized the people we had met on Bike Fridays outside of Niagara Falls. "Hello again!" I called, coming to a stop.

At the same time, the other three all shouted too, "Stop!" "Wait!" "Hello!" and all stopped as well.

"I told my husband, if we saw you again, I wanted to get your pictures for my journal!" the woman said.

"I was thinking the same thing!" dad answered. Each pair of us posed for the other's camera, then dad asked, "So, what are your guy's names?"

"Dean and Elner." The man piped in.

"And you are?" Elner asked. She copied our names down on a note pad, as well as the blog. When she heard about FAAN, she dug a $5 bill out of her purse and handed it to me, "My granddaughter has food allergies too. Good luck with your fundraiser. I thanked her, and we all wished each other well, then rode on.

We stopped for lunch by the Erie Canal, feasting on cherries and blueberries Pnina had given us. Then, we turned off the Adventure Cycle Route, heading south towards Ithaca, where Skipper's friend Amelia lives. The heat and humidity slowly climbed as the day progressed, but the miles still felt easy and a gentle breeze kept us cool.

Suddenly, there was a metal clank, a rush of air, and an imperceptible drop in the front of the bike: my front tire had just gone flat. Swearing to myself probably more than necessary, I climber off the bike and began to take off my front wheel. "At least the weather's nice for you to change the tire." dad noted.

"I have a sinking suspicion," I said drily, "that by the time I have the wheel changed, the weather will seem far to warm for me." I was right. By the time I had my tire off and my tube changed, sweat coated my face, and my jersey stuck to my back uncomfortably. As I tried to pump up my tire, dad suggested I hold the pump differently, "I got it!" I snapped, more irritably than dad deserved. He backed away to let me finish with my wheel. I changed my hand hold on the pump. When I had my bike back in a running condition, I rolled it over by dad, "Hey, sorry for griping at you back there." I apologized, "I think the heat was getting to me a little bit."

"Hey, don't worry about it." he reassured me, "Everyone gets a little grumpy changing tires."

We picked up groceries for dinner in Seneca Fall (where we also saw a statue of Susan B. Anthony and Elizabeth Cady Stanton, put in place because of a woman's rights convention they held there in the mid-1800s), then headed off to our camp ground in Cayuga Lake State Park for the evening.

JULY 28 Seneca Falls to Ithaca NY & JULY 29 and 30 in Ithaca, NY

The ride into Ithaca was truly uneventful, except for an annoying rattling coming from my rack. I rode tentatively half the morning, until I discovered that the sound was caused by a loose screw. We tightened it down as much as we could using our hands, then I continued to ride, much more confident that my bike would hold together at least until that evening. After one of our shortest rides of the trip, we made it to Ithaca, and waited in a co-op to meet Amelia. She rode up on a bright red racing bike, then walked over. "Hello, hows it going?" she said when she got near.

"It's been great." dad told her, "And Ithaca looks like it will be amazing."

"Oh, it's a great town for riding in." Amelia told us, "So, there are two ways to get home. And they both involve hills." She smiled knowingly at the chagrin on our faces, "One way, theeasier way, is four miles of up hill. The other way is two miles of really steep uphill, and then it mellows out some."

"I don't know..." dad said, "What do you think, Seth?"

"Lets go for the steep one," I said, "get it over with faster."

"All right!" Amelia said eagerly, "The fun way!... and if we get there and it looks like it might be a little too fun for you, we can always switch and go the other way." The last part had me a little worried, but when we got to the hill, it didn't turn out to be as horrifying as I expected. I shifted down into my easiest gears, then spun my way up the steep, single-lane road that wound its way past a cemetery and a series of beautiful, old yellow-brick houses.

At Amelia's house, we met her dog (part German shepherd) named Indy, for Indiana Jones. We made our selves lunch while Amelia pedaled back to work at Cornell College. That afternoon, as dad was going over the bikes, he discovered a few mechanical issues with mine: one of the supports leading from my rack to my seat stay (the tube under the seat) was partially broken; on top of that, there was a big gash in my back tire, and cracks next to four of my spokes. I seem to be hard on bikes. (I blame it on the fact that Artoo, my mechanical good luck charm, lost his right leg. My good luck charm had a mechanical!) That evening we visited a local bike shop which a Cornell Machinist runs out of his house. He sold us a replacement tire, and cobbled together a few washers and a screw to hold the rack together (he said the break wasn't bad enough to really worry about) but told us we didn't need a new wheel: it was still in good enough condition to make it to Maine.

Over the next couple of days, I visited Cornell College (which was too big for my tastes) and spent plenty of time on the computer, trying to get up to date. Each evening at 5:00, Amelia's husband, Oliver, would bring their kids, Cady and Peter, home from science camp. The first evening, they were shy around the strangers in their house, leaving dad and I mostly to talk to Amelia and Oliver, or read. This changed the second night. A few minutes after arriving home, Cady (who is 6) walked up to me and flourished a wooden sword, "I challenge you to a duel!" to exclaimed in a French-English-generic-noble-person accent.

"But I don't have a weapon." I said with a sinking feeling that I would be stabbed anyway. Cady looked around, perplexed for a second, the ran over and grabbed a plastic back massager.

"Here, use this!" she said in her regular voice. Reluctantly, I took my weapon and stood. Cady began her attack. After a flurry of lightly placed sword blows, she dodged through my defenses and gently hit me on the wrist, "Ha! I cut off your hand!"

"Ahh, but there is something you don't know!" I said, thinking of the Princess Bride, "I am truly left handed!" I switched the back massager to my other hand. After a few more slashes, I tapped her just above the knee, "Ooops, I think I cut off your leg." Cady wrinkled her nose and sat down on the floor, then quickly cut off both of my legs. Soon, I was entirely de-limbed.

"Now you're like the Black Knight from Monty Python," Amelia joked as she walked by, "Come back here and I'll bite off your knee caps." Cady decided to finish me off, stabbing her sword down at my chest.

Thinking I had played my part and was done, I quietly retreated to the room dad was staying in and closed the door, settling in to read Crime and Punishment. Even as I read, I had a sinking feeling that I wasn't through with my new role, so I wasn't surprised when the door flew open and Cady rushed in, followed by her brother Peter (about 8) who was now brandishing the wooden sword. "Trying to hide from us Steph?" Cady said, "Now we'll get you!" The rest of my evening, as well as much of the next, was spent dodging sword strokes, or, as the case may be, failing to dodge sword strokes and thus "losing" an arm, a leg, or my head. The day before we left, Cady came up to me, and in an earnest, six-year-old fashion, said, "You know Steph, you're a lot more fun than that other man you're with. He's pretty boring." Amelia got quite the laugh out of that.

We spent three nights in Ithaca, and by our third morning, dad and I were beginning to get antsy from sitting still. We thanked everyone, then got back into the saddle.

Day 48

2008-08-14T06:42:00.000-07:00

JULY 26 Niagara Falls, Ontario to Pittsford, NY

We scarfed a couple of pop tarts in the hotel room before leaving the hotel, planning on finding breakfast somewhere. We ate at Dad's Diner, a small restaurant outside of the tourist section of Niagara falls, then zipped over to the Buddhist Temple. It still wasn't open for the morning, but we wandered the grounds, admiring the statues and artwork littering the compound. Signs around the courtyard read "This isn't Jurassic Park, but the path to enlightenment can be rewarding. Please, respect our holy place."

After visiting the temple, we went in search of the bridge across the Niagara River that would take us back into America. We followed the directions given on the Adventure Cycling map, but when the map finally called for a turn onto the bridge, there was nothing but a massive construction zone. Dad and I rode around frantically for a few minutes, searching for a sign leading to the bridge. The most irksome part of all, is that just above our heads, we could see the bridge, packed with cars waiting to get through customs; we just couldn't get there! Finally, we spotted a sign pointing to the highway saying "Bridge to America, 3 Miles." Irritably, dad and I began to ride the 3 miles; about half a mile in, we spotted an unloaded bicyclist riding towards us. Dad flagged him down and he pulled over, "Do you know, are we going the right way to get to the bridge to America?" dad asked.
"Only if you're a car." the man said, "Here, I'll show you how bikes get there." He rode back with us to the construction zone, and showed us a road that cut up through the middle of it, "It looks like a construction road, but you ride through it and you'll come to the Canadian customs. They'll let you cut through there, and you'll be in the line to get into America." We thanked him and followed his instruction into the customs line. Then we waited in line for 45 minutes in the rain, much to the amusement of the cars around us.

When we reached the crossing, the boarder guard walked over to us, "Passports." he said completely deadpan. We handed them over. "Where are you coming from." Still no emotion.
"We crossed into Canada in Marine City... and we started in Anacortes Washington." dad said nervously.
"You rode your bicycles all the way here from Washington?" he asked, still emotionless.
"Yes."
"Is that all you have?" he pointed at our bags, and his voice wavered slightly; he almost sounded as though he wanted to be impressed.
"Yes."
"Okay, you guys are fine. Go ahead." his voice reverted to its original monotone.

Once in New York, we took a wrong turn, and by the time we realized our mistake, we had already coasted down the Niagara Escarpment. Back on route, after a brutal climb back up the escarpment,we began to put down the miles, taking full advantage of the small tail wind we had. We hoped to make it to Pittsford, 100 miles from Niagara, to spend the night with Yoni's parents, Mike and Pnina (Yoni, who we met in Minnesota.) We pushed all the way into Rochester, New York, then rode our last 15 miles of the day on the Erie Canal Trail (the irony did not escape us.)

At the end of the day, we rode around a corner in he bike path to see a wiry man with thick gray hair, standing patiently by the side of the road. Seeing our loaded bikes roll around the corner, he smiled and walked over, "Hi, I'm Mike, Yoni's dad. And you are..." He addressed me because I was in the lead.
"I'm Seth." I said, shaking his hand.
"And you must be Chip!" Mike said, turning to my dad. "If you want to just ride up here, you can put your bags in my car and I'll show you over to our house." I hesitated out of instinct before parting with my handlebar bag. "You want to put that one in too?"
I started to mumble a no, "It's like our purse." dad explained.
"I'm not going to run off with it." Mike said, and I realized how silly I was for being worried. I handed over my bag. "Yoni's been riding with some boys in Montana who have a van sagging for them. He says it's liberating not to ride with bags." (Pnina later said Yoni also felt a little guilty giving up all his weight.)

At their house, we met Pnina, Yoni's mom, who was born in Israel. She cooked an amazing dinner of fish, brown rice, corn, red cabbage boiled in apple juice (which was amazing), and a vegetable soup that we ate with a horseradish & beet paste. "Pnina, this is incredible!" dad said, partway through the meal.
"It is edible." she said modestly.
"No, it's incredible!" dad corrected. Pnina just smiled.

"What part of Israel did you grow up in?" I asked her later in the meal.
"Jerusalem." she responded.
"I don't mean to be rude and ask how old you are..." I started awkwardly, "But were you born before '48?"
"It's okay. I was the first in my family born after 1948, in Israel as a nation."
"What was that like... I mean, there were some pretty tumultuous times?"
"It was different than now. Jerusalem was still separated into west and east, so you knew where you were allowed. Now, it is like Swiss cheese. If you go to Israel for the first time, you must be with someone who knows there way around or with a tour."

For his part, Mike works at a mental health center on a college campus, and is a Rabbi. "During Vietnam, I almost joined the navy to avoid the draft, but I was talked out of it by woman wise beyond her years. I went into the enlistment office and told her I wanted to be an officer on a ship stationed in San Diego. She suggested I consider alternate service. So I ended up working in a mental health clinic in Elko, Nevada."

As we went to bed (after a tasty dessert of berries and cream-custard), Pnina asked what we wanted for breakfast, "In Israel, we eat salads for breakfast, but Mike won't do that. Would you like an omelet?"
"Sure." I replied, "That sounds great!" The couch in their TV room has been the softest, most comfortable place I've slept all trip. I was asleep within minutes.

Day 47

2008-08-13T08:53:00.000-07:00

JULY 25 Stromness to Niagara Falls, Ontario

We got up early and left Rock Point, eager to get to Niagara. The first ten miles of our day were on roads right along the shore of Lake Erie, until we reached the town of Port Colbourne. While crossing a bridge in the town, dad decided to stop for a picture. I didn't see him stop, since I like looking through the metal grating on bridges at the water below, or hear him warn "Stopping". When I looked up, dad was at a full stop in front of me; I frantically snatched at the brakes, but I was too late, colliding into the back of dad's bike and toppling to the ground (Luckily, we were riding on the side walk). "you all right?" dad asked, and I nodded weakly, "are you still a guy?" He asked, noting that the bike seat had been rammed into my crotch by the fall.
"No." I snapped angrily, "And I'm going to throw your bloody camera into the river!" frustrated as I was, I managed to laugh: the crash was completely my fault... I simply wasn't paying enough attention. After the bridge, we crossed onto a bike path that we would follow for the rest of the day.

I was shaky and slightly unnerved for the next few miles (and sat rather uncomfortably on the bike seat) but eventually regained my composure. Half way to Niagara, we stopped for a snack, and for dad to check out his bike because it was making a strange noise. As dad took off his panniers, William rode up, "Everything okay?" he asked.
"Oh, yeah," dad replied, "my bike has just been clunking and I don't know why. That's always the part that bugs me... if I could just figure it out..."
"Hey look, your guy's favorite place." He teased, gesturing to a subway down the street, "Did you guys stay in Rock Point last night?" William asked. I nodded. "I went a couple more miles up the road to a campground right on Lake Erie. It was amazing."
"Yeah, our site was right by the lake, too." dad said, "I mean, we had to walk along a little path to get there, but there was this gorgeous view..."
"Ahh, good for you, good for you." William made the phrase sound sincere "Well, I'm off to pick up a sub. Catch you guys later." We never actually did catch William later; he rode off to the subway, while we munched on our goldfish and blueberries, and our paths never managed to intersect again. Funny how that works.

As soon as we were back on the bikes, up rode an older man with a knotted bandanna on a red racing bike (dad was impressed by its "nice lugs and down-tube shifters). After riding and talking for a while, dad finally asked the man his name, "Well, my biking friends call me Spike." he said.
"Spike?" dad asked skeptically.
"Well, my real name is Mike." Since then, dad and I have referred to him as Spike. "Just ahead," Spike told us, "We'll come out of the trees, and across the lake we'll see the Buffalo skyline getting closer and closer; it's really amazing. Sure enough, as we rounded a bend and popped out of the trees, the Buffalo skyline was visible over Lake Erie... it was pretty weird to be in a foreign country looking into America. We left at Historic Fort Erie; he kept riding while dad and I went up to the fort (although we decided not to actually go inside). "I don't know much about history," Spike said, "But Fort Erie was basically put in place as an elaborate toll booth. Make sure the English got their share of the fur trade. Oh, and one other thing. Up past Niagara Falls, there's a Buddhist Temple. It's not really a tourist attraction, but it is pretty cool to look around inside. Well, have a safe trip." We thanked him and waved as he rode off.

In the town of Fort Erie, dad and I stopped at a bike shop to have his bike checked out. When we walked in, the man behind the counter was selling a skate board to a couple of kids. The kids left, and he turned his attention to us, " 'ello, what kin I do fur ya?"
"Well, we're on a bike trip across the country, and my bike's making a weird noise. I was hoping you could check it out."
"Our mechanic's at the store... let me give 'im a call and git 'im over here." the man picked up the phone; after talking for a few seconds, he hung it up again, "Steve'll be here in a couple o' minutes. 'e's the best mechanic I've ever worked with. I'm Rex, by the way. You are..."
"I'm Chip, and this is my son, Seth."
"Seth.... 'at's a Biblical name, innit?" I nodded, "So, Seth, what're you interested in? Wait! Don't tell me... let me guess. You look like... an academic."
"Yeah, pretty much." I admitted, impressed that he could figure that just by looking at me. The way he said it, it didn't feel like just a lucky guess. "I enjoy school and learning..."
"I majored in sociology, so I like to try an' guess these things about people." Dad went out to bring his bicycle into the shop, and Rex and I kept talking. "So, are you in college?"
"No, I'm going to be a senior in high school when I get home. Then I go to college. It's sort of scary."
"Ah, nothin' to be afraid of. Maybe a bit nervous, but don' be afraid. You'll do fine." As we were talking, Steve walked into the shop. He looked over dad's bike and tried to convince dad that he needed a replacement bottom bracket; dad decided to risk it with the one he had.
"Okay, then." Steve said skeptically, and started to put dad's bike back together. he leaned on the rack a little bit, and the same creaking sound we'd been hearing all day came out of the bike. Steve started laughing, "Well, there it is! It's your rack!" Rex gave us directions to the grocery store, where we went to pick up lunch, then we started into the last 20 miles to Niagara Falls.

Almost immediately after we started riding again, we spotted another cyclist. The woman pedaled over to us and began talking to dad. She introduced herself as Carol, and wound up riding with us all the way to Niagara Falls. "My husband started a program called Teen Trekkers, taking kids on bike tours. " She told us when she found out what we were doing, "This year is the first time they have a group going across the country. My husband's in Europe, though."
"Have you ever read the book Hey Mom, Can I Ride My Bike Across the Country?" I asked, and Carol shook her head, "oh, it's a really good book about a middle school teacher taking some of his students across the country. It sounds a lot like what your husband's doing."
"I'll have to look that up some time." Carol said. We rode with her to a rest stop by the falls, also talking to an older couple riding Bike Fridays (bicycles that can pack into a suit case).
"I want to bike across the country for my 70th birthday." the woman said, "But I'm not so sure it will happen. As it is, we're driving around the country with our Bike Fridays and a 6-by-12 trailer. It can seem pretty small some times."

Leaving the rest stop, dad and I were on our own again, and finally we rode in view of the falls. The natural part of the falls, the sheer power it exerts, is incredible. The tourist build up around the falls makes it one of the most vile places on earth. The entire city was a zoo, far worse even than the strip in Las Vegas. It left me feeling rather dirty even just passing through it. We checked into our hotel, a ways off the beaten path (but still far too close for comfort), ate an over priced dinner, then went to bed.

Bar Harbor

2008-08-13T08:39:00.000-07:00

I have to interrupt the regular stream of days to say WE MADE IT TO BAR HARBOR! We got in yesterday around 5, after 4006 miles of riding. But those are just the dry numbers... I'll write down the interesting stuff when I get there chronologically in the blog, so please KEEP READING.

Coming up we meet new cyclists, reunite with Michael, Steve, and Jerry, survive a flood, spend a night at a church, and climb the hardest hill of the entire trip (That was my attempt at a teaser for next week's episode)

~Seth

Day 46

2008-08-04T14:54:00.000-07:00

JULY 24 Houghton Center to Stromness Ontario

For the first time on our trip, I was out of my tent before dad (it's been my goal all along to get up first and start the hot water boiling... dad usually does that). Because we woke up early, we actually an earlier start than usual, leaving around 7:30.

That morning, we ran into William, a high school history teacher from Florida, "I can't get over this street name!" he commented, gesturing to the street sign over our heads, "Spooky Hollow. Back in the states, it would say Sleepy Hollow." Dad told him that I was interested in history, so William pulled out a weathered sheet of note book paper, "Here, you can look at this. I made a list of all the historic sites we'd pass through along the trip. That section's for New York." The list had sites as famous as Fort Ticonderoga, and as obscure as the birthplace of Milicent Fillmore. I scanned the rest of the paper, noticing that he had no sites down for Wisconsin.

"So, nothing historic happened in Wisconsin?" I asked, knowing Bill and Dave would have argued that point.

"Well, basically. Not that I'd say that in Wisconsin." William admitted sheepishly, "But it has been by far my favorite state for riding conditions and scenery. I guess there was some history, but all the big stuff happened in the south, near Madison, and we didn't go there. Well, my man, I'll see you on down the road."

"You too!" I called as he snapped one last photo of the 'Spooky Hollow' sign, and rode away.

Ten miles down the road, dad and I stopped for lunch in Port Dover. We ate at our first Subway of the trip, largely because dad felt that we needed all the veggies they put on their sandwiches. I enjoy eating at local shops, but the subway sandwiches still gave us the needed calories. As we finished, William rode up with a bag of blueberries, "I found a u-pick blueberry farm and had to stop. It's sort of embarrassing, but I've never picked blueberries before. Want some?" he proffered the bag, and dad took a handful. "Boy, the weather sure is nice today. I always see the big clouds on the horizon-" (lately, as we ride, there are always big black clouds ahead of us, and clear, blue sky behind us.) "- and ride on to get as many miles in as possible while it's dry. I don't even stop to have a bowl of cereal by the grocery store any more. I was like that with the winds in North Dakota, too. You never know when they're going to change. It makes it harder to take the time to really enjoy my trip." He poured himself a bowl of cereal for lunch, clearly enjoying the sunny weather. "Did you ever read the book on the Northern Tier?" he asked between bites of cereal.
"No..." dad said, "But I've heard a bit about it."
"I was just wondering if you had the same impression about it as I did. I thought the author was a real jerk! He kept putting down his wife, and other people he met. I talked to another pair of cyclists who thought the same thing...."
"Oh, was that Barb and Bob?" I asked excitedly, remembering that Barb had made a similar complaint about that book.
"Yes! I think it was they! I met them way back in Glacier. I haven't really seen any other riders since then, so it must have been they." he took another bit of cereal, "Well, the only thing I got from that book was to bring pepper spray to use on dogs. Usually, I just use my water bottle, but the author was pretty adamant about pepper spay. So I went out to a military surplus store and bought the pepper spray and carried it with me the whole way. I never used it once! And then, at the Canadian boarder, the confiscated it!" he smiled, shaking his head, "Not like I really need it." We talked a little bit more with William, then wished him well and traveled on.

Riding that afternoon, we ran into six new cyclists (poor, poor souls). First, as we rode along, a strange contraption traveled into view: it was lime green and riding low to the ground, carrying two riders; as it got closer, we saw that it had two front wheels, a single rear wheel, and a bob. The best way to describe it would be an inverse-trike, tandem-recumbent. The riders, Ken and Kari, had just started their trip out of Rochester New York, heading to see family in Rochester Minnesota, "Ken's been retired for a while," Karin told us, "But I just retired last Friday. We started this trip on Sunday." We exchanged blogs, and then two more riders showed up.
"It's a biker convention!" I joked.

The two new riders, Lizzie and Rachel, are both twenty-something year old girls from Seattle, "We flew out to New York to start," Lizzie told us, "So that if we're broke when we get to the east coast, at least we're home. We also figured it would force us into doing it: if we started from Seattle, we could always push it back just one more day."

We left them, but just down the road, we spotted a very tan couple heading towards us. They swerved over to our side of the road, and pulled out their iPod ear phones, then introduced themselves, "I'm Don and this is my wife Vicky. Where're ya from? And where're ya going?"
"From Oregon, to Maine." dad told him.
"Wow, that's impressive. We're just on a short trip around Lake Erie. We live in Ohio, so we started out riding along the south shore, and now we're going home along the north shore. How far do you go a day?"
"Our longest day was 120 miles, but we had really good tail winds," I told them, "Our shortest was about 40 miles. We usually average 70 to 80 miles."
"We only go about 40 miles a day, but that's good for us."
Dad nodded, "Yep, it's however it works for you. That's what's important."
"It's funny, our kids are really worried about us. They make us call them every night to let them know everything's okay."
"My wife does the same thing." Dad said knowingly. "Hey, did you know there's four riders just a couple of miles in front of you?"
"Oh! No we didn't!" Don said, and soon they were wishing us farewell and gearing up to catch Ken, Karin, Lizzie, and Rachel.

We rode all afternoon right along the shore of Lake Erie, until some miles later, the road bent inland. Just ahead of us, the road glistened slightly, and the air had a hazy shimmer to it. "Seth, do you think that's rain?" dad asked.
I squinted at it for a second, then pulled over to the side of the road, "I'm putting my rain covers on." We both frantically started pulling on the yellow covers to our panniers as the first drops started to fall. I had just covered my last bag and pulled out my rain jacket 30 seconds later, when the storm hit full force. I never got the jacket on; the rain and the hail fell so hard that they stung when they hit uncovered flesh. All I could do was shelter my face and fore arms behind the raincoat, which I held in front of me like a shield. Suddenly, I found my self laughing hysterically. Peering out from behind my raincoat, I noticed dad was too. The rain fell, and we laughed harder and harder, the same maniacal laughter that struck me as we rode into the headwind our first day in Minnesota. What were we doing out here?? By the end of the storm, five minutes and at least an inch of water later, I was thoroughly drenched.

We sloshed our way into Dunnville, stopped at the bike shop to pick up a replacement for my broken water bottle cage, then headed to the library. I tried to type up a blog entry, but found my fingers were too cold to hit the proper keys, and that I was simply too wet and tired to think clearly. So I just wandered the rows of books, finally pulling out a biography on Tolkien to read while dad caught up on his emails. Outside, we ran into William, who had completely missed our freak thunderstorm. We ate dinner at a bar called Jonny Rottens, then rode six more miles to Rock Point Provincial Park, a beautiful park right on Lake Erie. Unfortunately, exhausted as we were, dad and I only spent a handful of minutes appreciating the scenery before curling up in our tents and blacking out for the evening.

Day 44 Part 2: Canada

2008-07-31T13:15:00.000-07:00

JULY 22, continued

After our stop at the post office, dad and I got two enormous cinnamon doughnuts at the bakery, then raced down the street to catch the ferry across the river and into Canada. Five minutes after that, we stood in our second country of the trip. We stopped in Sombra, just over the boarder, to ask directions at a souvenier shop. Afterwards, we had a snack at the Fry House, next door; I had onion rings, which sat in my stomach for most of the day. Deep fried food and bike touring don't play nicely together. Trusting the directions given us by the man in the souvenier shop, we stuck to high way 2 all day, cutting inland across Ontario... What a mistake! Our ride on the highway was long, straight, edged by corn, and devoid of all human life. At our camp in Port Glasgow, we just climbed into our tents for the night, when a big storm hit, the torrential rains lasting for a full hour. Our last episode of such perfect timing.

JULY 23 Port Glasgow to Houghton Center, Ontario

Our first stop of the day was in Port Stanley, where we planned on a mid-morning library visit. Port Stanley, as with many Ontario towns, is situated on a river feeding into Lake Erie. These rivers run through steep and narrow valleys cutting into Southern Ontario, meaning great descents in, and brutal climbs to get back out. We descended the hill into Port Stanley, but before we turned left to go to the library, dad yelled out, "Turn right!" To our right, three loaded bikes stood in the park, and three sopping rain flies hung over the benches, and three college-age bike tourers poked through their bags, searching for clothes in need of drying. As we talked to the three riders (we never got their names), a blond woman on an unloaded mountain bike rode over.
"Hello! I'm Margaret. I just had to come over and see where you're from and where you're going!"
"We left Madison, Wisconsin a couple of days ago." One of the biker told her, "And we're headed for Boston."
"Good, good. And you?" She said, looking expectantly at dad and I.
"We rode out here from Washington... the state... and we're headed for Maine." I told her.
"Ahh! More cross country tourers! Did you two meet Rick and Rick?" dad and I shook our heads. "Oh, they stayed with my husband and I. Their heading west across the country." we couldn't help but wince, knowing what the winds are like in the prairies, especially for riders out of the east. "Well, if you need anything at all, I live in that brown tower house just over the river. Feel free to come on over!" she extended the invitation to all of us, then rode away, followed shortly by the three boys (one rode wearing flip-flops!) Dad and I decided to stay for a snack, but soon it started to rain, forcing us on.
We had gone less than a mile and were stopped at an intersection, staring at our maps, when Margaret rode up again, "Lost alreaedy?"
"Well, yeah..." dad admitted.
"To get out of town, you need to go up that hill." she saw both of us cringe at the suggestion, "Or you could come have breakfast with me. I have eggs and bacon, and I just got this bread at the library." I could tell part of dad wanted to press on through the rain, but he also looked tempted. "Curvy hill, or breakfast.... curvy hill, or breakfast..." Margaret pretended to weigh the options with her hands.
"What do you want to do, Seth?" dad asked, "It's up to you."
I only had to think about it for a moment, "Let's go with her... if that's okay with you."
"Sounds good." he said.
"Great!" Margaret said, "It's just down this road. We let strays... that's what we call you, the bike tourists we take in... we let you put your bikes in the garage."
As we propped up our bikes in the garage, I looked outside to see the rain falling harder, "Looks like we timed this stop well, dad."
"Dad?" Margaret asked, "A father and son? Oh, you're so lucky!" she looked at dad, "And you're so lucky!" she said at me.
Minutes later, she had whisked us into her kitchen (I noticed the rain had stopped while we spoke.... so much for our timing!) and pulled out a pair of stools for us, "Washroom's just around the corner!" she told us.

The house itself was pretty amazing. As Margaret cooked the bacon, she told us about it, "All the houses round here used to be fishing cottages. We bought two of them and built the tower here in the middle. Nine levels, or something like that." The house looked like a dream for hide-and-go-seek (well, maybe not for the seeker) with lots of small rooms and nooks tucked away into various corners. Margaret also let me use her lap top to catch up on my blog some, "You're that far behind? Well get writing! Do your homework!" In truth, I didn't get very much written... I had too much fun trading stories with Margaret.

After our brunch of egg and bacon sandwiches, Margaret offered us ice cream, "...or popsicles! Oh, who can say no to popsicles!" She hurried off, and soon returned with three frozen snacks. Reluctantly, dad and I left all of the hospitality (both of us wished we could have stayed the night, but we needed to be in Niagara by Friday). We said goodbye and thankyou to Margaret, the most full-time road angel we have met, then headed up the "curvy hill."

While at Margaret, we had watched the weather channel, where a glowing red banner flashed across the bottom of the screen, warning about 75 mm (3 inches) of rain in the next 3-4 hours in Eastern Ontario... where we were headed. As we crested the curvy hill, the sky decided to prove the weather man true. I had taken my rain jacket off during the climb because I was overheating, and I never bothered to put it back on. Surprisingly, my mood only got better in the rain, as I shouted out snatches of the Phantom of the Opera into the storm, the rain slowly soaking through my clothes.

After half-an-hour, the rain stopped for most of the afternoon, but just a mile from our campground it started again. We checked in, then unloaded our bikes under a covered picnic area. It stopped raining, and we set up our tents, then made dinner, then went to bed.

Day 44 Part 1: America

2008-07-30T13:39:00.000-07:00

JULY 22 St. Claire, MI to Port Glasgow, Ontario

I slept on the floor at the Murphy Inn... and did my best to stay in my sleeping bag Tuesday morning, even after dad had crawled out of bed. Leaving the hotel, we had some difficulties finding the route, and only made it 8 miles into Marine City by 10:00.

At the Marine City post office, we displayed our pass ports and asked for any mail, "Greendale? Oh, yeah. I think you guys got a bunch!" the woman behind the counter said. She left, then returned with a stack of mail for us, including a cardboard tube with a spare set of tent poles for my tent (Big Agnes, my tent's manufacturer, was more than helpful when we told them about my breaking tent poles. They replaced the poles, sending them to us on the road, without even asking how we had broken them.) We also received some personal letters, plus a packet full of more hand written letters from my Aunt's first graders. I know getting post cards means a lot to them, but I wonder if the know how much I love getting their letters. It's my favorite part of every mail stop.

As we exchanged the old tent poles for the new ones in the lobby, the woman from behind the counter ran out, "Oh, good, you're still here! I found one more for you!" she handed us a white express package.
"It's from FAAN!" Dad said excitedly. We opened it to find a letter signed by all of the staff at FAAN, as well as 5 rubber wrist bands that say "Food Allergy P.A.L." (PAL stands for Protect A Life).

(This is a good chance to remind everyone that my ride isn't solely about the adventure... I'm also trying to raise Funds and Awareness for FAAN, the Food Allergy and Anaphylaxis Network, becuase my cousin Nathan is deathly allergic to peanuts and tree nuts. My goal is to raise $10, 000 for FAAN. To learn more about my mission, read the very first most on this blog; to learn more about FAAN, visit them at www.foodallergy.org, and to donate to FAAN, go to http://www.firstgiving.com/cycling4allergies)

Day 43

2008-07-30T13:19:00.000-07:00

JULY 21 Caro to St. Claire, MI

Not a lot happened for the majority of our last full day in Michigan: we got a late start to riding, took an hour in a library, and multiple snack and lunch stops, then stopped in Memphis, the last town with a store before our campground for the night. Unfortunately, the store was woefully lacking in food: four small shelves stocked mostly with condiments and canned vegetables, and some drink coolers along each wall; dad and I decided on subs from the store's deli for dinner. We ate our meal, then started in on the last few miles of our day.

Except they weren't our last few miles: just before our intended campground, we saw the ominous orange signs bearing the words "Road Closed." Ahead was an overpass, blocked off by more orange signs and supporting a massive crane-caterpillar. We maneuvered our way around the signs, then rode slowly up the overpass; I stopped off to one side while dad continued right up to one of the construction workers. They talked for a few minutes, and then dad rode back, hanging his head unhappily, "He says he could get us across this evening, "Dad announced, "but they're basically demolishing the overpass, and he doesn't know how much they'll get done tonight. We might not be able to get back across in the morning. So, how 'bout a hotel in St. Claire tonight?"
"Sounds good to me." Checking on the adventure cycle maps, I found there are three hotels in St. Claire: the St. Claire Inn, the Burkemo Cottages and Inn, and the Murphy Inn. The St. Claire Inn sounded most reputable, so I gave dad their phone number to try first.
Dad came back shaking his head, "They only have smoking rooms left. You have any other numbers?" Disheartened, I gave him the number of the Burkemo Inn, listed second on the map.
"Any luck?" I asked when dad returned.
"They have rooms... but I don't know. Some weird guy answered the phone, 'Room? We have room.' I asked him if we could put our bikes in them, 'Oh no! Ask lady behind desk!' I don't know if I got the janitor, or what..."

We decided to ride into St. Claire, another couple of miles, and see what we could find. After a third phone call, we made our way to the Murphy Inn, and old white building with a 2-d leprechaun out front. Inside, there was a bar and restaurant downstairs, and a floor of rooms on top. It felt very much like an old world tavern and inn. We locked our bikes out back, ferried our gear upstairs to room 202, labeled Buckingham, and spent the rest of the evening watching Food Network and Hogan's Heroes.

Day 42

2008-07-30T12:18:00.000-07:00

JULY 20 Sanford to Just Outside of Caro, MI

I woke up before dad and tried to work quietly as I packed up my gear. Just as I got all of my bags out of my tent and took my rain fly off, it started to rain. Not a 'high', 'clean' rain, as is common in Oregon, this felt much more as if the humidity had simply risen too high, and the air had to drop some water; the sky didn't seem so much to weep as it seemed to sweat. Still, the rain felt good, mildly cleansing, and my only fear was that my bags and gear would get wet. The rain stopped early on, but the clouds remained, low and threatening off to our right.

Twenty miles into the day, we came to Bay City, Jerry's home town. Unfortunately, before we had even entered the town itself, a sign reading "Detour, road work ahead!" sent us off course. Within minutes, we were lost. "Do you know what road we're looking for?" dad asked.
"Yeah, Jeanette."
"I thought we were paralleling Jeanette; shouldn't we be looking for Walnut?"
"No, we're paralleling Walnut... well, sort of... We need to turn onto Jeanette to get to Walnut."

We pulled off to the side of the road and had our maps unfolded when a gray pick up truck pulled up, "You lost?" The driver, an unkempt old man, asked. Next to him sat a thin woman with a long face, drab hair, and glasses.
"We're looking for Walnut." I told the man.
"Ask about a bike shop!" dad whispered. My bottom water bottle rack had broken that morning, so we were in search of a replacement.
"Walnut, huh?" the driver said, "Well, ya drive ahead and the road bends to lef', then ya take a righ'-"
"Onta Marquette." the woman in the passenger seat supplied.
"Onta Marquette, an' that'll take ya to Walnut."
"Do you know if there's a bike shop in around?" dad interjected.
"Hmmmm... there's one was outta town-"
"It probably wouldn' be open ona Sunday." The woman put in.
"Yeah, probably not open ona Sunday... Le'see, is there another...."
"It's just a small thing. Not that important." dad told him, "So, right on Marquette to get to Walnut?"
"Yeah," the woman said, the driver still staring out the window, lost in thought, "right on Marquette at the Silver Swan-"
"Ya take a lef' at the chapel, an' a righ' at the convenience store, then bend off to the lef'... ya stay straight on tha' all the way down, then take two more righ's, an' another lef' at the bank..." the old man interrupted with a set of directions that left my head spinning, "Tha's how ya get to the bike shop."
"Well, it's okay, we don't really need a bike shop." dad said.
"Or ya could just cut onta the road under construction an' take that all the way down, an that'll get ya to the bike shop." The man gestured with his hand, oblivious what my dad had said.
The woman, who had broken into hysterics as the man spoke, repeated her directions, "Take a righ' on Marquette at the Silver Swan Inn, that's how ya know it's Marquette-"
"Silver Swan Inn tells you it's Marquette." The man echoed, "Or take the road under construction all the way down an' tha's your bike shop." The woman started laughing once more, and we thanked them, then watched as the drove away. Their directions were good, though, and soon we found ourselves riding along Walnut, right where we needed to be. Road Angels come in all shapes and sizes, I suppose.

Before we left Bay City, the rain set in, driving us inside. We ate lunch at Jimmy John's Sub Shop. The shop was plastered with signs such as "Sub's so fast, you'll Freak!" or "Bread so French, it needs to be liberated!" The rain lasted only about 15 minutes once we were back on the bikes, and by the time we were out of town, the sky was clear and dry.

Ten miles out of Bay City, as we rode along Akeron Road into the thumb of Michigan, dad spotted a house with a magnificent swimming hole. A high dive had been set up, and kids in inter tubes played in the water. As dad stopped for a picture, a crowd of adults beyond the swimming hole waved, then one elderly man detached himself from the crowd and walked over. "Hey there!" he shouted to us, "Where you headin'?"
"Maine." dad told him.
"And where you from?" he asked.
"Oregon."
"Oh, we had some other folks through here from Missouri. They started in Washington State and are headin' to Maine too. You know 'em?" We both shook our heads, "Ahh, that's too bad. Well, I'm Lerry Malroy. This is our family reunion. Over 100 people here. Feelin' hot?"
"Not really." dad said; after the rain shower, both of us were feeling a little cold.
"Well, we got a swimmin' hole if you are. We also got chicken and ice cream if you wanta come on down."
"You got my attention with ice cream!" dad said, and Larry led us over to his barn. We met his wife, Verness, and told her about our trip as she led us around the potluck spread out in the middle of the barn. As we headed to a pair of open seats, balancing plates full of food, some one whistled, calling the family reunion meeting to order.
"Doesn't matter to you guys." Larry whispered as we settled into our chairs. The reunion president began to call role, and each member of the Prine family would stand, introduce themselves and their family, and tell who their parents were (we later found out that the 'original' Prine family had 10 kids, 9 boys and 1 girl, which caused such a large family.) Part way through, Larry tapped me on the shoulder, "What's your dad's name?" he whispered.
"Chip." I whispered back.
"I just wanted to introduce my new friends from Oregon," Larry interrupted, "This is Chippie." He pointed at my dad.
"Or just Chip!" my dad muttered.
"And this is this is his son, Seth. They're ridin' their bikes across the country."
After a round of applause, the role continued, interrupted a second time as some one told a story about Aunt Midge's Beans. "Did you have any of those?" Larry asked us. Dad and I shook our heads, "They're really good. Navy beans... we grow 'em around here. Let me go get you some." Larry wandered off, and returned moments later carrying the pot of beans. "She uses extra sugar... that's what makes 'em so good." Larry confided. The beans were delicious. After an hour spent sitting, talking, and eating with the Prine family, we left the reunion, with an invitation to attend next year. "Third week in July!" Larry told us as we road away, "Every year, same time, same place."
"We might come back just for this!" dad said, "Thanks for everything." I added my thanks, and then we rode off, still more miles to cover that evening.

We road a little off course that afternoon, planning to stay in Caro, because it was a big enough town to have a grocery store (other wise, we would be buying our dinner at a party store, essentially a liquor store that also carries some food.) Pat, Bill, and Dave had stayed in the fair grounds at Caro a week or so before us, and we hoped to do the same. We picked up supplies for our meal for the night, and then started off through town, searching for the fair grounds. Almost immediately, I spotted a banner hanging across main street, proclaiming, "Tuscola County Fair, July 20-26." Checking my watch, I realized we were in town just in time for opening night; we wouldn't be camping in the fairgrounds that evening.

We stopped into Taco Bell for a pre-dinner snack (fast food isn't my favorite, but you have to use the cards dealt you.) As we started eating, an older man and his son at the table next to us began asking about our ride. By the end of the meal, they had offered to let us stay in their back yard for the evening. However, their house was an additional five miles from the nearest campground (already about ten miles away). We hated to do it, but after riding or half an hour, dad called to let them know we wouldn't make it to their house for the evening. We made it the campground, cooked up a quick meal, and then crashed in our tents after a long day of riding.

Days 40 & 41

2008-07-30T07:51:00.000-07:00

JULY 18 Ludington to Pere Marquette State Forest, MI

Riding in Michigan, we soon discovered that it was a flat state... even when compared to North Dakota. The scenery was interesting: at times it felt like Oregon (a very hot and humid Oregon) minus the mountains; at times it felt like Ohio, corn stretching on forever, with the occasional barn or cow pasture; and at times it felt like Louisiana, the marshy creeks and deciduous forests conjuring images of the bayou. But despite the ever-changing scenery, the pancake flat miles wore on us, numbing our minds; each pedal stroke became more and more difficult as we drew slowly closer to our campground.

Sunrise Lake Campground was nearly deserted when we got there that evening. There was no real running water at the campground (beside an old metal hand pump) which meant no real toilets and no real showers. But, because the campground was mostly empty, dad decided to make due with the hand pump. I walked over to him to ask him something, figuring he was just filling the pots, to see him wearing only his t-shirt and scrubbing busily at his legs. I gasped and spun around, heading back to the campsite. A few minutes later, dad returned, smiling at my embarrassment, "Looks like I have some pretty amazing timing!" he said, nodding at some cars just now driving into the campground, "I just beat the rush!" By comparison, my 'shower' was much more modest, but much less cleansing, as I only dabbed above my waist with a wet towel.

After dinner, as I climbed into my tent, I discovered that the slugs at Sunrise Lake Campground decided my tent made a good jungle gym, slithering all over the inside of my rain fly! Luckily, these were only tiny ones, no more than an inch long, but I was still flicking them off my fly all evening, shivering at the thought that one might discover how to get into my tent.

JULY 19 Pere Marquette State Forest to Sanford, MI

I woke up the next morning to find three new slugs staring at me through my tent's mesh ceiling. Horrified, I raced to pack up my sleeping bag and thermarest, then ripped off my rain fly and shook it out, hoping to dislodge my unwanted guests; in the end, I had to resort to prodding them off with twigs. We ate breakfast, then left camp around 7:30, riding off into our first foggy morning since Washington.

Forty miles into our day, we stopped in the town of Clare, and made the mistake of shopping for lunch on very empty stomachs. We came away from the grocery store with tons of food; lunch that afternoon was a feast. The last 30 miles of our day were on a beautifully kept rail-to-trails path, possibly some of the best riding of the entire tour: there was no traffic, smooth asphalt, and best of all, no raccoons smeared halfway across the path, reeking for a quarter mile radius (roadkill has become a growing nuisance the farther east we get... I'm not really sure why.) In Sanford, basically our final destination for the evening, we asked a couple unloading bikes from the back of their truck for directions to a grocery store. We got to talking, as the woman, Sharon, quizzed us about our ride. "Well, thank you for the directions!"dad said, "we'll let you two get off on your ride."
"Not much of a ride compared with you two!" Sharon said.
"Hey, you're riding bikes. That's what counts!" dad told her.

We stayed in Black Creek Campground, another state campground, meaning great scenery, but no showers. Since this park was more populated, dad had to leave his clothes on , but we both rinsed off at the spigot, wearing only our bike shorts. Dinner was noodles with tomatoes, veggies, and sausage, and we decided to get fancy for dessert, stacking our pots together to use as a double boiler (a trick Pat showed us) so we could cook a blueberry cake (yes, out of a box mix, but still....)

Days 38 & 39

2008-07-29T08:27:00.000-07:00

JULY 16 Wrighstown to Manitowoc WI

The ride to Manitowoc was one of the shorter rides of our trip, at about 55 miles. We started early in the morning, because we wanted to get in early to spend time with our friends, the Crousers, who were meeting us in Manitowoc (they were vacationing in Chicago and decided to drive up to meet us for a couple of days). And it was a good thing we began our ride early, because by 8:30, my arms and face were slick with sweat. The temperature and humidity kept rising all morning, so that by 11:00, dad and I had each drained three full water bottles, and still found ourselves parched. We stopped at a house by the side of the road and asked the elderly man out front if he could refill our water bottles; when he returned the water bottles, they had ice cubes floating in them, "Have a good ride, now!" He called as we pedaled away, the only thing he said throughout the entire exchange.

The temperature dropped drastically once we got into Manitowoc, situated on the shore of Lake Michigan. Dad and I stopped for lunch at Fatzo's Sub Shop, and then rode across town to the Best Western. We laid down our bikes in front of the hotel, and dad went inside to register; within seconds, the Crouser twins, Jonny and Eddy, had raced outside to say hello. Their older brother, Steve, and their parents, Jim and Brenda followed shortly, along with my dad. The 7 of us spent the next ten minutes standing in front of the hotel and exchanging stories about our trips. "Why don't we let these guys go shower, and then we'll find something to do with them around Manitowoc." Brenda finally suggested.

Dad and I jumped at the suggestion, wheeling our bikes into the elevator to take them up stairs. After each of us had spent a long time, luxuriating in a shower that didn't need to be fed quarters every 3 minutes, we went down to the hotel lobby to meet back up with the Crousers. That afternoon, we talked, played cards, braved a brutal thunderstorm to go to the movies (Jim was drenched after 15 seconds in the rain), and splashed around in the pool until it was time to go to bed. It was a glimpse at what our 'normal' vacations are usually like, one that I knew would make me homesick as soon as it was over.

JULY 17 Manitowoc WI to Ludington MI (mostly by Ferry)

The Crousers took the ferry, the S.S. Badger, with us across Lake Michigan. We spent most of the ride talking and playing cards, downing an entire box of Oreos and two bags of chips during the four hour ride. All too soon, the Ferry came into port in Ludington, and we were scrambling to get our bags and our bikes and get off the ship, "Goodbye!" we called to the Crousers.
"Goodbye!" they shouted back.
Then, 5 steps later we ran into them again, "Goodbye!"
"Goodbye!"
Another five steps. And another. Finally, Eddy asked, "How many times do you think we'll say good bye before we really leave?" Our last goodbye came in the parking lot, just off of the ferry. We all hugged, and wished each other a safe journeys, then turned and went our separate ways. As we rode away, I was more homesick than I've been all trip.

We stayed in a campground near Ludington. We chose a site, but then we noticed the young couple next to us unloading Tiki Torches, "They might just want to stay up talking..." dad suggested doubtfully.
"Right." I said sarcastically, "couple, young 20's, Tiki Torches-"
"And ears!" dad interrupted. We still decided to find another site.

As soon as we rolled into our next site, a 20-something girl walked over, "The rangers just told us a storm's coming in! We've been trying to tell everyone around us." We thanked her, and rushed to set up our camp; as I put up my tent, one of the poles cracked along the joint. We braced it with duct tape, our panacea, and thought nothing more of it. Later that evening, as I ducked into my tent, I heard an ominous cracking sound. Looking up, I saw that my pole was giving out through the tape! It had already bent itself into an odd, elbow shape, and was bowing even more as I watched. I scrambled back out of my tent and tore off my rain fly, ignoring the huge clouds billowing in overhead. Dad was off walking around the campground, so I frantically tried to repair the pole myself, but by the time dad returned, my tent had collapsed entirely, now no more than a lump on the ground. As the two of us worked to fix the pole, trying to splint it with sticks, and then with a spare spoke, a woman walked by, "Need any help?" she called.
"Not really... unless you got any spare poles!" dad replied.
"Sorry... looks like you two might be sharing a tent tonight. If you need anything, I'm in that tent just over there."
When nothing seemed to hold my tent up, dad set off around the campground, asking for spare tent poles. He finally found some, and a hack saw to cut them down to the proper size, and by about 10:00, we had my tent at least functional again. I went to sleep praying the whole thing wouldn't collapse on me in the middle of the night.

Days 36 and 37

2008-07-28T12:57:00.000-07:00

JULY 14 Neillsville to Steven's Point WI

The ride to Stevens Point was rather ordinary... we woke p early and paid our dues, putting in the majority of our miles before lunch. Mid morning, we spotted an odd yellow sign, with a silhouette of a horse and buggy on it. Not a mile down the road, we saw the real deal: a single horse pulling a low, wooden cart; in back sat a boy wearing a straw hat and a button up shirt. We stared at him as we rode by, and he stared at us, his face mirroring the wonder on ours. A little further down the road, we spotted another boy, dressed as the first, walking down the side of the road. "I think they might be Amish!" Dad said after we passed the second boy; I nodded excitedly.

We stopped for lunch at a cheese factory in the town of Rudolph, then rode the rest of the way into Steven's Point, the town Pat, Bill, and Dave are from. We spent the night at Bill's house, with his wife, Teri, and his two kids, Billy and Jillian; clearly, being married to a bike tourer, Teri knew what was important to us when we got there: just inside the door, she had a table laden with cherries, grapes, pretzels, and other snack food. She showed us to our rooms for the night, then next stop was the shower, where she had fresh towel already laid out for us. We had a pasta dinner with Bill's mom, Betty (although I think I used the wrong fork... I'm not used to formal dining, especially after weeks on the road.) and then returned to Bill's house to go to bed.

JULY 15 Steven's Point to Wrightstown WI

We were the first ones awake in Bill's house the next morning, and went about getting our breakfast, making ourselves at home. Partway through our meal, Betty drove up, wearing a pink sweater over a black dress, " I brought you some muffins!" she said, handing us a bag of blueberry muffins, "I made the first batch last night, but I fell asleep while reading the newspaper and I burnt them! I'm sorry.
"Oh, don't worry about it." dad reassured her, "These look great!" Teri woke up to see us off, but she said not even the tornado sirens would get Billy an Jillian out of bed. We thanked her for all the wonderful hospitality, and then hit the road.

Riding that day was long, hot, humid, into a slight headwind... and over all, very pleasant. The scenery looked like what we imagined entire Midwest would be: rolling cornfields, scattered trees, and occasional barns. Our pace was rather slow, but we plugged along all day, taking breaks for snacks, lunch, Dairy Queen, and more snacks. After our DQ break, we stopped into a Burger King to ask directions to Freedom, the next town along our route. "Do you know how to get to Freedom?" I asked the girl behind the counter.
"Well, you take this road... I'm not very good with directions. Let me go get someone-"
"Oh, it's okay." I said, "We just needed to know what road to take out of town. Thank You."
As I turned to leave, she asked, "Your riding bike all the way to Freedom?" Freedom was only 10 miles away, but she sounded shocked.
"Well, we need to be in Manitowoc by tomorrow." Her eyes widened even more (Manitowoc is 60 miles past Freedom.) I didn't tell her that we were headed to Maine, or that we had come from Washington; I can only imagine what she would have said about that!

In Freedom (after making the necessary cheesy puns about the town's name) we stopped at the grocery store for a pair of Gatorades. As we checked out, a woman behind us leaned forward, "It's too hot out there to be riding!" she warned us, smiling.
"Yeah, it sure is!" dad agreed, "That's why we're in here. But we only have a couple more miles to go today."
"Where're you ridin' to?" the woman asked.
"Well, tonight we're going to... Seth?"
"Apple Creek campground. But we're eventually heading to Maine..." As we told her about our trip, a small audience of shoppers and checkers gathered around, listening to our story. Just like in Carleton, we were celebrities for the next 10 minutes as we told them about the mountains, the winds, the mosquitoes, camping, and all the other little parts of the trip that have now just become a part of everyday life for us.

As we prepared dinner that evening, a man from an adjoining campsite walked over to talk with us, "Hi, I'm Michael. I saw the bikes and just had to come over and ask: where are you riding from?" We told him our story, and then he began to tell us his, "Right now I'm on a motorcycle trip with my best friend, and then I'm going to drive out to Oregon, pick up my kids, and we're going to spend a few weeks riding Candisk, a bicycle trip across North Dakota. This is my 6 week vacation in the United States."
"Oh?" I asked, "Where do you work?"
He grinned, apparently glad that I had asked, "Well, I work for an oil security company in Qatar... it's a small country in the Middle East..."
"On the north side of the Arabian peninsula, right?" I asked.
"Very good!" He said, "I'm impressed you knew that."
"So how is it living in the Middle East?" I asked.
"Hot...a lot of the year it's a dry hot, but some times we get a wind in off of the Indian Ocean, and then we get 120 degrees and 98% humidity. I have 11 air conditioners in my house! That's how people at home know how hot it is for me: I tell them how many air conditioners I have on. When I left in the beginning of July, I had... le'see... 1... 2, 3, 4..." He ticked them off on his fingers, "5 and 6...7, 8, and 9; I had 9 air conditioners running to stay cool! The heat's the hardest part for me. Otherwise it's great!"
"And how is it safety-wise over there?" Dad asked.
"Driving's the most dangerous thing I do. The people there are maniacs on the road. But all the stuff you hear on the news... well, it's at least as safe as it is in America, maybe safer! I mean, as long as you're smart, and don't go to like Iraq, or Afghanistan, you'll be fine. I've been to Jerusalem, and throughout the Arabian peninsula...no problems." Michael wandered away as we finished eating, calling over his shoulder, "I'm in that trailer over there. If you need anything, be sure to come on over and ask."

After cleaning the dishes, I went off to meet another bike tourer dad had talked to earlier in the evening (while I was showering). He was sitting in the lodge-restaurant building, half watching a baseball game on TV, and eating a microwave pizza. "Hello!" I said, walking over, "I heard there was another biker around and I came by to say hi. I'm Seth."
"Oh, hello. I'm Steve. Have a seat." He said, turning his attention away from the ball game, "So I was talking to your dad. All the way across the country?"
I nodded, "And you're going round Lake Michigan, right?"
"Yeah. I started in St. Paul, and I'm taking the ferry over the lake tomorrow, then I'll loop back over the Upper Peninsula and back down to St. Paul. Then I'm flying home."
"I hear that home is a ways away..." I said
"Your dad must have told you! I teach AP calculus to diplomat's kids in Libya."
"That would be really fun!" I could feel myself getting excited just talking about it, "Why Libya?"
"My wife and I have also taught in Egypt and Thailand. When I was younger I wanted to go into the Peace Corp, but then this opportunity came up, and, well, I got a bit distracted. I still haven't joined the Peace Corp."
"And what's it like in Libya?"
"Oh, it's great. The people are nice and friendly. I mean, they think George Bush is an idiot, and I think Kadaffi should be shot, but we all realize that those are just the governments. Beneath that, people are just people. That's what you really have to remember. We're all really the same." Steve showed me some of his pictures from Libya, and then we said goodnight, and he went back to his baseball game and I went off to my tent to write.

Day 35

2008-07-23T09:27:00.000-07:00

JULY 13 Elk Mound to Neillsville MN

We said goodbye to Ann and Flynn the next morning and hit the road around 8:00, a rather late start. Ten miles up the road, we stopped in Eau Clare to pick up some post cards to send to Aunt Kathy's first grade class (while in Minneapolis they sent me another batch of letters, so I was in the process of responding to all of them). At the first hotel we stopped into, I picked up 5 of the 7 post cards I needed; I figured there would be more hotels, so I only took the better post cards. As we rode away, dad told me, "In the future, you might want to consider getting all the postcards you need, just in case you can't find any latter." How prophetic he was.

The next hotel we stopped at didn't have any post cards, and neither did the 15 after that. At each hotel, I would walk up to the desk and ask, "Do you have any postcards?"

"No, but you might try at the...." was always the reply. I became more and more frantic as it became apparent that no where in Eau Clare had any postcards; hotels, gas stations, grocery stores... nothing.

Finally, dad and I gave up and began riding out of town. Suddenly dad shouted, "STOP!" Off to the left was a little run down shopping center with the name 'Hallmark' written on the facade in glowing letters. Beneath it, we found postcards in the 'variety' hardware store.
"Oh, thank you!" I cried when we found them, "we've looked EVERYWHERE for postcards, and you're the only place in town to have them!.
"Yep." the woman behind the counter agreed, "Only other place is the university, and they're closed on Sundays." I bought 5 postcards... 3 extras just in case!

Later that afternoon, we stopped at the Wisconsin State War Memorial, known as the High Ground. As we dismounted, an elderly man with a bent nose came up, "Are either of you veterans?" He spoke in a thick voice. Both of us shook our heads. "Well, I am."
He said, gesturing to his baseball cap, which had the emblem of some branch of the armed forces, "This is the High Ground. We- we call it that because in a fight, you always want the high ground. This is the highest ground around. You need some place to stay tonight? You can stay here off in the bushes..."
"Thanks." dad said, but neither of us were seriously considering it; the winds were strong enough that day, that to go 5 miles into Neillsville to get groceries, and then come 5 miles back... into a headwind... would have been excruciating. However, when we got to Neillsville, we began to think we might have to go back to the High Grounds: the next closest campground was 15 miles down the road, and we were both spent. After asking all around town, we ended up camping out behind WCCN radio station, after talking to Kevin, the DJ.