Day 61

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.