East New York, Vermont, New Hampshire, Maine

Note: There was a lot of urging from family and friends to finish this. And this is it.

Our long delay in updating this site might by explained by going back and reading the Ontario & New York posts first before this one, which is most easily accomplished by clicking in the BLOG ARCHIVE to the right over there -------->

Day 35: Lebanon to Brunswick, NY. 121.1 miles. 8:22 saddle.
“balance, repetition, composition, mirrors”

Those four words were said with ballet in mind, but their importance in cycling can’t be overlooked. As un-cool as mirrors might look protruding from a helmet, our ability to foresee when oncoming semi-trucks would cross paths in time with our own allowed us to step down and ride into the gravel beside us. I can legitimately say it prevented us from getting hit in both North Dakota and Washington.

After Dave and Tim cleared a path through the fallen tree, we had a 15 mile rolling ride back to Highway 20 over a different course than the moonlight one from a few nights before. Dave and I had a fair amount of discussion over our next few moves, because we intended on riding northeast to Lake George to see another great-uncle, take a day of rest, and then cruise further north to ride one final pass through the White Mountains before our descent into Portland. But Dave’s dad, Ev, who we’d been calling daily since day one, and who this trip is essentially in honor of, was on his own downhill ride, unable to follow our conversations fully and reduced to a whisper. Ev wanted us to finish our journey, undoubtedly, but mentioned to Dave to “hurry up if you want to see me again.” So we changed our route to a nearly perfect diagonal line up to Portland, and this change is evident in our lack of photographs and time spent talking with strangers over coffees at truck stops.

When we reached the only American home Dave remembers from his childhood, in Schenectady, he stopped to call Ev and Liz to share in the memory. But there would be no conversation, as Ev was under heavy sedation after taking a significant fall the night before, and Liz had her hands full with it all. So we snapped a picture and kept riding. I can tell when my dad is having a hard time, emotionally, and he channels it into his riding. Learning how to be a support for him has been difficult and I’m always at a loss for words, but a hug or a simple “are you okay” when he finally takes a break is the best solution I’ve found. It was the wrong day to hang around to explore Ev’s alma mater, Union College, so we pressed on to Troy, to meet up with our old friend, Highway 2. Thinking she hadn’t aged well since we last saw her back in North Dakota, we soon realized we were on State Route 2 (not the US route) and we found it was the worst patch of road since the section where we almost died back in Winthrop, Washington. This is why picking roads at random doesn’t work for cyclists.

When we crested a long climb out of Troy, close to the Vermont border, Dave noticed a community sports field, with 8 baseball dugouts to choose from. Since we had passed Cooperstown earlier in the day (the baseball hall of fame sits here), it seemed fitting to find solace in a diamond, and reinforce our earlier discussion that we wouldn't return to such a museum until Pete Rose got his comeuppance.

It’s tough to be nonchalant as we wheeled our pack horses into the complex, but we went straight to the dugout with its back to the houses of the neighborhood, and started cooking anything we could find in our packs; there is no point in saving scraps of goodness at this point. We exhausted our cookware with dehydrated stew, spam, hot cereal, beef jerky, top ramen, and chamomile, and found a spigot shower as the daylight dropped. The mosquitoes came in droves, and if we had packed our face nets we wouldn’t have had to waste time on our tents, but we were happy to give a baseball diamond a try. Oh how I wanted to read. Once again, I slept with a book straining its spine on my chest.









Day 36: Brunswick, NY to Concord, NH. 136.1 miles. 10:20 in saddle.
“I have got some business at the edge of town, candy weighing both of my pockets down”

Our second day to include dark rides, and we were off to an early start. Once crossing into Southern Vermont, you are in the Green Mountain National Forest, an area of small green waves, but hearty climbs as well. The picturesque area is being threatened by wind farming, and I’m still on the fence about whether this is an environmentally friendly venture when it spoils a beautifully intact old growth area. We celebrated the top of the pass with milk, granola, cheese and peppered beef sticks, all purchased at the base of the climb, because we think with our eyes, not a scale. We argued with a tourist shop’s cashier over their water, because they refused to fill our bottles; their tap water wasn’t clean but they conveniently sold $3 twenty ouncers. Returning to the shop wielding a UV sterilizer pen ended the argument and we drank water endlessly.

We hit our halfway point around three, legs already shot from a long ride of elevation fluctuation, and we plotted how far we could make it before our they gave out. Calling ahead to Concord, New Hampshire, we found motel prices to be laughable, but the receptionist asked if we were riding for a cause. Perfect. They get a tax write off and we get double queen sized beds and an extra large pizza from the next door down. But there were 70 miles to tackle first. The next gas station we found had a plethora of gummies, perhaps every variety of Trolli Candy (if I do a similar trip again I will shoot for sponsorship) and we loaded up.

The following 50 miles were once again straight sine waves, temperature still in the 90s with humidity to choke us, until it broke with thunderstorm that somehow encircled us with black clouds, flashing and downpour, but only dropped a mist. I found a blackberry phone on the shoulder, and scurried to find the battery and backing too. Fully functional and worth a few bennies, it had a warning on its screen of being property of the USPS, so we just handed it off to the first mail carrier we saw. The exchange took place a state away from where we found it, but we saved the little guy nonetheless.

And the last 10 miles of riding into a preserved area of Concord, every house centuries old, was making us a tad disappointed that we had no time or energy to explore, but not enough to quell our anxiousness for ending this trip and getting home to support our family in Spokane. The bed was much comfier than a concrete dugout, and the pizza deliciously fattening.












Day 37: Concord, NH to Portland, ME. 90.4 miles. 6:10 in the saddle.

“On a highway. And when they call me lucky for all the places I stay, It's hard for me to not say ‘I can't wait to find home.’”

Dave wanted pancakes. There are days he won’t shut up about pancakes, and his demands started early. So we didn’t hit the road at 7, but enjoyed a hearty breakfast together and he shared with me some thoughts he wrote down about his dad earlier that morning. He opts to always awake at 5 am to wrap his head around the thoughts of the previous day, rather than catch their fleeting escape every evening like I do. It was not the first teary-eyed discussion we’d shared over a short stack along this road.

We were battling some morning traffic on an unsafe portion of country road just west of the border of Maine when we got the call we’d been expecting since, well, Christmas. Dave’s tone is usually business when one of his brothers calls, so I’ve learned to recognize this when he steps off into one of these conversations of tough decisions about his parents. Many times I had to follow him down the road to check if it was the call that loomed. But when his brother Don called– at 6:30 Spokane time- and Dave whistled me to a quick stop in thick gravel, the three “okay’s” I heard him say to his brother before hanging up didn’t need explanation. Dr. Morris Everett Fuller had just passed on, with Liz at his side.

A tough day.

Now, weeks later, I’ve put off putting down words about this, and I’m wondering what’s appropriate, as some people came to this site looking for bicycle adventures. Grandpa’s obituary was a giant column, so I thought I’d write my version, which has a lot of what I said at his incredible funeral.

7 kids, 16 grandchildren, 10 great-grandchildren. He lost a circle of friends abruptly, twice, early in his lifetime. First as a medic in WWII when the room next to his was bombed, killing most of his regime’s medical team, and again ten years later in Ecuador, when the five missionaries he had been working closely with to start a hospital in the Amazon jungles of Ecuador were speared to death while he was tending to the clinic. When his kids were old enough to need education, he left Ecuador to start a private practice in California to pay for their college tuition, and once paid for, promptly sold the practice to alternate between work in the Middle-East and Ecuador. His wife, Liz, was the nurse that made them a team, and together they left an impression on families all over the world. His final couple decades were spent in Spokane, lucky for the 11 of us cousins in the area (the 5 in Ecuador got to share their childhood with them too – they’re older). He worked part-time until he was 90, and never stopped learning. They started every morning with a filing box of notecards, praying and thinking about the names on each card, one at a time. All their friends that had a last name with the letter “S”, for example, were discussed, and then they moved to the countries that needed prayer, maybe Sudan, but probably not Switzerland. That’s the shortest, butchered version of his life I can think of.

The rest of the day was a blur. We downed coffee and water, tried to push on with occasionally blurry eyes, and spent a fair amount of time on the phone. We hit the beach in Portland by 4 pm, snapped a few pictures, and then met up with a couple of generous board members of Maine’s Hospice Council who wanted to take us out for dinner. Lobster seems to be the thing to eat in Maine, and we talked often eating it along the road as we gnawed on hardened bread and sweating cheese. It was the treat we figured we deserved, having never cracked into one, and although we made it clear we wanted to pay for our extravagance, Kandyce and Tom wouldn’t allow it. A hot evening on the Pier, digging into the crustacean’s liver mush with our fingers was blissful. We conversed about careers, the state of hospice, and how one makes decisions about both topics; time passed quickly. When they said to “tell us about your grandfather” it opened up some story time that took away the sadness I had been feeling all day; it was quite a life to celebrate. Thinking about living a fulfilling 92 years and being prepared for your death is a blessing.

Although I had set up an interview with the local newspaper, they must have lost interest in what I hoped to talk about – hospices in Africa – and Dave’s cousin arrived to load up our bikes and drive north into the heart of Maine, to the small town of Peru.













Day 38: Peru, ME to Boston, MA.

“just say you’ll come see maine when the snow falls”

So it finally set in that our trip was over. 33 days of riding, 4 days of rest, and we made our goal for the trip; we averaged 102 miles per day, according to Dave’s tally.

We woke up to pancakes with blueberries picked before the coffee was on. Steve is the son of Curtis from a few hundred miles back, and his wife, Marcia, share a gorgeous home with wide acreage. The house is “New England style,” meaning the building gets older as you move through it so you pass the indoor swimming pool that emulates current until you’re sleeping in a 200 year old room. Still exhausted, we had a relaxing day of getting the bicycles shipped, reorganizing everything into duffel bags for the flight, and enjoying the company of a couple who have been riding their tandem bike throughout our country. I guess it’s in the Fuller blood (Curtis was a bicycle commuting anesthesiologist back in the day, and shared trips with Steve long before I came to be).

We wandered through their back property, picking blueberries and raspberries as we walked, and took a drive out to swim under an old covered bridge and a viewpoint along a crossroads of the Appalachian Trail. Seven moose were spotted along the short ride, which might be a record, and we stuffed ourselves with home-cooked glory, thanks to Marcia. Climbing up a ladder into their barn, we didn’t expect to find a large skateboarding park in the upper level with quarter pipes, rails, and piles of shattered decks, but there it is, on a remote farm in Maine.












We definitely felt rushed there at the end. We had purchased our tickets from Boston to Spokane the week before, thinking we’d get to see Grandpa one last time, and now we were packed up and leaving before we realized we were there. New England was a blur, and I look forward to returning to it someday, renting a bicycle, and looping around the coast and White Mountains, perhaps with my second cousin. On the way to the Portland bus station we got pulled over for driving with the running lights instead of full-beams, each of us with an open can between our legs – of coffee, and caught the 3 am bus to Boston for an 8 am flight home. We have too many so many people to thank that I don’t want to begin the venture unless I can thank them all.

It’s the end of the trip.

The State of New York

Day 32: Buffalo to Rochester, NY. 104.5 miles. 7:39 in saddle.

“I got close enough to the river that I couldn’t hear the trucks, but not close enough to hear the roaring of my mind”

We strolled out of our beds in Buffalo, shocking fellow guests users with the girth of our gear piled high on a hotel trolley. Entering traffic with some morning commuters, we found our way down past the art deco city hall and rode adjacent to the piers with naval ships and fancy schooners. A pleasant bike path heads North through some seedier sections of a slowly dying Buffalo, but clears up with some riverfront parks as it nears the start of the Erie Canal.

This canal route has been touted as essential for a touring cyclist, and our high expectations were more than met over our two day affair along the path that could take one from Buffalo to Albany’s Hudson River. Although there are sections of paved paths, and the occasional jog to a shoulder lane, the majority is a hard-packed composite of white clay under fine crushed rock. This mixture can add some skittish behavior to a wheel when wet, but our 1.5”, slick-faced tires had no problems (although a small decline in speed is to be expected). Usually alternating between underpasses and forced road crossings, the trail allows for long stretches of uninterrupted riding, and the scattering of small towns along the canal left us with no concern for running out of water.

While nearly all trestles are functional, a couple kids caught our attention up on a blocked-off bridge, and with the day in the 80 to 90s range, we figured they were up to some good. Most 60 year old guys don’t go barefoot climbing up old metal bridges to get a rush while cooling off, but then again most 60 year old guys don’t do anything with as much fervor as Dave. He’s unstoppable to the point of danger when he starts enjoying himself in an adventure, but they don’t make sedatives in an easily injectable thigh jabber.

Between our swimming and a long stop in the town of Albion (where we met the mayor, had some well-earned sandwiches at a café next to the drawbridge, toured a turn of the century dilapidated opera house with the coffee shop owner (we had to shimmy stairs and cross through a maze of ballet mirrors, a karate class, and a barber shop nestled under a staircase), oh and the bathroom was perfectly Twin Peaks in its blood walls and checkered floor), but our enjoyment of the day was catching up with our watches. (I clearly wanted to write pages on this day, but did some whittling for you all).

We rode hard, pushing through the last 25 miles with no breaks and no breath for talking, to reach Rochester where spaghetti awaited with another couple of my sister’s friends. Molly and Kevin are newlyweds who stalk the corridors of research labs on campus, and were excited to use the perks of a wedding: new table settings. As I described the spreading rashes on my legs, I may have tested the limits of their hospitality and their decision to let me sleep in their bed, but I’m happy to say everything is under control now. Sorry for the scare, guys.













Day 33: Rochester to Lebanon, NY. 132.3 miles. 10:20 in saddle.

“New York I love you, but you’re bringing me down”

This day’s route was estimated to be 115 to 120 miles, but following the canal and our attempts of circumventing Syracuse caused our second 130+ day to be far more taxing than the first. The canal trail initially continued as before with packed gravel, but we began to reach areas of dangerously loose gravel, sometimes sand, rolling dirt paths, and the occasional single track that begged for suspension and knobby tires. Flat tire number three hit me right as my legs were finally waking up, and I slapped on the foldable tire that had been lazily riding along in my pack for 3000 miles, leaving his glass-slashed buddy in a McDonalds trash bin. I will not admit eating at this establishment, but one of their new smoothies is exactly what we salivate over around midday. That, and a large coffee.

The final miles towards Syracuse dig deep into some wooded areas, and I-90 only makes its presence felt by long-off horns and rumbles that occasionally sneak through the trees to remind you that this is America; you can’t really “get away from it all” without serious effort (even then, I think the most you can escape from roads on this country’s mainland is about 30 miles, and you have to pay thousands to go down that river in Idaho to get there…) I need a fact-checker.

Turning south into Syracuse, at 5 pm on a Friday, and finding yourself on the street that connects a walmart to a kmart to a mall, can be a buzz kill, so I chose a highway that appeared to arch nicely around the south end of town, and would get us down to Highway 20. This would prove to be a poor choice as we faced some of the largest rolling hills we've seen, and at 100 miles into our day. I’ve come to realize why the big European Cycling races bury their hills into the end of the course (it hurts more), and checking up with the Tour de France, we out-rode them in distance on this day. Woot.

We had the option of jumping onto highway 20 much earlier in the day, likely a shorter route, but our map showed numerous ski hills along its path as it rode the waves of hills north of the Finger Lakes, which formed from glaciers dragging their toes as they headed south, hand in hand. Because we were working from a trucker’s atlas, which has no concern for elevation, we essentially climbed hills from mile 90 to 130, arriving at 11 pm at our destination. Although the shoulders were wide and the surrounding hills pristine and wild, we still managed to find the glaciers’ aftermath, and the highway designers’ careless straight up/down mentality of road construction. We hit our top speeds for the entire trip (43 mph, braking) and a laughable crawl up the mirror imaged ascent at the valley’s other side. Now we were riding slower than we would walk a 10k, and watching the sun drop out of view, with at least 20 miles to go.

But the last 20 miles were to be the most memorable miles of north America, and if I could escape to ride them in some zen state while on a lunch break or in lieu of studying, I would. Our path off of the highway was a haphazard zig through finely-paved country hills, and the road built up some trust with me while I could still see faintly- I would rely on its smooth perfection when darkness dropped. Dave had a headlamp and acted as engine, while I the caboose with back flashers (we were to see half a dozen cars over a couple hours), allowing me to drop off and extend our train, giving time to practice some weaving Dealy Plaza ballistics with my bike. The further back I dropped, the more I let the full moon’s scant illumination of black tar be a guide, and the fireflies that lined the shoulder (why do they do this?) became a predictor of turns. I didn't attempt to photograph anything, as it was permanently etching just fine. Perhaps the most exciting days afford no time for documentation.

The temperature dropped, the silence grew, and we dipped into fog banks and rose out to see the moonrise over ridges. It was cheesy, Tim Burton-designed, and altogether unreal. Our final drop into my great uncle’s village had me railing the breaks, because the hill bottom had a set of headlights, unmoving. As I neared close there was a bustle of movement in front of the lights, and I saw team of runners starting to stride, which made no sense at this late hour or location, but my mind reorganized it all when I caught the flash of glass lenses high above the lights; just another bespectacled man and his horse drawn cart to drive the Sleepy Hollow nail in. The sounds of hoofs and squeaky wheels would put us to sleep.





Day 34: Lebanon to Lebanon, NY. Rest Day #4.

“Thunder, lightening, tidal waves, the wind blew down my door”

Great-Uncle Curtis and his son, Tim, had stayed up waiting for us and watched horror films the night before, and our arrival was a quick collapse into the back room. Their house is converted from an old barn, and the cellar fumes of sties and coops still waft up through the floor, but I can’t remember a stitch of it from my visit as a ten year-old. Dave and I awoke on cots, with our possessions spread out around us in the back room, and my dad controlled his bladder all morning until Curtis awoke, because the pit bull of the house sat outside our door in attack mode. She howls to curdle if you aren’t sitting down, you carry black bags, move too quickly, or you try to extend hands of familiarity towards her. We spent most of our time in her presence sitting at the kitchen table under her eyes of scrutiny. Bagless. Turns out her happiness and aggression are expressed with the same tone of bark.

This day had zero bicycling, and a lot of motionless reflection on our quick month of pedaling. Hours passed slowly, and the four of us alternated between couches, rockers and chairs and did a fair amount of reading and napping. None of us were really in a conversational mode, and since Curtis’ hearing has been better (when we called the day before, my dad’s “it’s your brother, Everett’s, son” was heard as “Everett’s gone”) we were all pretty content in our silent coffee stirring. When Curtis’ wife, Jenny, a memory I do have from that trip sixteen years ago of the shining gracious woman she was, began to go downhill a few years back, she had the foresight to teach Curtis to cook for himself and Tim, and the dynamic she left behind has been a successful father/son duo. Tim gets to drive the Prius like a racecar though the perfectly paved backroads and do all the manual labor needed on the property, and Curtis deals with the food, shopping, and dog training (and all with a hip begging for metal backup).

When the evening set in, I walked outside with my camera to capture the cloud formations over a nearby farm and I watched as a lightning storm reeled in from the south. A good jog down the road, the orange was widening between the horizon and black clouds, quickly, so I walked backwards, failing to catch white light flashes and opting for a spotty video instead. Maybe ten seconds after the wind hit hard and I began to run, the rain wall overtook me and I ducked into the boot removing section of the porch. Another 30 seconds and a large maple tipped slowly and took out powerlines over the driveway I had just sprinted.

“You got your lightning storm now, didn’t you…” was Dave’s response, excited that he’d he get to hacksaw our exit from the homestead in the morning. With coffeed eyes the next morning, a local said he'd never seen such a storm of wind and lightening. "nope. never." This late in the trip, I’d given up on my wanting of all the possible elements, and settled with small columns of swirling dust in a field as good enough (the tornados I dreamt of did hit on this trip, but with loss of life, a few days ahead of us back in North Dakota). But with storms of rain, snow, lightning, wind, locusts, and mosquitoes, we weren’t far from seeing it all. How high do tropical storms climb the eastern seaboard, anyway?

More pictures:

O Thumper, you are in control, always.



The following three photos should be viewed as a triptych: the barn, the sky, the fallen tree.

Ontario.

Day 29: Caro, MI to Sarnia, Ontario. 86.1 miles. 6:19 in saddle.
“Old man look at my life, I'm a lot like you were”

The after effects of yesterday’s poor choices in food and drink made for a morning of pit stops. Clouded over and dreary, we were lost for the second time of the trip, unable to differentiate between two usually distinct morning horizons. Stopping and yelling into the face of a man on his lawnmower proved fruitless. “I am from Cleveland. This is the prison road. I am not allowed off this grass here.” Riding without confidence of direction is painful; every pedal rotation could be wasted and the frequent bathroom stops were already making me weak in the knees. But we eventually found the due-east road, that dead ends into Lake Huron.

Heading south after soup and sandwiches, a storm came over us almost too quick to cover our bags, and we stood under a beefy tree in someone’s front yard as the owner watched us from his window, thinking if we could keep our chamois dry, our afternoon would go better. Normally rain doesn’t phase us enough to stop pedaling, but its intensity had us seeing only a few feet ahead, and the busyness of the afternoon on this highway got our worries going about being hit. The tree was worthless, branches streaming down like a faucet and we were soaked within a minute or two. Easily the worst downpour we’ve stood in, comparable only to the one Dave and I narrowly escaped once in Ecuador’s eastern jungles.

When we finally approached the St. Clair waterway that separates Michigan and Ontario after two afternoon stops for coffee, we were disappointed to find bicycles couldn’t be used to cross the bridge. A Michigan DOT truck was summoned and we were delivered to the search and seizing area on the Canadian side, being sniffed out by springer spaniels and grilled by two hardened boarder guards who eventually warmed up and annotated our map’s next move.

The daylight was cut short at the strip of motels east of town, known as the golden mile, due to our day of lazy meandering. Luckily the area shows heavy competition for pricing, and we were able to sleep comfortably and cheaper than a spot at a provincial campground. Turning on the TV, a rarity this trip, had us watching a Neil Young concert, apt for an arrival his native Ontario. Exhausted and inhaling yogurt with grapenuts, Dave and I began singing along on a few tunes, transporting me back to the late eighties. I’m sitting shotgun in our navy blue ‘60 beetle, with a view of likely just sky, branches and powerlines, cotton gloves from their dash spot, trusty scissors in the ignition, and we’re belting out “heart of gold” together – the first song I can remember learning that didn’t involve Raffi.







Day 30: Sarnia to Sand Hill, Ontario. 108.7 miles. 7:47 in saddle.
“I can’t get that sound you make out of my head, I can’t even figure out what’s making it”

Even the dodgiest of motels have free wifi, and we used my itouch’s google directions to get us southeast across a region of Ontario where roads don’t tend to line up with our plans. Although we’ve heard of the greatness of Garmins for bicycles, it was an expense we didn’t want to add to our trip, and our little device will cache our route in its memory for use long after we leave the internet, showing topography and step by step “walking” routes that keep you off interstates, err, interprovinces.

We tried to note the changes from the US, but the rolling farmland and decent paving was more of what we’d seen over the past couple weeks. A European influence in home construction is apparent in the stonework of farmhouses opposed to the usual timber and clapboards of the states, and the only supermarket we visited was prideful of which products were Canadian, and featured cooking classes and weight watchers meeting areas built into the upper level.

Our lunch break came at a crossroads after a few miles of washboard roads, and the intersection showed a demarcation of the reservation border; the unpaved streets named with nouns and celebrating the last chance for cheap cigarettes met perfect pavement named for dead white people and well groomed wheat fields. After wondering the price of a ’95 Jetta with ’96 Civic parts being advertised on the corner, we sat at length with our sandwiches questioning what we were hearing in the wheat field. The clicking and popping wasn’t unlike a run-out groove, and I theorized the humidity’s force on a windless wheat stalk; was the heat cracking them? Once my face was within a foot of the crop, a world of locusts came into view, making their dry noises as they brushed between plants. I was far too fascinated with this cacophony, and was likely hitting the delirium stages of dehydration. So we drank.

Once we found the north shore of Lake Eerie, we were back on our cycling maps, winding agonizingly down into every quaint port town only to climb back out to the same plateau. After a few of the same views , we kept to the high road and camped out at “Ontario’s largest sand pile,” which doesn’t really do anything for me.









Day 31: Sand Hill to Buffalo, NY. 111.5 miles. 8:33 in Saddle.
“so welcome to meadow brook, welcome to shady space”

Sticking to our plan of keeping to the high road wasn’t possible due to road breaks, and our first 20 miles included some painful hills. Once a good alternative was established, we found ourselves on roads with heavy truck traffic and poor space for our wheels, but our afternoon through lowland towns named with ports, points, and beaches was relaxing and scenic.

The further east we rode along Lake Erie, the fields and wind farms diminished and the population of waterfront cottages with overly cutesy names dominated our view. While thinking about the costs of cabins and my hypothetical return to the area for a nice family ride, my daydream was crushed as pockets of stench, hot with the day’s overcast, wafted around us. Apparently some townships just pipe their sewage waste down into Lake Erie, and a flavor returns to the shore, depending on the whims of the currents and winds. It’s quite sad from both an environmental and real estate perspective, and the gagging we endured means we won’t be returning to this area.

But the terrain is gorgeous and we were greeted with a final 20 miles to the US border by a “rails to trails". On most days when we hit 90 miles, I get fixated on my odometer and how long until I get to eat dinner, so I have to find distractions. With the sun falling to my back, and an open trail allowing for an upright, handless ride, I found myself making my shadow dance and settling into a steady, purposeful and jerky arm action to match my legs. I was thinking myself to be original until I realized I was doing the Ian Curtis (his stage march, not his kitchen sway). A fellow touring cyclist informed us that there is an excellent network of cycling trails up and around the long way to Toronto, and we’ll be keeping that tidbit in our pockets. He had missed his flight to Vancouver to do his own cross-Canada ride back to Toronto, and was making the best of his loaded down rig itching for use around the great lakes.

The border guards were once again generous in travel tips, this time covering which areas of Buffalo to circumnavigate for fear of mugging, and we went for a motel again. There was ample camping on the Canadian side, but we needed to get back in touch with our family without worry of cellphone bills.

it's just miles and miles and miles...

we ride our final 80 miles tomorrow. woot. here's the speed version catch up:

Day 29: Caro, MI to Sarnia, Ontario. 86.1 miles. 6:19 in saddle.
Day 30: Sarnia to Sand Hill, Ontario. 108.7 miles. 7:47 in saddle.
Day 31: Sand Hill to Buffalo, NY. 111.5 miles. 8:33 in Saddle.
Day 32: Buffalo to Rochester, NY. 104.5 miles. 7:39 in saddle.
Day 33: Rochester to Lebanon, NY. 132.3 miles. 10:20 in saddle.
Day 34: Lebanon to Lebanon, NY. Rest Day #4.
Day 35: Lebanon to Brunswick, NY. 121.1 miles. 8:22 saddle.
Day 36: Brunswick, NY to Concord, NH. 136.1 miles. 10:20 in saddle.
Day 37: Concord, NH to Portland, ME. Approx 80.

only things to note about our stupidly long days is that day 33 saw the largest grade we've seen in n.america, at mile 115, and day 36 (today) included vermont's green mountains. ill get to the meat of it soon enough.

July 9th to 11th: Mostly Michigan

Day 26: Manitowoc, WI to Luddington, MI (rest day #3)
'i set my pulse to the great lakes pulse.'

Although we crossed state lines, we rested on the SS Badger, a large ferry that crosses the 60 miles of Lake Michigan, opposed to taking the long way down through the endless endless endless Chicago suburbs or through Michigan's upper peninsula. We decided on this route before the trip, and although we were called cheaters by a Luddington native, this was a choice of convenience; going North or South for hundreds of miles is hard on one's heart when all they know is East.

We stocked up on cheap cheese and canned coffee to keep them cool, and prepared to sit for 5 hours and watch as the horizons turned to the nothingness of water. Did you know the waxiness of cheese curds can replace brushing your teeth? Our days off so far have usually revolved around sitting and drinking unhealthy portions of coffee, so we shared a refillable cup all afternoon while reading and writing.

A no frills adventurer somewhere between Dave and my ages discussed his cycling tours in the Caribbean and throughout the states. The father/son dynamic he had echoed ours in the constant ownership of a VW van from some era, but we realized we are far less in tune with minimalism than he.

As we covered ground on his disappointment with his fellow Midwesterner's eating and drinking habits and the improved respect for riders he's found in his new home in LA, he was analyzing the rigging system of the life boats above our heads. We enjoyed watching his survivalist mentality at work, and felt comfort in his discovery of the manual crank arms if the ship's backup power were to fail.

It was a quick ride with all the small talking strangers, and we got a carbo load in a packed grill where some 'America's got talent' finalist sang some fluff under the happy hour crowd's noise. With benadryl to drown out the Friday night parties at the campground next to Luddington's cemetery, we crashed out early.










Day 27: Luddington to Coleman outskirts, MI. 100.4 miles. 6:46 in saddle.
'the feeling of being in motion again, it's the most extraordinary thing in the world.'


Highway 10 starts up in Luddington as if it plunged into Lake Michigan and emerged, shaking out its fur on the East side. The flat route cut through a large patch of old growth forest and we decided that stopping in the town of Nirvana would split our day nicely. We ended up passing it though, since its green welcome sign that even the smallest towns begin with, was missing. It's likely nailed to a dorm room wall like the mile marker after 419 that disappeared along Montana's Highway 2. At what point does a department of transportation give up on replacing these signs?

Because 'stealth camping' was often discussed, but never tried, our easy day gave us time to plot out a patch safe from dogs and farmhouse windows. Dave noticed and stopped at a grandma's one-person caramel corn stand, only open a few hours a week. I hesitated eating a sugared corn product since I swore off such foods after retiring from a stint as a kettle corn carney in high school, but Mrs. Brownie's product was tops.

A good portion of the day's filth got washed off in a local creek, and as dusk fell we rode out along a rail to trail to an area that google's satellite imaging suggested would be wooded. We wouldn't settle for anything less than the cover of a solid oak or a batch of shimmering aspen, and we found the latter just moments after our odo's read 100. The brush was not unlike the humidity, but we shouldered our bags and bikes in three trips 50 yards to the two tent-sized patches with full sleeves and pants because the mosquitoes were thick as well.

Heaving and slapping, I could strip down in the tent and wait for some sort of breeze to wind through the trees. It was a good hour before I finally cooled, and I listened to my father, first, trample through the woods looking for the black socks and riding shorts he dropped in his aimless portage, and then settle into his nightly sandwich, corn nuts, snickers, and banana routine. It's an orchestra of noises that lulls me to sleep most nights, yet he still can't keep his weight up.






Day 28: Coleman to Caro, MI. 83.4 miles. 5:44 in saddle.
'light the field for the big game tonight'

July 11 has been marked on my mental calendar since at least last summer as the World Cup final, and for it to fall on national free Slurpee day made for an unhealthy and enjoyable one.

We got out of the woods quickly and unscathed, but started realizing that it's more work to play the stealth game. We passed a $5 campground with toilets just to climb into the forest, and our other attempts at eyeing dugouts and roadside burms ended with free to cheap (legal) sites being close. We have definitely been romanticizing the idea, and when we give ourselves a 90-110 mile travel window each day, it's more timely work to seek out the stealth spots. Didn't Thoreau just camp out on his buddy's property, omitting the times he hopped into town for some beer?

I called ahead to a bar & grill that said they'd put the game on for us, but we had to hammer out 75 miles by the 2:30 kick off while still locating 7-elevens along the way. This region of Michigan is farmland, and our only hill of any kind was an overpass. Slightly clouded makes for easy riding as well. Akron lies at gripping side of Michigan's thumb, and our destination was essentially a motorcycle bar, full of grumblers when the barmaid switched the wall-sized projector screen from a Tiger's game to ours. "These two called ahead for dibs, boys."

The bar's owner was so excited to have some "pedal bikers" in one of his four area biker bars, he threw us t-shirts, one on the house, and some sampling of the trashcan turkey they had cooking in the alley behind the place. Juicy. By the end of the game "What the hell country is called 'ESP'?" we had consumed more fried food than our bodies could handle, literally, and we witnessed the owner argue with his buddy (a motel owner on our route) over who got to put us up for the night.

We saddled up our surleys, angled to the curb in the company of twenty harleys, and made off to the newly renovated, log cabin-style motel, WoodyZZZ.
The place was the opposite of what emotions are evoked by 'small town motel,' and the hospitality of the owner was explained by his preparation for our same trip, shot down before it started by his knee surgery. We left him our adventure cycling maps, and hopes that his trip goes as well as ours when he recovers.

July 6th to 8th: Mostly Wisconsin

Day 23: Twin cities-ish, MN to Eau Claire, WI. 136 miles. 9:24 saddle time.
Day 24: Eau Claire to Stevens Point, MN. 116 miles. 8:46 saddle time.
Day 25: Stevens Point to Valders/Manitowac, WI. 107 miles. 7:15 saddle time.

"we are capsules of energy."
"you'll pass this on, won't you?"
"thank you thank you thank you...you're far too kind."

A half mile out the door and we were crossing the Mississippi River, which felt as strange, huge or exciting as the continental divide or having our back wheels in the Pacific. It wasn't a particularly early start for us, and we found the neighborhood to be in a great mood. In a 20 minute span, we heard two happy horns, got one thumbs up on a country road, and then two separate truck drivers held up traffic to chat once we hit signaled streets. I felt like I had a golden ticket and was storming the candy factory. On a related note, our bicycles are made in a suburb south or the twin cities, but we were told via email to not bother visiting unless we were interested in watching a bunch of guys "drink beer and work on computers." We didn't.

And after 40 miles of terror along a 'highway' shoulder (four highways merged to madness), I got a text from Seth, a guy from Eau Claire who I hadn't met or spoken to, but we use the same website to trade records. He said he'd could put us up for the night.

"How are you feeling Dad, is this the one?"

"Yes it is."

"The One" was discussed before the trip; I wanted to ride further than my longest (around Lake Balaton, done last September on a knobby mountain bike with no training. Hi, Zsolt.)

We had another 100 to go, so I reset my odometer to fake my way through the day. The twin cities' spread of suburbs lasts until the Wisconsin border, and riding through this portion was a lowlight of the trip. Once we dropped to the St Croix river, the bridge was up and we weaved through the gridlocked small town until we were at the bridge barrier (the pedestrian part, we're not jerks.) It was reminiscent of my mornings to work or school, always separated by one of two drawbridges that dictate my tardiness. I love blitzing across a drawbridge that has just come down, it's an unexplainable rush.

The Wisconsin side of the river (Houlton) had the highest grade we've seen thus far for a quarter mile, and I realize now that you can't capture steepness in a photograph. We rode rolling farmland until mile 110, and the change from flat helped us gain a crank/coast rhythm to carry us through a long day.

The last 26 were flat, relaxed, and calm since our host was at band practice, and his lady friend wouldn't be off work until 9 to let us into her place. There was a 10 mile stretch of fresh blacktop, possible laid that day, which allowed for some side by side chatting. No stripes, no stones, no sticks. Ask me how sticky it was.

The part of town where we stayed had old homes with neighbors congregating on front porches and yards, a quality of neighborhoods I've been eyeing since talking to Amanda in Fargo. John and her built a porch because everyone else hung out on them, and it was their window into becoming a part of the older neighborhood. I also got to catch the bicycle ride of a elderly couple that Amanda says they do every night before dusk; I forgot to mention how cute that was.

Right, Eau Claire. Seth and Nicole were easy to get along with and I wished I could have stayed awake to chat more than two hours about records, Japan, and how to judge a town in America on arbitrary criteria. Their local organic truth serum made me a chatty cat, and I still find it weird to have hung out with someone from the internet and got on so well. As for Dave, he was asleep as soon as their one-eared Boston terrier cleaned all the salt from his (exposed) skin. His name is Gizmo.

My half hour of tooling around Eau Claire doesn't warrant an evaluation, but after coffee, muffins, and quiche at the Acoustic Café downtown, I swore I was in Bellingham, Washington, minus the Subarus and blonde dreadlocks. When my eye caught both of these on the long slope out of town, I realized my theory was bunk.

We had hoped for an easy day after the long one, but it didn't pan out. We had a morning of hills, and an afternoon of flat. An uneventful day because we were pretty tired, and riding with muscle memory at this point in the trip. Not looking around much, just moving along content that our bodies wake up faster and can function for 8 hours of pedaling without complaints.

"Share the road" has more meaning in some of these stretches, as a two lane highway will have a two-foot paved shoulder for our use, and an outer, ten-foot compact gravel strip for families that ride exclusively by horse and cart. The first buggy we crossed paths with had a family who smiled wide and waved with an enthusiasm I didn't expect. I figure they approved of our chosen mode, and we were pleased to see the
smallest tike embracing a tractor-wheel sized innertube, likely not for its intended use, but for the local creek.

Google maps sent me to the office of a campground in Steven's point (complete with reviews of the facilities), but the grounds were another 15 down the road. At 110 miles and feeling defeated, we found the nearest motel (30 dollars a night of shadiness). All full but too lazy to change their vacancy status, we had the desk man yelling at us where to try next (think Carl of ATHF minus the gold chain, and definitely on a stimulant of some kind) when a guy walks up declaring his basement is free. We would normally consider this shady as well (he followed us from the road, into the motel's parking lot), but his enthusiasm and "Life is Good" shirt that my parents love to wear was convincing.

Three miles later and we were enjoying the company of Bruce and his wife Jan, empty nesters keeping busy with five cats and still pleased with their long careers. Besides finally catching up on posting pictures on this site, we talked shop with Bruce about his adventures around the country on his recumbent bike, and we discussed food consumption for the long distance rider at length (a topic we'll summarize when we're done; my dad enjoys that we're eating Lance-style).

Breakfast and coffee was made up when I awoke, and the falling apart of a saddlebag proved that running into Bruce was essential to us making through another morning of riding. We feel lucky that he'd be on his way to get ice cream and notice two rubber legged and filthy guys making poor decisions for sleeping arrangements. He said it was a returned favor for all the help he received on his last adventure. He even drew out his favorite country road route with gauntlets of sprinklers, and caught up to us on his way to work, just to be sure we were going to make it.

A few minutes later, the owner of Bruce's favorite bike shop had pulled over and suggested we go back to his place to draw out a better route to Lake Michigan. He had recently worked with the Adventure Cycling team to plot this route out, so it was fresh in his mind. Meanwhile, his wife drove down the road to check the status of some construction that could alter the planned route. The selflessness we've been seeing is hard to fathom.

His scenic route, besides the portions I sweatily wiped away, takes the mundane straits out of the ride, but we would eventually return to the boredom of highways to make better time to a farmtown on the coast.

Arriving at the home of Leon and Linda, we weren't ready for a photo shoot, but the community reporter was ready with a camera and a list of questions about the trip and FHSSA. Leon #10 was a chef, and they both treated us to a meal far beyond what we've been doing with a camp stove, well, any stove for that matter. The numbering system is used to keep siblings straight; there are 13.

The wide house cooled quickly from the winds of the lake, and it was the breeziest night of sleep we'd seen in these humid states. The bay windows likely make heating an issue in the winter, but their view over the property's pond and rows of crops makes you want to grab another cup and sit down to watch the still-life do absolutely nothing.

Bah, I can't keep up with the internet.

If you stumbled to this site because I mass messaged on facebook, welcome, and apologies that I can't write all of my sentences coherently at 1:30 in the morning.

We are in Rochester, NY and I need to wake up in 5 hours to ride again.

Since you last heard from us it was Wisconsin in 2 days, Minnesota in 3, Michigan in 3, Ontario in 2, and now we start day two of New York tomorrow morning. That was 1200 miles, bringing us to 3200 or so. 450 to go.

We shouldn't have promised updates to this thing AND 100 milers.

I have some stuff drafted on my dead phone that I will upload, and a day off at my Great Uncle's on Saturday might allow for some more, even pictures.

We bridge jumped with some kids into the Erie Canal today, which is almost as cool as this guy, 120 years ago on the same path:



We are going to make it.