Sister Act
Verona Beach State Park, NY -> Featherstonhaugh State Forest, NY
2 days
110 miles
I know my bike like the tongue knows the topography of its teeth. It is quiet, smooth and predictable. Still, though, it's nice to have an extra set of eyes to go over everything. Saturday was an easy 25 miles to a b&b in Clinton, NY, where I met Sister, who drove down from Vermont to see me and make sure that everything -- the bike, my psyche -- is in good enough shape to make it to NYC. I got to town a bit before she did, so with baby wipes and a toothbrush I gave my rig a good scrubbing.
With a little extra time still, I walked to Clinton's small downtown. Almost instantly, the sky turned dark; a gray wall of cloud heralded in the thunder and lightning and massive rain drops started to fall all around me. I spotted a nearby bistro, ran inside, ordered a drink, and sat on the covered porch with the local patrons to watch out the storm. When the wind and the hail paired up and started beating down on clinton, all forks stopped, the place turned silent, women sat on the edges of their seats. "We haven't seen anything like this in a while," one of them said to me.
Among the many blessings of this trip is the fact that I've always been close to shelter for the summer's worst storms. I could've been riding at that point, or I could've been in the tent under one of the many trees knocked down by the wind. Another blessing: Sister. She arrived just as skies were clearing. Sister is my role model in many fields of life -- cycling but just one. We combed over the bike together, had two spectacular meals, and ironed out any anxieties I'd recently picked up.
When I left Clinton this morning, the residents were still dealing -- logistically and emotionally -- with their fallen trees. I'd given Sister a bunch of non-essentials to mail back for me. And though she replenished my food supply with tons of high-caloric treats from a hippie vermont co-op (my jam), the bike and its bags are discernibly lighter: when I first started 7 weeks ago, I had to make sure no pannier was carrying too much weight; now I've got to make sure they all have enough weight. Things are good. I've worn in the brooks saddle: it fits my skeletal contours like a trusty pair of hermès riding boots. It's pretty damn hilly here and at moments really beautiful. Uniform rows of corn still own most of the land.
At the end of the day, I rode to a state forest and found a small shoulder on one of its gravel roads to set up camp for the night. There's an owl nearby. On an overgrown trail nearby, a pair of close-set eyes reflect back the headlamp: I'm guessing raccoon. He's observing me very respectfully, though I think gradually moving closer. Maybe we'll be friends by the end of the night and he can ride on my back all the way to the ace, his little paws wrapped around my neck holding onto my beard like it's the reins of a steed. It'd be cute.
