All You Have to Do Is Ask

August 17, 2004

Fairport to Baldwinsville

Last night was a tough night. I was pretty hot from riding all day and the weatherman said the temperature could dip into the fifties. Worried that I might be too cold for comfort, I used the rainfly on my tent to trap some of my body heat. Between the trains passing to the north, the duck quacking in the canal (do ducks ever sleep?), and my own anxiety about camping in a somewhat public space (made double by the fact that this was the first time I'd ever camped out), I slept all of about 3 hours. One of my camping anxieties was the prospect of having to, as my colorful sister Margaret once said, 'lay cable' al fresco. Thankfully, my body did not require such utility work until long after I broke camp in the morning.

At about 3 or 4 a.m., I woke up and stepped outside to make water. It was pretty darn cool out. The weatherman was right. Toto, we're not in Virginia anymore.

I was none too refreshed as I heard the local early birds walking, running and biking along the towpath before dawn. After trying to ignore them, I conceded defeat and rose from my tent. In a few minutes, I was rolling down the towpath. A jogger and I started chatting and he recommended Riki's restaurant located in Fairport just off the towpath for breakfast. A hundred yards further on, I passed a city park with bathrooms. All that anxiety was for naught. You just never know what's just up the road.

Riki's was the kind of small town place you expect to see out on the plains. The stools at the counter and a couple of booths were filled with townsfolk, all jawing about the local goings on. I had an enormous plate of mighty fine vittles and washed it down with a couple cups of Joe and an OJ. After relieving my anxiety in Riki's fine rest room, I headed out for points East. Before I could roll away from the front of the restaurant, a local woman approached and asked me about my cool bike. I let her sit on it and she gabbed about how she could handle riding it. I couldn't help but notice that she, like all the local people I encountered in Niagara Falls, had nothing like a New Yawk accent. Hers was more Midwestern, similar to the accent in Ohio. This would remain true until I reached Schenectady where the cawfee tawk accent begins to take hold.

Riki's Restaurant - Good Food, Good Restroom Nellie Makes a Friend

It seemed that by taking the tow path I had added quite a few miles to the ride. The unpaved towpath is impossibly nice. It is shaded and smooth. I had only one minor slip the entire time I rode the unpaved section of the canal trail system.

Today was another gorgeous day with a foggy start. Were it not for lack of sleep I am sure I would have covered another hundred miles.

I followed the tow path to Macedon where I checked in with the lock keeper. I had heard that camping was allowed at the locks and there certainly was room for it here. I was actually looking for a shower. As I approached the lock keeper I had a Twilight Zone moment. Except for the lock keeper's near perfect teeth, he looked remarkably like my father. I had a similar encounter on last year's tour in Ohio. As with many upstaters, he had a New Englander's gift for gab. I ask if there were any showers I could use. He shook his head and said, 'That's all we got' pointing to the blue port-a-potty a few yards to my right. I said in my best Farmer Hoggett voice, 'That'll do.' Thanked him and walked off to check out the facilities.

After my visit with Dad and the blue room, I watched the lock tenders operate the lock for a small fishing boat. Then I was back on the towpath headed for Palmyra. In a canal-side park in Palmyra the tow path becomes single track. I noticed orange arrows on the pavement pointing to the main road and, then, east on the main road. These had apparently been left by the annual Erie Canal group ride that had occurred a few weeks earlier. These would be very helpful in finding the more obscure segments of the canal further east.

The main road was once again Bike Route 5. So feeling a bit like Yogi Berra who once said, "When you come to a fork in the road, take it.", I took it. I passed a historic marker on the side of the road indicating the site of the Angel Moroni hill where Joseph Smith supposedly received his instructions to lead the Mormons west. Unfortunately the hill is four miles south of Palmyra. Since I was already dragging a bit, I decided to risk eternal damnation and not sacrifice the equivalent of one third of a Toll House Cookie Ice Cream Sandwich to visit the hill.

One of Many Lift Bridges Still in Operation

Palmyra had some very impressive old houses, but like most of upstate there were many more houses in ill repair. One of the big summertime pastimes in upstate is roof mending. I saw countless roofing crews as I crossed the state. Very few of them seemed to be replacing a roof, rather they seemed to be applying patch after patch. Cosmetics don't seem to count for much up here. It's more important to have a functioning, leak-proof roof than a 'This Old House' shingle job. This house was an exception.

Bike Route 5 has some high speed traffic in this area, but the shoulders remained wide, almost as wide as the through lanes themselves. The road passes through some of the most beautiful farm country you are likely to see anywhere. It would have been nice to have a hill once in a while to get a better view of the farmland. Among the crops I passed were corn, potato, cabbage, and apples all planted to the contours of the rolling hills on either side of the flat road. Signs along the canal said that this was, at one time, the breadbasket of the nation. And the Erie Canal was the main means of transporting crops to the big urban markets in the East.

I tried to start a road kill count, but after seeing a couple of raccoons and skunks, I came upon what looked like a mink. A few miles later I came upon what appeared to be a tiny opossum. I figured I must be tired if I couldn't figure out the species of road kill I was passing and gave up the count.

On I rode to Newark where I loaded up on snacks. I think I get about 25 miles to the Toll House Cookie Ice Cream Sandwich. Despite proper fueling, it was becoming apparent that my mileage would be on the low side today.

As I rolled in to Lyons I saw a storefront with a large sign across the top, Santelli Lumber. When I attended Boston University some 30 years ago one of my freshman class cohorts was a Lyons native named Paul Santelli. I hadn't seen him since 1975. The clerks in the lumber store told me to try Trombino's restaurant in town. A few minutes later, I was at Trombino's, a fine looking establishment facing the village green. Since it was still just after 10 a.m., the restaurant was closed. Just as I finished writing a note to leave for Paul, the restaurant door swung opened and out he came looking as if he could once again take center field for our fearless intramural softball team. Back in the day, Paul was renown for turning routine fly balls into Astroturf physics experiments. (Not that I was Fred Lynn or anything.)

We went into the restaurant (which he co-owns with his brother Mike) and sat at the bar, reminiscing and explaining how each of us passed, endured and survived the last thirty years. It was comforting to see him happy and healthy and still a decent chap after all this time.

After Lyons, I continued to clip along Route 5. I struggled to hit a rhythm despite the beautiful riding weather, I passed through Clyde and Savannah, where I saw an Amish woman walking, then, on into Port Byron where I stopped for lunch in the Port Byron Diner. The food (odd looking but tasty hot dogs) and service were good but the conversation was nonexistent. I have come to expect spontaneous conversations to begin simply by looking different. I suppose I could blame the New Yorkers for this, but it was more likely the effect of riding 150 miles since my last shower.

According to the Sign, This is Mosquito Paradise

At lunch, I decided to ride to the halfway point of my journey and figure out where I would call it a day. After Weedsport and Jordan I decided to check my New York State Bike map for information on lodging and camping. According to my map there was nothing until Sylvan Beach on the far end of Oneida Lake some 25 miles away. I continued on, tired but hopeful something would turn up. As I entered Baldwinsville, I passed a Microtel. (New York DOT, update your map please.) I figured I could use this as a last resort. I stopped at a Subway to cool off, but its lack of air conditioning was disappointing. I crossed the parking lot to the Post Office where the window clerk told me of a Fairfield Inn on the road to Cicero, the next town on route. Now feeling reasonably confident of a place to crash, I walked across the street to the library to use the internet. I asked the library staff for any additional lodging options but they were stumped. When I returned to my bike locked to a flag pole in front of the Subway, three old men on electric, sit-down scooters came down the sidewalk and stopped to admire my bike. I asked them about lodging options and one of them said to try a restaurant about ½-mile off route, which had motel rooms attached. I rode to the Fireside Inn and booked the last room available. $40 for a bed, a TV a fridge and a bathroom, it would have made Roger Miller smile.

Soap Dish at the Fireside Inn I Know I Was Grungy But This Is a Bit Much

I turned up the air conditioning, showered and shaved and, feeling much more human than when I arrived, flopped on the bed to drink a couple of bottles of water and watch the Olympics. In a matter of minutes, I was out like a light.

Today's ride: 76 miles (122 km)
Total: 177 miles (285 km)

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