Jackie’s avg speed: 9.8 mph
Scott’s avg speed: 10.7 mph
Weather: rain 08:00-09:00, then overcast 65 degrees, humid

We had less than 50 miles to cover today, so we felt no sense of urgency while we waited in the Palmyra pavilion for the rain shower to pass. We lingered over our coffee, tea, and granola and read the news. Scott rode two blocks to the Dunkin Donuts to get donuts and bagels with cream cheese for the road.

We watched the surface of the water at the marina to be sure the last sprinkle was over. The water was once again calm and smooth at 09:15 when we headed north on Route 21, as recommended by the our visitor the night before. It felt good to be back on terra firma after the soft canal trail, even if the trade off was a more realistic topography for northwestern New York. Lots of ups and downs, difficult enough to raise the heart rate a little, but not arduous. 

At Marion in eight miles, the Adventure Cycling route joined Route 21 which took us to the shore of Lake Ontario at Pultneyville. We stopped at a park to test the waters. Cooler than Erie, not as cold as Superior. A sign at the park says Pultneyville residents helped African American slaves escape to Canada via the Underground Railroad. Nice cross border cooperation. We stopped in Sodus Point to eat our bagels and rolled into Wolcott at 3pm.

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We had a reservation at the Wolcott Hotel, $49 including tax. The place had no “curb appeal,” as the realtors say. From the outside, the building almost looked abandoned, no one stirred, the door was locked, the windows cloudy with many seasons of grime.

I walked into the hotel bar and drew curious stares from some of the patrons there enjoying their drinks and smokes. I asked the bartender if she had a reservation for McKennan. Yes, she did, and she handed me two keys, one for the exterior door, another for Room 27 on the third floor. With some misgiving, I turned the key to the outside door and stepped gingerly inside. The scent of stale cigarette smoke and musty carpet assailed me. With increasing trepidation, I climbed the stairs. The carpet had not been cleaned in years, the paint on the walls and baseboards was chipped and peeling. I walked into the tiny room and threw back the covers on the double bed. The sheets were bleached white and actually looked ironed. But the mattress was lumpy, and I knew I couldn’t sleep here. Back out on the sidewalk we looked for other options. The Cherry Grove Campground was off route a couple miles, but they would give us a tent site for $25. We knew when to walk away from this place.

I went back into the hotel, thinking I’d use the restroom on the landing. A stout man in his late 30s was coming down the stairs. I asked if he was the manager, he said he was the owner. I told him I couldn’t stay there, it was too dirty. He said he would talk to the housekeeper. No, I said, it’s not the room. It’s the hotel. The carpet is dirty, the smell of cigarette smoke is pervasive. He looked puzzled, but not particularly bothered. He would reverse the charges for me when my credit card charge went through. I thanked him, surprised at his acquiescence. I had just told him his hotel was uninhabitable, but he did not take offense. Smoking is not banned in New York hotels, but many places ban it because of market pressure from their guests. Maybe the Wolcott Hotel has enough smoking guests to turn a profit.

Relieved, thinking we had dodged a bullet, we got back on the bikes in search of the campground. The campground manager was in the office when Scott went in to register. He came out a few minutes later. “That woman is efficient.” That is high praise from someone who prizes competence above all. She gave us an RV site near the showers for the same price. The tent side of the compound was occupied by a family with kids who were playing on a grassy area rimmed with trees. 

The compound was a tidy place with 112 spaces and beautiful mature trees growing between the rows of trailers and around the perimeter. Like other commercial campgrounds, Cherry Grove had many semi-permanent renters, recognizable by the awnings and little porches people built to create oases of comfort. We appreciated their efforts but enjoyed the simplicity of our Cuban fiber, one-pound tent. We logged into the WiFi, another well managed service, with unique passwords for each user. Our aperitif was 30 minutes in in the 75 degree immaculate blue pool. (Yes, a sign posted nearby told us the temperature).

After our rehydrated lasagna, we went back to the office before the 19:00 closing hour for a root beer float. The husband was there and wanted to talk to the cyclists from Montana. He had been to Ennis and Eureka years ago and loved it. Scott told the wife she should apply her skills to bring the Wolcott Hotel up to snuff. No way, she said.

We mentioned the cigarette smoke and the man nodded. The hotel bar got some kind of carve out from New York’s 2002 law banning smoking in bars and restaurants because it was a family owned business that has never passed out of the family.  We also found out the current owner is the mayor. Is he a politician who aims to please? Is that why he was not offended when I called his hotel dirty? 

Scott was already in the tent when the sky presented a beautiful sunset show of magenta streaked clouds. Kids were riding their bikes around the compound, a more wholesome, and certainly quieter activity than the ATVs they rode around at Star Campground in Wisconsin. The light was fading so I took my iPad with The Widow Nash e-book into the tent to wait for sleep.