June 19, 2015
21 – Like the Fingers of an Open Hand
We head out of the campground late. We're taking a short break from the road in Ithaca, which is just two moderate days of riding from where we are. There's no reason to rush, so we take it easy.
On the way out of the camping loop we pass a big, mean-looking mother who seems half-drunk even at 9:30 a.m. It's not clear what happened five seconds earlier, but it leads her to bellow out, "What's wrong with you?!" to one of her sad little kids. All around we smell the campfires that rage for no reason other than to drive home the point that if ya ain't lightin' stuff on fire ya ain't campin'.
We've had a break from the hills since leaving the Adirondacks begins a few days ago. But now the river valleys and farms and canal towpaths fade from view behind us. The world passes so slow that I start to focus more on what's inside my head than what's floating past at four miles per hour. I look down and over at the empty packs of Winston and Seneca cigarettes in the ditch and notice how the power of the sun has turned their colors pale. I think about how I need to raise my handlebars by another inch or two to help my wrists and shoulders hurt less. I feel competing streams of sweat navigate their way around the islands of stubble on my cheeks and chin.
I test the theory that breaking wind will give me an extra push and make the climbing easier. (It doesn't.) I notice how every other house has a riding lawn mower parked in the front of the garage door where I'd expect to see a car or pickup. As we near the top I look up, because it feels like rain has started to fall. But it's not rain; it's just sweat from off my chin. By the time the dozen radio and cellular towers at the top of the climb are behind us the front of my shirt has changed from light green to dark.
In Pompey we stop and refuel with ice cream, a milkshake, a can of V8, donuts, an orange, and four Reese's Peanut Butter Cups (not at the same time). Then we head down a road that runs along a ridge tucked halfway up a steep hillside. We pass old barns and grain silos and — surprise, surprise — more old men puttering around on riding lawn mowers. It's all lush and bright and healthy-looking. When the sun breaks through the overcast those feelings double in strength.
But it's hard to notice all that's around us because I'm so, so tired. All I want to do is pull off the road, stumble over to one of the red barns, and take a nap for like three hours in a pile of hay inside. It's not lack of sleep, it's not lack of food, and I don't think it's Ebola. I just haven't been drinking enough water for the past few days and now I'm sinking fast. My legs and head both feel like they're working at half speed. Sometimes bicycle touring is the best thing in the world and others it's just a grind. Today's a grind.
South of Tully we ride into a world of corn and cow shit. And then, burning.
We see and smell the black smoke for a few miles. It's the kind that tells us something is on fire that shouldn't be on fire. When we reach the top of a crest, that's when we see it: orange flames and clouds of thick smoke shoot up into the sky from from a fire that has swallowed up four or five buildings of a small farm. From our high point we can see the fire engines racing south from back in town and hear the cries of their sirens.
We watch in stunned silence as we see the fire advance and set another building ablaze. When cars aren't passing we can hear the hiss and rush of the charging flames eating up the fuel in front of them, even from half a mile away. Every day we ride by three or four fire stations. We often stop in front of them to eat and rest. Just over an hour ago we let Walter play in the well-kept lawn next to a station not far from Tully. In all of that it's easy to forget the reason why those places exist.
This is why they exist.
We hope the people who live and work on the farm are safe. They must be. We also hope the animals are safe, but it's almost certain they aren't. In a situation like this there are a lot of animals but not much time to figure out what to do with them. It's a sick feeling for that reason, but also because I know that I'm looking down and watching a family's history, their livelihood, their pride, the center of their life, and so much of their wealth turn to ashes and char and rubble. Even the best efforts of the team of firefighters that surround the growing inferno and the promise of future insurance payouts can't change that.
But we don't have a say in the matter. All we can do is shake our heads, look down at the ground, and then push on.
Ridges spread out around us in all directions like the fingers of an open hand and we ride through the valleys that exist in the gaps in between. It has the exact look and feel of what we hoped we'd find when we chose to ride this direction. We push hard up into the hills as the sun sets, making terrible jokes and laughing and giggling all the way. We're the only ones on the road, so we let Walter out of the trailer and watch him zoom out in front as we pedal at three miles per hour. The air is flush with the smell of fresh-cut grass and the snow of dandelion fuzz. Around us it's the ideal mix of small farms, family homes, and forest land. It's all so wonderful. We climb steep and often but don't mind, because most great things in life aren't free.
In time the signs marking private property fade away and we cross into public land and the Hewitt State Forest. We pull the bikes a few dozen feet into the woods, throw our stuff into the tent in a blur to keep the bugs from swarming in, and then eat chocolate mini donuts and one of those blueberry cream danishes you can get at every single gas station in America while laying on the floor of the tent as the cool ground below pulls at our body heat. The sky behind our heads burns deep orange, but this fact only reveals itself in the small gaps above the maples and spruce and cedars that surround us. It's still and quiet, except for the gun blasts that pop and boom in the distance. That's how we know for sure that it's Friday night out in the country.
Today's ride: 40 miles (64 km)
Total: 733 miles (1,180 km)
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