If you’re following along at home, I’m hitting all my typical tropes. I’m not being very original here. Movie references. Time space travel. Song lyrics. Social snark and political sarcasm. Nothing new and original, not worth much time. Still something feels missing.
I dunno. Yet it is a gorgeous morning here in Green Lakes State Park. Kids and generators wake me up and not much later Mark is back in our campsite, being Mark. For real fir reel. My man loves to talk. So yeah, other than a couple days of extreme heat and one morning of rain, the weather has been wonderful.
Misty showers in this campground are the picnic table talk over coffee. I find them a bit disappointing. Kinda weaker water pressure the shorter you are. Damon at 6’3” doesn’t care when Kara and I agree. “Tall people run the world my G”. Kara expresses difficulty in getting the right shower angle, taking about washing her butt… yeah. Same same *butt* different. I chime in that it was at best yoga maneuver to get myself clean. Or a prison rape scene, at worst. This is what our conversations revolve around. The basics. Staying alive and happy and clean. A few lixurious clutch maneuvers thrown in when we can. It is not for the faint of heart. Pimpin ain’t easy but it sho is fun.
Masta Ace’s Born To Roll hijacks my sense of hearing (and good taste), I’m fighting headwinds galore as we roll into Syracuse, in search of calories and coffee.
I find it in the form of a wonderful spot called Melo Velo. Not only do I get my front brake situation handled (yay, two brakes again!); they have a heavenly iced oat milk red eye latte as well as a devilishly delicious breakfast Sammy. All under one roof. Melo Velo is a cafe and a bike shop and the place is dream of, if I dreamt. And again, my words comes up short, as if an entire theme is being overlooked.
We roll on through downtown Orange place to the Erie Canal museum to stop in and say hi to Derek there. We’re waiting in the lobby when Kara is overcome with a urge to provide TMI. This must be a safe space and they’re making us wear masks. So handful of old ladies in Syracuse now know a lot more about ladies riding gear as Kara goes in on farting in her riding chamois padding or something. I’m caught up in the maps on the walls. We chill with Derek a bit and push out of the city, Talking Heads, Road to Nowhere marks a great occasion for us to miss a couple key turns and add seven miles to our already long and exhausting day. Damnit.
A steady diet of locks and lockhouses keeps me entertained, cruise controlling out Syracuse, albeit after those wrong turns. Come on with the come on, get down with the get down, we even got some single track. I can remember so much of this in the other direction from two years ago, yet some of it feels brand new. Nas’ entire masterpiece album, Illmatic, dominates the airwaves hard It’s really going great…
Another detour in our way.
That’s it! We’ve entirely gone without my good side for way too long. It’s been a long time, I shouldn’t have left you. Behind schedule. Cheekily sneaking it in now. We get that out of the way, move the sign out of the way, ignore the detour, acknowledge the behind and adventure forward.
We’re taking a prolonged and much needed break in Weedsport. Near Centerport, I think. The return of the ‘Ports. I’m double-fisted. Kara brings me an orange mango electrolyte beverage and Damon grabs me a 9.9% abv IPA. So yeah, the kids would say I’m living my best life. Meanwhile, I spy couples leaving arbys and getting into their car with bags of food. I assume these are typical Americans out for their “daily walk.” Further than the fridge and back, I suppose. It’s a really cardio affair as I intermittently alternate between hydration and dehydration, my life literally hanging in the balance. To an extent. I’m not getting histrionic over here. I type and Damon seals real estate deals on his phone. Kara simply keeps eating. Her 97 pound frame is a calorie machine. It’s back to the upper 80s and we are dog tired. Pushing through what is a long and hard day.
The final 35 miles involve a lot of back-on-the-road life. Essentially, we’re fighting for our lives as truck fly by at preposterous rates of velocity. One could call them deadly. I’m calling them deadly. Hills come with any instance of coming of the historic canal. The canal towpath trail is still there and I can even see it from the slice of road 31 I’m pedaling on right now. I don’t quite understand why we’re not on it. The canal is still there. Why aren’t we on it? Why is the signage diverting us? Property right disputes? Small infrastructure issues? Dumb shit either way, I suppose.
Our original destination of Macedon is looking bleak, the stone and humidity is slowing us down. The wind has calmed a bit, so that’s nice, I guess. Feeling solid yet exhausted we brick city mash on toward Newark New York, desperate to beat the potential rains coming in and hopeful for a tent site at the campground there.
This campground provides us a faulty computer system, we provide cash payment. All this happens as the sun is setting. What ensues is dusk pop-up-penthousing, fantastic showering and a red light ramen dinnering. Ooh La La, ah oui oui. Send noodles not noods. I’m hungry as fuck. Im not a player I just crush a lot, of calories. I climb in the tent. 80 miles today and I can feel it. Despite the douchebag in the trailer over disregarding quiet hours with some poor pop mix up of country and hip hop, I pass out within 90 seconds of closing my eyes. It’s just that simple.