Hoping for a Tail Wind

Warning: If you are reading this then this warning is for you. Every word you read of this useless fine print is another second off your life. Don’t you have other things to do? Is your life so empty that you honestly can’t think of a better way to spend these moments? Or are you so impressed with authority that you give respect and credence to all that claim it? Do you read everything you’re supposed to read? Do you think every thing you’re supposed to think? Buy what you’re told to want? Get out of your apartment. Meet a member of the opposite sex. Stop the excessive shopping and masturbation. Quit your job. Start a fight. Prove you’re alive. If you don’t claim your humanity you will become a statistic. You have been warned.

“On a long enough timeline, the survival rate for everyone drops to zero.” At some point every ride ride will end, and for some people that point is sooner or later on the timespace continuum.

Sitting poolside in a hotel in Central New York, I’m really not very motivated to write. More freedom rider than freedom writer. Really more cooling off my swollen sections than anything. Damn it feels good. Want it. Need it. Gotta have it. I wouldn’t expect much clever wordplay or even a punny time travel reference.

Waking up on the shores of the Mohawk River, I definitely sleep better than I have in weeks. A crisp cool night with the fly off means I’m still wrapped up on my more than adequate sleeping bag. I’ve got pants and my jacket on when I emerge, the first one up as yoozsh. It is a chilly sunny morning and I fire up the jetboil coffee, suspecting it might be a while before anyone else rises. All the flies are up so everyone is cozy warm and snoring. I’m sipping coffee and it’s good. I am Jack’s every rising caffeine addict. One by one the crew animates, all in decent spirits. The lack of water here at this non-actual-campsite means we’re thirty, unshowered and relegated to the want portable plastic toilet box. I consider a dip in the river but I’m not sure it swimmable. The survival rate on me not getting into some sort of body of water is running low. I got a threshold, Jules. I got a threshold for the abuse I’ll take… I’m just saying that it’s fuckin’ dangerous to have a racecar in the fuckin’ red. We do our morning thang, pack up and move out.

Five miles in and a detour seems quite ignorable. Amato every detour off the Canal trail equals a climb up a hill. We’re stopped, pondering when someone comes riding towards us. In unison we all think out loud, “maybe this guy can tell us?”. Nope. My man on an unloaded bmx just cruises by the four of us, jaws open and eyes up, clearly looking like we have a question. He gives a simple wave and rolls past us. He’s got music jamming in his ears and is probably thinking “ain’t nobody got time for that”. Fucker. He looks like his parent named him Mackenzie — Earbuds Mackenzie, and he couldn’t give a shit about our inquiries. We roll the dice and ignoring the detour proves to be the right move, no help to that jabroni Mackenzie.

Eight miles up and a quick 10 minute stop has turned into a full on truck stop pit stop. We’re considering the showers and the TA, currently sitting in the back corner of a McDonald’s. Wifi and water and outlets and outsourced global capitalism. They do have solid coffee though. Whoever they is. It ain’t McDonald. Or MacKenzie. Damon has predictably gone on to Dunkin Donuts. Chad is out front napping in the sun. Kara is marveling at how delicious the biscuits are. I hit the bath room for a 2nd movement. It’s a small symphony. Clean in here. The toilet paper could double as sandpaper.

I scramble and give the two minute warning on rollout when Chad’s survival rate drops to zero. Today is the sort of day where the sun comes up to humiliate you. Chad is still feeling like shit. Non Covid chill fevers have him feeling like it’s better to bail. I can tell it’s serious and he’s not gonna make it. He’s gonna head back to Amsterdam and jump on the next Amtrak home. I hit him with a banana and some ibuprofen and we all send him off with love. Like that our bike club is now just three once more.

The next 35 miles are tough. The sun has come back out. Losing our comrade takes it’s me taking toll. we grind out climbs and detours and keep on keepin on. Push push push. Finally we are just to beat to make the next down up and we take a break trail a side. Kara pops up her chair, a lay on this mold and loss covered picnic table. Damon puts his life on the line and lays on the trail.

After half an hour, we’re greeted by a solo trail rider. It’s Ethan! Ethan owns Campus Wheelworks, a bike shop in Buffalo. Super knowledgeable and friendly, Ethan is out for the first time cooking his way across the state solo with nothing but an underseat back and his credit card. Like high speed cruising. He’s clearly been alone for a while because he has got that solo bike tour energy. 70 miles in already, he’s trying to get to Albany today, which would mean about 140 on the day. He has had it with locks. He’s also had enough with stone trails. He was originally going all the way to NYC but I suspect Albany might be it for him, despite getting a hot shower and a king size hotel bed every night. Kara and I know him from frequenting the bike shop. Turns out Damon and Ethan sort of know each other from way back in childhood Jamestown New York. Ethan’s dad was Damon’s math teacher. Wow. On a long enough timeline, we all know each other. We hang for a bit longer and then cruise on in our opposite directions, feeling encouraged at the coincidental trail mingling.

After a break stop by grub in Little Falls, we gear up for rain as the skies and forecast seem to predict an upcoming shower. And not the type we really need. Fate it seems is not without a sense of irony. Raincoats on and we’re making our next push to Utica.

66 miles in and Kara is calling Damon “Papa”. “Daddy” would probably be weird. He springs for a hotel room in Utica. Good ole Damon Warbucks. We all are wiped and there’s aren’t many good options. So this option it is. This option has a shower. A pool. Laundry. Coffee and tea in the lobby. Breakfast tomorrow. My writings survivability has dropped to zero. And now I’m in that pool, cooling off my parts. I’m in the shower. I’m doing laundry. I’m eating. I am not writing. It’s been a long hard few days and we are surviving. So. Go and do something. Goodnight.

Fade in, I’m basically Uma Thurman waking up out of the coma in Kill Bill. Essentially. Wiggling my toe. Me no function. I feel like sleeping on this couch would have probably fucked up my back — if my entire body wasn’t already in total disrepair. Every bit of me is broken. The sounds of creaks and cracks coming out of both Damon and Kara as they stretch provide affirmation of how im pretty sure i feel. As if I needed the audio cue. Nothing works. I can’t move. Mary is up, getting ready for work. It’s probably 6 or 7. She brings me coffee while I’m still splayed on the couch. She’s a fucking saint. I drink it. She’s talking about Watervliet. That’s where we are. She’s from this house I am sleeping in. Lived in Buffalo years ago when her and Kara met during the October Storm. IYKYK. I learn about the arsenal here. Access from road and water and air. They land planes on the interstate Highway. Thanks a lot military industrial complex, I guess. For real though, thank you Mary – your hospitality was most certainly MJ in game 7.

Kara and Damon each activate in similar ways, that’s when those creaks and cracks happen, letting me know I’m not surrounded by six pieces of pine. Coffee and convo with Mary for all ensues. Another hour and I am re learning how to use my thumbs and hands. Neurons awaken in my brain just a tad bit. More timespace happens along this same trajectory; reanimating in a normal, non-Tarantino manner that isnt the movie that is my life. Deep breathes reservoir dog. We’ve manage to scrape ourselves up and Damon finds a Dunkin Donuts around the corner. It’s like he works for them as an ambassador. He’s pushing it hard. I now must become ambulatory once again. This is big stuff. Walk. Ugh. Walk. Feet. Work. Please. Literal baby steps. I’m now in line at a place that claims it is what America runs on. Only they don’t sell guns or Jesus or racial inequality. No infringement on womens bodies or citizens private affairs. No economic wealth built on genocide and slavery, no military might built of fomented coups and secret back room dealings undermining the very democracy it claims to purport. So not much actual America at all. They do however have the bean exilir of life that I hold sacred. I’m next up to order and I realize that I have no idea how in the hell i got here. It’s kinda like that scene in Wolf Of Wall Street where Leo is woken up at home by the cops and doesn’t quite really know how it all went down the night before. Except 11 hours in the saddle is my qualudes. Yup. Lizard brain is still in effect. Only the most basic motor functions, apparently. I can breathe, which I’m thankful for in the US of America. Hardly some fight or fight can happen. I am indeed able to walk again. But I can’t do complex processes, like math, or pooping. Not yet anyway. Strange, I’m usually good at math and pooping. Damon’s all hyped up about this, telling me, “yo dawg wait till you’ve had this coffee then you’ll definitely be shitting.” I find his faith in my patriotic protest pooping utterly delightful. They have oat milk at least.

Chad is a country in Africa. It is also only one of five nations on earth whose name is one syllable in their native language (Thus Spain is really España and doesn’t qualify). Comment with another of these nations and win prizes from sponsors I don’t have. Chad is also an old friend and a great tour companion, much like Kara and Damon. Chad is also a Chad. Maybe The Chad. The previous entries on this here site back that up. Search “Chad” if you must. Our trio finally manifests it’s originally intended quadrant steez with his arrival into Albany on Amtrak whatever whatever. He is presently inbound to Mary’s as I prepare to somehow ride more miles, and hopefully shit beforehand. The poop happens, the miles are a little harder.

Some brief cordials later and we are back on that non motorized trail life; Chad and Kara and Damon speed ahead and I cruise along in the back with my shirt off enjoying every square foot of environment. Se are now on the Erie Canalway Trail. Still part of the Empire Trail and also composed of smaller trails, like the Mohawk Hudson Trail. So technically I’m on three trails at once. Trail’ception. Chris Nolan call me I’ve got a sequel idea. I’ve rode this two years ago and I’m excited to experience in the opposite direction. First stop up is Schenectady.

I’m taking my wheels to Synecdoche, er Schenectady. Chads and English teacher so he helps me out here. Wheels: a part used to represent the whole of my bike; Synecdoche. Not to be confused with metonymy. So I’m fact I took more than my wheels here. Also, not to be confused with Synecdoche; New York. Shoutout to the ghost of Philip Seymour Hoffman. Whether I’m putting a part for a whole or a whole for a part, 25 miles later and I’m feeling much better now that I’m noshing on this pepper ham sammich with a ginger ale on the side. Yeah, Civitello’s way to get your Italian deli, complete with lush ivy decorated outdoor patio space.

Outfront of the supermarket Damon has a flat. He gets another like two miles up. It’s still pride month and I’m so proud of Damon as he repairs his own flats. It wasn’t long ago when he had zero ability to do that. Secretly though, I’m wondering if any of the other deadly sins are getting their own month this time around. December is probably just an unspoken Gluttony month already. I’m so exhausted I’m hoping July is Sloth month. Pretty please.

Freshly fueled up, we smoke it to Amsterdam. That’s a goddamn lie. I am the tortoise, moving slowly. Finally I get back into a little groove. Mini Stella. 11 mph, shoutout to Th1rt3en on the playlist. Their entire album “A Magnificent Day For An Exorcism” gets me through the pain. It’s worth checking.

Ahm-Schtar-Dahm. Fun fact, I’ve now been to Amsterdam Netherlands and Amsterdam New York with all three of my ride companions: Kara, Damon, Chad. One two three. In the place to be. There’s a castle here but otherwise it doesn’t look like the Netherlands at all. No “coffee shops” (despite the mutually legal cannabis), no lovely public parks or art galleries, no sex workers doing what they do. We’re like the only ones on bicycles — so this must be New York. Meh. The tavern is the only thing open today, with a bulletin board full of Let’s Go Brandon stickers reminds me how non-international we are. This place wreaks of voting against your own self interest. It’s no wonder the knitwits out front like the new Top Gun, going on about it as Damon and I enjoy a refreshing beer.

Damon is still going, this dudes got little kid on the spectrum energy. “That Dunkin’ shit gets me lit, even when I have it early in the morning”, he proclaims to the group. He is ready to ride through the night. Chad is crabby. Crabby Chad. He didn’t sleep much and desperately needs to some rest. Sorely needed he says. Kara looks like I feel though she seems to be having an easier time than me. Either way 3 out of 4 agree, just another few miles left in the tank today. We push out another few miles along the Mohawk River as the sun is setting and find a nice little day use spot to set up camp. Pop up the penthouse, crush a peanut butter banana burrito and hit the hay. It’s a crisp cool night on the Mohawk River and I’m intending to sleep like a chief.

It’s a start at the end kinda feel today. 94 miles. 2,700 feet in elevation gain. Fully loaded 100 pounds of bike and gear. I know there’s nerds out there who get all riled up about riding their carbon fiber four ounce bikes 100 miles on mostly flat terrain. Yeah bro! Century! Like that arbitrary number, one hundred miles, means anything. Imperialists. All this weight and all these hills likely make my 94 miles the equivalent 500 for them and they’d be at home watching race cars on TV. Regardless. Comparisons are futile. Except the one comparing my entire body before and after all these miles, all this weight, all this climbing, all this everything. It’s actually over now and I’m sitting in Abany. Before. After. Struggling to type words into a phone. My fingers are probably swollen and too fat, the same fate Homer Simpson once suffered. Inside a roof and four walls, I’m about to break the fourth wall. About to pass the fuck out. I don’t know if I can even walk. Nope I can’t. I’m like a saddle sore Moses. I think there’s food on the way. So I just sit. A hungry Buddha. Maybe I can make it. Maybe not. A tattooed Muhammad. I cant go forward, i cant go backward. I can’t write as much as I’d like. Writer’s-blocked Joseph Smith. Lots of riding. Not so much writing. Hey at least I am most certainly not dead yet. Zombie Jesus. Maybe Spirit of Rick James is my religion. I must be exhausted to be saying this. Theres two commandments. 1) god is love 2) nobody pays taxes. Makes sense. And cents. Fuck though. What imma do about my legs, Eddie Murphy? Praise be. Let’s get to the getting of how i got here in the first place.

Oh my oh my oh my. Headache galore this morning. I am dehydrated. Like a motherfucker. Mother fucking Nature is drying me out like the dried fruits I’ve been snacking on. Its really my fault. I ate enough, but I guess I didn’t keep up with the watering. I shake the cobwebs amidst morning drizzle on the Big Agnes, who doesn’t pay me. We’ve got water and a picnic table and some time and so I fire up the jetboil for an exquisite campground coffee. I consider this a clutch maneuver. It ironically will cure my dehydration right? Ha. Not likely. Not irony either, yet the facts remains that a coffee addict, am I. Young padawan. Bones called me “Cafe” back in the academy for a reason. Some timespace later and we’re back on the trail. Destination Albany. Kara comes up on some trail magic and her home girl Mary is hooking up the indoor living. Showers. And laundry. Oh shit. Fancy huh? It’s a long haul but we think we can make it, incorrectly pegging it at about 80 miles. Ooommpf. We definitely peg ourselves with that one, right in the saddle-sore pooper.

Right now right now, just three or four miles in. Settling in. Trails are closed and we do our best to ignore the detour and simply adventure through it. Despite his staunch veganism, Damon is a pig in shit, he lives for long days and adventurous and difficult situations. I suppose i do too in some ways and also love eating bacon and ham. With coffee. There’s some light precipitation from the skies and some heavy precipitation from my bladder — I’m giving back all the water I chugged, literally peeing off the side of the bike. I see toilets everywhere. I pound an entire 750 ml at once to help remedy. A drop in temp and the light mist means it’s finally cooled off a bit, with ample cloud cover. That helps. I kinda like the mist too. I like my early morning mist like I like my women, super fine and perfectly cooling. Not too bad so far.

Ah shit. I had to open my dumb mouth and say something, didnt I?! We roll into Kingston. Lord have mercy, the skies open up. What the blood clot! More rain and more rain. If you see something say something has made everyone a snitch and so I’m saying something. I see buckets come down. Soaking situation. Rain runners. We pull out of it and hit a diner, checking the radar. Classic little spot with exactly 5,000 menu items. Booths. Eggs. Yum. We all drink even more coffee and dehydration levels are going up. Up. Up.

We sneak out after an hour and the first five minutes are great. Then yeah, more rain. I’m pretty wet now. The trail runs out but the rain intensifies. Back on the road with this downpour? No me gu —-fuckin car almost a clips me! What the fuck asshole. He’s in a hurry to get to the next red light i guess. This sucks. No sir I don’t like. Crossing the Hudson out of Kingston is one of the most precarious bike tour feats I think I have pulled off to day. It’s especially fun when construction signs next to orange cones in the bike lane squeeze me out into traffic on a bridge in the pouring rain. I skirt out, grab the cone and drop it behind the sign, making more room for Kara and Damon somewhere behind me. I’m another second I’m taking the lane because of the signs this construction predicted. Comes constrict both lanes to minimal skinny. Did I mention it’s Monday lunchtime traffic? 80 mph traffics now moves at 8 mph behind me, in the middle of the lane. Fuck it and fuck you. Rain dumps on me from above as i make my way over the waters of the Hudson below. Never mind the debris everywhere and the hydroplaning water running alongside it all. This one was not for the faint of heart.

After crossing the Hudson for the second time this ride, we’re now in non rail grade territory. Which in normal English means hills. And these hills are really hills. These hills have hills and those hills have hills. Up down up down. This ain’t a code to Contra. The earth apparently is not flat, tell a friend or a frenemy or an enemy. I’m a momentum junkie and this shit ain’t no game. I take the downhills in my third ring and shift all the way down to one and then back up and then up and so on and so on. On and on. Yay! At first.

After 20 more miles in now sun filled skies I’m feeling it. Rubber legged. I hit 41mph and Supertramp’s “Breakfast in America” is on the playlist on my way back up when the combination of enduring the pain and ignoring the pain does me in and I black the fuck out. “Watch what you say or they’ll be calling you a radical, liberal, oh fanatical, criminal.” Like my mind takes over and is no longer concerned with joyful musings or intellectual awakening or deep thoughts of any sort. Not even more the basic thinking’s. Only the critical parts of my brain are turned on. No recollection of another 40 miles. Straight autopilot, basically. I can’t feel. Numb. That’s pretty much all I know. Golden hour glimpses of chasing the sun. Flashbacks of riding in the darkness along the Hudson. All muddled with pain. Pain in my ass. In my knees. My elbows. Knees. I definitely can’t feel that headache anymore.

“I know it sounds absurd, please tell me who I am”.

It’s fuzzy as I drag my ass over the Hudson for the third time. We’ve made it into Albany, my iPhone cameras makes it seems like there’s more daylight than there really is. Thanks a lot for causing me to misrepresent myself, ghost of Steve Jobs.

My body is shuts down altogether and my mind is simply takes over. Lizard brain. Prefrontal cortex, I think. Maybe the amygdala. I don’t know. I couldn’t remember if I did know. The last mile shows itself to me crystal clear. Night has fallen as we navigate the Capital city, eager for shelter and showers. We arrive and unload, smelling like death. Mary is super cool and an amazing hostess. She’s got hilarious phrasing and manners of speech. Telling a story about a coworker at her job, one in particular stands out: “I pissed in that bitches Cheerios one too many times”. Mary is definitely Buffalo as fuck, and if you don’t understand the references you better ask someone. We partake in intense hygienic activity before feasting and chatting and I soon pass out ass out on the couch.