I’m moving over to wordpress to open a bit more space for the shop. Join me at alonghaul.wordpress.com! Finally - far, far too late - there will be commenting allowing, so let give me your comments, complimants and insults.
The day after Irene was for exploring the changed landscape. Flooding was pretty severe.
When I returned to NYC, it was time for a Hurricane. I spent Irene with my friends in Newark. About eight of us stocked up on non-perishables, water and wine and cooked a feast. While the storm happened outside, Jess and I fixed up the bikes that had been waiting in storage, neglected, forlorn.
One of the bummers in filling in the end of the ride, aside from it being the end of the ride, is that I finally was forced to get a new phone. As some of you know, I threw my old one to the ground several times, even running it over in a Wyoming parking lot in front of Radio Shack. Anyway, some where in the switch to new, I lost my photos from the last bit of my trip.
I’m not going to use the whole thousand words per to make up for the loss, so use tour imagination. It won’t be too taxing because there isn’t much ground to cover, sadly.
As I said, I made the wedding with a week to spare.
Proof I was there: the bride and I.
the next morning I needed to see the proof I was there.
After the rest, I started off on Monday for Brooklyn, heading due east to Lake Champlain. It was rainy and chilly, but so so nice to be back on the road.
I pulled into Westport on the lake shore, had a quick double cheeseburger and fries and headed back out.
Here’s where trouble set in.
In between Westport and Port Henry, my right knee developed a sensation I’ll call an agonizing stab with a heated steak knife. My right knee is the location of an old ski injury sustained while showing off to some 8 year olds in my charge while working as a ski instructor in Crested Butte, CO, but that’s enough on that story..
I rode on, hoping to work out the pain. Despite frequent stops to massage the back of my knee and cry, the pain continued.
Arriving in Port Henry, I stopped at Stewart’s, bought a milkshake and procuring ice for the now swelling knee - probably a product more of my amatuer massaging - and weighed my options. Continue on in pain or throw in the towel.
Being among the uninsured, my concern was monetary as well as for my well-being. Crass, so Crass.
I stopped. I made it across the country and will return to ride to and from Lake Placid soon. I’ll drag my brother with me next time.
The schooner’s dry docked. Now the task is to set up and build more cargo bikes for NYC - onward! Excelsior!
More on that effort soon - it a developing story.
Woah! I just left it hanging there, didn’t I?
Well I didn’t fulfill my hermit fantasy, for better or worse.
If anyone’s still out there - forgot to stop following the feed or something, I will now fill in the end. Over a couple days, a few posts.
There is some woe involved. Nothing serious: concern for a knee, unfortunate things done for money, stinking blocks in the way of getting a shop set up.
But I’m here in New York. Before posting about the tail of my trip, I want to thank everyone I met along the way again. Y’all are stellar.
What has it been now? 3200 miles or so, the schooner and I. Some good hills, some gravel path, some rough city roads.
I finally had to walk the bike. My parent’s driveway proved too much. The combination of steep grade and loose gravel is not a preferred riding surface.
Lake Placid! I don’t know how I got so far ahead of schedule. Lisa’s wedding isn’t until twelfth, so I guess that means a week off before continuing to NYC. I’ll post here and there, but the pace will slow. I imagine I am now going to sleep for 20 of the next few 24 hours.
Sunset from my campsite on Lake Eaton, NY.
It’ll be down in the fifties tonight. My tent is still wet from last night, but the chance of rain is only forty percent tonight.
I’m not that concerned. I learned back in Cody, NE that my sleeping bag will keep me warm even when soaked.
Blue mountain Lake from the edge of Blue Mountain.
Seventh Lake in the Fulton Chain of lakes, Central Adirondacks, NY.
The lakes are dotted with tiny islands. There is something about their rocky shores and dense stands of pines that makes me want to swim out and become a hermit. I would live on fish and turtles, Queen Anne’s Lace and pine needle tea. I’d fend off canoers and explorers by simply being there, with my wild eyes and clothes made of bark, loon feathers and muskrat pelts.
Eventually no one would be sure if the stories about the Wild Man of the Island were true. It would become a story told at the camps, an entry in “Strange Tales of the Adirondacks.”
Thrill seekers, bigfoot hunters and paranormalists would become interested. They’d seek out the island - which island is no longer certain. At first, i would invent elaborate ruses to ward them off or misdirect them, point away from my island.
I’d pose as an real estate appraiser and say to them, “no, sorry no Wild Man on this island. A Russian financier is buying it, wants to trap beaver. Try the island in Fifth Lake.”
I’d try to hide, build my home up in the trees, or dig a pit and live like a mole. But the paranormalists, thed have equipment for that. They’d have infrared and ultraviolet glasses, heat detecting cameras and spirit counters.
I would lose my patience, my resolve. I’d confront the interlopers and ask why they don’t just leave me alone, I only wanted to be left alone. The only answer would be the fake shutter sound of digital cameras and mutters behind video, “omg, he’s standing right in front of me. Can’t be more than 20 yards.”
There would be a brief period of unwanted fame after the video shows on Spike TV. I would have to barricade myself in my weekly rate room at the Inlet Rest M tel & Apts. I’d be thought unstable and supported by the generosity of an older couple of long-time residents in town.
When the attention dies, I’d quietly stay inside my room at the Rest, going outside only to walk alone in the woods and cook on my small charcoal grill by the door.
Occasionally a young couple in short denim cut-offs and thick rimmed glasses would stop and take a quick photo of my motel door before hopping back in their Subaru Volkswagen and driving away.
It would be five days before they would break down the door to find me, choked on a morell foraged from the glen only that five days ago morning.