Foolish Mansion

 

Rushville, IN – We returned from our trip with great satisfaction….happy to be home and happy to have made the trip. I just read today in Parade that the greatest joy derived from a trip occurs two months prior to taking it. The anticipation is the best part. Alternatively, according to this article, returning home leaves you no happier than when you left.
I have to say that our experience of the bicycle trip was the opposite of that predicted in the article. Two months before leaving on the trip I was a nervous wreck. Each week, as it got closer, I was filled with more and more doubts.
Going to Mexico was a cultural adventure, and I had my moments of fear in preparing for it. But nothing is quite like the fear of trying to go on a physically demanding adventure while in the back of your mind a tape is playing over and over, “Am I too old? Did I wait too long? Is it too late for me to have an adventure?”
For once in my life, I was planning on trying to do something I wasn’t sure I could do.  My pre-trip fears peaked on the day we left. I inadvertently stuck my speedometer in my pannier and thought that I had left it at home. I freaked out when I discovered this at the drop off point. I was so crabby that it is a wonder that anyone was willing to ride with me.
As we rode off, I continued to be nervous. Then, as we passed into Ohio after only a very short distance, I thought, “I’ve already made it into another state! I can do this!”

 

It was ridiculous really. We had only gone a few miles, but a state line was a state line.
Later, I would have other crises of self-confidence, and I would be tempted to go back. But nothing ever created as much trepidation as my initial departure.
Now that we are home, I think all of us have a bit more self confidence. And we all have more confidence in each other. For four weeks we were “home” only in the sense that we were together. We had food, a place to sleep, someone to fix a breakdown and security, only in so far as we had each other.
When it rained we sat in the “girl’s tent” and talked, played cards and said night prayers. At dinner we sat at the picnic table and told jokes and tales of the day as we do at home. I think that was probably when we missed Chris the most.
Now that we are back, and school is starting soon, I can’t believe how much I miss my children even though they are still here. The closeness of the trip was like a pause in our normal harum scarum life in which we all have our own pursuits and we all leap from project to project, challenge to challenge, or crisis to crisis.
When we got back, Chris was still out of work. Blessedly, he got a job two weeks later and as of today, August 1, he will have been working for a week. He is working closer to home and he is happy at his new job. He is even happier to have it.
I spent the week after we returned scrambling to finish my two distance learning classes and then promptly registered for the fall semester, which begins on August 22.
Jennifer made it back in time for band camp and a heat wave that left the band members wilting on the field the entire week of camp. She had her end of camp performance this past Friday and it was wonderful. The kids had only had a week to practice, so the music was a bit wonky, but I was so proud. They wore their wool blend uniforms in the heat while they performed, trying so earnestly not to make any mistakes. They wore their uniforms in the heat as the band director thanked everyone who had helped in any way with the camp. Gratitude is effusive in small town events.
The kids finally marched off the field of dry, brown grass, proudly lifting their feet as they passed their parents and grandparents, siblings and teachers. Jenny was the cutest of all.
After it was over, Jennifer and I rode our bikes to the store to pick up some groceries and then we rode home. Band camp was over until next year.
The kids spent much of the last two week scrubbing walls. They are doing “spring cleaning” in August, in the mornings and evenings, and resting during the heat of the day. Joseph spends almost every evening after dinner visiting his friends. On Saturday Mary Elizabeth had a booth of needle felted products and art at the Farmer’s Market here in Rushville. She sold a fairy. The day was a scorcher and attendance was poor. She hopes to do better next week, and is spending a lot of time on her art work.
This week is more work, as well as a couple of overnights with friends. Patrick weeded the yard this morning and then left to spend the night with his best friend. Joseph leaves tomorrow to do the same thing.
I am hoping to get in some family kayaking before school starts.
I have been riding about a hundred miles a week since our return. I rode 55 miles one day with Mary Elizabeth. We went to a bike shop where I got, once again, the distinct impression that overweight, past middle age housewives are not really their thing when it comes to customer service. I went to Indy Cycle on Saturday with Chris, however, and got perfect service. I also found my dream bike. I am not sure how or when I will be able to afford it but as Raould Dahl wrote, “secret plans and clever tricks” are always an option. ( see The Enormous Crocodile). The crocodile was referring to eating children. All I want is a new bike.
My bike is much the worse for wear after the trip. It was second hand to begin with and now needs to be replaced. I am hoping to ride at least part of my commute to Ball State after classes start and I need a real road bike for this.
Chris and I took our first sailing lesson on Saturday. We have given ourselves five years before we hope to move to a sailboat, assuming we enjoy the rental cruising experience we are planning to take summer after next. If we don’t like it, we can always prepare for another dream, based on the improvements in our finances and our fitness levels that we are trying to achieve.
In the meantime, we are contemplating our next adventure, a small one. We hope to go to Annapolis for the US Sailboat Show in October. If we can swing it, we can take the kids to the Smithsonian. I wonder if the giant stuffed whale is still hanging in the ceiling as it was when I was a kid? Forget all the informative plaques and modern, interactive museum exhibits they have nowadays. I want to see the hanging whale.
Today is my day to finally write thank you notes to all the wonderful warm showers people who helped make our trip possible. I can’t thank them enough!

 

Rushville, IN - This year’s bike trip is over. Chris and John picked us all up on Saturday afternoon and we drove until 2:30 am to get home. I couldn’t wait.

 

I know that some readers will be surprised. In my last post, I announced my decision to continue the trip by going along the St Lawrence River and into Montreal and Quebec. This trip has been postponed until next summer, due to sheer homesickness. In 32 years of marriage, the longest Chris and I have been apart was 3 and a half weeks, which occurred when the kids and I were on our volunteering vacation in Mexico last summer. As Chris and I approached our 3 and a half week separation on the bike trip, I found the one obstacle that no amount of plan changing or route alteration could solve: I missed Chris too much to spend four more weeks away from him.

 

I am very happy with this decision, and the kids were okay with it. Jennifer wanted to get home in time for band camp. The other three were ready to stay on the road but now that we are home, they seem content. Chris is thrilled.

 

My leg injury healed on its own before I decided to come home. Riding shorter distances and taking a more relaxed attitude towards the trip worked very well. Detouring towards Canada also was a good idea.

 

We finished our ride in Kingston, Ontario, where we stayed for two nights with a wonderful young couple, Heather and Josh. They were the most popular hosts by far with the children, playing games with them and spending time just listening to them rattle on. We were all excited to be going home and probably talked their ears off.

 

We spent our last night in Long Point State Park in New York (on the map), just this side of the Canadian border. We passed the thousand mile mark as we rode into the park. It had been a long trip.

 

Kingston, Ontario, is a beautiful city. It was easier crossing into Canada this time because we crossed at a much less crowded location and we also had the confidence of prior experience.

 

In order to get to Kingston, we first had to take the ferry to Wolfe Island, a Canadian island that lies at the mouth of the St Lawrence River right where it empties into Lake Ontario. The water was clean and cold. I stood at the front of the ferry watching the bubbly white froth leap ahead of the boat while sail boats and sea birds passed by.

 

Wolfe Island has a small village on it, as well as multiple small farms and many more windmills than we could count. The juxtaposition of the sleek, skeletal structures of the windmills and the pastoral beauty of the lush green countryside was jarring. I was not

surprised to learn later that the installation of the windmills had generated an enormous amount of controversy. There were conservationists concerned for the bats and birds that inevitably get whacked by the churning arms of the windmills. In addition, there were the locals who did not appreciate having the scenery transformed by the towering metallic presence of windmills. The irony of windmills is that, while friendly to the environment in function, clearly are not compatible with it in form.

 

The ride across Wolfe Island was 6.6 miles. At the end, we arrived at the village and another ferry, this one going to Kingston. The second ferry was much larger than the first one.

 

When we arrived in Kingston we were tired and it was late. The total ride for the day was only 40 miles and the hills had been moderate but it still felt like a long day. We rode directly to Josh and Heather’s house. They invited us inside to visit while the boys set up the tents. The mosquitoes were attacking in organized squadrons so we gratefully accepted.

 

I feel in love with their house on first sight. It was homey and beautiful. There was neither too much nor too little of anything. It was, as Goldilocks said of the Baby Bear’s belongings, “Just right”.

 

The next morning Heather drove me to buy groceries. Canadians have much better bread than we do, and higher prices. Afterwards, the kids and I set out for downtown and the Busker’s Festival.  We left the panniers and trailer at the house. It was a relief to ride without the extra weight.

 

A “busker” is a street performer. There were buskers from all over the world at the festival, representing a wide range of talents. The performances took place in parks and on blocked off streets. They were scheduled so that the audience could walk from one performance as it ended to another as it began.

 

Our first performance was a juggler in suspenders and pants up to his arm pits. In sequence (not all at once), he balanced a hand cart on his nose, juggled while standing on a platform balanced on a big rubber ball and juggled seven balls at once. Mary Elizabeth, who can only juggle three, was put to shame.

 

The next performance was by a trio of street musicians from Austria. Their music was sublime. Their concert was my favorite busker performance. Inevitably it was the one that interested the kids the least.

 

Afterwards we saw a unicyclist with a five wheel high unicycle, an escape artist who escaped from hanging upside down in a strait jacket and chains, a comedy act and a Jamaican band.

 

The kids loved it but I was hot and tired from sleeping in lumpy grass with lots of sticks poking me.( I had spent the whole night trying to contort myself so that there wasn’t a stick poking me in the back, elbow, etc.)

 

At the end of the afternoon, we went into a book store for some respite from the heat and the crowds. We found an old-fashioned book store with high shelves, old tomes and an erudite book dealer who could seamlessly navigate discussions of literature, history and politics without missing a beat.

 

Mary Elizabeth bought a book of poetry (which she henceforth insisted on reading to us during our bike breaks) and yet another copy of the Odyssey (we have three at home) to ride in the car on the way back.  Patrick got a copy of the Mad Scientist’s Club and I got an early Dean Koontz novel. Joseph got a book on Sudoku.

 

After the bookstore we went into one of those game shops where people with IQs of 140 and the social skills of a fifth grader play games with inch thick rule books. The store was packed with players sitting around tables scattered throughout the store. I walked around and listened in on animated conversations about the relative attributes of fantasy characters and strategic initiatives for wars being waged with plastic tanks on cardboard fields. Nerds or not, the players were having a blast. I don’t play games myself but I envied the fun they were having.

 

The next morning we left for another trip across Wolfe Island. This time the windmills were actually turning. Jennifer and I stopped at an art and crafts gallery with works done by islanders. I enjoyed looking at the paintings but Jennifer preferred the jewelry.

 

We had a picnic lunch on the shores of the St Lawrence River while waiting for the second ferry.  The water was amazingly clear and the scenery was beautiful.

 

Once we arrived in Cape Vincent, we passed through customs and then headed for a grocery store. I bought everyone a box of ice cream that we consumed in about five minutes. Then we hit the road for the campground.

 

The campground was on a peninsula jutting out into Lake Ontario, which was calm and clear. The kids tried swimming but gave up with they found how many rocks and weeds there were on the bottom of the lake. I studied for my distance learning class and felt sorry for myself for having to waste such a beautiful place.

 

The next morning we broke camp and packed up, waiting impatiently for the arrival of Chris and John. When they got there, I walked into Chris’ arms and held on tight. I was back home.

 

Fulton, NY - After spending two days at camp while I rested and the kids went stir crazy, we were ready to hit the road yesterday morning (July 9).

 

Chris had sent a package for me to Fulton, NY, forty miles away. This was our destination for the night.

At 9 that morning, I realized that the post office would close at noon and there was no way I could reach Fulton in time to pick it up. I dispatched Joseph with instructions to make Fulton by noon, not realizing how many hills we would be encountering along the way.

 

After Joseph left, the rest of us packed up and headed off for a more leisurely trip. With the decision made regarding our changed route and decreased daily mileage, I felt incredibly free and relaxed for the first time in days. The weather was in the eighties with cool breezes off the lake. For every up hill, there was a delicious down hill. Since I was no longer worried about mileage, the ride itself seemed easier. My leg felt much better now that I was walking up the hills at my own pace, not that of an overly ambitious schedule.

 

As we left Sodus Point we passed multiple marinas and a bay with a strong wind, just right for sailing. I know Chris would have loved it.

 

After Sodus Point we went up and down over miles of apple and cherry orchards, the cherry trees heavy with bright red fruit. We found a little country kitch store for our mid-morning (11am) snack and had biscuits with maple syrup. There were flowers every where . I shouldn’t have been surprised to see the ubiquitous hot dog stand in the parking lot but I was.

 

New Yorkers must love their hot dogs. They are almost as prevalent as gas stations. I am going to have to try one. They have a half a dozen or more different kinds of meat with as many toppings as an ice cream store.

 

 When we were leaving, out of habit I told Patrick, “Get to the car.”

 

He grinned and said, “I’ll have to go a very long way to do that.”

 

After our snack we rode on to Fair Haven, NY, which consisted of one steep hill down and one steep hill up. There was one gas station going down and one gas station going up.

 

After Fair Haven, we realized that Joseph was without food, since I had sent him off without any money or a lunch. We kept trying to call him to no avail. I called Chris, who confirmed with the campground that Joseph had forgotten his phone. Fortunately, the camp ground send someone to meet us along our route so that we did not have to back track.

 

In Hannibal, NY, I began to get worried that Joseph would not realize that he could get my package by knocking on the back door, if he arrived after noon. (I had learned this by calling the post office at noon to see if he had arrived yet.)

 

Mary Elizabeth volunteered to ride on alone to Fulton while I waited with Patrick and Jenny for the man bringing the phone. He had said it would take an hour.

 

We sat in the shade of an abandoned restaurant beside a state highway, reading and glad for an excuse to get out of the sun.

 

After we got the phone, we rode on to Fulton. We were on a state highway with a wide shoulder but the mack trucks were still unnerving. I made the kids keep in a straight line as far from the road as possible. The hills were much gentler but after so many miles of country roads I felt as if I were riding on a freeway. It was a relief to get to Fulton. I was more than ready to put the family back together. This was the first time on the trip that we had split up.

 

I had not realized how large a town Fulton is. It even has a Walmart, something we had not seen since Canada, ironically.

 

So, how to find two kids without a cell phone in a town?

 

We scanned the antique car show but they were not there. We looked in the Dunkin Donuts, but they were not there. We rode to the post office, our original meeting place, and still they were not there.

 

Then Patrick pointed out a hand made sign,”Art Show by the River- 2 to 7” .

 

“What time is it?” Patrick asked. “There’s an art show.”

 

Patrick and Mary Elizabeth love art. I suddenly knew right where to look.

 

In case I was wrong, I stationed Jennifer and Patrick at the post office. I sternly warned Patrick not to climb on any architectural features, of which there were many.

 

“I hadn’t even thought of that,” he said.

 

“Yes, but after sitting here a while, you would have,” I replied.

 

I found Mary Elizabeth and Joseph at the art show, as anticipated, and we all headed to camp. Joseph had eaten only one can of tuna and one can of baked beans that he had found in his bike trailer. He was starving, exhausted and glad that I had brought him a bag of trail mix to hold him over.

 

Mary Elizabeth made dinner for all of us while I did the laundry in the shower.

 

The shower was on the other side of the campground. We had to walk past all the seasonal campers to get there.

 

I love looking at seasonal campgrounds. They are so eccentric. It’s like pink flamingo city.

 

One guy had a pavilion tent with a deck under it in front of his camper. He had a grill, shelves of grilling tools and two chairs beside the grill. For the Fourth of July he had put up a big “Happy Fourth of July” sign on the front of the foundation board of his deck. He had red, white and blue hanging lights on a string of wire hanging at the edge of his camper awning, a red, white and blue table cloth with stars and stripes on his picnic table out front, flags stuck all around the little circular garden he had made in his miniature “yard” and another flag flying from his trailer.

 

On the way back to the campsite, I saw that there was a lively Bingo game going on at the picnic tables set up in rows by the camp office. The caller  could be heard all over the campground. “B Twenteeeeeeeeeee” she would call out. “I Thirty niiiiiiiiiiine.” Every once in a while someone would call out “Bingo!” and the little greying crowd would roar with excitement. The bingo players were all smoking like chimnies, sitting right in front of the camp’s “No Smoking” sign.

 

Unfortunately, Patrick also noticed this game. We were camped across a field from the office but his voice carries. While I was washing clothes, Patrick stood up and yelled, “BINGO!” across the field. Then he dove behind the picnic table.

 

The bingo game came to an abrupt halt. Everyone started asking, “Who won?” There was a bit of an uproar and a lot of confusion. Then the game resumed, no doubt in an atmosphere of suspicion.

 

Even slow days have their drama.

 

 

 

 

Sodus Point, NY - For the moment I have decided to delay writing “catch up” posts, although we will return to the excellent hospitality of Dave and, later, Gretchen, at another time.

 

We spent Thursday and Friday, (July 7th and 8th) resting up at a campground, giving my leg some more time to heal. The previous day (Wednesday) had been our longest day yet, over 73 miles, and it had not helped the situation. I was also worn out from simply trying to do too many miles a day.

 

When we arrived at the campground to rest, I was seriously debating whether or not to continue the trip. Our family does not exactly fit the typical “bike touring” profile. I have found that there are many people older than I am out on the trail, but they are in much better shape and most of them have had years of experience. I haven’t met anyone my age who was making his first trip.

 

Secondly, EVERYONE, whom I had met prior to arriving at the campground, rides a lot more miles per day than I am capable of doing. We kept hearing things like, “I ride 100 miles a day,” “We ride 65 to 75 miles a day,” “We just rode from Bar Harbor, Maine to Ohio in 18 days,” “We’ll be across New York, Vermont, New Hampshire and Maine in two weeks.” While, theoretically, it shouldn’t matter to me what other riders do, it was very depressing to encounter so much cycling machismo.

 

Lastly, I had been hearing harrowing accounts of the mountains in New York, Vermont and New Hampshire. I had never imagined myself riding up mountains.  A) I am overweight and B) We don’t have mountains in Rushville, IN. Thus I have never trained on mountains. My plan had been to ride as much as I could and then walk when I could not ride. Since I was having trouble walking (but not riding), I knew that I was no longer capable of walking the bike up the mountains.  I was already having trouble with the hills we had found in the hills of rural western New York.

 

After hearing all that, and being in pain from my fall, I was ready to throw in the towel.

 

Finally, on Friday evening, a Canadian couple, Natalie and Mario, rode into camp with three kids. They had only ridden 17 miles that day, a distance they said was a “half day” for them. Their children were 13 and 9 (I think) with a 13 year old friend.

 

Natalie and Mario are every experienced cyclists. They have been taking their children on bike trips since they were very small. They also have a very different attitude towards bike touring.

 

“We are traveling on a bike.” Mario said. “We are not racing to see how far we can get each day.”

 

Natalie said (and I paraphrase), “If we find something fun to do along the way, we stop and do it. If you have to ride so many miles a day, there is no time for that.”

 

They had just spent the night at a campground with an unexpected and wonderful swimming pool. Half their day had been devoted to letting the kids swim.

 

I explained my problems to Natalie and Mario, who were very good and caring listeners. They agreed that I should ride shorter days. They also suggested a radical change in route that would allow us to avoid the mountains almost entirely.

 

Their plan would take us up the coast of Lake Ontario on New York’s Seaway Trail ( a scenic driving route). At Kingston, Ontario, we would continue up the St Lawrence River, either on a bike path on the Canadian side or on the Seaway Trail on the American side. Once in Quebec we would ride through Montreal and Quebec, later descending into Maine above most of the mountains as we headed for Bar Harbor.

 

I was thrilled to meet Natalie and Mario. They showed me of a very different way to approach cycling. (All my previous knowledge had been gleaned from the single male cyclists at the bike shop, or from the cycling magazines.) They told me that relaxed family touring is much more common in Quebec and along the west coast of the US. They shared their maps with me and gave me directions to more information on the internet. They told me how to take the ferries to Kingston and which cycle route books to buy there.  They even offered to allow us to spend a night in their home near Montreal (compliments of a sister with a key, as they would still be on their tour around Lake Ontario.)

 

So, until Chris decides to give up bachelorhood, we are headed to Canada. Chris looked up the new route and he said that the bike paths in Quebec rate in the top ten most beautiful bike routes in the world, according to National Geographic.

 

Now I have one more reason to be thankful for all those years of French that I took way back when.  (Not that I don’t appreciate Mario and Natalie’s English. My French is not THAT good.)

 

I also have one more reason to believe that God truly watches out for us in unforeseen ways.

 

In conclusion, I will admit that I should have been able to intuit much of what Natalie and Mario had to say. In my defense, when one is doing something for the first time, one tries to learn from those who have gone before. I knew a week ago that what I was doing wasn’t working, but I did not know what would work. And to be fair, without a mountain free route (or a close proximity), shorter days would not have done the trick.

 

Thank you Natalie and Mario. Quebec, here we come.