Buffalo Jump

July 19

Dunnville, ON to Buffalo, NY

61 miles

July 20

Sister's Birthday

Buffalo, NY to Rochester, NY

67 miles

July 21

Rochester, NY to Tschache Pools, NY

63 miles

July 22

Tschache Pools, NY to Verona Beach State Park, NY

70 miles

In the past two days, I've ridden about 130 miles off paved roads -- mostly on compacted stone, sometimes on grass, sometimes just across a rough patchwork of stones and potholes. I'm no longer worried about wearing out the treading on the tires or knocking the wheels out of true. Both could happen still and both would slow me down but they won't stop me from pulling this off. Few things, at this point, can. After my 16 hours in Buffalo, I'm ready to tackle the world.

Almost ten years ago, Naomi moved from Buffalo to Portland. Natasha followed her. Then I -- living in California -- followed Natasha. I've always credited Buffalo with giving me the two original -- opposite but true -- spokes on my Portland social wheel. So when I rolled into Buffalo on Tuesday, I first pilgramaged to the altar of Nancy, secret starlet of the ages, who is always casting newer, ever more beneficent spells upon me. She and I share the same Natasha. As always, we had not enough time together.

From there, it was to the house of Naomi's family. Naomi's face (along with those of Joe and Aubrey) was the last one I saw on my way out of Portland. The three of them had driven out to Hood River after my first day of riding to take me out to my favorite brewery. More, though, they drove out to soften my departure.

Now, 6 weeks, 2700 miles later, Naomi's family -- faces I already recognize even though I've only met a few of them; just as open, generous and gregarious as distant Naomi -- is here on this side to soften my arrival. They were waiting for me with open arms, fridges full of beer, buckets brimming with kale, and a grill laden with filets mignon. Each person in that family is so singularly spectacular and collectively they're an orchestra of bliss that I understand why Naomi is always talking about moving back. I left there Wednesday morning -- after a pan of eggs, a bagel and some pancakes -- stuffed to the bone and buoyed by the treasures and adoration they gave me (the two boxes of granola bars were gone by lunch).

Getting onto the erie canal trail from Buffalo felt frustratingly tricky: lots of starts and stops and not a lot of signs leading the way. With a Californian's sense of geography, I knew next to nothing about the canal but had heard that the Erie Canal Trail was great for cyclists. I thought the Erie Canal might be a lock or two, a few hundred meters popular among tourists and school kids out for an engineering lesson. Boy was I wrong. The canal is more than 300 miles long with 36 locks, built nearly 200 years ago to connect trade between New York City and the Midwest via the Great Lakes. Turns out I've been roughly following the path of 19th century wheat (grown in, say, Wisconsin) as it made its way to market in nyc. The erie canal trail (called also the towpath) was once used by horses and mules to tow boats upstream. Like the old rail lines that have now been turned to trails, the erie towpath eventually lost it's relevance to industry but found redemption among cyclists and pedestrians who have little worry for time.

Once I hooked up with the well maintained stretches of towpath that yawn along the canal for miles on end without the disruption of cars, I found a deep, peaceful groove. Naomi texted that her cousin Kerry lives in Rochester, that I could stay with her and her family for the night. I pounced on the opportunity.

There's a critical moment when weaving through a foreign neighborhood toward the house of a stranger who will be hosting me for the night. It's a moment to say something like a prayer to stave off any worry: "I will be open and I will be grateful."  At Kerry and Nick's house, like every house I've stayed at along the way, I forgot all trepidation the moment I spotted their driveway. They were hosting a handful of friends for a potluck and, after showering, I found my way to a heaping plate or two of mac and cheese, bbq chicken, salads, and a bunch of ice cold beer.

There's still road ahead (just about 300 miles) but people now ask me about this trip as though it's already over, like it's a fait accompli, and now I'm just an old stud on parade out to pasture. I slept like a lamb Wednesday night and was on the road by 9:30 am.

After grabbing some donuts and chocolate milk for breakfast on Thursday, I slipped out of Rochester toward the erie trail. I don't have much to worry about now. Grizzlies, rattlesnakes, the Rockies, oil fields -- they're all behind me. My destination is at sea level: it's all downhill from here (net topographically, at least).  Once on the trail again, with a gentle wind at my bike, I harmonized effort and ease: it still takes work just to move forward, but my body and mind now embrace the labor and can even at times manage to savor the infinite nuance of each pedal stroke cycle. ("How on earth do you ride your bike across the country?" a woman at a campsite recently asked. "You just start and then don't stop," I answered.)

I departed from the canal trail at the end of the day to make my way toward Tschache Pools. Unsure of the resources that'd be available, I stopped at a neighbor's house to load up on water before riding into the Montezuma Wildlife Refuge. The spot turned out to be a 30-foot tall lookout tower over the park's 7000-acre birded marshland (cranes, bald eagles...). There were a few spots to camp around the lookout, but I opted for the top. I waited until dark to set up the tent and had it packed down shortly after sunrise. I could hear, not far away, the comforting growl of interstate 90. By car, we're less than 5 hours from Manhattan. It'll take me 5 days.

Friday morning I was on the road early and ditched the canal for the smooth asphalt and more direct routing of new york's bike route 5 (it's just the shoulder of highway 31). At the end of the day (temperatures were above 90), I paid asking price for a campsite on Oneida Lake and, after setting up camp, dove right in for a swim. I befriended the folks at the neighboring site and stayed up late with them, drinking beer and making s'mores.