80 Miles. Avg. 12.5MPH. Top Speed 50.6MPH
Total: 508 Miles
I was back in the saddle after the luxury of spending all day yesterday holed up at the Nestled Inn, only leaving to buy cigarettes for my host who’s wife was unaware of his sneaky little habit, still, it got me 5 dollars off of the price of the room that he let me boil a dozen eggs in for future use. I must have looked a right creepo hunched over a camping stove in there, but so be it, I do love my eggs, me. Full of protein didn’t you know.
I left at 9:15 on the dot and realised after sitting on the bike for 0.012 of a second that things weren’t feeling quite right. Tuesdays cycling in an Old Testament storm and pedalling up and down (mainly up, it felt) mountains had appeared to make the gears as creaky and sticky as a pensioner who'd just been witness to a clandestine strip-bingo showdown (do old people get aroused by other old people?), and as a result it felt like I was working twice as hard to get Black Betty moving and I don’t even like working once as hard, so you can imagine what a 100% increase in work-rate did to my spirits. I persevered for a bit until I found a bike shop some 20 miles away in Rochester, VT. They could see I was touring and really meant business, what with a GoPro attached to the helmet and expression that screamed "Hey pal, Daddy's got to shift some cranks, so let's get busy" (obviously I said none of this, as I let my eyes do the talking) so Kinley, the wonderfully erudite and personable mechanic-in-chief looked at her straight away. I will say this now, this mare has never had such a thorough going over, on top of that, Kinley showed me a few tricks of the trade should I need them later down the line. Whattaguy. After 45 minutes or so of tweaking here and there he had her working like new, she was a treat to ride yet again, momentarily I felt guilty for overuse of the whip earlier that morning, but an internal stewards enquiry exonerated me on grounds of raw passion. BB seemed to forgive me too, she purred like a cat who'd got my cream. Saucy minx. I set off then, ready to leave Vermont and fortunately the weather wasn’t so bad, overcast, but no rain and this made for some fantastic backdrops. This was the Vermont I had imagined. Steep hills of spruces and pines set against dairy farms and long winding roads. It was beautiful. And smelt mainly of horse excrement. Just as I like it.
After some more steep climbs, including another push job up a mountain called Bread Loaf I stopped in the gorgeous little town of Middlebury for lunch. It was reminiscent of the town centre set from a futuristic 80's feel-good family movie where Michael J Fox doesn't get Parkinson's in the end. And it was here I met two other cross-country cyclists, Emma and Mary, who were headed to Seattle. We’d arranged to meet for a nibble, but then guess what, a problem arose. Hoorah! As I checked my map I realised I needed to get a ferry from Shoreham, VT to Ticaronda, NY and it only ran until 6. I had 90 minutes to cycle 20 miles and it was at this time the daily rainstorm was ready to tumble from the heavens, and boy was it ready, but no complaints, "head down and lets ride", I thought. Now we’ll see how good a job Kinley did. I went hell for leather and made it with time to spare. Good job, Kinners, can I call you Kinners? Good.
Emma, Mary, if you ever find this blog, my apologies on the terrible bail. I would’ve only cramped your style with my excessively tight spandex anyway. You're better than me and you're better than that.
So, with that I left Vermont and entered New York State. I have found a campground and need my shuteye, for tomorrow there are mountains. More mountains. However, I know the day will end well, as I have had a reply from Warm Showers. Yes, I have a place to stay tomorrow and can’t wait for the comfort and some human interaction. I'm sure it'll be another poetic journey to see if people from this semi-autonomous political entity are as friendly as people from the previous semi-autonomous political entities. Game on.
Total: 508 Miles
I was back in the saddle after the luxury of spending all day yesterday holed up at the Nestled Inn, only leaving to buy cigarettes for my host who’s wife was unaware of his sneaky little habit, still, it got me 5 dollars off of the price of the room that he let me boil a dozen eggs in for future use. I must have looked a right creepo hunched over a camping stove in there, but so be it, I do love my eggs, me. Full of protein didn’t you know.
I left at 9:15 on the dot and realised after sitting on the bike for 0.012 of a second that things weren’t feeling quite right. Tuesdays cycling in an Old Testament storm and pedalling up and down (mainly up, it felt) mountains had appeared to make the gears as creaky and sticky as a pensioner who'd just been witness to a clandestine strip-bingo showdown (do old people get aroused by other old people?), and as a result it felt like I was working twice as hard to get Black Betty moving and I don’t even like working once as hard, so you can imagine what a 100% increase in work-rate did to my spirits. I persevered for a bit until I found a bike shop some 20 miles away in Rochester, VT. They could see I was touring and really meant business, what with a GoPro attached to the helmet and expression that screamed "Hey pal, Daddy's got to shift some cranks, so let's get busy" (obviously I said none of this, as I let my eyes do the talking) so Kinley, the wonderfully erudite and personable mechanic-in-chief looked at her straight away. I will say this now, this mare has never had such a thorough going over, on top of that, Kinley showed me a few tricks of the trade should I need them later down the line. Whattaguy. After 45 minutes or so of tweaking here and there he had her working like new, she was a treat to ride yet again, momentarily I felt guilty for overuse of the whip earlier that morning, but an internal stewards enquiry exonerated me on grounds of raw passion. BB seemed to forgive me too, she purred like a cat who'd got my cream. Saucy minx. I set off then, ready to leave Vermont and fortunately the weather wasn’t so bad, overcast, but no rain and this made for some fantastic backdrops. This was the Vermont I had imagined. Steep hills of spruces and pines set against dairy farms and long winding roads. It was beautiful. And smelt mainly of horse excrement. Just as I like it.
After some more steep climbs, including another push job up a mountain called Bread Loaf I stopped in the gorgeous little town of Middlebury for lunch. It was reminiscent of the town centre set from a futuristic 80's feel-good family movie where Michael J Fox doesn't get Parkinson's in the end. And it was here I met two other cross-country cyclists, Emma and Mary, who were headed to Seattle. We’d arranged to meet for a nibble, but then guess what, a problem arose. Hoorah! As I checked my map I realised I needed to get a ferry from Shoreham, VT to Ticaronda, NY and it only ran until 6. I had 90 minutes to cycle 20 miles and it was at this time the daily rainstorm was ready to tumble from the heavens, and boy was it ready, but no complaints, "head down and lets ride", I thought. Now we’ll see how good a job Kinley did. I went hell for leather and made it with time to spare. Good job, Kinners, can I call you Kinners? Good.
Emma, Mary, if you ever find this blog, my apologies on the terrible bail. I would’ve only cramped your style with my excessively tight spandex anyway. You're better than me and you're better than that.
So, with that I left Vermont and entered New York State. I have found a campground and need my shuteye, for tomorrow there are mountains. More mountains. However, I know the day will end well, as I have had a reply from Warm Showers. Yes, I have a place to stay tomorrow and can’t wait for the comfort and some human interaction. I'm sure it'll be another poetic journey to see if people from this semi-autonomous political entity are as friendly as people from the previous semi-autonomous political entities. Game on.
Kinley cleans his rag after a job well done.
We call this perspective. Use it, people. It's a metaphor.
Don't Dirt Cheap. Please excuse superflous finger.
Arrr, t'is a fine day for a crossing.
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