So sorry not to be able to keep up

I am so sorry that I am so far behind now...there are so many wonderful people who I have met who I want to tell you about and the things I have seen and done are just waiting to bubble up and appear on the page, but I am so rushing about at the minute that to find the time to write a good blog entry is very difficult. Milwaukee, fabulous time, Wintersett, The Bridges of Madison County, John Wayne, Nebraska, Sturgis, The Badlands, just so much stuff and no time to sit and write. Some things are almost life changing. I WILL DO SO and WILL CATCH UP, but I will have to take a few days out to do it, for my own and perhaps your needs, when Wife has gone home after 29th August. In the meantime, just to tell you that I completed the East to West bit today and paddled in the Pacific at Cannon Beach, Oregon, after 6,200 miles. I am now heading south on the Pacific Highway and tonight in real time, am in Newport, Oregon. All safe, except for a very swollen right foot and lower leg, which I though was going to stop me, but now is settling....dropped my bike on it THREE BLOODY TIMES now...TWICE within 5 hours! Anyway, it is getting better, and although I have a marked limp at present, I have been able to keep riding. This is almost as much of an endurance test as a tour!
Keep the e-mails coming, I can usually reply to those fairly quickly and easily.

Best wishes,
Doc

P.S. have got my 'coon! The hat is coming along slowly being cured in salt like the Indians did!

Red Barns, Sleeping Bears, and ‘coon trouble.

I was elated when I left Nappanee. I had had a wonderful four days, seen some great sights, stayed on a superb campground and met some lovely people. My next plan had been to ride to Chicago and then to Milwaukee, but Daughter had phoned two days earlier to say that she hoped to be able come out on 5th August to Chicago and ride with me for 10 days, so, as it was only Sunday 22nd July, and I was only 300 odd miles from Chicago, I clearly had to find something to do for a fortnight. I decided to take Rob’s advice and ride up through Michigan State.
Michigan State is a fat, flat, peninsula bordered on the east by Lake Erie, on the west by Lake Michigan and it has a horizontal part in the north, the upper peninsula, just known as the U.P. which tops Lake Michigan and separates it from Lake Superior. This is connected to the main land mass by the longest suspension bridge in the world, longer than The Golden Gate Bridge, called the Mackinaw Bridge.

I have just returned to finish this blog and found that everything I had written yesterday, from here on, has disappeared, as the battery on the laptop ran out before I could save it, so in not the best frame of mind, I shall start again.!

I set off northwards, quite closely following the eastern shore of Lake Michigan. The weather seemed stable at last, and it gradually increased to 85 degrees and humid. The country was gently rolling with scattered farmsteads growing maize (corn) interspersed with open grassland and copses of trees. The wind on the bike kept the sweat away, but it soon developed when slowing down or walking about. The grassland had large patches of purple where a wildflower like a thornless thistle grew in swathes across it. The scenery was really beautiful, and the farmsteads were different from those I had seen before, in particular, most had bright red painted wooden buildings, and the barns in particular were stunning. I wished that I had time to sit and draw and paint a little but I had to keep moving, and sadly, although I have the stuff with me, I have still not got round to doing any painting. The trip is huge and time is all too short. The roofs of the buildings were double slanted, a flat pitch on the upper part with steep sides and a slightly up tilting edge. In winter they get a lot of snow and these would clearly allow both easy removal of heavy falls and also the ability to pack the barns higher at the sides or to build an extra room space in the house with roof-light windows.
The first place of any consequence where I stopped was Holland, so called after the many Dutch who settled here in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. They brought with them windmills and of course bulb fields, but I was disappointed not to see a windmill and the bulb fields were past their flowering time and the bulbs were harvested. Overall, rather boring and I only stopped for a drink and to fill up with “gas”
[Incidentally, you lot at home will be fascinated to know that there has been a lot of protest by the American people recently over gas prices. The poor dears went almost loopy when gas prices hit just over $3-00 a gallon.(£1-50!!!! For almost 5 litres!!!!) Our equivalent is that we pay $9-60 a gallon. They can’t believe it. I have been paying about $3-20, which is £1.60, or 42pence a litre. How do the U.S.A. get away with it? I really don’t know, but there will be an article on American attitudes later on I feel sure, when I have seen and met many more people and got the balance right.]
I continued north to Muskegon, where I had planned to spend the night. There were a lot of bikes about and people asked if I had been to the rally. Apparently there had been the second Muskegon bike rally that weekend, and of course, I had missed it because I didn’t know. I arrived at the town campsite, near an industrial plant on the estuary, and found at 7.30p.m. that it closed at 5.00 and would not open the office again until 10.00a.m.the following morning. There was a chain hanging across the entrance, and a lad with a bike called from a tent on just the other side asked me if I wanted to come in. “Sure thing” I replied, “but I can’t get checked in at the office.” He assured me that all I had to do was come under the chain and he and his girlfriend lifted it up for me while I passed under. He kindly gave me the code for the lock on the “restroom” door and said to camp up anywhere. “Where are you from?” he asked, “Australia?” “No, I’m from North Yorkshire, England” I said. “New England?” he asked. “No, Old England, THE England,” I answered gently but firmly. “ No shit! That’s ‘aw-sum’ was the response, “did you do the show? “ No, I didn’t know it was on, or I’d certainly have been there” “D’ya wanna get to the stage show tonight? he asked. I politely declined. I was tired and just wanted to get dinner on and my tent up.
I rode over towards the shoreline and next thing I knew was the grass which had started hard , had turned to dunes and my back wheel was stuck. The weight of the bike was sat in it just as if embedded in cement and each time I tried to ride forward it dug in deeper. I got off, leaving it stood in the sand and went back to find the guy who had let me in. He and three mates came over and pulled and pushed the bike out. “Shoulda toldja ‘bout them doons” he laughed. “stick on the grass over there and you’ll be fine”, he pointed. At least I hadn’t dropped it!
It was getting dark and the music from the show was bouncing across the estuary. I set up a mozzy net and bivvied under it, I couldn’t be bothered with the tent. I had a can of ravioli and meatballs and a can of root beer and had them both straight from the cans and turned in. I was bushed..
I woke with the sunrise at about 5.50. I had slept well and coffee was soon on, and then I packed up. It was going to be almost 4 hours before the office opened, so I set off to walk around the camp for a while and take a shower. An R.V. went past me to the other end of the camp, it couldn’t be coming in. It must be going out? It approached a gate at the far end of the drive and it opened automatically and the R.V. left. I wondered if there was a radio control or electronic key. Further on I met another tent camper. I asked him and he replied that it was on a pressure sensor in the road, and that it would open for his bike, so I had my shower, returned to the bike, drove at the gate and left by 7.00 on a free nights camp.
By 9.30, I had arrived in the lovely lakeside town of Manistee. This town’s “Historic Centre” (they all have “Historic Centres” which usually means the few brick built houses built about 1900 at the centre of the town which have not been bulldozed or burnt down) was actually really pleasant, not because it didn’t fit all of the above description, because it did, but because it was along the south side of the estuary of the Little Manistee River and all along the shore, behind the turn of the century brick buildings was a Boardwalk and marina. The actual 100 yards or so of the “historic” centre (center?) was also well kept attractive , well repaired and had a quite nice selection of small shops. I met a chap from the organic food store who was on his was to the bank. “You from Australia?” he asked. I put him right. “Ah-sum!...d’ya ride over or rent it?” “I rode down from Montreal”, I said, “I’m on a 14,000 mile road trip of the States” “Man, that’s just ah-sum” he again exclaimed. “Where ya goin’? I outlined my trip to another “ah-sum”. He was very friendly and welcoming and clearly and rightly proud of his town centre. He told me where to get my phone card charged up as it was no longer working and I assumed that I had run out of credit on it. He also showed me the bank and a good place for breakfast. I duly did the eating and the bit of shopping and then went to look at the boats and the river. The boats were absolutely bristling with fishing rods. Some of them must have had a dozen or more and how any three or four people who would go out on them could use so many was beyond me. Clearly also there was some very big tackle, a few had rods that were bolted to the sides of the boat and massive gaffs which looked as if they could land a shark. The Americans take their huntin’ shootin’ and fishin’ VERY seriously. To them these are absolutely sacrosanct activities, in every respect, associated with their outback and pioneering ancestors’ pasts, and virtually every adult male who can walk participates in some way or another. The right to bear arms, any sort of weapon, is only perhaps secondary only to their right to marry and have a family. Not very deep inside the majority of American men I have met, is a sort of alter-ego identification as a backwoodsman. Camping is one part of this identification, about which, more some time in the future, but their rights to hunt certainly seem foremost in the minds of most that I have met so far. Identification of species is pretty good on the whole, but, in general, appreciation of wildlife is limited to whether they have ever shot or eaten it and how good it was, where, and how many, they shot or caught, how they skinned it, stuffed, smoked it, froze it, made it into a hat, a wall mount, a coat, burgers or sausages, or cooked it, and what weaponry they used to get it! Actually just looking at wildlife per se, as I do, is rather rare. I was sold a phone card top up for $50-00 and then found out that AT and T don’t have a service in may States and Michigan is one of them. So, all the time I am here, I can’t use it, but they will deduct their dollar a day charge from my credit. I was a bit cheesed off.

About mid morning, I set off again up the 22 through glorious wooded country and open clearing, within about a mile of the lakeside all the way. Past Alberta, Frankfort, and the Crystal Lake, where I stopped off for the afternoon at the beach to swim and "catch some rays". It was my first experience of swimming in a freshwater lake, as so vast that , with the waves, the sand and the inability to see any opposite shore, one could have been forgiven for thinking one was at the sea, but no, fresh water, and (within the bounds of little boys swimming) quite drinkable. It felt very strange. Towards evening, I arrived in Empire at the Visitor centre. This part of the drive was taking me up a peninsula about two thirds of the way north up the eastern shore, called Sleeping Bear Dunes. I called in to the desk and found a very interesting centre, documenting the geology, topography and animal and plant life of these dunes. They are about 4 miles long, and three to five hundred feet high, and in the old days, their top was covered by a very dark coniferous forest, probably mostly of pine and junipers. The lovely story goes that the Indians named the place after a legend, where a mother bear had swum across the lake with two cubs. When she reached the shore exhausted, she climbed the dune to look for them, but they were gone. She laid down on the top of the dune and rested, always watching out to the big water for them to return, but they never did. She became the great forest, dark and stretched on the top of the dune, sleeping, and her cubs became the two islands off shore, of North and South Manitou Islands. Most of the forest has now been blown away or eroded, but it is still possible to see some of the outline which forms her head and front paws.
I decided to see the dunes, and booked in at a camp, “Sleepy Bears” campsite, a few miles away.
In the wooded camp area, I was next to a pleasant couple, I shall call them Daniel and Josie, and their three children. He was a teacher at a school on Mackinac Island ( still pronounced “mackinore”) After I had eaten, he came over and asked if I wanted to join them for some more. I told him that I was already well fed and thank you, couldn’t manage anything else. “Nope, s’mores” he said, “D’ya wanna join us for s’mores?” Well I didn’t quite know what to say. I almost felt a bit embarrassed because the American food serving is generally about twice what I would normally eat, and I was already full. He seemed quite insistent. “Well I don’t know if I can manage any more, but, since you’re inviting, I’d love to,” so I went across. As soon as I arrived, it was obvious that there wasn’t much, if any, food left, but they were toasting marshmallows on a long barbeque fork in the fire pit. I watched as Josie took two small rectangular brown cracker wheat biscuits and laid on them a small matching rectangle of chocolate. On top of this, she put the sizzling marshmallow and then squeezed it flat between the two biscuits and pulled out the fork. She handed it to me and I bit into it. “Wow!” this was seriously good stuff. The sweet sticky marshmallow, the melting chocolate and the biscuits just went together so well. They were really scrummy! The children queued up for them as both parents were now toasting, and I most certainly joined the queue. I ate about four I think, although I rather lost count in their company, enjoying the dessert and the campfire and their hospitality. These little delicacies, it seems, are an old summer camp treat, which children (and this adult!) love. It is they themselves which are called “S’mores” because everyone wants s’more! I shall have to try that one at home on the barbeque some time.

The whole of the Great Lakes were formed in pre-history by the movement and eventual melting of ice caps, formed in prehistoric seas, melting and then being gouged out by residual glaciers. Rocks and pebbles of many areas and different geological layers were carried in them, and then the predominantly north western winds across the lake had blown, over thousands of years a massive deposit of sand to this one point on the exposed shore of Lake Michigan. The natural history of the dunes and their features are seen best on a circular tour road, called Pierce Stocking Drive, after the man who envisaged being able to show his beloved and well studied dune to greater numbers of people. Here on the walkways, and exploring into the dunes, are the hollows, not of recent storms, but remaining indentations, despite the winds, from thousands of years ago, where there had been lakes, whose sides had burst and subsequently drained. All the features of the stabilisation of the dunes are visible if one looks, first the scrubby grass, then the development of mixed grasses with enormous superficial root systems which tie it together, Later, small woody plants and shrubs, and then, in stabilised dunes, juniper, silver birch and cottonwood trees. The walking is hard, two steps forward and one back, and it took an hour to walk the mile circular route where these features can all be seen. It was about 90 degrees. The dune is sadly now only about half the size it was, and is still eroding away, faster than it is growing, but their policy is to allow nature to care for it and whatever happens is an evolutionary process. On the edges of the dune, I saw a huge, basswood tree whose ancient roots were now fully exposed by the wind and rain. Along the top of the dune, near the sleeping bear, a board walk has been placed to get access to see the “bluff,” a 450 foot cliff of sand, which one is advised to stay off, but which the foolhardy were sliding down and then climbing up. I was alarmed to hear that the fee from the Rangers for rescue from the bluff is $2500, so even more amazed to see the stupidity of some parents who were doing it with children obviously under 10. All this in blazing open open sunshine and temperatures of 95 to 100 degrees on the sands. I think truly, that, the dune needs better care here than this, and that people should not be allowed to climb on the bluff at all. It is spectacular and already being eroded naturally, without the thrill seekers.
The pictures do not do it justice, as clearly I had to take them down the hill rather than from the side on view.
It was a wonderful place to visit, and I went on to stay overnight in the National Park campsite there.
I had been finding it a bit hard to buy small amounts of stuff at the supermarkets. I guess it’s the same at home really, but one knows where to go to find small quantities. Storage of food on the bike is also a problem. I had bought some minced beef and vegetables two days ago, and the meat really was about on the turn, although I had twice packed ice around it in polythene bags. Tonight then, I would make my stew. I knew it would be too much to eat at once, but if I boiled it up again properly for about 10 minutes on each of the following two days, I thought it should be OK.
The water was about a quarter of a mile away and obtained from a true pump. Pumping the handle as well as holding the water bag under the spout was not all that easy, the end of the massive handle being about 6 inches longer than my span away from the spout, but I gathered about 2 litres and returned to make the stew. It should have had a bit of Oxo or something in it really, and I had no salt and pepper, but I fried the mince, and added, carrots, chopped potatoes, sugar snap peas, broccoli and cauliflower, and had an entire pan full of a delicious though rather bland stew, and ate about a quarter of it for supper. It was dry night, but with a few bugs, so I put up the mozzie net and laid out in my bag underneath at the edge of the forest on one side of the clearing, and went to sleep about 10.30. I was fast asleep but suddenly woken from my dreams by a clank, and I recognised the fall of the aluminium lid of the stewpot, which I had left on the table. I thought that perhaps the wind had come up, but there was no wind, and in the dim light I could make out shapes on the picnic table in the centre of the clearing, and there was snuffling going on. I lit the torch and shone it through the net. Four bright red eyes illuminated and the outlines of two beasts the size of turkeys,one on the table and one on the bench, both snuffing in my stew! I did not see what they actually were when I first looked, but instinctively shouted “shooo!” in the expectation they would go. But they took no notice at all, the light did not seem to worry them and they continued in the plunder of my stew. I took my sheath knife out, pulled back the net and got up. My metal cup went flying off the table and the camp stove fell to the ground. Two huge racoons, leapt off the table, for the woods, their now clear, black and white, “Davy Crockett” tails flying after them. Boy, they were big beasts . I hadn’t realised that Racoons could be so big. I had thought from the road kill I had seen that they were about the size of a chicken. Goodness knows what I could have done with my knife. I am reminded about my earlier debate as to whether I needed a gun! (Now you see, the hunter thing is catching!) I looked at the last third of my stew. Probably be OK if it’s boiled up I thought, but they’re not getting any more. I took some Gaffer tape out of the pannier and taped the top on the pan. Twenty minutes later there were more scuffles, and the bastards had come back and were taking the tape off the lid. I shouted at them and leapt out of the bivvy and again they disappeared into the woods. The tape was almost off, but not quite. I taped it up again and locked it in the top box of the bike. My bag was on top of that and I locked the box too. The scent should be gone by now and I cleared everything I had from off the table and put it away. I sat at the picnic table and smoked a cigarette, waiting in the dark for any sign of their return. At almost 2o’clock, I turned to cross the 25 yards of the clearing to return to my sleeping bag. The net was pulled back off it, but there, in the dim light was another turkey sized beast snuffling about on it. No red eyes this time and I chased at it, all in underpants and bare feet (Me, not the beast).. A bloody great big porcupine went lumbering off into the woods at a rapid scurry. I have to say now, that I was actually a bit fazed by this time! I decided to stay up for a bit longer; it was too late, yet too early to pack up and move on. The wardens had not said anything about these “critters”, and I was tired and I did not quite know now whether to sit up on guard or go back to bed. I checked to make sure that Porky hadn’t peed on my sack. Thankfully he hadn’t, but sleeping in porcupine pee did not appeal. I wondered if it was anything like skunk? Oh Heavens! What if they’re up here too? You can’t just charge at a skunk ‘cos they’ll spray you first. All these thoughts went through my head. I got through a third cigarette. At least I knew I was not in Bear country. Eventually, I went back to lie down, but it was good hour before I relaxed enough to sleep and an hour and a quarter when I was again woken to rustling, this time from the direction of the bike. I shone the torch. Mr and Mrs Racoon were on the bike, one riding pillion facing backwards and the other stood up on the side pannier, both trying to get into the bag or the top box where they could no doubt, still smell the Racoon equivalent of MacDonalds, a quick take-away. This time I picked up some small rocks near the bivvy and then with my headlight on, and not much else, charged across the clearing at them shouting. They bounced off into the forest, and I threw the stones hard at them catching one. There was a sort of growly scream noise and then silence. It was almost 4o’clock. I pulled the picnic table across the clearing to the side of my bike. I put my sleeping bag on the table and curled up, the table was a foot too short. I put my knife alongside the bag, together with some rocks and a hammer I have for my tent poles. “Next time, I’m getting me a ‘coon”. But there was no next time and I woke lying flat on my back with the bag and my knees dangling over the edge of the table at almost 8o’clock with the sun up.. No more ‘coon troubles. I got up and got cramp in my calves. This time I just got a photo of their paw prints on the seat of the picnic table. Next time, I just could become a hunter!

Best wishes,
Doc

Still alive and no problems...sorry for delay in updates

I am so sorry that I have not posted anything since being in Indiana. I have not fallen off or anything dreadful, well I have, but not dreadful...will tell you later....NO PROBLEMS AND ALL IS OK. I have just been travelling and visiting so hard and fast and been in areas or campsites where I have had no internet reception. I have been exhausted by the time the tent was up and it has usually been dark. The trip is going to be longer than I had estimated, I have just completed 5,000 miles since leaving home, and only 260 of those were in the UK! Bottom is holding up well!

I am now in Billings, Montana, waiting for Wife to arrive for two weeks from 14th. (She has a horrendous trip to do from Manchester to JFK, New York, then to Chicago, then to Salt Lake City,Utah and finally a pedallo flight to Billings. It will take her some 20 hours overall.) Two weeks on the pillion is about all she can take, and I can't blame her for that; the longer I am doing this, the more I realise the magnitude of the task...especially across the Plains, which are hot, dry and endless.

I am in a motel tonight, exhausted after a long hard ride from Sturgis in South Dakota, and very hot. I shall relax for the next few days now and do some more writing.

Picture is me crossing the prairies of Wyoming. Face is distorted by wind at 65m.p.h. rather than by pain or any other discomfort! Luggage has not fallen off....I got a trailer in Sturgis as it was all getting too heavy and cumbersome to manage, and then my top bag split. It tows fantastically well and has given me real freedom on the bike again. It is what the Americans would describe as "ah-sum". ( Incidentally, for those of you who inspect the photos closely, I have not developed a a left breast...it is distorted by a shadow from my left sleeve!)

Thank you so much to all of you who have taken the trouble to read this blog and to those who have sent me such friendly and supportive e-mails. It is a strong encouragement to continue, even though I want to keep a log of events anyway for myself to remember this fantastic adventure. Keep them coming. I usually can get to an internet connection about once a week and I do reply.

There will be a couple more blogs for you soon, probably on Sunday and more next week, but then I shall be quiet again for 2 weeks as I don't want to spoil the trip for Wife while she is travelling with me. Writing is a bit of a solitary sport!

I am now 7 hours behind UK summer time, having crossed into "Rockie Mountain time last Friday, so when I say Sunday, you may not see them til Monday if you are reading this in the UK.

To my new US friends, thank you for your hospitality and friendship. I hope you won't find my opinions too offensive, but, if you do, talk to me about it rather than just going away!


Best wishes,
Doc

Photographs can be made bigger.

A couple of people have said they would like to see enlargements of some of the pictures. Things like specific people, bike groups, and also photos of printed pages should be able to be seen as full screen by just double clicking on them and then using the arrow on the toolbar to return to the blog afterwards. If you want to print off, or save a copy, for personal use, I don't mind, but they are my photos and I would ask you not to publish them elsewhere. Thank you, Doc

Amish country

I didn’t have to dance around my camping stove or throw magic powder into the air, and the only incantations I made were to the effect of “Oh God, not more bloody rain!" It was probably the swearing and blaspheming that set it off properly, and I have learned my lesson.
In light drizzle, I shut up everything on the bike, and finished my coffee, jamming the empty cup on the pillion seat. It was only 9.45, and I would have sat up a bit longer, watching the fireflies around the trees and the lawned camping spots, but the cloud was settled in, there was an electric storm playing on the horizon, and there seemed no reason not to go to bed.
I was just getting of to sleep when an enormous flash of lightening illuminated the twin skin of the tent like daylight. It started to rain, the patter, on the leaves of the tree above me, first rustling and then soon dripping on to the tent. There was no thunder, just flashes for about 20 minutes and then it started to pour with rain, and I really mean pour. It was as though a firehose was being played on the tent walls and the fabric moved with the impact as though being hit by a wind. I put on the torch to check for leaks, all perfectly dry. The air turned cooler and a gentle breeze ran through the mosquito flaps of the tent lifting the humid atmosphere. Then the storm really started. At first the flashes and the bangs were about 15 seconds apart, but they got gradually shorter until they became simultaneous. The deluge persisted, and the crashes of thunder literally shook the ground under me. I am not usually worried in a thunder storm, but then I have not been through anything like this in a tent before. It was like been under mortar attack. I was concerned about flooding, concerned in case the big lump of metal, six feet away, may be struck, and concerned about the tree above me. It was so wet that, although I really wanted to witness this storm, I would have been drenched if had opened the flaps to watch. There was no sleeping in this. I laid awake, and times of childhood thunder storms returned to me, when Mother had taken the three of us children into the cupboard under the stairs. We sat on small stools and a folding chair that were kept in there for the purpose. She had experienced the Blitz in Birmingham during World War II and ever since had hated the loud thunder claps and the lightening. I suspect that she had howvere always been frightened of thunder storms, but this was her excuse for us hiding in our shelter. She would read to us or we would sing. It was not until I was about 12 that I actually stood at the kitchen window and watched a thunder storm, while Mother remonstrated with me to come back to the safety of the cupboard. Ever since, I have thought they were magnificent, but not to be out in you understand, and definitely not in a tent , under a tree with a big lightening attractor sat next to me. At about 12.15, there was one explosion which, had I been in bed, would almost certainly have thrown me out. I was sure the bike must have been hit, but I could see no flames or smell any smoke, so I still resisted the temptation to look out. The storm went on for 4 hours, and it was not until about 1.45, that the gap between the flashes and the bangs started to lengthen again. Finally, the slight rumble in the distance and the gentle patter on the roof of the tent, were overcome by my long awaited sleep, and I slept solidly until almost 9.00 in the morning. When I crawled out, the sun was out, the picnic table was dry and my bike and the tree were still in one piece. There was an area of flooded grassland about 50 yards away, but none closer, and the air was cooler and fresh. I went to the bike to get my wash bag. On the saddle, the polystyrene cup was full to within half and inch of the rim. We had had about 4inches of rain during the storm.
It was not long before friendly neighbouring campers came over to see how I had fared . Rod, came round first on his campground electric cart., and said that he was pleased that I seemed to have brought the rain. He felt sure the corn would recover after such a downpour. Then Dan, walking his dog, and Wes from the big RV over the way, and Earl from the next door pitch. All of them were immensely welcoming, friendly and kind. Wes asked me if I would like to go over for a beer that evening, and see his new van. So did Rob, a guy who had come with his family, but brought his motorcycle. Dan asked me over for a coffee. I started to get an engagement crisis! Rob asked if I would like to ride out with him over to Middlebury, where he had some business. He suggested that it was close to the Amish(pronounced "ar-mish") communities and I might like to go across. So after breakfast, we rode the 25 miles or so, north west to Middlebury, which was actually a nice ride but a very boring small town. It was neat and tidy and small, and like all the towns, had no real centre, and after a coffee and some breakfast at a pleasant enough restaurant on the main street, I headed off for Shipshewana, a town I had read of in The Rough Guide. Shipshewana was much more interesting, still the same boring centre, but a wide open main street running through the plains and on the left hand side was the great local agricultural auction house, where they were holding a horse sale. Wife and her friends at home would have loved this, and Happy, if you read this, you would have died for one of the fifth wheel animal trailers and rigs! “ Fifth Wheels” are like our HGV trailers, in that they mount on a large disk plate, but unlike HGVs, these plates are attached to the back of giant four wheel drive pick up trucks. They now make mobile homes, R.V.s in the same manner, so you have a full 6 seater, three and half ton, double rear axled pick up truck, with a six to eight litre engine, hauling a 15 ton camper or a ten ton animal trailer. Fantastic stuff, but with petrol at only £1.50 a gallon ( yes really….equivalent to just about 20 pence a litre!) you can easily run one of these, at 12 miles to the gallon. In amongst all the massive vehicles around Shipshewana, were numerous Amish “buggies” variably either fully closed in with fold up doors at the sides and shutters or open riding carriages. All fairly simple in design and construction and absolutely typical of what one imagines. The Amish men, all have beards, but not moustaches, and fairly long hair. They wear straw or felt round hats with square tops and trousers with built in material braces. The boys all wear the same, all with built in braces, and all presumably made by mother. The women all wear long dresses, some simple light long cotton, and some more elaborate heavy folded . All wear bonnets or small hats. Some ride bikes, but they don’t drive motorised vehicles and don’t like to have their photographs taken, so actual pictures of them are difficult, although it is allowed to picture them at a distance so that they are not identifiable, as in a portrait type of picture. You can see some Amish on the photographs I have taken at the horse.auction. The auction was a fascinating place. Not here a few mangy old nags looking for a paddock of half an acre, a shed and a 12 year old to ride them. These were serious horses, some of them absolutely stunning, riding horse, carriage horses, working horses and some that apparently were capable of all three activities. Most looked the expected Western type horse, the quarter horse, for the most part, about 15 hands in height. Their owners either lead them or rode them into the small selling ring at the front while the auctioneer almost sang his bids in a language that was so fast and so strange that it was very difficult to understand until you had listened to a dozen or so sales. The most amazing thing was that these horses were all selling for between about four and eight hundred dollars, two to four hundred pounds. In England, you would probably get the former for a meat price. But these, were not rubbish, many were superb horses in their prime, well broken and very useable. I left the auction room wanting a horse, and wandered round the stall outside that was selling saddles and harnesses, very different from our own. I talked with one of the sellers. He was a Mennonite, a much more liberal breakaway group from the strict Anabaptist Amish. He set a saddle on a stand for me to sit on. It was so strange, and totally enclosing. The high rear closed on your bottom and the “horn”, the pommel was attached to a sort of solid cross bridge which you could hold with your knees. It was almost like sitting on the Harley, but with a full bucket seat. I could feel how it would be easy to “squeeze and lean” ones way, and neck rein on a quarter horse, and holding firm on in a tight turn would not require much “sitting in”.
Close by, there was a supermarket with Amish buggies outside, almost all the stores have sheds or hitching posts and areas in their car parks reserved just for horses, buggies or bicycles. Next door was a carriage ride facility and I took a half hour ride around the farms and the countryside in an Amish buggy driven by an Amish man whose name was Harley, quite appropriate for a bike rider to use! We went about 3 or 4 miles, in surprising comfort and cool. The hot day kept out of the black carriage both by the colour, the windows at the front being open and the ability to draw to sides down if needed to shield from sun or bad weather. Fitted in the roof above the driver was a panel with a switch which operated a battery driven indicator signal on the back. The Amish will not use engines, but will generate electricity from windmills or water and will use batteries. Their houses are mostly lit by oil lamps or candles or battery lights, but they are clever enough usually, when building them, to fully fit them with electrical or gas connections, so that if they are ever sold to non Amish peoples in the future they can be connected up easily. We went past several houses where long rows of their strange looking clothes, the long dresses, braces trousers and bonnets were all drying outside on the washing lines. Many of the houses had buggies and horse drawn vehicles outside and horses in nearby corrals.
After my trip to Shipshewana, I returned back to the camp and after supper went for a beer with Wes and Hilda. Their new RV was here to go for a service. Many RVs are made locally, quite a lot by Amish workers, who work quality is prized. Later, I went on to join Rod and his brother in law Tom with their wives and families for a couple more. I had a good evening and for the first time experienced “lemon beer”, which is a blonde lager wheat beer, into the bottle neck of which is screwed a twist of fresh lemon. It was very refreshing and pleasant. I shall certainly drink those again. The following day, during the course of many more “drop by visits”, I wrote some blog, socialised and just chilled out in the sunshine. I was leaving the day after because, the owners, the Beamish family, had given me a free night,;it seems that I was a bit of an attraction on the site, and they kindly gave me this small perk!. I went for a barbeque supper with Dan and Nicky and their son Ty. This was a lovely evening. Nicky prepared a sort of special bean mixture, which was delicious and with a salad of giant tomatoes, and barbequed sausages, it was a good meal and we talked late into the evening.
In the early morning, Rod brought over a couple of small items which he had “whittled” to remember Pla-Mor by, and I wnet to say goodbye to Dan and Nicky and Ty and then to Rob and Tom. Unfortunately, it seems that Rob's wife had been taken seriously ill during the night and she was in hospital and he was there too of course. I was so sorry, and hope so much Rob, if you are reading this at all, that everything turned out O.K. Thanks for the advice on places to ride and the suggestion to ride Michigan State, about which, more in the next blog.
Thank you to all of you I met at Pla-Mor, I had a super 4 days with you all, you made me feel so welcome, and were all so generous with your hospitality and friendship. It was much appreciated. And I hope to keep in touch with some of you.
I rode out early on Sunday morning, 22nd July, headed north to Michigan State. The sun was out, I was rested, and the country, as I travelled slowly north towards Holland, was different and beautiful. Michigan looked like a good choice.

Best wishes,

Doc


P.S. I have no incentives or inducements to recommend any of you to consider Pla-Mor as a vacation destination, but want to record, that it is one of the best sites I have seen in a long time, with excellent spacious and fully equipped sites, Wi-Fi access, natural entertainment and open leisure areas, golf range, putting, fishing swimming, walking, and a very attentive, and caring personal, family, input. Definitely a great place for families. Definitely a great place for a lone Brit biker!

Niagara Falls down

It was a morning’s ride to Niagara Falls, but I slept in a bit so did not leave the campsite at Taughannock Falls until about 11.00 on Monday morning. The first part of the ride, up the western edge of the Lake was pleasant enough and I went via Seneca Falls , where I thought to see another waterfall. I stopped in town outside a shell of a brick building, which to begin with I did not quite understand. There were the remains of some plain brick walls, around and over which, a new steel structure with a roof had been erected. Adjacent to it was a lawned area with a sunken mirror faced water feature along its full length. I went to the larger, in tact building alongside it and walked in to a hallway filled with statues of Victorian looking women in period dress, and approached a counter with a receptionist. I asked her where the falls were, to which she replied “ Oh, there are no falls, they went many years ago when they constructed the locks for the canal, but you can visit the locks, it’s a pretty walk” I didn’t want to see the locks, I wanted to see the pretty falls. I took one of the leaflets from her desk and glanced at it. I was in The Women’s Hall of Fame, a museum and monument to pioneering women and the American suffragettes. The building, which I had seen next door, was apparently the church meeting hall where these courageous women had stood and lectured for the female franchise, but of course, despite its huge significance, it had subsequently been used as a warehouse, and a store ( shop) and then fallen into disrepair, and finally after a fire had fallen down. All that remained of this once important landmark, in the history of less than 150 years ago, was a bit of old brick wall and a modern pagoda of girders and a tiled roof. (shades of the Hartwell House?)
The mirrored water feature listed the names of the suffragettes and female pioneers of democracy and abolishionism and the franchise. I am afraid that I was not in a bra burning mood, and despite the fact that I perhaps should have paid some suitable homage, I took my male chauvinist pig self back on my Hog and on down the road.
As you ride round the ring road of Buffalo, New York State, through Tonawanda to Niagara Falls, you get a sense that all is not well. Riding down the highway, alongside the most north easterly shore of Lake Erie, towards the Falls, there is a cloud on the skyline to your left and several large chimneys and soaring radio masts with flashing aircraft warning lights. Almost before you know it you are in Niagara Falls township, and I followed the signs to Goat Island. This is the island that splits the falls into their two main sections, the Horsehoe Falls and the American Falls, the former facing mostly north east and best visible from Canada I believe, and the American Falls, slightly smaller and less specatacular as they can only be seen front on from Canada or by a walkway that leads down to them. Here was the source of the skyline cloud, such a dense mist rising from the Horsehoe Falls that the actual falls themselves were virtually invisible. There is a well planned and nicely laid out walkway, in a terraced, lawned garden, which leads you to the viewing point on the US side. On the opposite bank, the view is not of forests or simply a viewing platform but of a whole skyscraper town, complete with a large toadstool of an observation tower with an outside lift and a massive ferris wheel. The US side is not much better with a small park area and car parking and a few tatty souvenir kiosks and, of course, the fast food outlet, though thank goodness, at least that there isn’t a giant Macdonalds sign, although it’s probably only a matter of time. The Falls themselves cry their millions of gallons of tears as the profiteers abominate what must be one of the natural wonders of the world. It is really such an anti-climax to see what one imagines to be a site of extraordinary natural beauty and awe, prostituted by the absence of any reverential planning law. This should be a place where there is no building in site, where development should be concealed and confined only to the essential items needed for the visitor. I can almost forgive the need for the hydroelectric plants, but the rest is quite frankly totally inexcusable. Both the Americans and Canadians should be ashamed that they have allowed such desecration of this world heritage. But, of course, neither of them will pay any attention to me or my blog, other than perhaps, if they read it, to stick me in Guantanamo as a radical. I hope to God there isn’t a Yogi Bear theme park at Yellowstone, but I suppose I was at least warned beforehand about Niagara if I’m honest. New Daughter told me, as she had been there, and my Father told me roughly what to expect because they had visited with the family one year when I was in medical school, forty years or so ago.
Then, of course, I was unfaithful to myself. Now I am here, I have to do one of the “things you do at Niagara.” I tossed up between The Cave of the Winds” or “The Maid of the Mist” The former won. ( Well, I could always do The Maid of the Mist from Canada at the end of my time in the States if I want to !!!)
The Cave of the Winds is the modern alternative to the original trip of the same name. The original one took you down a shaft to the river floor and then along a walkway which passed behind the American Falls. Until 1923, there was a vast overhand of rock which projected the American Falls well out from the rock face and the undercurrent of spray had cut a deep cavern behind the falls. In 1923, the overhang collapsed and the cavern was destroyed and there was no walkway, so each year, after the ice has melted, this new walkway is constructed which takes you to within about 12 feet of the southern edge of the American Falls. All decked out in plastic flip flop sandals and bright yellow bin liner bags with sleeves and hoods, nowadays, the tourist travels to the shoreline in a lift shaft and then along a concrete lined tunnel to trail along the wooden walkways. Along the shore here is a large colony of protected ring billed gulls, and several other sea birds nesting. The noise and the smell are both pretty powerful. The walkway culminates, for the foolhardy amongst us, in mounting “the hurricane platform” where the thunderous roar of the water, the spray, and the wind that accompanies the downward force, blows you almost off your feet and drenches you with water. Well, yes, OK, I did do it, and yes, OK, I did get someone to take my picture, and yes, OK, I AM a hypocrite, but it was fun, and it doesn’t really intrude on the environment or the atmosphere of the place like the concrete jungle above does.
Would I go again? Probably the answer to that is “Yes, but, I would want to see the classic view of the Horsehoe Falls from the Canadian side, and maybe I will do so when I am in Canada.” I hope that the view of the shore on the American side from Canada is less offensive than the view of the Canadian side from the US.
Overall score? 9/10 for the Falls, and 1/10 for the respective National sensitivities to this fabulous natural asset. Badly handled Canada and America, very badly handled. Thank goodness neither of you own any African game reserves or the Victoria Falls. I am told that the U.S. government has suggested that they may create exceptional special areas in their National Parks , so called wilderness areas, which would be left to remain entirely natural and be highly protected from visitors. Might I suggest that you might start here, tear up the buildings and the detractions from this wonder of the world, plant it with natural forest vegetation and return it to the world after nature has properly restored it for you? If this is the price of capitalist democracy, it is too high, and I say that as a British democratic conservative. Some things in the world are sacrosanct. They don’t belong to the country they are in, they belong to the world. This is surely one of them?
I left Buffalo with very mixed feelings, pleased that I had seen Niagara, but cheated, angry, and upset at the mess that surrounds it. I rode south and west on the 20, riding fast as the weather was changing once more. I was going to have to find a motel again as there were no campsites registering on the Satnav within100miles. It was getting dark when I stopped at a nameless grey motel on the highway, all one could say about it was that it was on the left, dull, and cheap but dry with a bed and a shower. I lay awake for several hours, possibly due to coffee, but also due to mulling over the disappointment of Niagara Falls for about 4 hours. Robert Louis Stevenson wrote, “…to travel hopefully, is better than to arrive”. I know now exactly what he meant.
The following morning, it was sunny again and I left room number 6 and continued west on 20. It was not long before I passed through about a five mile stretch, where it seemed as if it was a small reservation, with Indian life souvenir shops on both sides of the highway and advertisements for tax free tobacco everywhere. I was just contemplating whether to buy some cigarettes, when I was through it and couldn’t be bothered to turn back. Soon I entered Chautauqua County. That rang a bell. It was the old native American word that Robert M. Persig uses in his book, “Zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance” to describe the writing which he puts in his chapters. A sort of mixture of a talk, self examination and self discussion and resolution with life. I didn’t know there was a county named that, so with some interest, I stopped as I passed through the small townships, and rather cheekily, called in at the town offices in Brocton, Portland, Westfield and Ripley to ask there ‘what was the meaning of the word’ after which their county was named. In Ripley, I got the answer that it was a meeting place of tribal talking, but in the others, I got dumb looks and comments that it was an old native word and they had no idea what it meant. They said that it was the name the Indians gave it, and I guess that may be true, but it’s a bit sad that the people who lived there and named it only 200 years ago are so ignored and minimalised as to not even have any significance left in their words.
I was glad I had read the book. I like the word, like Persig did., I realised that some of what I am experiencing now is a Chautauqua, and I felt pleased to feel a fuller understanding with him.
I have to say that the ride along the southern border of Lakes Ontario and Erie, especially on the roads I followed was particularly monotonous. The land is flat, sometimes farmed, sometimes small faceless townships, all the same, same lookalike buildings, same malls, same intersections and lights. I skirted Cleveland and then had three options, either to take the 90, which is the motorway to Toledo, or the 2 which runs alongside Lake Erie, or the 20 which runs inland. I opted for the 20, which, in retrospect was probably a lot more boring than the 2 would have been and a lot slower than the motorway. But gradually, this northern part of Ohio became more green and more acceptable and slightly undulating. I rode on into Indiana, and as evening drew on, I had come to Elkhart, and saw a sign for Amish Acres, a living museum and working farmship of the Amish.
I have to confess that my ideas of the Amish community are largely based on a National Geographic article I read years ago, and Harrison Ford in “Witness”! I thought this was a good opportunity to investigate a bit more of these picturesque and unique people, so I turned south and found myself in Nappanee. It was 8.30p.m. rapidly growing dark, and drizzling with rain, and I hit the Satnav for a campsite, and found one within 3 miles. Pla-Mor, did not immediately fill me with a lot of confidence, when I read it on the screen. I do not like American spellings at the best of times, and this was so naf! However, it was close, and a storm was brewing. I followed the signs and entered right, off the 6, to what seemed a lovely site. I was impressed the moment I went to the office. The greeting from the young girls behind the coffee counter was polite and enthusiastic and smiling, and equally from Nicky the receptionist. A few people were sat at the tables chatting, and most of them looked up or said good evening. One of them introduced himself as Dan. He turned out to be Nicky’s husband, waiting for her to finish her shift at 9.00pm. I booked in for two days. I needed the break, needed the savings, and wanted to see the Amish. It was a good idea to set up the tent for a couple of days, and this camp was also Wi-Fi equipped, so I could catch up some writing and try to get my photos loaded up. One of the men at the table showed me my campsite, but allowed me to park the bike up in a big barn as the rain started and I returned for a coffee in the café. Some time later, after recounting a little of where I had come from, I left, with my pint polystyrene cup of coffee in hand, and set up the tent. It was so simple and so quick. I off loaded a lot of my stuff inside and laid out my sleeping bag. Once in, there is just enough room to sit up and plenty of room to roll over. Rod, the man who had shown me my pitch, said that they needed rain. The corn was parched and they had had a drought. I was surprised. I thought now that I had escaped the rain, but it was definitely overcast and starting to drizzle. The U.K. is covered in floods and the rain has been incessant for almost eight weeks, the wettest summer on record. The fire and other emergency services have been pumping vast quantities of water out of homes and rescuing flood victims all over the country for weeks. And here, in northern Indiana, they want rain! That’s certainly not what I want, but it seemed I had brought it with me.
O.K., the rainmaker has arrived!

Best wishes,

Doc

Vassal of King Arthur in the County of Connecticut. (apologies to Mark Twain)

Hartford itself is a dreary place. It’s claim to fame nowadays is that it is the insurance capital of the USA, but that is probably about as indicative of the boring nature of the place as it would be to say that it was the accountancy centre of the USA! Mark Twain himself raved about the place, but when he moved there to the land on what was Nook Farm, no doubt it was a very beautiful rather rural and exclusive desirable area between Boston and New York. It must have been desirable because Harriet Beecher Stowe built a house next door on Nook Farm as well.
Mark Twain was, of course a most extraordinary man. I would venture to suggest that there are as many, if not more, witticisms and wisdoms quoted and attributed to Mark Twain, as to anybody in our Oxford Book of Quotations. There are illustrations of many of these all around the walls of the Visitor Centre behind his house. It made me wonder whether he had actually sat down and thought them all out and published them, or whether he had said or written them in the course of his normal writing and conversation, and others had picked up on them. He was such a capable author, editor and entrepreneur, that it is quite possible that he developed such wonderful one liners as self publicity, but wherever they came from, and however they became published, there is no doubt that most are as relevant today as they were in the late 19th century when he first wrote or uttered them. Samuel Clemens, his real name, adopted the pen name Mark Twain in about 1863. He had been an ill educated but intelligent and some would possibly say, pushy, child, and had done many menial tasks in his early years, but upon experiencing a trip on a paddlewheel river boat, he resolved to become a riverboat pilot, which he did for some years. His trips up and down the Mississippi, and his beliefs in abolitionism later brought about the stories of Tom Sawyer. It is thought that he took the name Mark Twain from a bo’sun on a river boat whose nickname it was, the term actually indicating the two fathom depth on a sounding rope used to check the depth of the river from the bow of the paddle steamers. (But of course, you all knew that and I am just being a bit patronising here for completeness sake…sorry!)
When Sam Clemens was a young man, he married a wealthy heiress, having blagged his way past her Father, who took a liking to the obviously ambitious young man. It seems reasonably fortunate that the old man died soon afterwards, since Sam and he had very differing views particularly on abolition and free philosophies. His wife inherited a large amount of money and she set about building them the family home at Nook Farm, employing an architect who used some elements of European houses, and some entirely original, to produce a house which is described as architecturally picturesque. It is a magnificent somewhat gothic style mansion of perfect proportions, in red brick, and it was built with all modern conveniences , far ahead of its time, and had warm air ducted central heating from a central boiler in the basement, and hot and cold running water, which worked on a warm water convection filling of a tank, from the back of the great kitchen range. Sam moaned constantly to the manufacturers of the furnace that it was never working properly . It even had flushing toilets. And was one of only four houses in Boston to have the newly developed telephone, which he also moaned about, complaining that the switchboard operators were always listening in. If they only had four lines to look after, it would have been surprising if they hadn’t. The décor was done by a young designer from New York, Louis Tiffany, who later became one of the great interior design and electric light designers and of course then was the founder of the great Tiffany’s of New York, a company renowned world wide even today. The décor is heavy and staggering, almost grotesque, but actually, in its setting intensely beautiful. The wood, much of it carved in India, and the Tiffany designed wall coverings and stencilled ceilings and upper wall dados are just magnificent. The house is probably not exactly as Sam had it in his day; he went bankrupt after a failed business venture and they had to sell all the furniture and their possessions, although they kept the house. After they had moved from there, they did not move back. They had lost one son there and their beloved daughter died there in their absence too, and she was buried before they were able to return from New York to see her. They could not feel happy there again. The upstairs billiard room where he wrote much of his work still does have his desk in the corner and some pieces seem to have been re-discovered and replaced. They had an amazingly loyal and sometimes efficient black butler named George, who used to have arguments almost every day with Sam’s wife and he was fired on many occasions, but always stayed on as he used to say that she couldn’t actually do without him, and it seems to have been fairly true as he always performed impeccably when the many guests arrived, although when the family was at home alone, he spent much of the time playing with the children or teasing or playing pranks on them, and the rest of the time being fairly idle! It seems possible that he may have been a model for Jim, the runaway slave who befriended Tom Sawyer.
The house is odd in that it is placed round the wrong way in relations to the road outside, that is the servants quarters are at the front and the family areas at the back, but this was because his wife had decided to allow the family the good views over the countryside at the back and access for all the services to be from the road at the front, which seems quite sensible when explained.
One of the many things that I certainly did not know about Mark Twain, was that he travelled quite extensively in Europe, although I believe he only came to London on one occasion. He wrote several travelogues, which I think may be interesting to read when I return, but in general, with his wit, he was pretty rude about our side of the pond, making comments concerning our living on the glories and the history of the past, but just read my blog, you old ghost, your side of the pond is pretty odd in many ways too! You’ve had to make your history, and a lot of that you have already ripped up or burned down. In your time you took virtually no notice of it, and now, thanks only to the current generation, you yourself are part of it! Our problems are that we have so damned much of it we don’t know where to put it all! Put that in your pipe and smoke it!
I did not have the time afterwards to visit the next door house of Harriet Beecher Stowe, but I have to confess, that although I know her name, and know that she wrote Uncle Tom’s Cabin, I know little else about her, which is probably dreadful, but there it is and I apologise to the classicists amongst you. ( I am still assuming that there are some blog readers out there, but I actually only know of four of you and none of those are likely to know much more about her than I do, so I feel a little vindicated!)

From Hartford, I rode out south west, this time on the correct route, on the 84 headed as far as I could get before nightfall. Again I rode straight into bad weather before I had a chance to camp, and in increasing rain, pulled into a motel near Danbury on the western edge of Connecticut. Spirits were a bit low by this time, as over a week had gone by and I had only had two days of reasonable weather. My plans to camp were going awry and the cost of lodgings was escalating. I tried not to get despondent, and slept well, pleased to have the shower facilities at least and a comfortable enough bed, working out in my head the enormous cost if this should continue and trying to think out how long I would have to work for to pay off the VISA card bill. But eventually, I fell asleep after convincing myself that, at the very worst, with a motel every night, it would only take about four months to sort it all out again! (Actually not very accurate, but I had to accept that I was in for the whole journey now, and there was no going back on it all. I have ridden 1464 miles since I left Montreal.
On the following morning, Sunday 15th July, at 6.00o’clock, I set the Satnav for Niagara Falls. It told me I had 457 miles to ride. My itinerary had arrival there set for today, so I was a day behind due to the two day set back at the start. I was not concerned however, other than in regard to the weather which was still overcast and cloudy when looking westward, and the first part of the ride was in good weather as I entered New York State south.
The route was not really much different here from what I had seen already, following the Interstate and then smaller U.S. Routes, through small towns with their white wooden clad houses lining each side of the road with their large gardens. The American town seems strange to and Englishman. Very few have proper town centres. One enters past a messy conglomerate of eating houses and shopping areas, MacDonalds, Dunkin’Donut,,Wendy’s, Kentucky Fried Chicken and numerous other nameless fast food diners, interspersed with a petrol station or two and places such as Walmart, Dollar General, drive “thru” pharmacies and hardware stores. Around and behind some of these are “tire and muffler” shops, selling tyres and exhausts, and paint shops, which do bodywork repairs on trucks and automobiles. Then, one comes into the town, as described above, usually successions of crossroads, or “intersections” with traffic lights and pedestrian crossing lines at each one. It is hard to know when you are in the town centre (center?) but you know when you are leaving because you go through a similar sprawl of corporates and small trading places until you hit open country again. Almost every town looks the same, and although they vary a little in size, they are generally very clean, bright and white, with gardens and tree lined streets, a central office area, and then out again. The fields, when they are present grow maize, or corn as it is locally called and not far away are heavily forested rolling hills.
Gradually, I neared the Hudson River and crossed it, veering off at Newburgh for the 17k, a back road through towns such as Bullville, Bloomingburg, Wurtsboro and on via Monticello to White lake and on Hankins and Long Eddy. This road is through the southern tip of the Catskill Mountains, it’s twisty and forested and good to ride, with the small town interruptions for petrol and coffee stops. By noon I was nearing Binghampton. The weather was looking bad up ahead and I feared more heavy rain. It had been fine and dry, and intermittently sunny all the way so far, as the clouds stayed ahead of me, indeed my arms and legs were getting quite burned, but , then as I turned north on the 79 to by-pass Binghamton it started to drizzle. Through the woods it rained and then poured, and I got very wet in my shirt, shorts and socks. I cursed that I had not put on my rain gear. I descended from the hills to a sharp left hand bend at the bridge across the River at Chenango Forks. It was still pouring with rain, I was soaked and my helmet visor was covered in rain spots, as I turned onto the bridge and found to my horror, and with no prior warning, that the road surface of the bridge was actually nothing more solid than a heavy metal grill. Such surfaces are absolutely lethal to motorcyclists, they have no grip. It was too late to stop, the bridge was right on the turn. I rode the clutch and the throttle hard and back-braked gently to get more traction. The tyres took the grating and we juddered safely across the 50 yards or so of slippery, biker mincing, machinery. A third of any biker coming off on this bridge would have been minced (ground for American readers) beef for the fishes. (Take note Chenango County Highways department! It may make an excellent mountain road drain, and may make grip in the snow better, but it is potentially lethal to motorcyclists.) I was glad to still have three submariner’s turns left on my underpants. The experience was unnerving, and despite still having half a tank of petrol left, I pulled up at a “gas” station 200 yards after the bridge to fill up, and have a coffee and get out of the rain. But, of course, within a few minutes of stopping, and before I had finished my coffee, the sun was out again, the road steaming and, back on the bike again with 90 degree sun, I had dried out by the time I reached Whitney point at the intersection with the 81 North to Syracuse. I was hungry and pulled in for a sandwich at a café on the road side on the outskirts of Whitney Point. A bunch of bikers were pulled up on the forecourt and I pulled up a little away from them. Like so many people before, they were a friendly lot, and it was not long before one of them came over to ask me where I had come from because of the Union flag I was flying. Always a good starting point, the flag! They were the Salt City Riders. We chatted for a while as they waited to get all their group together before riding on., Just before they did so, we had a photo together, and afterwards, one of their members, Rick, came across to ask if I would have a photo taken with him by my bike. Rick Gary, gave me his card. It seems is the co-host of a morning breakfast local TV show, called Bridge Street with Rick and Julie, which I assume is very much like the Richard and Judy show with even more adverts! He said he wanted to put it on the Thursday morning show. Personally, I have my doubts whether anybody would be remotely interested in a photograph of him with a lone biking retired English G.P., but he seemed pleased. We said good-byes and they rode off and I had my much needed pee and a sandwich.
I had intended to make it to Niagara today, but after another hours riding felt really tired, and so, when I got to Ithaca, I sat in a park to contemplate where to stay and looked up campsites on the Satnav within easy distance. There was one within 10 miles at a place called Taughannock Falls, so I set off to find it. Taughannock Falls is on the West coast of Lake Cayuga, one of the eleven, so called “Finger Lakes” which run north-south from the southern shore of Lake Ontario. They themselves are pretty much as big as any we have in The Lake district at home, so it rather puts into perspective the comparative size of what Bill Bryson called, our “Small Island”. Taughannock Falls is a small State Park which runs up a wooded hillside from the south west shore of Lake Cayuga. At the top of the park are the falls, pretty high, but, despite what I felt was a lot of rain in the last week, with a fairly small single fall of water from the mountain valley atop. The campsite was in the woods below the falls, and I was soon setting up, using my small Microfast tent for the first time. It was an absolute cinch to do. A spiral, integral frame, sprung open a welcoming yellow inner with groundsheet over my sleeping roll. Four minutes later, and the outer cover was attached and pegged down. I unloaded some of the things from the bike and made a salad for supper which I had with some rather stupid fizzy cranberry drink I had got in a sudden weakness at Dollar General, and followed it with a “peach” yoghurt which had probably just about seen milk, but certainly hadn’t ever met peaches. I sat and started to write some blog. A couple drove into the slot next to me and started to set up camp. As before, very friendly. He introduced himself as Mike, and her as Sherri. Mike was an estate agent (sorry he was “in Real Estate”). Later that evening they gave me some sachets of coffee as well as making me a cup and Michael gave me a packet of “granola” a mixture of oats, and honey and Sesame seed oil with dried fruit, which he had made and which, after being baked in a slow oven is eaten as a breakfast cereal like muesli, but a lot better! I slept very well indeed in the woods that night and enjoyed my granola in the morning. They mad me another cup of coffee and gave me some more coffee sachets and another bag of granola to take with me. As yet, I have not been able to fill up my mountain stove with petrol, as the hole in the top of the flask is too small to fill from a petrol pump, so the hot coffee was welcome. Thank you Mike.
Now, I have written enough here, and I really should end up with an appropriate Mark Twain comment, and when I have time to crib one from the internet, I may do so, but, at the moment, after the experience on the bridge at Chenango Forks, I think the goodbye from the bikers of The Salt City Riders is more appropriate.
“Keep the rubber side down Man!”

Best wishes,
Doc.

P.S. If any of you can get to see the web site of News Channel 9, abc at WSYR. Syracuse, which is at http://www.bridgestreet@9wsyr.com/, you may see me on the telly! Wow! Fame at last1