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After a lovely night in the Corner Motel (which I would give -1 star to, but I would still recommend for its, um, character (both in the person of Fred, the proprietor, and in the general character of the place), I walked over to the Stewart's convenience store and got a cup of coffee and a still slightly frozen apple fritter. Frozen? Hm. Usually one thinks of baked goods as being baked. No matter. It fueled the engine.
I was on the road by 7:00. I'm glad I was in the motel last night, because the temperature was 32˚ when I got up. My sleeping bags are only warm down to about 42. (How do you plan for a trip that starts in the 90s and ends in the 30s?)
It was a lovely, if chilly, morning, and the riding was lovely. I was mostly heading down out of the mountains, so the road was mostly flat, with a few significant hills (but nothing like yesterday). This was more populated country, so there were towns every ten miles or so; that is, there were a few houses, some outboard motor repair businesses, and a couple of gas stations.
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| On the way to Inlet, NY |
But it got progressively more developed as I headed down. The town of Inlet felt downright resort-like, and the town of Old Forge felt like Coney Island, complete with theme parks and knick-knack shops. Not really an improvement, except the quality of the convenience stores took a marked leap. The two slices of pizza I had for lunch were outstanding.
This was to be my last day on the route guide, which took me south to Boonville before turning west and heading for Lake Ontario. Becuase I had decided to end two days early, I would be continuing south to Rome, where I could catch Amtrak at noon tomorrow. I was tempted to go all the way to Rome and stay there, but I decided the extra 25 miles served no useful purpose, assuming I could find a place to stay in Boonville.
From Old Forge to the turnoff to Boonville (9 miles), the ride was fast, mostly a steady downhill. I barreled along at 20 mph much of the time. The road to Boonville was hillier. (Again: backroads don't try to minimize hills.)
I had two choices in Boonville: A tidy looking private canpground that was 3 miles outside of town, or the Headwaters Motor Lodge, which had mixed, leaning to very negative, reviews on Trip Advisor. I really didn't want to spend another night with Fred or his equivalent. But I also didn't want to be three miles outside of town, or camp in the rain (which was predicted).
So I took a chance on the Headwaters Motor Lodge. The fact that the large lawn was neat and tidy, and they had just taken the time to plant marigolds along the front walk, suggested that maybe the proprietors cared at least a little about the place (unlike Fred, who seemed to be planning on not fixing a thing before he died.)
The price was right (in the $50s, again), and the room was . . . acceptable. Slight cigarette smell, but you know, as long as you allow smokers to rent rooms, you're going to have that smell because, well, because they stink. You notice it on a bike. When a car of a smoker goes by with its window open, you smell the stink EVEN WHEN THEY'RE NOT SMOKING.
Do I sound prejudiced against smokers? Sure. They can help it. If they quit smoking and burned all their clothes and their car and their house, they wouldn't stink any more.
Anyway, this motel made sense to me when I saw the signs in the lobby directed at snowmobilers. That's what this palce was: A snowmobile motel. I've stayed in them before when I was a skier. I'm sure they're hard on motels. (One sign said, "Snowmobilers: You're renting a room not a party barn." Oi.
But there was TV and a powerful shower and a tiled bathroom floor (with a real bathmat!). It was OK. Dinner at the Boonville Hotel. Lovely place, nice people, so-so chicken and biscuits. I think I just ordered the wrong thing.
This was a perfectly good 76-mile day, considering that my butt hurt. Nice weather, no wind, lots of downhill, adequate service stops. Actually, the pizza in Old Forge was the culinary highlight of the trip.
I was well positioned to head to Rome and Amtrak, and thence to Rochester and my car. I hope it hasn't been towed.
So in America when the sun goes down and I sit on the old broken-down river pier watching the long long skies over New Jersey and sense all that raw land that rolls in one unbelievable huge bulge over to the West Coast, and all that road going, all the people dreaming in the immensity of it, and in Iowa I know by now the children must be crying in the land where they let the children cry, and tonight the stars'll be out, and don't you know that God is Pooh Bear? the evening star must be drooping and shedding her sparkler dims on the prairie, which is just before the coming of complete night that blesses the earth, darkens all rivers, cups the peaks and folds the final shore in, and nobody, nobody knows what's going to happen to anybody besides the forlorn rags of growing old, I think of Dean Moriarty, I even think of Old Dean Moriarty the father we never found, I think of Dean Moriarty.
ReplyDeleteWhat you need, Bruce, is a foil. Fifty miles a day, the whole country in one swallow, and you'd have one.
Jon
The Adirondacks are pretty grisly. I have been to Long Lake. Camped in a nice state campground there. Ingo was bitten by a Garter Snake there.
ReplyDeleteSuch memories.
Huzzah
Chris