The End

Altogether now - 'If I can make it there....'

... I'll be at home drinking tea and playing Touch Rugby before you can say Rumpelstiltskin. Must dash now though, laundry to do.

Massachusetts and it's islands.

When you enter the Commonwealth of Massachusetts from New York State, there are a number of compensations. Firstly, you'll have left the State that's been responsible for both of your punctures. Secondly, although you enter Massachusetts via the Berkshire Hills, they're not as bad as you may have imagined, from a cyclist's point of view.

Before I go any further, it's only fair to tell you that I am exceedingly fortunate to have some relatives who live in the Berkshires. In order to try not to exarcebate an already desperate tourist situation, the exact location shall remain a mystery.

Now, I am a big fan of this area and, should the opportunity arise, I'd move there before the hat hit the floor. There are several compelling reasons for this and only one, so far as I can tell not to. The con is the presence of the Deer tick, for its size, it packs a nasty little punch.

The Pros are many and varied but all I need to know is the surrounding countryside is my idea of heaven. Wooded hills through which streams wend their lazy way. The usual urbanization that accompanies a trip through the United States has been banished almost completely. This has been achieved without a slackening in the standard of living (I'll go further and say that I have difficulty imagining a better standard of living, although I've never been in winter). There are big roads but these are hidden away, always, it seems, in the next valley and you don't notice it until you're right on top of it.

Accompanying this relaxation in the concreting of America is an abundance of cultural activities. You may not always avail yourselves of these delights, but it's always nice to know that the Summer home of the Boston Symphony Orchestra, for example, is a couple of stone throws away. There should you ever need it.

If I were you, I would make every effort to find some long lost family connection in the Berkshires and turn up unannounced. You will not be disappointed.

This brings me to the Islands of the South East Coast of Massachusetts. You'll probably have heard of them and if you're anything like me, they'll have been good things. As a consequence the ferry ride to Nantucket was a veritable hive of anticipation, and not just on my part.

The reality proved somewhat different. There's a saying somewhere about say something good or nothing at all.

The ferry ride from Oak Bluffs on Martha's Vineyard to New Bedford on the mainland was really fast.

Close followers will have seen plenty of pictures of Precious reclining alongside an ocean. Those to date have featured the Pacific Ocean. The one pictured here is the Atlantic Ocean. f one can have a home ocean, this is it.

Precious, having done remarkably well in getting me from one to the other with a paltry two punctures, now has the small matter of Provincetown to New York to complete. She is doing so under a bit of a cloud. I've told her that if she suffers another puncture, I shall trade her in for a left hand drive model. The little darling is petrified.

Anyway, today featured another cycle trail, The Cape Cod Rail Trail. There haven't been many and they rarely go from anywhere to anywhere. This one is particularly odd. It starts in the middle of nowhere and finishes there too. It's all rather pointless although, I'll admit, there weren't any cars to deal with. The trail does go very close to the 'Chester Ranlett Tool Museum'. The name was irresistible. Unfortunately it was closed, hey it's July and it was 1 pm. I'm told by an unreliable source (everyone down here appears to be drunk) that it features tools from down the ages right up to the present day. The Simon Cowell exhibit is a must see.

Apart from that Cape Cod has been a bit of a disappointment. For some reason it had always exerted a small pull on me and now it doesn't. OK so Provincetown is nice and quaint, but anywhere with a predominantly homosexual population is going to be nice and quaint. The rest is really quite (Cape Cod lovers should close their eyes now) bedraggled. Nothing more than some beaches and strings of motels. They even have a road called Ocean view Drive from which no view of the Ocean can be seen, masked as it is by trees. Maybe the Fall works. And, as I've said, everyone appears to be drunk.

It's OK you can open your eyes again.

Tomorrow sees the islands of Nantucket and Martha's Vineyard. Fingers crossed they redeem the situation.

Revolution, Redcoats, Revere and Red Sox

Those with an inclination towards history will find Boston an obliging city. There simply cannot be another U.S. city with the variety of locations available here. You'll see pictured an example of late 18th Century graffitti.

Boston resonates with names and neighbourhoods that you'll be familiar with. Paul Revere (Silversmith and Messenger), James Otis (Liftmaker and Lawyer), Samuel Adams (Statesman and Beer drinker), Benjamin Franklin (Ambassador and not a President (Apologies Gordon)), John Hancock (Serial Autographer and bloke with slang for 'Penis' in his surname. Also, first signatory of the Declaration of Independence) et al.

Anyway, Boston has sensibly modernised around the iconic buildings of it's past and to a large extent they can be visited, providing the visitor with human sized structures amongst the skyscrapers. These are sturdy, brick buildings from which the American Revolution blossomed, freeing the citizens of the 13 colonies from the clutches of tyranny as represented by the British Empire.

And who can blame them? Can you, hand on heart, disagree with the slogan, 'No taxation without representation!'. OK maybe I'd have sat down and drunk the tea rather than throw it overboard but I like to think that I'd've played an active part in throwing off the yoke of oppression.

Now I'm an Englishman, no matter how many people think I'm an Australian, and prouder of it than you think. It would seem odd to enjoy visiting a city that revels in it's role in sending England packing but weirdly, it doesn't feel like that at all. The sense is of a wrong being righted and you're almost glad that England was taught the lesson. Try to imagine for a moment a world in which the American Revolution had never taken place. Hard, isn't it.

As someone privileged enough to have been in the Croke Park crowd when the GAA opened its gates to 'foreign' sports, the solemnity of the occasion was never so bad as to make you wonder if it was safe to bellow 'God save the Queen' at the top of your voice. Even if you were craven enough to wear a Rugby shirt emblazoned with the words 'British and Irish Lions'. And so Boston's Irish heritage ensures the city remains as friendly and accommodating as Eire itself. Even if they do want you out.

Canal and Cooperstown

Every year 500 odd cyclists voluntarily choose to cycle aong the Erie Canal from Buffalo to Albany. This year, 2008, the canalside found itself ahving to cope with 501 odd cyclists.
Yours truly chose to set off along the canal at precisely the same time as the Erie cyclists. This wasn't planned.
As far as the trip goes, it was exceedingly good timing on my part. Not only were there plenty of conversational companions bu the rest stops were more than happy to keep this insane Englishman, sans name tag, fed and watered. "Just feed him and he'll go." they whispered.
Cycling along the canal presents a bit of a dilemma. It's flat, fast and traffic free. You'd like to do nothing else but cycle along it all year. Unfortunately, these very conditions result in you flying along it and, before you know it, you're 100 miles in and comingto the end of part of the towpath. Some considerable portions of ithe towpath are not there anymore and a combination of State, Town and County authorities are currently battling to get it completed. Don't hold your breath, I suspect money is involved and it could take decades. However, when the towpath is there, it's an absolute joy.
Never forget, however, that you are on a canal. A waterway designed for the safe and secure transport of goods. This means that there are no hills. Waterfalls can play hell with your perishable goods. New York is not a flat State. Upon leaving the canal to head to Cooperstown, the home, allegedly, of Baseball you will find a great deal of hills of humidity. The statistics show that on a 60 mile day, I rose and fell more times than all bar one previous days. Yes, I know. Without getting ahead of myself. The Cooperstown leg became the third highest rise and fall the very next day.
Cooperstown is the home of Baseball's Hall of Fame. This is where Baseball's greats go when they've hung up there helmets. It is a masterpiece of sporting nostalgia. The names of the men honoured here will be recognised in kitchens the length and breadth of this country and their deeds fondly remembered whenever and wherever their names are mentioned. Personally surprised at the presence of Wade Boggs - close readers will remember that name from a past post - it occurred to me that Mr Boggs was the only player I could name from my first visit to a ball game.
The Baseball Hall of Fame is full of that calibre Baseball player, you may not know it at the time but every so often something special comes along and you remember. For example, every follower of English Cricket will remember who Shane Warne first English Test victim was.
Cooperstown itself is suffering from a bit of complacency. With the Hall of Fame there, it's not really surprising. Of course, unless someone blows the whistle on the slightly eccentric method by which Abner Doubleday came to be known as the founder of baseball. Should that happen, and this is one of the great things about America, the Hall of Fame could easily be moved brick by brick to the Elysian Fields, New Jersey and Cooperstown will find itself alone and unassisted.
No offence Cooperstown, and this goes out to the shopkeeps, motel owners and gas station attendants, no tears will be shed here.

The Joy of Math

June 26 8:05:39 Jackson - Ferndale 80.63 miles

July 1 7:04:44 Ferndale -Wallaceburg 67.98 miles

July 2 7:38:08 Wallaceburg - London 78.5 miles

July 3 10:53:03 London - Grimsby 92.13 miles

July 4 17:30:16 Grimsby -Youngstown 75.10 miles

July 5 4:34:34 Youngstown - Lockport 25.74 miles

July 7 10:26:37 Lockport - Newark 100.19 miles

July 8 10:46:27 Newark - Oneida 87.45 miles

July 9 8:24:41 Oneida - Cooperstown 59.80 miles

July 10 14:21:27 Cooperstown - Great Barrington 121.37 miles

July 14 6:28:35 Great Barrington - Palmer 61.84 miles

July 15 8:23:11 Palmer - Boston 75.41 miles

Lucking out in Lockport

It's been a while since we last spoke and, with great sadness, I must inform you that Precious suffered a puncture after 4,625 carefree miles.
If I remember rightly, we last met in Detroit.
Since then things have been pretty uneventful. Mostly in Canada.
There are several points of note for those whose lives would be meaningless without this blog. The first is the insane situation presented to a cyclist in Detroit. Detroit is separated fom Canada by a river, over which a bridge spans and under which a tunnel bores. Should you wish to cross the border you must use a form of transport with an engine. You can neither walk nor cycle across (I didn't ask about inline skates or skateboards). The mind boggles 'Why?' and it will continue to boggle because no matter how long you think about it, you will not be able to come up with a valid reason why that should be the case.
You will be forced to cycle a pleasant 40 miles north, alongside a lake and a river, and cross on a small ferry onto a Canadian Indian reservation.
As a small digression, did you know that the 1st of July is Canada Day, all together now, 'Oh Canada'.
This part of Canada, Southwestern Ontario, is littered with small towns named after locations in my youth. London, Tilbury, Chatham, Colchester, Maidstone. The counties are named Essex, Kent, Middlesex, Oxford and an unpredictable Elgin. The comforting place names ally with the flat, unobtrusive farming landscapes to send the mind into an uninspired auto pilot. The type of adjectives that spring to mind are forgettable, placid, apathetic.
Through this area runs the River Thames, who'd have thought it, which winds through a number of towns and, with the honourable exception of Woodstock, these towns don't quite work. I will return to London but not this one.
The closer you get to Lake Ontario, the better it gets. You can see Toronto from a surprisingly long way away, at least 30 miles, probably more. It's skyline haunts the Southwest corner of the lake and keeps you company when you first hit the ridge that brings the lake into view, in my case, Grimsby ON, until you leave it, in my case, Olcutt NY. The Canadian side of the lake greets the Niagara River with a lovely recreation trail along which you cycle next to the river. The US side bids farewell to the river, although you won't notice, obscured as it is from view by homes. The same goes for the lake. Disappointingly, US rivers and lakes are, generally speaking, private delights. Which is a huge shame. There are, usually, public access points that allow you to launch the boat but I would bet a great deal of money that lakes around which you could stroll in their entirety are very rare, if there are any.
Niagara Falls, visited as it was, on 4th July, remains an extremely busy tourist trap. As you'll find, the second time you visit can be a real chore although happily, it's a place that lends itself to walking. Again the Canadian side is preferable. The US side, I'm sorry to say is simply a slum. Why a bit more of an effort isn't made is beyond me but if you are going to separate humans from a natural beauty by placing a two lane highway in between, you get what you deserve.
The US side improves as you head North. Lewiston, particularly is a town worth the name and your time and money.
For the record, the 4th of July is a holiday in the U.S. and as a consequence of a thin supply of motels and hotels, the emergency tent was pressed into service. Vindictively, as Precious had to spend the night in the open air, the ensuing puncture was her way of evening the score. This is where the luck came in. Knackered by a restless night's sleep and distraught at the puncture, a quick glance at the map indicated a sizeable town south called Lockport. Hoping to find a bike shop you'll find instead a canal path that runs all the way to Albany. Most cyclists out there will tell you that canals are the bike routes par excellence. With the exception of the North of England (honourably excepted by a stretch between Leeds and Bradford/Saltaire) canals provide the cyclists with a perfect environment. There is no traffic and the only things you have to worry about are being hooked by a casting fishermen and whether you should stop at this lock or the next for a tea. The areas around towns can be a little busy but the stretches in between are usually deserted. You, the bike and the butterfly rule the roost.
The next two days will be spent by the canal, I may be some time.

Take me out to the ballpark.

Swish me with your light sabre.

Colour me purple or pink.

Feed me with rare steak and gourmet bread,

and Nemo's drinks 'til I burst at the seams.

And it's win, win, win, for the Tigers.

The old English D marches on.

'Cause it's bears, beers, bread and baseball,

with the Collins'* family.

*with apologies to the triple syllabled Binkowskis and sole syllable Stoers.