The Summer of 1997 was one of my favorite summers. I had a number of great treks, I think the German was during the summer of 1997. At some point, M.L. and I decided that we would ride our bikes from camp to our respective houses at the end of the summer. According to Google Maps, it was just about 200 miles.
That was really the extent of the planning, just that we would ride our bikes home at the end of the summer. While we had the bikes, that was it. Neither one of us had come up to camp that summer with the plan that we would do this. I believe M.L. had panniers on his bike. I certainly did not. I had my internal frame backpack though. It was a great pack, I spent most of my earnings from the previous summer on it. That was the best part of living at home with a parent who would support you, all of your income was discretionary! While the pack was excellent for hiking, it was not built for riding. I would learn this later, when I was fully committed. Eventually we did figure out that we needed to plan a route. We knew that we couldn't ride on the thruway (amazingly, a fellow staff member had received a ticket for riding his bike on the thruway that summer - the fear of getting a ticket was the only thing that stopped us, not the idea that riding on 4 lane highway with every vehicle doing 70+ mph was insanely stupid).
We decided that we would just stick to route 9. There was nothing that prohibited us from cycling on this road, at least that we knew about to begin with. The great part of this plan was that it went almost all the way to our destination. In less than 5 minutes we had it planned.
Things went really well for the first few miles. The weather was great and route 9 was very pretty as it made its way through the Adirondacks. We didn't encounter many steep hills because we were moving away, not towards, the high peaks. Our plan the first day was to make it as far as Albany, probably 80 miles or so from camp. One of the more colorful characters from camp, a man by the name of Dirty Ben, lived there and had offered to put us up for the night. We made it about 35 miles to Lake George and I realized that I was in quite a bit of pain in the old family jewels. Not only was this one of the first long bike rides that I had done for a while, but I had all my gear on my back. Fortunately, Lake George is a fairly bustling town and I was able to pick up a pair of bike shorts. Life improved immediately. M.L. and I got into a routine where we would just sort of cruise at our own pace and every hour or so wait for the other person to catch up. It worked famously. Every so often we would stop at a gas station to load up on some Gatorade and other refreshments. When we got into Albany we called Dirty Ben from a payphone (remember when those existed) and he gave us directions to his house. We found his house and he welcomed us with open arms. M.L. and I were pretty wiped at this point. I distinctly remember that Dirty Ben's room was up a steep flight of stairs and my legs were burning at the top. Dirty Ben really wanted us all to go out to a bar. M.L. and I were both underage at the time, that did not concern us though. However, we were too exhausted to go out with him and fell asleep pretty early.
The next day did not start out as well. It was raining. Hard. It was the type of day where you just knew it was going to rain all day. Luckily, the only really sucky part of rain is the initial period where you transition from being dry, to damp, to soaked. Once you are soaked the rain isn't really a bother, it like you are swimming on land. We had no set destination this day. We were too far to make it home today, but we wanted to get far enough that we would certainly get home the following day. So we set off in the rain. It ended up being quite fun.
For dinner, we stopped at a Pizza Hut. At this point we had been in the rain for over 8 hours. We were completely and utterly soaked. Nevertheless, we went into the pizza hut, got a table, and waited for our server. And waited. And waited. M.L. observed quite correctly that we were being ignored. Other people came in after us, were served but we were just ignored. It really sucked. Yes, we were soaking wet, but we had money and we were hungry. Even more surprisingly, they sat us at a table, they didn't just turn us away. Eventually, we got the hint and left. We had parked our bikes behind the Pizza Hut because we didn't have locks and we did not want them to be stolen. When we returned to our bikes we noticed that we had parked them next to large electrical transformer for the restaurant. Near the transformer were some kill switches, to shut off power in an emergency. M.L. and I had a great conversation where we discussed whether we should cut the power in retaliation. Ultimately, we decided not to. But, we came close. To the point where at least one of us had our hand on the handle.
We cycled a bit further until it was dark. Then we put up the tent and went to sleep probably no more than 50 feet from the highway. I am still amazed that no cop ever stopped and inquired what the hell we were doing. I have yet to see someone else just camped next to a pretty major road, but if I did, I would support them. Things took a bit of a turn that night. I had the good fortune of meeting a lovely young lady at camp that summer who was willing to engage in a number of slumber parties with me. Perhaps it was the incessant rain and the fact that we had been cycling for two days straight. Perhaps it was simply the fact that we were in a tent, sleeping beside the road. Whatever the reason, at some point in the morning I remember M.L. clearly saying "What the Hell are you Doing!" When we discussed it the next morning M.L. related that sometime during the night I had put my arm around him and begun to spoon him. He also related that as soon as he said something my arm retreated quick as a flash. For whatever reason, I had become confused that night and thought I was at one of the aforementioned slumber parties. This continues to be a bit of a running joke between M.L. and I.
The next morning, we finished our ride. It was somewhere near Poughkeepsie that we saw a sign that said bicycles were prohibited on this portion of Route 9. True to form, we disregarded this sign. The sign was surprisingly accurate. The road quickly transitioned from two lanes to four. The shoulder all but disappeaed, and there was a ton of traffic. Quite rightly, cars honked and sped by us with inches to spare. Fortunately it was all over in a few miles. Holy shit was it scary though.
When we reached Bear Mountain, we parted ways. I later found out that M.L. had not told his parents about this plan. Apparently his Dad called my Mom and was quite angry. Regardless, it was a great adventure.
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