Albany

I tried posting from my phone, but after accidentally deleting the post when I was almost finished, starting over, and AGAIN accidentally deleting it, I temporarily gave up. It's hard to get online here.

I'm actually having a decently good time in Albany. I've met some really cool people, got scratched up by a cat for the first time (it was running from a dog and climbed me like a tree—i.e. with claws), and had the most enormous margarita I have ever seen. (I would post a photo, but this computer prohibits it.)

However, there's no work, which is annoying. Some days people are around, like the day I went to the New York State Museum with Juliana; another day, when no one was around and it was raining, I just sat at the library studying ancient Greek. If I had work, I'd have probably been sad to leave.

I expect to leave on Monday.

Never Smooth or Predictable

I took the bike downtown this morning.

"It looks to me," I said, "like it needs a front derailleur alignment, the rack slipped on the back gears, that needs to be repaired, and there's some friction in the turning of the rear wheel, I'm not sure what's up with that."

"Well," said the professional, "let's take a look."

He raised the bike in the air and felt the spokes. The tension was different on one side than on the other.

"Your wheel is bent."

"Yeah," I said. "I'm not sure I even feel comfortable with fixing that."

"As you shouldn't. This needs to be replaced."

"Cool. Let's do it."

"Not so fast. This is a 700x23, I don't have any of those. I'll need to order one."

"How long will that take."

"About a week."

"That's too long, I can't stay in Albany for a week."

After a lot of agonizing and back-and-forth, he sent me to his competition.

"It's far, but it's the only one that might have it, I'd say."

It was five miles away. I called them up. They didn't have the right wheel either, but said it would only take them a couple of days to get one. And so, I hoisted Old Not-So-Rusty onto my shoulder, and off I went.

NY-5 here is the road from Albany to Schenectady. It is not a pleasant road to walk on by any means. It is also not pleasant to walk on it when there is a bike on your shoulder.

"What's up?" I asked a girl sitting on the sidewalk.

She looked up. "How's your day going?"

"All right. Just exercisin' my shoulder." I watched a truck pass by, kicking up dust from the road construction. "I see you picked a scenic view, how's that working out for you?"

"Could be better. I just got into a car accident. I'm just waiting for a ride."

"If it makes you feel any better, I got into a bike accident. And somehow that entitles the bike to ride me instead of vice versa."

"So you're having a similar day."

"Pretty much."

At the bike shop, I begged and begged for them to fix everything immediately upon receiving the wheel.

"I wasn't supposed to be stopping like this in Albany. I wanted to pass right through. I have nowhere to stay here. ....hey, do you know a cheap place to stay here? I'll pay you extra to finish it faster, it's better than paying for lodging." I had zero intent to pay for lodging, and zero intent to let them know that.

The man wrote "ASAP" on the ticket and said my bike will go to the front of the line. I thanked him.

Then I finally went to the buffet to which I'd never made it yesterday. But today I hadn't been riding, and by this time I'd been fed by all three of the people at the apartment at which I was staying, so when I stuffed myself, it wasn't the same. Walking back downtown, I felt like I was going to throw up. I needed to sit down. I got to the library and sat down (with "Betraying Spinoza," which had been recommended to me). I still felt like I would vomit if I didn't find a softer place to sit. I walked around with the book, but there was nothing soft at all. I managed to take a nap on a hard chair; by the time I woke up, I was feeling much better, and kept reading.

I really need to calibrate my food intake based on whether I'm biking or not.

It was sad leaving Tree (short for Teresa). She and her roommates had tolerated me for a full week while it rained and rained in Springfield and the mountains to the west. At a time when camping would have been miserable, I had a cozy house to stay in. And Ferdinand the cockatiel, whom I could teach Bach.

Yesterday was a beautiful, sunny morning. I took Tree out to breakfast, loaded my bike, and off I went. I knew I was climbing out of Pioneer Valley, and I knew it would all be up. And it was. 43 miles of up, into the Berkshires.

For mountains that still have trees at their summits, it was an impressive amount of up. It was my first day of biking virtually without incident, and 43 miles is a short distance, but it was still tiring and still took a large chunk of the day.

I got to Beartown, where I was planning to camp, sweaty and panting. Pulling all your belongings with you up a mountain is HARD. I went straight off to find a lake, and did.

Thankfully, I sat down and ate some trail mix before I planned to change into my bathing suit. By the time I was done eating, the cold wind had gotten through to me and I realized I probably shouldn't go swimming.

Instead I pitched my tent while it was still light out. I was glad I'd gone to Salisbury, because I'd now refreshed my memory enough to be able to do this more or less smoothly. Things like putting an initial stake into the ground when it's windy.....stake? Where were the stakes, anyway?

I looked through my stuff and couldn't find them. What the ____ had I done with them? Whatever, another item on my shopping list. But in the meantime....

I thought I remembered seeing a truck in the woods nearby. I'd wanted to investigate and meet the person, but hadn't been able to find a good pretext.

I walked back there, and sure enough, there was a guy camping. I walked over.

"How are you doing?"

"How are YOU doing?"

"Oh, I'm all right. You wouldn't happen to have any extra stakes, would you?"

"Like.....camping stakes?"

No, like cow steaks. "Yeah."

"I think I only have one."

"For tonight, that would be better than none."

He smiled.

"I have no idea what I did with mine."

"Tell you what, you can have three. It's not that windy tonight." He pulled out two of the stakes that were holding his tent.

"You'll be OK like that?"

"Yeah."

He had a fire going, so we talked for a bit. He was maintaining the Appalachian Trail, which passed nearby. (I had actually noticed when I crossed it, and was surprised by how tiny and unceremonious the signs for it were; I almost missed it.) I, as always, was biking to Oregon.

After sunset, I thanked him, took the three stakes, and erected my own dark but cozy home.

----

I had to question some things about myself when I realized that one of my first thoughts, alone in the tent, was "Man, taking off my pants has never felt so good." I've only encountered a few cyclists, but of them, a lot have asked how—and why—in the world I bike in long, thick work pants. I bike in them because I'd have to bring them anyway, and I want to have minimal stuff to pack. But wow, my legs needed some air.

With no phone signal—and thus no access to the internet— I went to sleep as soon as it got dark. I slept over 9 hours and woke up at an alarmingly late 5:28 AM. I loosened the cocoon of my sleeping bag and climbed out, and that was when the brutal cold hit me.

The combination of the numbing cold and the smell of day-old sweat reminded me of why I wasn't a big fan of camping as a kid. I have to say I still see it as a last resort—but a wonderfully versatile last resort, that gives one much more freedom to travel.

I got up and slowly packed it away. I went over to where the other guy was camping (I somehow assumed he'd already be up) and used returning the stakes as a pretext to talk some more.

And so, I departed. I zipped a few miles at a clip of 40 to 50 mph, and suddenly....what the ____, uphill AGAIN?

It was an unexpected uphill trek to Stockbridge, and from there to West Stockbridge, but I did finally make it.


Interestingly enough, as soon as I crossed the border, the feel of the landscape changed. It was the same landscape I had known in college, when I would bike all over New York, even though this was a totally different part of New York.

I was getting hungry, so I started looking for places to eat. I rode a bit down Flint's Crossing Road. Farms. Miles down Peaceful Valley Road. Farms. I started to think about just asking a farmer. Miles and miles down Frisbee Street. Farms.

SKIPPABLE PARAGRAPH: I, by the way, liked the name of that street as much as anyone who partakes of the sport probably does, but I'm willing to bet it's a coincidence. The original game was played with empty tins from the Frisbie Pie Company, started by Russel Frisbie. Frisbie/Frisbee/Frisby is a pretty normal surname with a normal suffix, shared by other surnames such as Applebie/Applebee/Appleby. I'm tempted to say the one in question has something to do with Frisia, but I have no sources to cite. The street was probably named after a totally different Frisbee.

I passed East Chatham. One general store, closed Mondays. I passed Malden Bridge. Nothing but a post office. Suddenly, I looked at my shadow and realized I was going south, which was NOT the direction I wanted to go. I checked my map and realized I couldn't figure out where I was. Around me were just farms.

I walked over and looked at an old farmer mowing his grass by the road. He looked up at me and looked back down. I continued looking at him. He looked up again, then looked back down and turned his back. I really wanted to know where I was.

"Excuse me, sir!"

He ignored me.

"Excuse me, sir!"

He looked at me and looked back down.

"Excuse me, sir!"

He shut off the lawnmower and threw his hands up in the air. "What do you want?"

"Is this NY-66?"

"Can't hear you."

"Is this NY-66?"

"Can't hear you."

"Is this NY-66?"

"Can't hear you, get over here. I sure as hell ain't walking over to you."

Now that I had permission, I walked onto his territory. "Is this NY-66?"

"Yes, and Malden Bridge is that way."

"Does it go to Nassau the other way?"

He made a face. "You'll have to take a right.....later."

"Thank you."

He turned away and started the lawn mower again. My stomach was churning, but even I didn't have it in me to interrupt him again and ask where I could eat.

I rode onward. I hit an intersection. I took a right. Five miles up, I realized I wasn't approaching Nassau, and it probably wasn't the right he meant.

I checked the direction of my shadow and took a left. The road curved in the wrong direction. I passed a pond that wasn't supposed to be there.

I pinpointed the pond on the map, turned around and headed in the opposite direction. By what gears I was using, I could tell hunger was getting the best of me.

On a bridge, I waved to a biker going in the opposite direction. As he passed me, he yelled to me, and we both stopped.

"Where are you going?" He was looking at my gear.

"Oregon, eventually."

"I mean today."

"Albany."

"Where are you coming from?"

"I was camping in the Berkshires."

"I mean originally."

"On the coast, just north of Boston."

"Oh, really? My friend did a trip last year from Oregon to Maine. But it was a supported trip, he didn't have to carry any gear."

I laughed. "That would definitely help."

"Yeah, I imagine so."

"Do they get served food, too? I wish someone would serve me food right now. I haven't eaten since I ate some nuts, raspberries and chocolate at 6 AM, and it's going on late afternoon."

"Oh, if you keep going up this street the way you're going and then take a left, there are some diners and stuff."

"You mean Route 20?"

"That's the one."

"Perfect, that's what I was hoping. Thank you."

I had three miles to go up the street to get to 20. It was getting really tough to pedal. Stupid idiot, eating all the food yesterday so the bears don't come for it. I will need to do better with food.

I managed to knock down two miles. The last mile was interminable. I had to stop and rest several times, even though the hill up which I was going was quite small.

Finally, I got to 20. It wasn't even marked. Finally, it sloped sharply downhill into the Hudson Valley. I'd been waiting for this.

The road looked much like an interstate, and cars sped down it accordingly. But with the downhill, I was able to keep right up with the cars in the right lane.

There were no diners. I still don't know what he was talking about. For miles, there were only woods and auto parts stores. I felt like I was going to die. When I saw a Hess gas station, I pulled right in. I bought a big Rice Krispies Treat, an creme egg, and two hot dogs. I wolfed them down in that order. It didn't fill me up—not even close— but it permitted me to keep going.

Now I would even get into the left lane to pass cars. I zipped along. It didn't take much more than 10 minutes. I just shot by the signs, first "ALBANY 8," then "ALBANY 4," and then into Rensselaer, where the downhill slope finally ended and I swerved into town to get on the walkway that went along the Dunn Memorial Bridge, allowing me to cross the Hudson.

I was really hungry. I needed a buffet. I looked one up in the yellow pages via my phone. It was 3.4 miles away, on the other side of town. I started heading that way.

Downtown Albany disappeared behind me. Potholes and boarded-up windows appeared. I stopped and got directions to the buffet again, just to see how much distance was left. 3.8 miles. What? I'd gone the wrong way. I turned around.

I turned at an intersection and saw a big man coming at me on his own bike. I signaled which side I was going to pass him on. He misinterpreted it and swung over that way. Next thing I knew, he smashed into me and we, as well as our bikes, were on the pavement.

I'm really, really glad I wear those work clothes that other bikers have no idea why and how I wear. I got up practically without a scratch.

"Are you OK?" I asked him.

He staggered onto his feet. "My fault."

I started gathering my gear, which was strewn all over the intersection. He got on his bike and rode away. I had to tinker with my gears a little to get my bike to ride, but it worked well enough that I headed back downtown. I'll have to take it to a shop tomorrow to have a look. (It certainly now needs a front derailer adjustment and an adjustment of a small part of the rack that got bent into the gears, as well as an investigation into what causes the new squeaking inside the gears.)

I checked out the beautiful park just up from downtown. Then I met Juliana, at whose place I'll stay a couple of nights here while I sort out stuff with the bike and go shopping for stuff I need. Her roommate made me some pretty awesome dinner, of which I had all the helpings I wanted. Who needs the buffet?

Hopefully soon I'll stop in a city again and do some work for a while. I hate the feeling of a deficit.

Budget: ~$100

I'm going to go ahead and update my map position to what I expect to be my location tomorrow night, since I'm unlikely to be able to update the map from there. It looks like the long-range forecast was correct: the final storms are rolling down from the mountains and pummeling Springfield this afternoon and tonight; by tomorrow, both Springfield and the mountains will be clear for my passage.

----

Yesterday, I actually did get work here in Springfield, loading refrigerators onto a truck. Most of the time was actually spent sitting with five other guys in the back of the truck, with our legs hanging down, while it drove from one place to another.

"Man, look at that b__ch!"

"She FINE!"

"Did you see that? She just turned away!"

"She saw you's checkin' her out."

"You wouldn't guess it, but a little white girl like that is probably going home to a big mother____ing n____r."

"Man, I'd tap that. And then she'd follow me around all the time, like this other b__ch."

"Shut up, Duncan, ain't no b__ch followin' you 'round."

"There is, man, she just don't follow me to work. But she go everywhere else. Tries to walk in on me at home when I'm with another b__ch."

"Seriously? I'd'a strangled her."

"I might too. Sometimes, you just gotta strangle a b__ch."

"Yo, Russian, why ain't you talkin'?"

"Don't have much to add."

"You don't have any crazy b__ches followin' you?.....oh, right, you's bikin' from place to place, they can't keep up."

"Where you headed next, Russian?"

"Albany."

"Any reason?"

"It's on the way."

"You sure you'll always find people to stay with?"

"I've got a tent just in case."

"And you're going to Oregon?"

"Yeah."

"You plan stay there?"

"Probably not."

"You got family there?"

"No."

"I don't know what the f__k is wrong with you Russians."

"Yo, Russian, I once saw a movie about some guy named Ivan."

"You guys, stop talking to the Russian! Russian! Get over here and help me lift this thing! Do it for the Ukraine!"

"Holy f__k, look at that b__ch! RUSSIAN! Check out that b__ch!"

----

It was a beautiful day out, but nevertheless, as soon as I became the first person in months in Springfield to request a check instead of cash, I went home and took a nap before going to the bar. I always take naps during the day now because of the freaking cockatiel that wakes me up at 4 every morning.

On the bright side, though, all the Bach I've been whistling him is starting to pay off. This morning, I woke up to parts of the first movement of Trio Sonata No 1.

Waiting Out the Rain

Budget: ~$50

Yesterday was a beautiful day. The thunderstorms still hung over the mountains, however, so I couldn't leave yet. (Sunday and Monday appear to be two consecutive days of sun over the mountains, so that is probably when I will cross into the Hudson Valley and Albany.) But it was just as well. I didn't know what kind of damage the cat had done, so instead of fixing the bike myself, I dropped it off at a bike shop and went for a long walk through the eastern suburbs. Although I'm technically still in New England until probably next week, it's clear I've moved away from the coast. The yards now often include rusty 1970s cars. No cows as of yet, but I know those will quickly appear once I cross the Appalachians.

When I picked up the bike (the repairman had not only replaced my tube, but added a wider rim strip for good measure, making the back wheel even more resistant to flats) and rode it home, I realized how long it has now been since I've ridden a bike that isn't loaded down with stuff. And I realized that I've already gotten much stronger. I don't think I've ever before experienced the kind of riding I was able to do yesterday.

I left the bike at the neighbors', so that the cat wouldn't be able to get to it.

----

Today, it's raining again. I was finally permitted into the labor office and filled out the necessary forms. They were approved, so if there is work available tomorrow, I might be able to make a bit of cash. But at this point, it hardly matters, because that's the only day I'd expect to be available to work here. By Sunday morning, I hope to be working my way up into the mountains, and away from this city, whose only skyscraper is a massive downtown project.

Deflating News

Budget: ~$100

As I prepared to walk out of the house today, I did a double-take. The back tire on my bike was flat again. I hadn't been riding it and it had safely been sitting in the house.

It was Pumpkin, the cat, for whom the new name "Satan" was already being considered. I was actually genuinely impressed. With the kevlar, that tire, loaded with hundreds of pounds and hitting potholes at nearly highway speeds, had held up just fine. But it was no match for that cat.

I won't repair it until I leave—otherwise the cat would just pop it again—by which point it will likely have so many punctures that it will be useless to patch and I'll have to just put in a new tube.

----

In other news, I already hate Springfield. It's a dangerous place, and as of yet, I have not found any redeeming factors, though that may just be because the people I'm living with are busy with finals so I'm just showing myself around. But usually, I can find the fun places, and they seem to be absent here.

There's a company here that collects all the felons off the street and gives them jobs and takes a cut of their checks. (This happens a lot in other cities too and I generally like it, since they take care of the whole job search for everyone.) So far as I could tell, that's the only easy way to get a short-term job here. I called them up yesterday and they said they only take "applications" on Tuesdays, 8-12. I showed up at 10:30 today and was told they only take applications 9-10. I wonder if they would have told me something different if I'd shown up at 8 or 9.

I've been told by others to get out of Springfield ASAP. Believe me, that's exactly what I'd like to do. However, it won't stop raining, and my next step after leaving here is to cross a mountain range. The rest of this week is rain east of the mountains, and thunderstorms west of them. So I'm stuck until something like Sunday.

Hopefully there will be better cities ahead.

My Bike Gets Swine Flu

Budget: ~$100

I left Worcester pretty early in the morning yesterday, intending to beat as much of the rain as possible. The morning was cool and sunny and breezy. I was liking it.

I headed west through hilly Leicester, up and down, up and down. I've been noticing that while all the big cities seem to be nestled in valleys, usually on rivers or lakes, the small towns are always at the tops of hills. My guess is that back when water bodies were the primary arteries for travel, whether or not a settlement was on the water played a large role in determining whether it will grow or not. But perhaps there are other things at play here that I didn't think of.

Soon enough, all the signs were posted for Spencer.

Spencer has three associations in my mind:

1. There was once so much sodium hydroxide in their tap water that showering would give people burns
   
2. During the bird flu epidemic, most of the discussion on the news centered around Spencer
   
3. There were a couple of unconfirmed swine flu infections in Spencer just recently
   

My bike clearly felt this. As I came up the last hill before the one Spencer is on, the riding suddenly got much rougher. I pulled over. Flat rear tire. I walked the bike to a parking lot with a pair of picnic tables, ate some breakfast, and patched the tube.

I shot through Spencer and a few miles past it, when the riding got rough again. The rear tire was flat again.

I walked over to a grassy area and started taking the bike apart. Another biker pulled up.

"Walk back to Spencer. It's only a few miles. There's a bike shop there. Good service, very reasonable. There's nothing farther west. I wouldn't risk it."

I'd expected that I hadn't properly patched the puncture, but when I inspected the tube, I found that the culprit now was a totally different puncture in a different spot. I patched that.

As I pumped air back in, the tire started slipping out. I deflated, readjusted it, inflated again. And suddenly it stopped inflating. It went completely flat and wouldn't inflate even a bit. I was going to have to take out the tube again. I'd probably tried to inflate it to too high a pressure for the hand pump, and broken the valve. Two hours. Three flats. I wanted to cry.

Screw it. I put the wheel back on the bike and walked back to Spencer. I found the bike shop and shelled out the money for some armor—a kevlar tire for the back wheel. I also made lots of swine flu jokes that weren't appreciated. We also talked about Oregon and flat tires.

I zipped out of Spencer. The kevlar tire had a slight bit more rolling friction than the rubber one I'd used before, but I figured if it helped me avoid flats, it was worth it. And I got no more flats.

I passed Brookfield. It started to rain. I passed Warren. These tiny towns were so much less nice in the rain. I got into the foothills of the Berkshires, the section of the Applachian range that's in western Massachusetts.

I took small, extremely steep roads. I would ride up inclines as far as I could, then get off and walk. Cars would pass me. I'd shoot down the incline on the other side. If the road turned, I'd slow down, but if I could see for a large fraction of a mile—which was often the case—I would pass the cars that passed me.

Eventually I got to Springfield, though hardly beating the rain. The roads in this city are more pothole than pavement, and when those potholes are filled with water, they are indistinguishable from puddles.

----

Forbes.com recently published an article on the most dangerous cities in the US. The statistic they use is the number of violent crimes per 100,000 people. Their dangerous cities start in the low 700s, moving up to Miami with 988, and then, way above and beyond all the others, Memphis and Detroit, with 1,218 and 1,220, respectively. Had Springfield been big enough to get on the list, it would have outstripped everyone easily, at 1,920.

I'm debating whether to risk being out at night trying to get work. But it's going to be raining for quite a long time, and I don't want to travel in the rain, so work certainly wouldn't hurt. I'll spend at least a couple of days checking it out in the daytime first.