Category: East Coast Bike Trip, US (2014)

Leaving Malone the next morning, we waved good-byes to our Canadian Guinness friend, who was packing his wife and stuff onto the bike in the parking lot, and continued up north, until we hit the Canadian border.  It did not look overly guarded, or even well signposted for that matter – all you could see was a big road sign with two arrows, pointing in opposite directions: one said “New York”, the other one “Canada”.  Thus very symbolically underlining the fact of New York City being a country (and probably even a planet) in its own right.  We committed the place to memory by taking a photo under the sign, but resisted getting closer to the official crossing point, clearly and temptingly visible almost within arm’s length.  My Russian passport and no entry visa for Canada definitely would not have inspired the border control, so Canadian border remained safely under lock and key (at least for now)…

By the 4th day I was feeling great on the bike, and was enjoying the ride, experimenting with gears and bends.  I already progressed to 4th and 5th gear on the turns I was doing in 1st during the first couple of days, and by now I also remembered how to bend the bike down on the curve.  Counter-intuitively, I found it easier to do so with a big and heavy Soft Tail, than with my comparatively small Sportster.  The trick is to enter the turn in a comfortable speed and resist from breaking before or in the curve, but instead bend the fork down and accelerate mid-turn.  Then the centrifugal force will take care of carrying the bike out of the bend, especially if you don’t forget to keep your body straight and, instead of leaning into the turn, stay vertical.

Having reached the border, we turned East, and entered the state of Vermont under clear blue skies, lavishly decorated with almost unreal-looking puffy white clouds.  We crossed a series of bridges, connecting a string of little islands in the middle of Lake Champlain and continued on Route 2 towards Burlington, ready for lunch. Burlington, and all towns along the lake looked exceptionally wealthy and posh, especially compared to Amsterdam, and the north end of the New York State.  The number of brand new BMWs and Audis on the roads could easily compete with Munich, and we did not see a single boarded up building.  Fletch & Jane confirmed that Lake Champlain was the local resort area, the Vermont version of the Hamptons.

A perfect lunch stop was found without delay – sitting right in the marina, with spectacular view, a big lobster painted on the wall, and a down-to-earth name of “Shanty On The Shore“.  Seafood accompanied by a glass of wine with a peaceful view over the sunny marina set us all in a relaxed mood.  The real espresso found in a coffee shop nearby only confirmed our positive impressions of Burlington.

By way of culinary detour – a few words about coffee on the North American continent.  America is a great country, the leader of the free world, land of plenty, and all that…  Somehow, though, until very recently, it completely missed the coffee memo.  The weak brownish fluid served in even the most decent of hotels and fancy restaurants I visited over the years, cannot be called coffee by any stretch of imagination.  Starbucks definitely made America a hell of a favor by starting to sell something that was drinkable and not smelling like a wet mop.  During this visit I was positively impressed at how the espresso culture started seeping into the country. In cities you no longer get a perplexed look when asking for one, and we spotted real Italian espresso machines in more than one bar we visited. Hooray!  With the great food that the country already has, all that was missing was the real coffee.  Now nobody in their right mind would ever want to leave…  Immigration authorities – beware!

The last official day of the road trip was spent moving steadily South, with the inspirational destination of Doe Drive and the “Victoria suite” in mind.  Technically, the bikes were ours till the next day, but we wanted to drive to Boston for a birthday party, so the plan was to part with them right upon return from the road trip, and start off to Boston early next morning.  When planning the trip, there was some discussion as to the means of transportation to “the Walking City“, but in the end we decided against riding in.  Mostly because of all the horror stories we heard about Boston traffic, that were readily confirmed by Fletch & Jane.  I also secretly hoped to walk the streets of Boston without helmet hair, so tempting as the maze of streets might seem to conquer on two wheels, we voted for the car.

However, this was the plan for tomorrow, and today we were just getting out of the motel’s parking lot in search of breakfast.  We googled a nearby diner (thank you, World Wide Web!), and after a hearty breakfast continued on our way.  The road back was uneventful, and largely unmemorable, safe for two sights – one culinary, and one historical.  The former, represented itself in the shape of huge, monstrous, monumental in their surgery sweetness cakes.  Found in another roadside diner, where we stopped to check the directions, they were simply irresistible.  Stuffed to the brim with overpowering deliciousness, we were glad we did not have to walk afterwards, but just rolled onto the bikes, and continued on our way.

The road back led through another Washington Irwing neighborhood, and brought us to the historical landmark of the day – the Rip Van Winkle bridge.  Don’t know when the bridge was built – it looked too steely-modern to match my sketchy recollections of the era – but it sure was impressive.  An elaborate metal construction connected the lower side of the Hudson with the much higher opposite bank.  To add to the picturesqueness of the view, the dark and tall trees on the high slopes on the other side were dusted over with fog, and created an unhealthy atmosphere of a creepy, yet seductively enigmatic horror-novel.

Having dropped Jane off at the house, and emptied the bags of the bikes, we fetched the car, and rushed in the direction of the dealership to return the bikes before they close the doors.  The pie and bridge stops, however, nearly cost us our plans: we did not take the afternoon New Jersey traffic into consideration.  Normally, traffic is no issue when you are on a bike: it’s easy (and legal) to split the lanes, going between the cars.  This, unfortunately, was not an option for us, as we were following Fletch, who was in a car, not equipped for splitting the lanes, and who was the only person who knew where we were going.  Having sweated at snail’s pace on the highway for almost an hour, and with just fifteen minutes till the dealership’s official closing time, we finally reached the last stretch of the road, when Fletch waved us off, and we dashed between the traffic lanes to our destination.  Tired, sweaty, edgy and cursing non-stop, by the time we walked through the doors, we definitely blended in with the dealership’s more mainstream clientele. One of the big mommas who handed us the bikes just five days earlier was still there, and gladly welcomed the vehicles back.

After a much-needed shower, we celebrated the end of the roadtrip and successful return home with a dinner at Tequilla Sal Y Limon, Fletch & Jane’s favourite Mexican hangout in the neighbourhood, famous for their bitching Margaritas, great food and friendly staff.  The tiny family-owned road-side joint was indeed, warm and welcoming, and despite the size of the establishment managed to shovel onto the tables some of the biggest portions of food we have ever seen.  Large enough to feed a family of five each, they were nevertheless delicious.  We once again marvelled at the trained stamina of the locals – while none of us could finish what we ordered (even though we specifically asked to make our portions smaller, and ditch all extras), everyone around us was happily munching on their humongous dishes, and more than one table was seen asking for desert menues after clearing their plates.

The Margaritas were, indeed, to die for, so stopping at one would have been not only unimaginable, but downright rude.  By the end of the meal, we rolled out of the restaurant, and could barely climb into the bed in the “Victoria suite” – like all good and classy American beds, ours had at least three mattresses on top of each other, and a shorter person might easily need a ladder to reach this oasis of comfort.  If we continue with the gastronomy program at a rate we’ve been going so far, a forklift might be a thing to consider…