Category: Travel Stories

The morning of the next day greeted us with an unexpected problem: just when we were ready to roll, Fletch’s bike would not start.  The boys poked around in the engine area, and declared that somehow during the night the battery must have run out, so we needed to jump-start the bike.  I flagged down a grandpa, who was trying to get out of the parking lot with three oversized daughters in tow.  He kindly pulled over next to the bike, dug out the jumping cables from underneath a pile of crap in the trunk, and patiently waited while the boys continued their poking around.  After about ten minutes and no obvious success, grandpa started getting visibly nervous and fidgety, and confessed that he and his daughters were in a wedding party, and were late for the Sunday brunch.  We apologized profusely, thanked all four, and set grandpa free to enjoy the brunch.

I went around the parking lot in search of another Good Samaritan.  The area around the motel was not overpopulated by any stretch of imagination, but I got lucky: a skinny black guy covered in tattoos and wearing pants that were sitting closer to his knees than his waist popped out of the motel, and became my next victim.  Despite his scary ghetto looks, the guy turned out to be extremely friendly and helpful.  He pulled his big truck next to the bikes, gave us the jump cables, and stood by chatting amicably.  Turned out, the bike needed just five extra minutes of juice, and to our joy the engine came back to life!  We thanked our new ghetto friend, and he cheerfully pulled out, to continue with whatever he was doing before we found him.

Our eyes were set on breakfast, but before that we had a chore to run.  The previous day’s ride, that had a fortunate empowering effect on me, seemed to have the exact opposite effect on Jane.  We decided to leave her bike at the nearest Harley dealer in Amsterdam, and continue on six wheels instead of eight.  That’s another good thing about America, and the Harley brotherhood spirit there: each Harley dealer, regardless of their financial interests or affiliation is supposed to help riders in distress.  And they do.  We weren’t exactly in too serious a distress, but Jane’s foot was playing up, which made further riding for her not only stressful, but painful as well.  We pulled into the Harley dealer parking lot, and within five minutes Jane’s bike was parked safely (and for free!) in their garage.  Not wanting any more morning surprises, we also bought a new battery for Fletch’s bike, showing good will on our side of the free bike storage deal.

After all that, breakfast was definitely in order.  Following directions, provided by a sweet lady at the dealership, who was celebrating her last day at work before retirement, we pulled into the parking lot of Jackie’s Diner.  The place made a lasting impression not due to food (which, by the way, was delicious – with hearty portions, and home-made hash-browns), or service (also fantastic, with waitresses pouring endless refills of coffee, and inquiring every five minutes “Is everything ok there, sweetheart?“), but due to the Christmas tree.  Yes, even though we happened to stop at Jackie’s in August, the Christmas tree was proudly on display right in the middle of the diner.  The only seasonal adjustment was the replacement of Christmas balls and fairy lights with plastic roses of varied shapes, sizes and colors.  This added some surreal feeling to the atmosphere, and the place forever remained in our memories as “The Christmas Tree Diner”.  Maybe Jackie should consider a name change…

This day’s destination was Malone, NY, and we continued in that direction without interruptions for several hours.  The ride was good – great scenery, curvy roads, I was enjoying every minute on the bike!  If at the beginning I was downshifting to 2nd (and sometimes even 1st) gear before every road bend, no matter the speed limit indicated, by this time I figured out that only very steep bends required actual downshifting, and was comfortable taking most curves in 4th and even 5th gear.  I was definitely getting the hang of it!

The digs booked at Malone, NY were right on the road upon entry into town.  We pulled into the parking lot next to the (surprise, surprise!) another closed down bar/diner.  On close inspection the place looked more burned down than just closed, but the pattern definitely started presenting itself.  While checking in the motel, we met a friendly Canadian biker couple – the woman did not speak a word of English, but the man quickly established rapport by giving us tips on the best places to buy beer in the neighborhood.  We decided to follow his advice, and went across the road to get a six pack of Guinness, just in case.  Turned out, this was VERY good thinking – thank you, thank you, thank you, unknown Canadian friend!  After that brief shopping detour, we changed into clean T-shirts, and went to explore the town.

Malone, NY, has sure seen better days: definitely well off at some point in time, the town showed all signs of decay.  Boarded up shops, buildings that could do with a make-over, and a surprising number of old-fashioned potty-chairs turned into flower-pots – a nice touch.  To its credit, though, the place did not give anywhere near as desolate impression as Amsterdam.

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!