The American elections were just round the corner. I’d toured during Trumps first election and things weren’t looking good this time with even less logic involved. The guy had just been found guilty in court and still they wanted him? Could I sneak in, see the museums of New York City and Washington DC and be gone before the whole U.S goes down the plug hole ?  I decided to sneak in via their Northern neighbours. I have friends near Toronto. I could cycle  East along the St.Lawrence river then turn right and follow the Hudson to the city that never sleep. that sounds like a plan and 1000 miles of small town observation. 

                Things seemed to be going so smoothly. My flight into San Fransisco was on time and my bike was waiting for me ready to be wheeled through customs. Five minutes later I’d handed it back to AirCanada for the final flight to Toronto. Perfect except it wasn’t. My plane was changed to a smaller one, my leg room seat changed to a sardine tin and when I stepped off at Toronto I was met with an email telling me AirCanada had put my bike on a later flight. Shoulders drooped, I made my way out of the airport clutching a small bag with my cycling clothes and a few street clothes. My cheap? hotel beckoned. I wanted / needed a beer but even that was cut short when they announced that seeing we were all strangers, and being an airport hotel, they would commence karaoke in ten minutes. “I’m outta here” I sang out of key, as I stomped off to my room.

                  I caught the bus down to Hamilton the following morning with AirCanada messages saying my bike would be forwarded to my friends at Port Dover, Ontario. Meanwhile Bill and Carol arrived in torrential rain to take me down to their house next to Lake Erie. The rains we had this morning could have filled this humungous lake in a morning. The bike arrived but after a short peddle it was evident that the derailer for the gears was bent in transit. Off to meet the local bike mechanic who lives nearby and works from his garage. All fine but there is a twist, he doesn’t start till around 5-6pm then works deep into the night usually wrapping things up around dawn ? 

             The bike couldn’t be fixed and my spare part, carried carefully around the world for five years was actually the wrong piece !  I was onto the manufacturer in Tennessee the following morning. A series of miscommunications and poor decision at their end meant it got to me on the afternoon before I was due to start my ride to New York. So it was a few nervous days wondering when it would arrive. 

              Meanwhile I ride a loan bike over Bill and Carol’s favourite loops. It was also a chance to catch up with another rider, Harry from the CycleCanada trip of ten years ago. It was a great catchup reminiscing about our camping and long days riding through the Canadian countryside. Coach Bill saw me returning to Canada as his chance to improve my fitness levels. I saw it as him trying to crush me before I started. I am unsure how to say thanks Bill?

                     Serenity was just around the corner. The minute the bike part arrived and I started spinning my legs Eastward the angst evaporated. A light tail breeze was a gift that I’ll take and I begin to click over the kms. My shoulders lift and I felt the freedom of being on the open road. Canada is full of small critters that I have forgotten about dancing in front of my front wheel and unfamiliar birdsong thar takes a while to learn. My mind is free to drift whilst my city eyes sharpen, darting at the unfamiliar.

                     The greatest difference between now and ten years ago is the increased number of homeless I’m spotting along the way. They are often gathered in small ‘tent cities’ for their own protection. In the smallest of towns I see lines of up to sixty people waiting for food handouts at charity shops.More and more people are falling through the cracks here and also back in Australia.

                     As I venture further from the large cities the roads become quieter and I go into my cycling trance. I think about all sorts of things till the yelp of an untethered dog snaps me back to the here and now. Often, especially on quiet back roads these dogs are not fenced into the property and entertain themselves by trying to outrun and potentially take a juicy chunk out of my leg. Some listen to your stern commands to go home but most  bound on. They leave me fearful of a messy crash with no-one around or worse. Grrr, bad dog. Bad owner.

                      Crossing borders always makes me a little jittery especially into the U.S.A. I start my day early out of Gananoque after another forgettable breakfast where the highlight were the sultanas in the bran. A busload of French tourists poked nervously at the available delights, what they thought is anyone’s guess ? Anyway I rolled out into a warm new day. The St Lawrence river waterfront cycle path took me the first fifteen kms before I turned South towards the border.    

                    Unfortunately the dilapidated bridge to the border island in the middle of the St Lawrence is under repair. I was told to wait, a truck would pick me up and carry me beyond the guys lying down trying to strip years of rust off the bridge with noisy pneumatic needle guns. Then I was on my own again and told to peddle on towards American customs. 

                   I rode another half a km onto the back of a wide vehicle check point. I stupidly thought there may be one for people on foot and so rode past the line of cars. Immediately a guy raced out of his booth screaming for me to regain my place in the queue. Fifteen minutes later we were still in deep discussion. Why was I going to New York City and on a bicycle ? What will you do there ? I looked at him like, hell the list is long but if you wait a minute I’ll run through my full itinerary. Finally he waved me on. Evidently 7000 Mexicans enter the South every day probably with less grief ? 

                   But it wasn’t over… ahead is another bridge, bigger than the other and I ride up to the start. Signs, signs everywhere a sign went the 1970s song. One sign said use the footpath. Another said the footpath is out of order. The lock on the gate told me I couldn’t use it anyway. There was no-one around so I cycled on. Up and over was the only way off the island and into New York State. Thankfully trucks slowed for me and cars crept past but I was soon over the top and whizzing down the other side. That’s about the time the officious lady ran out of the toll booth screaming something in my direction. I reacted by riding over the grass verge and onto a side road and peddling as fast as I could without once looking back. The Mexicans would have approved, my heart was racing. 

                   The Trump flags began immediately. It’s one thing for the Trump supporters to bedeck their houses with Trump.. Make America Great Again ! It’s another to bedeck you home with F#CK Biden flags. Since when is that an accepted election style. It’s a race to the bottom. Anyway every small town in upstate New York had them and it’s a concern. But for all of my concerns regarding this redneck attitude I constantly met pleasant, honest people with a story to tell. But I did not raise politics once as I made my way through these areas.

                 Some days were short, others maybe a bit long. The plus was that even when the rains came and with a name like Watertown they did, the wind seemed to be at my back. The varying distances also gave me a chance to recover better than past trips when I would often have set long distances every day. Am I becoming sensible ? 

                 I love the countryside along the Hudson River, lush and heavily treed, it’s easy to imagine you are a thousand miles from any bustling cities.The small towns are havens for many that have escaped the big cities to live a quieter life or commute. I love them and their small brewery’s or non chain diners where connection is easy. In almost every town this was usually the start of a broad variety of conversations after quiet days of riding and I loved it.

              In Poughkeepsie I found a bargain hotel but there is always a catch. It was 3.5kms from downtown and anywhere to eat. After 130 kms here I am stepping out ravenous for food and getting hungrier by the footstep. It’s a Monday night and most places are closed. I eventually find another brewery and plonk myself down along the bar.

              The first beer barely touches the sides after today’s ride. I find myself having a couple more whilst talking to my bar buddy, Jason is in oil and gas and a hunter. And for sure a Trump supporter. His daughter goes to a private college. His daughter tells her father he is the cause of global warming. Long silence from Jason. He asks his daughter where this view grew from. “School” she goes. Well tell your left leaning principal that my dirty oil and gas money is paying her overpriced wage and unconsidered viewpoint.

             He then announces that he is heading to South Africa for his first overseas trip. A safari I ask ? That should be great. Yeah we are going to shoot some terrific animals. I wince. We manage to somehow shake hands then I stumble / escape out into the evening darkness. I wander down Academy St. full of beautiful historical houses then when the footpath runs out tentatively along the highway verge back towards my poorly situated hotel.

            I wake early on my last morning I have ninety kms to finish but the last hour or two will be through one of the planet’s busiest cities. The city that never sleeps. A few hills loosen my leg muscles and I eventually get into the groove. My Komoot navigation puts me on the Empire State trail and I have car free riding for some hours. There are no long distance riders, most I see are doing an hours exercise or walking their dogs. Then from nowhere comes Martin, flying along on his bike and then he is alongside asking me questions about where I have come from and do I like the trail. He explains he helps manage a Facebook page on the trail as they try to get more and more of the fragmented trail to connect. It’s been a long bureaucratic journey. Finally he asks me to stop so he can take some photos and ask one or two more questions. I suddenly feel important when all I really want to do is get to the finish line and plonk my weary body down in a comfortable New York hotel. It was a nice diversion and his work is making cycling a real option in a car mad country.

                But the cycle path dies a sudden death at Harlem. I’m immediately in amongst large aggressive trucks and darting orange taxis. Overhead is the subway with its own layer of grind and squeal. It’s disconcerting and all senses are on full alert. It stays that way all the way into the centre of the city. Visitors stop at traffic lights everyone else just sails on through with a quick glance and New York bravado.Then the smell of famous cities hits my nostrils. Like London and Paris you can’t pretend or ignore the whiff of raw sewerage. Old, broken down and overloaded the infrastructure feels like it’s being held together with sticky tape. But you try to ignore it, pretend your nose didn’t jerk away in disgust. 

              So I’m here in the city of extroverts. Where a population of 8.5 million spread out over five boroughs preen and strut their stuff demanding to be seen and definitely absurd. Every time you leave your hotel you will see something you’ve never seen before. But best is that everyone walks on nonchalantly… try harder they say whilst ignoring the peacocks.

           A guy riding a bicycle down 5th Avenue (if you want to show off this is the place to perform ) with his white poodle looking straight ahead. It’s sitting up front wearing a wild pair of ‘too cool for school’ sunglasses. At first irst glance, I was sure the poodle was steering. My jaw drops as he drifts by…. no other heads around me turn. 

           Its Friday night’s gridlock on 7th Avenue, a guy sits tapping his steering wheel. Everyone turns trying to identify where the booming nightclub level of sound is coming from. It’s his car, the convertible has a pair of speakers the size of two family fridges sitting high above the roofline. The car’s wheels flash strobe lighting whilst the driver sits calmly tapping the wheel and wondering why everyone is starring. Gold. 

           Another night I head down to Pier 17 near the world trade centre. The 9/11 memorial a sobering experience. It certainly drives home the magnitude of the 9/11 attack. A short walk away I’m at the waters edge then on an escalator up onto a rooftop ? arena. The backdrop of the stage is the Brooklyn bridge, how much more New York can you get ? I’ve come to see Trombone Shorty and the moment he and his band start playing the two thousand punters in the audience are dancing, grooving and hollering. It’s great to be at something which is local with the majority of the audience from New York. For a moment you don’t feel like a tourist. To add a bit of edge to the night a police helicopter hovers over the water alongside the venue. I’m unsure if it’s a security issue or the pilot wants to enjoy the vibe ? 

Photo of police helicopter

           Even riding the bike lane to Central Park can mean waiting at the lights with a commuter bike, a skateboarder, a woman on roller skates and a food delivery driver. All of them sure they will be the first off the mark when the lights change. All of them on their phones. A local guy, Ari drifts alongside me to admire my touring bike setup. After a few days in New York my twitching legs had demanded some laps. The conversation turns from cyclings freedom to the worlds concerns and our meeting proves that 99% of those we meet are good. We agreed it lifts are belief in humanity and future generations. We spin for a lap of about ten kms before he turns off to spend his day drilling into peoples teeth and improving their smile. 

          Leaving dinner near the Flatiron building I’m spotted by an alcohol fuelled, bare chested, black guy festooned in thick necklaces and far too many crosses to be religious. Did I mention the only garment he was wearing was a tight pair of black leather boxer shorts… He serenades me with a pitch perfect rendition of Elton John’s “Your song.” At first I’m bewildered yet surprisingly I begin singing along with him as we drift along the street. It’s my New York moment, and when we finish he holds out a paper bag for a donation. I give him some dollars which is not my norm. He is wiping himself down with a small sweaty towel. I can see him spending those dollars on another drink the minute I turn for home. What made me sing that duet on the busy street? Boy we nailed it and I’d only had one glass of wine.

             An obscure piece of information fell my way about a fascinating collection of hand made glass flowers at Harvard University. Amtrak are unreliable but the European FlixBus are now in the U.S. I bought a return ticket hoping for the best. At. 6am I started a five hour bus ride then fumbling navigation to my destination at Harvard university where this exquisite collection of hand made glass flowers resides. They were all made by a father and son in Dresden, Germany in the 1940s. They were used to train students at the university as real flowers wilted or weren’t accessible at particular times of the year. They have now been gathered together labelled, cleaned, repaired and available for the public to see. It is difficult to comprehend that they are in fact glass such is the fine intricate workmanship. The artisans desk they were made complete with a set of bellows under the top is also there to see. So an obscure whimsical side trip. I slumped into my bed exhausted at 10pm I long, long day but I still think it was worth the effort. I will probably never pass this way again.

Photo of flowers at Harvard

             I catch the train down to Washington DC as there are a few world class museums on my ever growing wish list. I wake excited that I was finally going to visit the Smithsonian Air and Space museum. I see women’s eyes glaze over but for the male population this is a place of flight and boyhood dreams. It covers everything from the Wright Bros audacious attempt to fly the first winged machine to sections of the Apollo space shuttle and everything in between. I have lived through most of the space exploration era. Every time I look into the night sky I struggle to believe that it is possible to reach so far from earth… and return. The bravery of the early astronauts is commendable considering there were real risks of malfunction, explosion, oxygen loss or alien encounters ! 

            I oohed and ahhed like a seven year old child as I stumbled from one exhibit to another. It’s free to get in but you must buy a time slot. The queue was two city blocks long in the burning heatwave currently engulfing the East Coast of the States. I said the museum is free but there is a sucker shop on each floor and a cafeteria that has you gasping for more oxygen. How much ?So they do get their dollars, extracted by stealth. 

         The following day a random conversation with a couple in Alexandria, an old trading port on the Potomac river caused me to change my schedule and visit the second Aviation museum at Dulles airport. Oh you must see it they chorused. So my day took a sharp left turn and two hours later I was at Dulles airport miles from my original itinerary. 

        Inside this massive hanger festooned like a Christmas tree is every fighter plane that ever flew. At floor level there are larger planes like the futuristic blackbird, a Concorde, jumbo jets and the Goodyear blimp carriage. Finally a whole area dedicated to space exploration. The actual spaceship Discovery which took repeated missions into outer space fills the room. It’s exterior of heat reflective tiles and the monstrous jet engines needed to propel it into the stratosphere. It’s all here, it’s in overload proportions and I didn’t expect to be so interested. Soon I’ll be found sitting in my car at my local airport with a thermos and tuna sandwich watching jets take off… now that’s a worry. 

          My two city sojourn has come to an end. Out before I can steal something from the breakfast room I wheel my bike onto the Maple Leaf train heading to Niagara Falls. A ten hour train journey which gets me back within spitting distance of where it all started four weeks go. I’m glad to escape the train and cycle along the falls path towards the Rainbow bridge catching glimpses of the thundering falls in the distance. At the border crossing it’s one small bicycle amongst hundreds of cars. I feel dwarfed by the odds but soon enough I have shown my passport and given a $1 bridge donation to get me back on Canadian soil. There isn’t a thing that doesn’t have a dollar value here.

          I spend the night in a small B&B close enough to the falls to hear their thunder. I wake in my closet sized bedroom then enjoy an omelette with an Indian take before starting my final leg back to Port Dover. I had seen the weather forecast and it wasn’t good news for me. A 30km/hr headwind was going to stay with me all day. It’s why everyone cycles to the East here. The wind buffets me, gives me little chance to relax, drains my energy levels and enthusiasm. I trudge on sure I won’t make it till dark. With 30 kms to go I pass a small icecream stall. I sit and let the coldness chill me and chat with some bemused locals asking why. A sudden downpour refreshes and stings me but there is a lull in the wind for a while and my mood lifts. The wind returns and I use my last reserves of energy to limp across the line back into the quaint fishing town of Port Dover. 

                 I think I enjoyed the diversity of the trip more than some. Small towns, catchup with friends, some beautiful countryside, iconic falls, live music and world class museums. I feel lucky and fortunate. Go out there and visit some of your dreams big or small. Enjoy every day, Jeff