Cayuga Lake, New York
2 June 2017 (posted 10 June 2017)
Tom was up before sunrise to get pictures. I slept until the slightly more reasonable but not quite reasonable enough hour of 6:30 a.m. Today's route will be 56 miles long, with 3700 feet of elevation gain. There's an additional, optional 6-mile round trip to a waterfall at the end. I coffee up.
Starting from the house isn't a good option; we're on a narrow, high-speed road with no shoulder.
We pile five people and five bikes into two cars and start from an old fairground eight miles up the road.
Jack H toys with the idea of riding back to the house from the waterfall. Under normal circumstances, I'd jump on the idea. Not today. I've been on vacation for almost a week, eating beat salads, goat cheese, soft pretzels, and ice cream, and I have no faith in Tom's assurance that the terrain is "like the Sourlands."
From the moment I clip into Miss Piggy, everything hurts. It's going to be one of those days.
We pass some freshly-shaved alpacas,
and old hay bales stacked against a crumbling barn.
Tom has adapted the route, "Three Beaches," from a local bike club. We dip down from the ridge above Cayuga Lake to the shore about halfway up the lake on the western side.
Now we have to climb back out. It's time for the granny gear. At the top, we can almost see the lake in the distance.
Between Cayuga and Seneca Lakes, cows.
Ovid is one of the little towns between the lakes. There's not much to it, but the convenience store was vast. Where we Central Jersey folks are accustomed to seeing entire shelves devoted to Tastykake or Hostess, here I am standing in front of a rack of Little Debbie snack cakes.
And now I've got "Camel Walk" stuck in my head.
I've got coffee. Hunting for muffins I come up empty and buy a frosted cookie instead. It's a yellow smiley face. The frosting is puffy. It's kind of gross. I try to share it with Pete but he's finished at one bite. I'm glad I packed a few nutrition bars.
We roll out of Ovid up a slow incline. The roads we pass have names we see at home: Combs, Wilson, Wyckoff. We turn onto Wyckoff. Pete surges past us.
"Hey, Pete!" Tom calls out. "Where's your backpack?"
He's left his Camelback, along with his wallet and keys, in Ovid. He swings around and Jack, always looking to keep moving, follows him. "It's two, two and a half miles," Tom says. "We'll wait here."
If nothing else, it gives us both a chance to take pictures.
Tom figures it'll take them at least fifteen minutes, not counting whatever time they need to find the backpack. It's just getting on to that time when I wonder aloud if someone at the store saw the unattended pack and called the cops. "I'm picturing a circle of cops blowing up the bag and hauling Pete in."
"Nah," Tom says. "Not around here. There's probably a guy with a pickup truck and a shotgun." Then he says, "Here they are," and the two of them come into view at the top of the road.
"Someone found it and turned it into the store," Pete says. They handed it back to him, no questions asked.
For the rest of the ride we're going to bust on him about this. Hell, for the rest of the weekend. For the rest of his life.
A few more turns and we can see Seneca Lake.
Next it's downhill to Lodi Point.
We go up and over and up and over. I'm starting to get tired and I'm hungry again. We turn left onto the main road that follows the ridge above the lake. This is the road that last year made me want to be on my bike here now. For two miles we can look down the valley to Seneca Lake. Jack H and Pete zip off out of sight. Tom and I stop for pictures, of course.
"It's all gonna look flat," he complains. I agree.
A little farther on I find a good one:
We turn away from the lake, onto Picnic Area Road. We're entering the Finger Lakes National Forest. We pass the Backbone Horse Camp as we climb and climb and climb and I really need to eat something right now stop. I pull over on a flat spot and gobble down the second half of whatever bar it was I ate half of earlier. Tom pulls up. "Good idea," he says.
"I'm channeling Cheryl," I tell him. "I'll try to keep it to myself."
"Good!"
But ahead of us is another fucking hill.
We spin up it. If there weren't trees on either side of us at the top, I think that maybe we could see both lakes at the same time.
There's more wide-open landscape as we move along.
And now we have a dirt road! It's a Tom ride after all!
This one goes on for miles, and when we make a turn, it's gravel there too. No problem. Piggy can handle it.
Jack H says he might still ride to the waterfall. "I'll drive behind you," Tom says. I'm relieved. Maybe he's as tired as I am.
By the time we get back to our cars, not one of us wants to ride one mile more. Pete, who visits his daughter in Ithaca regularly, drives straight back to the house. Tom, Jack H and I stop at the top of Taughannock Falls. There's a short, paved path that gives us a closer look. I walk down it and Tom follows. Jack stays near the top. He didn't bring a change of shoes and is walking around barefoot.
It's pretty late in the afternoon when we pull up to the house. I need protein and head straight for the cottage cheese. Jack (my Jack, not Jack H) is still at the Cornell library, buried in manuscripts. Pete is heading to his daughter's house. Tom, Jack, and Dorothy want to go down into town to see the Ithaca Festival and have dinner at a pizzeria. I'm in no mood to deal with crowds. I text Jack to see if he's into having dinner somewhere out of town. Pete gives me a suggestion. Jack says yes. Everyone disperses. Jack texts that he's finished and walking down to the bookstore in town. We arrange a pickup spot away from the crowds.
Out on the lawn, down by the grapevines, a pair of chickens wander through.
and old hay bales stacked against a crumbling barn.
Tom has adapted the route, "Three Beaches," from a local bike club. We dip down from the ridge above Cayuga Lake to the shore about halfway up the lake on the western side.
We follow the shore for about four miles.
Now we have to climb back out. It's time for the granny gear. At the top, we can almost see the lake in the distance.
Ovid is one of the little towns between the lakes. There's not much to it, but the convenience store was vast. Where we Central Jersey folks are accustomed to seeing entire shelves devoted to Tastykake or Hostess, here I am standing in front of a rack of Little Debbie snack cakes.
I've got coffee. Hunting for muffins I come up empty and buy a frosted cookie instead. It's a yellow smiley face. The frosting is puffy. It's kind of gross. I try to share it with Pete but he's finished at one bite. I'm glad I packed a few nutrition bars.
We roll out of Ovid up a slow incline. The roads we pass have names we see at home: Combs, Wilson, Wyckoff. We turn onto Wyckoff. Pete surges past us.
"Hey, Pete!" Tom calls out. "Where's your backpack?"
He's left his Camelback, along with his wallet and keys, in Ovid. He swings around and Jack, always looking to keep moving, follows him. "It's two, two and a half miles," Tom says. "We'll wait here."
If nothing else, it gives us both a chance to take pictures.
Tom figures it'll take them at least fifteen minutes, not counting whatever time they need to find the backpack. It's just getting on to that time when I wonder aloud if someone at the store saw the unattended pack and called the cops. "I'm picturing a circle of cops blowing up the bag and hauling Pete in."
"Nah," Tom says. "Not around here. There's probably a guy with a pickup truck and a shotgun." Then he says, "Here they are," and the two of them come into view at the top of the road.
"Someone found it and turned it into the store," Pete says. They handed it back to him, no questions asked.
For the rest of the ride we're going to bust on him about this. Hell, for the rest of the weekend. For the rest of his life.
A few more turns and we can see Seneca Lake.
Next it's downhill to Lodi Point.
We go up and over and up and over. I'm starting to get tired and I'm hungry again. We turn left onto the main road that follows the ridge above the lake. This is the road that last year made me want to be on my bike here now. For two miles we can look down the valley to Seneca Lake. Jack H and Pete zip off out of sight. Tom and I stop for pictures, of course.
"It's all gonna look flat," he complains. I agree.
A little farther on I find a good one:
We turn away from the lake, onto Picnic Area Road. We're entering the Finger Lakes National Forest. We pass the Backbone Horse Camp as we climb and climb and climb and I really need to eat something right now stop. I pull over on a flat spot and gobble down the second half of whatever bar it was I ate half of earlier. Tom pulls up. "Good idea," he says.
"I'm channeling Cheryl," I tell him. "I'll try to keep it to myself."
"Good!"
But ahead of us is another fucking hill.
We spin up it. If there weren't trees on either side of us at the top, I think that maybe we could see both lakes at the same time.
There's more wide-open landscape as we move along.
And now we have a dirt road! It's a Tom ride after all!
This one goes on for miles, and when we make a turn, it's gravel there too. No problem. Piggy can handle it.
Jack H says he might still ride to the waterfall. "I'll drive behind you," Tom says. I'm relieved. Maybe he's as tired as I am.
By the time we get back to our cars, not one of us wants to ride one mile more. Pete, who visits his daughter in Ithaca regularly, drives straight back to the house. Tom, Jack H and I stop at the top of Taughannock Falls. There's a short, paved path that gives us a closer look. I walk down it and Tom follows. Jack stays near the top. He didn't bring a change of shoes and is walking around barefoot.
Out on the lawn, down by the grapevines, a pair of chickens wander through.
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