Rochester to Bristol, mostly by bicycle (Comments: 7)

Note to geographically savvy readers: This article describes a bicycle trip in upstate New York, not, as the title might imply, in Merry Olde England.

The family and I went to my parents’ house in the Bristol hills for a cookout today. I decided to ride my bike there, with Jen and the boys following later by car. It’s about 25 miles from my house to my parents’ log cabin. Unlike the Canalway Trail, though, those miles aren’t flat and easy. They’re quite hilly and climby and uppy and steepy and– SLAP! Sorry.

Anyway, Bristol is a wee town southeast of Rochester, nestled in the hills west of Canandaigua Lake, one of the Finger Lakes, so named because after climbing the hills around these lakes, you want to give them the finger. My parents live on a road that serves as the dividing line between the town of Bristol and the town of Canandaigua, which is a Native American word meaning “mostly white.” The location of my parents’ home means that most of the cars that crash on their front lawn (which is on a sharp curve on the bottom of a steep hill) are half in one town and half in another, making for an amusing conversation with the confused drivers about whom to call for assistance.

I was really excited to ride there, at least in part because when I ride my bike for long distances, I’m not usually going anywhere. I ride some number of miles in one direction and then turn around and come back, or ride in a big loop that begins and ends at my house. This felt more like a trip, which was fun. Even with Emasculation Mountain looming at the end. (Stay tuned!)

I decided to take Clover St (Route 65) to Tobey Road to Route 64, which takes you all the way to Bristol, right to the foot of Emasculation Mountain. Both 64 and 65 are “bike routes,” which means they have a wide shoulder. It also means that fines are doubled for yelling, “Get off the road, you %&@#$!!!” (Side note: Not one person yelled at me on my two-and-a-half-hour ride. Not one. I guess the rifle works.)

Apparently, I didn’t zoom in enough on MapQuest when I was planning my route. If I had, I would have seen that Tobey Road becomes Stone Road. Had I seen that, I would have avoided the extra mile or two of hilly terrain, and also the conversations with every pedestrian in sight as I homed in on Route 64. The first person I asked was a young woman (maybe in high school) out riding with a friend. They both had iPods on, and neither heard me speak until I was right beside them. When asked if I was heading to 64, the one in front said, “I don’t know.” As it turns out, it was about a mile away and she was riding her bike, presumably somewhere near her home. I guess Miss Teen South Carolina ain’t the only one.

Next, I asked a jogger. He was very nice, but he gave me one of those “veer left, then jog right, then turn at the tree where Jeb Hastings got hit by that arrow…” He got me closer though. Close enough to ask two nice women who were walking their bicycle-hating dog. While one held back the snarling, lycra-hungry beast, the other got me where I needed to go.

If you need to go south from Rochester, Route 64 is a lovely way to do it. It passes through parts of Pittsford and Mendon, which means you see a lot of lovely farmland interspersed with obscene McMansions featuring lawns of Disney Green and Gated Community Lime. And the hills…

Now before all you Leadville racers start snickering, let me say that most of the hills aren’t actually that bad, particularly if all the gears on your bike work properly. In my case, the 1982 Motebecane Nomade that I purchased recently has a screwy derailleur. I can only use the big ring — the top five gears. I’ve been lazy about figuring out how to fix it because I mostly ride it in the city. “Bet you wish you’d fixed it, huh?” my dad said when I got to my folks’ house. I made it up nearly all the hills, until the bitter, bitter end. (Continue to stay tuned!)

The delightful and ridiculously fit Kent of Kent’s Bike Blog mentioned that he scarfed down Peanut M&Ms (endorsement, please!) on his recent trip around Washington State. So I stopped in Mendon to get some. They’re a great cycling food. Protein, sugar, and they come in a bright yellow package that helps notify other drivers or hunters of your presence on the road. Another side note: As I mentioned, Kent recently cycled around his home state in his capacity as Grand Poobah of Washington Cyclists (that may not be his exact title). He put his daily mileage at the end of each post. He’d say something like, “It was a light day today,” and then the bottom would say, “105 miles.” Some people are just lazy…

About two miles south of M&M Junction is a long stretch of open fields that smell the way only northern fields smell — sweet and rich and silky, like you’re riding through curtains of sugar. It’s an almost palpable feeling when you hit open country like that, particularly when you spend most of your days in the city.

I continued south to East Bloomfield, where 64 joins Routes 5 and 20. US 20 was the main east-west roadway across upstate New York until the New York State Thruway came along. I’ve driven it from Pittsfield, Massachusetts, to Rochester once, and I’d love to bike it one of these days. Today, though, I turned off and followed Route 64 from Toomey’s Corners, named after the old Toomey’s gas station. After the station closed, they found that all the ground around it was toxic. Thanks!

At the top of the first hill past Toomey’s Corners, there’s a farm that sells sweet corn. This farm has a big red barn that’s in pretty good shape for a barn in New York State. I remember when my aunt and her family moved to Waukesha, Wisconsin, she said she was amazed at how pristine all the barns were. Not so much in upstate New York, but this one has a lot of character.

I could have eaten it raw at this point on the trip

While I was up there, I also took a panoramic shot of the valley. You can click on the image to see a larger version:

Another mile or so, and the sign at the Gates of the Land of Country Living lets you know that Emasculation Mountain is rapidly approaching. (Stay even more tuned!)

Welcome To Bristol! Prepare To Be Humiliated!

And then there was nothing left but to tackle the beast itself. Satan’s Peak. The Widowmaker. The Child Orphaner. The Separator Of Wheat From Chaff.

Emasculation Mountain. [ominous music]

This very large, very steep hill runs from Route 64 up to County Road 32. That sounds easy, doesn’t it? I mean, the destination is half of the starting point. How hard could it be? This was the question I’d been asking myself for the preceding two hours and 30 minutes. I was psyching myself up for this hill, which I’ve driven up in a car thousands of times. The hill is steep enough that even a car can be heavily taxed by climbing it. But I was determined to make it. “I’ll fall over dead before I’ll walk my bike,” I told myself. (Somewhere in Rochester, my wife felt a sudden thrill of anticipation.)

I made the left turn onto County Road 32. I started to climb. I was in the sixth of my 10 gears due to the funky derailleur. I had, to put it simply, no chance in hell of making it up Emasculation Mountain. About halfway up, I stopped. I drank some water. I ate a few pretzels from my rapidly dwindling stash. I kept going. Sweat was pouring down my face, held in some check around my eyes by my wonderful Walz Cap. (More endorsements, please!) My legs were burning jelly. (Napalm?) My will was turning from iron to Playdough. (Skip the endorsement for this one, thanks.) I stopped again. More water. Enough heavy breathing to put the entire Republican wing of Congress behind bars. I got back in the saddle. I stood in the saddle. I made it about 10 more feet. I stopped. I got off the bike. I walked.

When I got near the top, I took this photo, which does not do it any kind of justice:

This is the upper half of the hill, which continues around the bend past the trees at the bottom of the photo.

Finally, back aching and spirit broken, I made it to the top of Emasculation Mountain and remounted the Nomade. A right turn onto Montanye Road, which is a poorly spelled version of the Spanish word for “mountain,” as in “Montaña de Emasculación.” As I cruised down the hill, my dad passed me going the other way. He never even looked at me, not thinking that his previously sedentary son could possibly be cycling from Rochester to Bristol. Oh, how I wish he’d been right!

Despite living there for several years, I had never noticed before that my parents’ road is actually partway up a steep hill. Nor had I noticed that their road itself begins with a hill. I managed to pedal to their road, but once I was on it, that was it. I got off again and walked to the top of the hill, then pedaled down to their house, giving my sister a mild coronary infarction as she caught sight of me riding my bike onto the gravel driveway.

Thankfully, my mom had just put out the post-ride food endorsed by the Lance Armstrong Institute of Ride Training: chips and onion dip, chips and salsa, cookies and iced tea. Several pounds of health food later, I was restored. And you know what? When I weighed myself on their scale, I was at 175 lbs. That’s 25 lbs. down from January. Snazzy!

I’m alive!

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