Thanks to Julie for her report (see below) on biking through the obstacle course that the western fringe of the MCC Brighton campus has become. The last time I ventured through this area (let’s call it a “destruction zone,” since it’s a lot more about making things car-and-truck-friendly than anything else), I had to watch my “step” almost constantly. Still, the rough-and-ready asphalt path along the W side of East Henrietta Road did provide some fun.

But if I had to negotiate that mess every day, or even once a week, I’d be tearing out my hair and hurling imprecations at the Petro-gods, who clearly rule the roost at MCC, DOT, and various local governments. Of all the colleges/universities I’ve attended or taught at, MCC probably has the worst record of inattention to pedestrians and cyclists. For a long, long time (the Brighton campus turns 40 this year), bikers and other transpo-orphans have been the object of a de facto discrimination campaign. Sometimes as you wend your way between the city line and the campus, which from a distance looks like a very downscale Oz surrounded by vast defenses in the form of parking lots, you feel like The Fugitive braving hostile territory and inching toward vindication – “I made it alive! And I’m not guilty!”

I hope the ongoing reconstruction improves the situation. In some ways, it will have to: current DOT guidelines call for accommodations for pedestrians/cyclists whenever practicable. Indeed, the specific NYSDOT plan for this section of 15A calls for “bicycle lanes throughout.” But don’t expect MCC to turn into UC Davis. I’ve monitored the changes for years now, and the only options I’ve seen seriously considered are those that will sooner or later (more likely sooner) substantially increase traffic volumes around the campus. Bikers will find better conditions, but the campus, which is shortchanged on transit, too, will still be the academic equivalent of a Wal-Mart.

We should remember, too, that what’s happening around MCC Brighton is part of larger, darker picture. Brighton is becoming heavily sprawlified east of the campus, where the last vestiges of dairy farming have given way to ever-proliferating office “parks,” a land-hungry megachurch, and (soon) a gated community next to the Erie Canal. The canal trail and a couple of spurs (short trails through Meridian Centre Park and Brighton Town Park, plus the Lehigh Valley Trail, N Branch) are among the best biking spots on the planet, or at least this little corner of it. But overall, regarding the bicycle, Brighton and partners like NYSDOT have taken away more than they’ll ever give back.

I owe RocBike a follow-up post about my biking in Italy – but for now I want to write about a follow-up bike trip I took with Ian, my son, in New England and Québec.

Ian’s living in Providence, so we arranged to meet in Boston and head north from there. I chose to, or made the mistake of, going from Rochester to Beantown by plane, mostly because I had a leftover credit from AirTran. The credit reduced my fare to a staggering 10 bucks! But… the airline charged me $69 to take my boxed bike along. (I could have taken my folder in a large suitcase for nothing, but I wanted to ride my hybridized Kona, which has a gear range more suitable for the kind of “mountaineering” the route entailed.) Lemme tell ya: there’s nothing pleasant about standing outside the busy terminal at Logan Int’l and reassembling a full-sized bike, especially in the dark, and most especially when your bike-mechanical skills are as basic as mine. But this prefatory transpo-adventure had a happy ending. I got the bike together, made my way to a subway station a mile or so from the airport, and got to downtown Boston without entirely losing my sense of direction or my cool, such as it is.

Ian had an easier time: he took his bike aboard the commuter train from Providence and met up with me in the heart of Boston. Then, after a stop at an excellent Back Bay bikeshop for some last-minute adjustments, we boarded Amtrak bound for Portland, ME.

On this route, Amtrak accommodates bikes the right and proper way: for a $10 surcharge, you can roll your bike aboard (loaded with panniers or not) and stow it in the oversized luggage area. I can’t see why this service couldn’t be added to every Amtrak run, but as a rail enthusiast and member of the Empire State Passengers Association, I understand the train folks have got bigger fish to fry.

Portland, which I hadn’t visited in 35+ years, is a fine city indeed. Ian and I enjoyed the waterfront and restaurants, and frankly, I could have been persuaded to stay seaside for a few more days. But the Open Road beckoned… at least till it became clear that the road we’d chosen, largely because in this region there are practically no viable alternative routes that actually get you where you’re going without unreasonable “detours,” was not beckoning but in effect hollering, “Watch out, stupid.” In short, Route 302 north from Portland is not a cyclist’s dream: it’s got incessant heavy truck traffic, plus in the summer, an endless stream of moto-vacationers seeking fresh air even as they foul it.

The part of our route that took us through central and northern New Hampshire was much better in terms of road conditions – but of course we were hauling loaded bikes over some serious hills and mountains, too. I do love riding in hill country – the flats can get pretty boring, and besides, steady headwinds in the lowlands or plains can be mighty discouraging, much more so than even demanding ups-and-downs. Overall, I think NH is prime biking territory. Especially prime is the Dixville Notch area. Ian and I went through this high pass during a series of thunderstorms; we kept ourselves safely away from lightning (which should be one of the bike traveler’s biggest concerns) but we couldn’t dodge the raindrops.

After an exciting but wet descent, we holed up at The Balsams, a historic hotel complex, set on a mere 15,000 acres, that “donated” us a gazebo for shelter. When the storm cleared, we pushed on through a wetland plateau that gave us the best wildlife sighting of the trip: a moose that was browsing at roadside jumped and ran through the spruce thickets as we zipped by. We hadn’t noticed this fine specimen of the natural SUV of the North (maybe the label does a disservice to a noble animal) until it moved – and luckily the movement was not in our direction. You’ve got to take “moose crossing” signs seriously in this neighborhood, even if you’re nonmotorized.

When we left NH, via a seriously short trespass into the extreme NE tip of Vermont, we thought we’d conquered our quota of hills. Not so. This past of southern Québec, which despite many Anglo names on the map is a solidly Francophone region, is similar to the Southern Tier/Finger Lakes in the quality and quantity of long, long inclines. And even the major roads, which are wondrously free of heavy traffic, can be challenging when you’re packing lots of gear.

We went through towns like East Hereford, a sawmill town that’s surrounded by forests (duh!), lots of Xmas tree plantations (destined for, among other places, Long Island and Westchester, one local farmer told us when we stopped in St. Malo for lunch) and a dwindling supply of dairy farms. We also stopped for libations in the college city of Sherbrooke, from which we accessed La Route Verte, the newish Québec system of bike trails and designated roadways. (Check it out online – maps, etc.)

You notice how different the ambience is in Québec from that of NH and even VT, even though both the latter are heavily populated by descendants and relatives of Québécois/Québécoises. Ian posits that Québec Francophones are more European in their vehicle choices: smaller, more efficient and cheaper cars and trucks overall. What we saw on the roads, and what we didn’t see, tended to confirm the theory. I do hope that this and other aspects of what various commentators see as the province’s ongoing “Europeanization” drift down our way against the prevailing winds, both meteorological and political…

To be continued… with short notes about cycling in Québec City, hearing Paul McCartney almost by accident, tenting among the Vanbagos in a surprisingly (amazingly) quiet and pleasant private mega-campsite (again, that Québec ambience), and other stuff.

It seems like I’ve been away from RocBike for a long time – and yes, it’s been a couple weeks since I even checked in. But my absence was for a good cause: a trip to Italy, with lots of biking there (I brought my Dahon folder, which fits easily into a couple suitcases for air travel) and now some impressions to pass along.

My trip took me to several northern Italian cities: first to Modena, home of fabled tenor Luciano Pavarotti, almost equally fabled soprano Mirella Freni, and oddly fabled, expensive, gas-guzzling Maserati, whose headquarters are not far from downtown. Modena’s population is about 177,000, and I’ll bet the figure includes about 40,000 regular cyclists. As in many European communities, regular Modenites in huge numbers get around by bike, doing the shopping, dropping around to the caffe/café, going on dates (two per bike, and not on tandems), and otherwise getting through the day. If you wander the deliciously narrow and pedestrian-friendly streets and alleyways of the old parts of town, you see hundreds of bikes locked up everywhere. The bikes tend to be utilitarian, affordable models, some of them decades old and well-worn. (It’s only out in countryside, on the beautiful but narrow ancient roadways, that you see helmeted, bright-jerseyed riders on fancy road bikes.) Partly for economic reasons, and helped along by a human-scaled urbanscape and bike-friendly traditions, Italians depend heavily on appropriate transport technology.

The principle held true for two other communities I visited: the small city of Vignola, mid-sized Parma, and sizable Bologna (ca. 400,000 people in the urban core). I recommend all three to bikers and walkers – again, it’s the traditional urbanscape that makes the difference. Bologna, with plenty of piazzas and 38 km of “arcades,” i.e. Gothic-arched covered walkways, is especially attractive to pedestrians. I think this town’s Renaissance and Baroque architects could teach our RenSquare planners a thing or three. (And isn’t it odd that not long ago, Rochester was courting Parma interests for a deal to redevelop Midtown Plaza – without so much as considering the physical features that makes the city of Parma a resounding success?)

Not that Italy is a total biking Paradiso. At least in the Emilia Romagna region that I toured, the secondary highways are miserably clogged with trucks and cars moving at excessive speed, and there’s precious little space for bikers or pedestrians. And in the suburban zones, you see many working-class cyclists pushed to the margins, same as you see around home. But in Italian town centers, everything’s rosy: ample bike paths and lanes, urban traffic that’s respectful of cyclists, and an official commitment to alternative transportation. Modena also has begun a bike-borrowing/rental program. You just put down a deposit and get a key, then access publicly-owned bikes at any number of parking stations around town. There’s no fee for the first three days – perfect for travelers, though I must say the bikes themselves are a little stodgy in design, solid and serviceable but not suitable for long rides.

Well, I’m now coping with transpo-culture shock. I went to the Rochester Public Market this morning and did a few errands. Amazing how few bikes you see around the market (I counted about a dozen), considering the huge turnout (thousands on- or just off-site) on a Saturday morning. Part of this is the durability of the Auto Craze, part is the result of the Rochester’s failure to create the infrastructure that would seduce people into going to the market by bike. Why, the city only recently added another parking lot, this one on Railroad St. And still – as any competent traffic planner should have foreseen - the cars and “light trucks” jam the access roads and turn the market grounds into ground zero for air pollution and conflicts with mere persons who make such daring, self-indulgent moves as trying to cross a street! Maybe RocBikers, joined by Critical Massers and others, should target the market for some kind of actions. City Hall shouldn’t be allowed to ignore or downplay bike issues any longer. (I note with pleasure the departure of Dumbass Supremo Steve Minarik, the Republican boss who did something to offend everyone – and did everything to maintain the status quo that barely acknowledges alternative transport. Not that I expect M’s replacement will be much better.)

One last note: Italian towns also are home to vast numbers of motorbikes and scooters. This was especially evident in Bologna. But the odd thing is, I didn’t hear any straight-pipe monstrosities like those that take over Rochester-area roads every summer. Interpret that as you will.

One of bicycling’s least appreciated pleasurable aspects is walking. I mean, you go on a tour and you think you’re gonna pedal, pedal, pedal without a break? Give me a break.

Some examples: You’re carrying a big load and up comes a monster hill. Why pedal in a 19-inch gear and go no faster than you would on foot? Stop, smell the flowers for a minute, then walk to the top. Or you have a mechanical breakdown that makes your mount unrideable, so you end up walking it to the nearest settlement. No disgrace in this; the stroll may even buoy your spirit. (I’ve seen bikers laid low by a mere flat – that is, those bikers crazy enough to hit the open road without carrying a patch/toolkit. So be warned.) Or you just need to stretch a different muscle group – and you realize that biking isn’t supposed to be torture. So relax!

I think it’s fair, maybe even necessary, to rate bicycles on a, shall we say, pushability index. I give my old Miyata 618 tourer high marks here. I can lightly grip the bike by the stem with one hand and roll it along with almost no effort. And this holds true even when the Miyata is loaded to the gills with camping gear, clothing, tools, etc. Pushing the Big M certainly imposes less discomfort than humping the same load in a backpack.

But why am I bothering with this topic. Just a lead-in to a travelogue: my three days accompanying the peace march to Fort Drum, which meant that I pushed my bike (the storied Miyata) as much as I rode it.

Maybe you’ve seen something in the news about the march. (Check out nysmarchesforpeace.org for updates, with special attention to an upcoming rally.) Marchers will soon be converging north of Syracuse for the last push toward the base, which reportedly sends more troops to Iraq and Afghanistan than any other US military installation. I can’t vouch for the latter factoid, but I do know the base has grown wildly in recent years. No longer is it the miserable little hellhole it was in the early 70s when I had the bad luck to be sent there once in a while for “training” - no, today it’s a miserable enormous shithole and insult to humanity. But, hey, it brought jobs!

I digress. The point I’m trying to make is that it’s as simple as it is morally appropriate to bring a bike along on a peace march, and as simple as it is obvious that walking your bike is a natural form of locomotion. The vehicle itself is a symbolic presence – a human-scale machine that contradicts the brute logic of the highway (think SUVs, lots of them, as I found to my displeasure on Route 104) and the military (think Humvee/Hummer). And a bike’s inherent modesty, even with all the bells and whistles and panache of current models, allows you to function as a human being among pedestrians.

Which is exactly where you and I - not to mention the folks in uniform - belong.

I knew this month’s Critical Mass ride would be a standout: the weather was great, and many of the college students who regularly take part haven’t left town for summer yet. But I wasn’t prepared for just how wonderful the ride would be. We started as usual at the Liberty Pole a little after 6 pm (actually, some riders start at 5:30 at the UR River Campus), then rode for about two hours. The serendipitous, spontaneous route took us along the Genesee, over to Corn Hill, through downtown again, down Park Avenue (twice) and Monroe and East avenues, straight south on Goodman Street (a roadway practically begging for a velo-takeover), by the Strong Museum and Manhattan Square, and finally Gibbs Street. I don’t think I’m getting the sequence right – but you get the picture. We hit a lot of high spots, and none of them struck back.

If it’s not too much of a contradiction to say so, CM has become a solid local institution again. But we need to get more bikers out for it. (Make a note: we ride the last Friday of every month.) In a town where such boondoggles as Renaissance Square can pass for transportation projects/progress, grassroots action is especially important. Hey, maybe an upcoming CM ride can take an inside tour of the infamous Mortimer Street garage, which so many “downtown interests” are committed to preserving, even as they salivate at the prospect of tearing down attractive old buildings nearby. I remember an Urban Assault ride a few years ago that went up and down the ramps of the Farash building’s parking garage (I mean the suburban-looking office building that houses the IRS, et al., right across East Avenue from the Little Theatre). Probably trespassing - I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Don’t lock my body or bike up in jail! - but a nice complement to taking back the streets. And lots of fun and exercise. Anyway, isn’t the Mortimer Street garage, that prime component of the Uglysphere, a public space?

Even crazy year-round cyclists will admit it’s more pleasant to cruise through 60-degree afternoons under a gentle sun than to battle a blizzard, though the latter has its special pleasures. But the bikers of spring face an unpleasant reality: seemingly glacial deposits of debris: cinders, pebbles, broken glass, metal shards, and lots more – all the stuff that gets thrown to the curb or shoulder by passing motor vehicles, only to sit in the narrow piece of pavement “reserved” for bikes till some spring rainstorms - or in town, the streetsweepers – wipe the slate clean again.

So how do you navigate the debris and avoid flats? Well, steering around the heaps and windrows can sometimes work – but then you run into obvious safety problems. Especially in heavy traffic, you must keep to the very straight and narrow, which of course leads you straight into the mess.

I’ve found the best strategy is to equip your bike with the right tires. As wonderfully efficient as those teeny 23mm road tires may be, spring riding calls for heavy duty rubber. I can’t think of a better investment than a pair of high-end commuter tires – at least 32mm in width, with plenty of tread material and solid sidewalls. A few years back, my son, Ian, and I were riding in early spring (I recall piles of snow here and there) on the trails in the Toronto port lands. We were plodding along, only to be passed by a hot road bike. But passed only in a contingent sense: the roadie hit a patch of stones and glass ahead of us and, pffff!, experienced a blowout you could hear 200 feet away.

I’ve been using Specialized Armadillo and/or Infinity commuter tires on my 20-year-old Miyata touring bike, and what these tires lack in efficiency (and the lack is minimal), they more than make up for in durability. Schwalbe, Continental and other companies make good stuff, too. Some models have Kevlar belts and other high-tech means to counter punctures and cuts, but I believe that the basic thickness of the tread and sidewall are more crucial - the more distance a shard has to travel from the exterior to the inner tube, the greater the chance you won’t get a flat. In any case, tires like these ain’t cheap, but they can run flatless literally for years; in fact, they may wear out before you have a single puncture. Or rather: you’ll have many near-punctures that the hefty tires will prevent from turning into flats. Look at any commuter tire with more than a few miles on it and you’ll find many scars and other evidence of abuse and assault. I’ve actually pulled pieces of wire and glass out of my treads with needle-nose pliers, and I know that any one of these tiny hitchhikers would have defeated the typical road tire.

On my mountain bike I use basically the same tire, though fatter and more buoyant, all the better to ride out the potholes. Don’t underestimate what potholes can do to a tire or wheel, and don’t have too high an opinion of your ability to dodge the craters and canyons. Sometimes, in low light conditions or when they’re filled with rain water, potholes can be almost invisible. Other times you’re forced into them by the traffic flow at your left elbow. In any case, you need solid, ample tires and wheels (the traditionalist in me still goes for 36-spoke wheels with fairly wide rims, and I’m a bit skeptical of many new wheel designs that severely reduce the number of spokes – I mean, what price do you pay for saving a few grams?). Yes, you’ll have to work a little more to keep these wheels/tires turning – the dreaded duo, rotational force/inertia and rolling resistance. But how much energy would you eat up while changing a flat and cursing your fate?

Today one of my trusty toe clips, which was semi-fastened to a pedal not with trusty but very rusty hardware, broke and fell off as I was tooling down Mt. Vernon Ave. I just undid the strap, put the broken item into a pannier and moved on. Later, when doing errands downtown, I stopped at Full Moon Vista and bought a new pair of clips. And once back home, I put the new ones on – after resorting to cutting off the old bolts with a bolt-cutter. So now I’m good to go again.

Maybe you’re thinking I should just have taken the clips and straps off altogether and left them off. And there’s something to be said for that route. On short rides, especially around town, there’s no terrible need to be strapped in or otherwise be attached to your pedals. Pedaling efficiency, which surely is improved by clips and SPD/clipless systems, isn’t such a big deal for routine, everyday kinds of riding.

But I like old-fashioned clips for things other than efficiency. Indeed, I keep them pretty loose when I’m doing my commutes and errands, so the boost in efficiency is minimal. No, what I like about clips is how they make it easy and natural-feeling to position your foot just right on the pedal (assuming you’ve got the right size of clips and they’re installed right).

Even more important, I’ve found that clips can improve safety – crucially, once you’ve had adequate practice getting your feet in and out – by keeping your feet from slipping off the pedals. This is a real issue when it’s snowy, slushy or very rainy (and of course it also depends on the pedal style and the type of sole on your shoes or boots). You can imagine what kinds of accidents you could get yourself into if you’re pedaling like mad in traffic, your foot slips off the pedal and hits the ground, and your shin or calf is struck by the still-rotating crank. Ouch, and then some.

I do understand why people avoid using clips or similar devices. When you’re new to serious biking, they seem to just get in the way – very distracting, as you’re tempted to stare at your feet while trying to slip your toes into the damned things. Sort of like the questionable habit of staring down at your drivetrain as you go through the gears, which allows you to know precisely how many gear-inches you’re using in that dreamlike moment just before you slam into a parked car. But come to think of it, here’s one advantage to a recumbent, whose drivetrain is easily visible ahead of you, so you don’t lose sight of the road ahead, even if you’re not exactly focused on it.

I loved reading Adam’s post on, shall we say, spontaneous ice-biking. It can happen to anyone: the evening begins with a warm breeze, but then comes the rain, which soon turns to sleet; and as the temperature keeps dipping, the whole visible world becomes as slick as a “greenwashed” ad from Big Oil. And there you are, the intrepid bicyclist, faced with riding when even walking is a challenge.

The scenario is one of many arguments in favor of studded tires for winter riding. I’ve been using a pair of Nokians this year, after an apprenticeship in past winters with some cheaper but less durable Innovas. The Nokians are peerless (well, maybe equaled by Schwalbe, about whose studded tires I know very little) and well worth the price (the model I have runs about $60 apiece).

When the latest ice storm struck the other day, I had to do my usual commute to the RIT campus, about seven miles one-way from my place, through varied conditions: level streets, a couple gentle hills, some parking-lot-shortcuts, and a good length of untended multi-use trail. After the ice had landed, these surfaces were slippery as all get-out, and worse, textured by a wind-driven splattering effect (the elements as a sort of environmental Jackson Pollock) that added a little bounce to the ride. Still, the tires worked nicely. There were a few times when I felt a bit insecure, as when I went up and then down a steep pedestrian bridge over the Erie Canal. But for the most part, the tires kept me upright and going forward on ice that would have stopped a pedestrian cold.

I’ve got a lot of winter riding under my belt, and the experiences have included more than a few wipe-outs on unexpected or unseen ice. I remember one afternoon a few years back on the Genesee River Trail: it was about 10 degrees F, sunny and clear, and the ground and trail were almost bare. But as I swooped down and around a curve under a railroad bridge, I “encountered” a patch of black ice maybe 20 feet long that covered the full width of the trail. By the time I understood what was ahead, it was too late to take evasive action – or even let out a good ole Tarzan yodel. Down I went, sliding along on my left side as various add-ons from my bike tinkled and scattered on the cold, cold ground. (I instantly recalled an earlier fall on ice, this one at night, when it took me a while to find and reassemble all the little pieces of my headlamp, some of which had skittered under a parked car.) But my bike and I escaped without real injury. And I was glad nobody had been around to witness a most uncool maneuver.

Now cycling life is boring: my studded tires keep me from having more experiences like the above. So what stories am I going to tell my great-grandkids? Surely if you embellish it enough, you can make an absolutely uneventful ride into a heroic journey. I’ll give it a try.

Ever since my son, Ian, moved to Providence, I’ve been planning on a pilgrimage (by bike?) to Harris Cyclery, only an hour north of Prov, just outside of Boston. This sidetrip would not have been geared to seeing another bike shop, nice as that experience can be - and as great a shop Harris Inc. apparently is. No, my plan was to shake the hand of a mensch named Sheldon Brown.

Now all of us in the cyclosphere have learned of Sheldon’s death. (See the links below.) And to judge by the postings on bike-related sites all over the web, a great many riders of all descriptions are mourning the loss of a person they never met but who became a real and trusted presence in their lives.

I’ve gone to Sheldon’s web resources many times, looking for some bit of advice on parts, wheels, and more – but also, as a fellow sexageniarian, to enjoy his boyish enthusiasm for two-wheelers (and three-wheelers, for which Sheldon, who suffered from MS his last few years, had developed a passion born of necessity).

A good part of Sheldon’s charm came from his openness to the issues of everyday bikers, not just the performance-oriented. He knew that cycling culture and development of bike transportation depend on our all pedaling together as one.

Sheldon is already much missed. I’m sure, though, that his spirit must be present at the shop he worked for – so I’m still planning that pilgrimage. And I hope the web resources he created will long be available, because here we’re not talking about mere information… As Walt Whitman said, and I paraphrase, Whoever touches these words, touches a man.

I’ve just returned from Cyclotopia, formerly known as Ecotopia or the Pacific Northwest, and I’m brimming with thoughts about urban transportation.

In cities like Seattle, which I explored for five days, and Portland, the locals take transportation seriously. I understand their high-ranking public officials actually utter words like “bus,” “rail,” and “bicycle,” and not just as token references.

Take Seattle. Though this major trade, commercial and aerospace hub is notorious for sprawl and traffic jams, it’s remarkably friendly to bikers and pedestrians. There are marked bike lanes aplenty, and locking posts in all the logical spots. (The posts are actually steel pipes bent into a squarish “C” with the end-points bolted to the pavements; the horizontal section sits at the level of a traditional bike’s top tube. This design, elegant in its simplicity and probably cheap as dirt, allows for locking two bikes, one on each side. I suppose it would be simple to use two locks per bike for added security – and the two-lock method is certainly preferred in urban settings.)

The bike literature says Seattle has one of the most organized and largest biker populations in the country, and the infrastructure bears this out. Yet I was surprised at how relatively few bikers were on the streets. The weather was no obstacle. Seattle gets lots of slow, steady rain in the winter - Cyclotopian bikes are equipped with full fenders at a rate well above the national average - but the temperatures are moderate, even in January. And the trendy areas of town were packed with Gore-Tex’d and sumptuously fleeced yuppies, a naturally bike-inclined demographic. But still: I don’t think there were more bikers actually biking than you’d see in mid-winter in Rochester. Not even around the home store of REI Coop, the premier outfitter, which has surrounded itself with a quasi-wild microhabitat complete with MTB pseudo-trails - right next to thundering Interstate 5.

One reason might be the lay of the land. Seattle is mighty hilly. If your daily commute took you west from the Volunteer Park area, a delightful set of neighborhoods, to downtown and the waterfront, you’d start the day with a schuss. There are some great downhill runs, for sure. But as every experienced biker knows, what goes down must later grind upward. And for many Seattle downtown office workers, the trip home is a long pull - even adjusting for a possible boost from a tailwind off Puget Sound.

And this is where Rochester and other cities in our region have the upper hand. The terrain here is conducive to bike transportation. You may not be riding in a marked bike lane, and you may have to hunt for a signpost to lock up to, and you may have to slip-and-slide through slush in December and January and beyond (though, thanks to our fossil-fueled competitors, global warming may make slush a thing of the past, even deep in winter). But no matter where you go around these parts, you won’t need to power up a 10 percent grade for a half mile - and then after stopping for a red light, contemplate an immediate repeat performance.

Don’t get the wrong impression, however. I think the Pacific Northwest is great, and I plan to explore it by bike this coming year, possibly as the first leg of a cross-country trek. (I planned to do this last summer, but stuff happened, and I switched to a tour of Northern NY and New England.) But the truth is, the ideal place for biking is wherever you happen to be – you know, that old business about “being present” and “in the moment.”

Right now, I’m thinking about my commute to RIT tomorrow morning. It will be windy and a little cool (we hit 64F here today!), and the Lehigh Valley Trail will be open. Maybe I’ll see a red-tailed hawk along the way, as I did on Monday. It doesn’t get better than that.

Here’s a challenge for bicyclists, especially of winter variety.

Too often we’re figuratively tangled in our own spokes. We forget about the transportation matrix we depend on: the policies that determine motor traffic conditions, for example; or the state of mass transit. And we’ve got a special responsibility to grapple with issues that affect our transport cousins: pedestrians, in-line skaters, bus riders and rail passengers, wheelchair users, et al. So let me throw this at you:

With substantial snowfalls coming our way, many people will effectively be immobilized. We all know the reason. The sidewalks will not be shoveled, so pedestrians and people in wheelchairs (or those with other mobility challenges) will be forced to stay indoors or take their chances on the street.

As non-motorized folks we can appreciate the situation. We know everything is not okay just because the salt trucks and plows do the minimum so cars and trucks and Hummers can get where they’re going. We understand that basic rights – of free association and public participation – are at stake here. And that many people, sometimes including ourselves, are being denied these rights.

I was thinking about this as I waited for the bus this morning at the corner of Monroe and Meigs, ready to put my bike on the rack and take a leisurely, affordable ride out to Pittsford and the Nazareth campus. Well, the Monroe-Meigs eastbound stop is right in front of a Rent-A-Center, as good an example of predatory, parasitic capitalism as anything. And the RAC guys are living up to their seasonal tradition: they seem to have a hands-off policy regarding snow removal, and so their stretch of public sidewalk is often impassable – even though their customer base must be long on pedestrians.

But RAC is not alone. Up and down Monroe Avenue, and in most other commercial and residential areas, non-shoveling is the great leveler. Businesses large and small, prosperous and struggling, worthy and wretched, all – or many, at least – leave the sidewalk heaped with snow, which then turns to ice, which then turns to slop.

I’ve seen people go head over heels as they tried to negotiate these sidewalks. Now, I’m not one to pump the personal injury lawyers, but you’d think some enterprising client would at least try to take a shovelphobic merchant to the cleaners.

A myth has been circulating that the city sidewalk plows do the job, and no further attention is required. No way. The municipal code makes it clear that owners or first-floor tenants are responsible for removing ice and snow so sidewalks are not hazardous. But there’s no enforcement – not even an educational campaign, nor so much as a fleeting public service announcement. What gives?

This issue is a big one to disability-rights activists. Not long ago (last winter?) some activists took City Hall folks on a little reality tour of snowbound walks and bus stops. Nice photo-ops for the officials. But where’s the progress?

I’ve got this dream that bikers will become the vanguard on this issue. Groups like Critical Mass could swoop down on lazy merchants and institutions (including not-for-profits that should know better) and read them the mobility riot act. We could press for better bike-locking/storage facilities while we’re at it. Maybe we could bring our own shovels to clean the walks, and throw the stuff up on the offenders’ porches or whatever. A simple transfer of wealth. Surely no businessperson could object to that.

Another concern: I often see plowing contractors illegally pushing snow out from driveways and parking lots onto the public street. Any winter biker knows this can create a real hazard – dense snow and ice packed against the curb, to the point that the bicyclist’s travel lane is blocked. We should be addressing this problem, too.

I love snow, actually. It’s simply beautiful. I’m looking forward to a great x-c- skiing season. Might even get the snowshoes out soon. And I’ll be churning through the drifts on my Kona (and keeping upright on the black ice, courtesy of my new Nokian studded tires). But I really hate it when human carelessness allows the snowfall to hurt the vulnerable.

My bike mechanic, Roger Levy of Freewheelers, puts a premium on cyclical cleanliness. By which I don’t mean he showers irregularly. No, he’s always reminding me and other customers of the importance of keeping a bike’s drivetrain free of dirt, grease, rust, etc., not for cosmetic purposes but to maximize mechanical efficiency and get the greatest mileage out of the chain, chainrings, and cassette.

It’s not rocket science, just a matter of using solvent (hopefully of the “green” variety, with citrus, etc.) to remove gunk and crud, followed by a temperature-appropriate lube. Some devotees remove their chains and bathe them in solvent, then use various secret potions on them. But mortals like me cut corners, simply to keep everything easy. And mostly it is.

But then comes winter, with beautiful snow that soon is “civilized” into dirt-packed browncake, and road salt that dissolves into amazingly persistent puddles of brine. And before you can say “relentless corrosion,” your bike is a mess that must quickly be dealt with.

What to do? I’ve only learned a few things by trial and error, but for what it’s worth, here’s my winter cleaning/maintenance routine:

First, I’m committed to washing off the machine every time it gets dirty – or even more often. This translates into a cleaning job after every ride, and occasionally a quick splash during the ride. The main thing is not to be afraid to apply clean water where needed. If you have a good quality machine (and especially if you’ve got alloy components, sealed bearings and other modern protective systems) it will take a good shower in stride.

I used to prop up my bike on end in the bathtub and then hose it down. This leaves much crap and oily residue in the tub, however, so I soon turned to method B: running the garden hose from my kitchen faucet out the front door and hosing the bike out on the lawn. (The exterior faucet is, of course, turned off for the winter to prevent pipe breakage.) Method B was less of a mess, but it still meant doing a multi-step operation.

Today I use the Lazy Man’s Shortcut: I prop the bike against the side of the house, then carry a large bucket (sometimes two) of warm tap water outside and carefully stream the water over all the dirty parts, including not just the drivetrain and associated frame sections, but also the brakes and brake pads and wheel rims. Generally there’s no need to wash the top half of the machine – unless you’ve gone insane and are riding without fenders, in which case there will be splash on practically everything, including yourself.
So that’s my method; I frankly don’t know if it’s the wisest way to cleanliness – could the volume/pressure of water cause more intrusion into the bearings, etc.? – but so far, so good. My bike continues to work just fine.

Of course, the re-lubrication step is important, too, especially regarding rust-prone parts like the chain. You can wipe the latter off with a rag or paper towel and then apply a very light oil with Teflon. (I’ve found that in winter, you do need oil to keep ahead of the rust – though oil does pick up road crud and frustrate your efforts to keep the drivetrain running smoothly.)

And where you store your bike in winter can be crucial. Granted, as a certifiable bike nut, I consider my machines to be fine sculptures and am convinced they grace my definitely-not-feng-shui’d living room. Guests often disagree. Maybe you have a partner or roommate who waxes homicidal at the thought of a bike indoors, even if housebroken (I mean the bike, not the roommate – or rather, as well as the roommate). But I would be remiss if I didn’t plead the case: a nice warm place inside is where your winterized bike belongs as a matter of natural right. If you keep it in a dank basement or garage or on the porch or out in the elements, both it and you will suffer.

There’s also the matter of defensive preparation. Steel frames, even good chromium-molybdenum alloy ones, can rust, and the worst rust grows from the inside out. But don’t despair. Just spray some light lube (even WD-40, which also works well on gear clusters/cassettes) inside the frame tubes, which you can access the interiors by removing the seat post and spraying downwards, or by unscrewing one or two bottle cage braze-on bolts and then inserting a slender tube (like the one that comes with a can of WD-40) in the holes and spraying inward for a few seconds.

I seem to remember reading somewhere that light oil can seep down into the bottom bracket and dissolve the vital grease therein; anyway, in general it’s a great idea to maintain a decent distance between light lubes and the heavy ones that are packed into bearings. But in practice, I’ve never had a problem with this – and I think that the key is to be moderate. Don’t try to float your frame in oil, on the inside or outside.

I’ve been having a grand old time with the snowy roadways and trails the last few days. Notice I said “snowy.” The slush is another matter; and the infamous, slip-and-slide “car snot” or brownish gunky pancake that coats the back streets, is another matter still. Notice I said “matter” twice. Both times I meant “crap.”

But back to the snow. Ah, what a pleasure to glide silently through a couple inches of powder on a trail glowing with reflected ambient light. The purity of it all. Well, of all but the embedded particulates and various toxics that come with every form of precipitation.

On Sunday afternoon I mounted my older set of Innova steel-studded 1.5” tires on the Kona. Just in time. Because on Monday I needed to commute out to the RIT campus for the first day of classes. Everything worked great – though for while I’ll have to use East River Road instead of the Lehigh Valley Trail (north section) and thus will exchange a great nature experience for a couple miles of looking over my shoulder. I keep dreaming that trail sponsors will start plowing the most popular lengths of trail to encourage year-round bike commuting. But that’s a long way off.

This morning I rode out Monroe Avenue to Pittsford and the Nazareth campus. Some people are amazed I take this route. Frankly, I do so only because it’s the quickest way from my house, and I have trouble mobilizing my body in time to do the longer, slower, but much more pleasant Canalway Trail. But Monroe isn’t too terrible for the “reverse commuter.” Very little motor traffic heads east from the city line early in the morning.

With some snow and slush at the fringes, Monroe Avenue doesn’t put its best face forward, no matter what time it is or which way the traffic is flowing. But don’t rule it out. Just be careful, especially at the I-590 juncture.

You can also go intermodal. The Monroe bus line (number 7) has frequent service from very early to pretty late, so you can toss your bike – I mean lovingly cradle it – on the carrying rack and climb aboard to comfort. Quite often I bike the whole way out to Nazareth from the Highland Park neighborhood then take the bus back to the city from the Pittsford four corners. Satisfying and cheap.

This afternoon, though, I saw some of the downside. It happened a minute after I’d got off the bus across from Monroe Square, near Union Street. As I was re-mounting my panniers, a young woman carrying a two- or three-year-old in her arms came up and asked me if the number 7 bus had just gone by. When I said it had, she seemed more distressed than impatient. She’d been struggling to navigate that Rochester early-winter special, the unshoveled commercial strip sidewalk. And carrying a little kid obviously added to the burden. I told her another bus had to be coming sometime soon, but she took up her precious cargo again and headed west on foot. She really could have waited – but there was no shelter at the bus stop, or anywhere close by, so walking into the wind made some kind of sense.

That’s the reality that those who warm up to things like Renaissance Square – a maxi-station project gone berserk - would rather not think about. They scheme to get their developers’ windfall built with (mostly) transportation money, while those who (literally or figuratively) miss the bus and pound the pavement get the cold shoulder.

Maybe we need a true intermodal task force, a real political coalition of mass-transit and human-powered-vehicle folks, to address the full range of problems. I’m going to think more about that after my next bike commute, i.e. early tomorrow morning. And there’s bound to some additional time for contemplation on Thursday or Friday, when I mount the new Nokian carbide-studded tires that I ordered through Freewheelers, my favorite “LBS.” The well-worn Innovas on my bike are approaching the end of their service life. The Nokians, with long-wearing studs and (reportedly) superior grip, will help ensure my personal service life as a winter cyclist won’t be unnaturally short.

With echoes of last Tuesday’s election (rightwing anti-tax crap; immigrant-bashing via criticism of sensible driver’s license reform; the unfortunate success of local Republicans in maintaining a county lej majority) still bouncing through my skull like heavy metal in a “detainee” cell, I hopped on my bicycle for a backlots tour of the vast Henrietta Wilderness.

Motorists see only the fringes of this tract, which dominates the town of Henrietta’s northern half. And in one sense, they’re not missing much, since what they see at the roadside – endless pavement, scraps of greenery, bigger scraps of “brownery,” and throwaway architecture – is very similar to what one sees in the backlots. No, this is not your Grandpa David Brower’s wilderness, which teemed with life and beauty; rather, it’s a kind of spiritual desert that acquires some wildness from the absence of life, not counting the occasional delivery vehicle that rolls violently through the scenery.

Few dare to tread here – and even fewer to lay down their tire tread.

I know what you’re thinking. Biking in Henrietta? Gimme a Break. Or better: Lemme Outta Here. But don’t prejudge. The fact is, Henrietta, the scourge of pedestrians and aesthetes, offers great cycling opportunities.

Think about it. Not only is this part of town covered practically wall to wall in asphalt; much of the asphalt is in the form of abandoned or underused parking lots attached to obsolete big box retail buildings. That translates into expanses wide enough to pedal at top speed in any direction, do blindfolded figure-eights, try the technical moves your mom and dad warned you about, and otherwise live in a blissful state of transpo-anarchy. Yeah, you can have a grand old time riding the Erie Canal Trail or cruising this or that urban neighborhood. But in Offroad Henrietta, even as you hug the ground, you can fly with the birds.

If you live in the city of Rochester, there’s a “wilderness trail” you can use the next time you are inspired or forced to go to the main post office (Jefferson Rd.), Borders Books (an anti-union chain that’s best steered clear of), the regional market, or goddess forbid, The Home Depot.

Say your destination is Borders: You can take the Genesee River Trail south to the Erie Canal, then head east toward Pittsford, getting off the trail at Clinton Ave. Then head south to Brighton-Henrietta Town Line Road and go right (west) toward East Henrietta Rd, where you can access a sidewalk (recommended for newbies along this stretch) that will take you down toward Jefferson Rd. But before you hit Jefferson, or something hits you there, you can go to the right through some access roads to the regional market. After you cross Clay Rd. just west of the market, you can cruise next to the tracks behind a slew of commercial buildings till you get to some parking lots under construction, then go south a few hundred yards to Jefferson, which you can cross quickly at a new traffic light – which even has walk-don’t walk buttons, though the sidewalk itself is unfinished.

Once across the mad, mad flow of Jefferson, you’ll easily see your way southwest to the delivery and parking areas of the plaza surrounding a Wegmans. Look for Borders down near the end of the development. When you get there, turn around and head for home – and spend your book money at Greenwood downtown, or order from powells.com (a unionized Portland, Oregon-based retailer that’s become the thinking person’s book service).

If you follow this advice, you’ll naturally ask yourself why the hell you pedaled out to Macadam Junction in the first place. But that’s where the wilderness ethic and spirit of the explorer come in. You went because it’s there, and you didn’t know any better.

On this and other exploratory trips, you should take a county or town map. Sometimes the wilderness can play tricks on you. Speaking of which: no grizzlies are likely to cross your path through Henrietta, but watch out for growling, snarling diesels.

Since I wrote the short piece below this post, questions have surfaced about the difficulty and expense of taking Midtown Plaza down. Who knew? It turns out that demolishing a major complex within an active business district (ca. 50,000 workers Monday through Friday, plus nighttime entertainment seekers and a growing permanent population) is more complicated than, say, smart-bombing an apartment house in Baghdad, where Amerika has been honing its urban policies.

But as the new chapter of Farewell to Midtown is being written - by committee, and with little democratic discussion – there is one word that hasn’t been put on paper: bicycle. Odd, isn’t it? The players, from the too-oft-quoted head of the RDDC to City Hall’s Tom Richards to the new mandarins of Paetec, talk about more than 1,000 new downtown workers, new office towers and even new side streets, and maybe a touch of greenspace, yet nobody has talked about biking as part of the solution. What do they want, a form of transportation that dare not speak its name?

Every city I’m familiar with that has maintained or restored vitality and humanity to its core has been serious about accommodations for cycling - recreational, commuting, and business (restaurant delivery, messenger service, etc.). Some cities in our greater bioregion, like Chicago and Montreal, have worked for years on bike plans and have invested big bucks in implementation. What has Rochester done?

Well, I’m as happy as the next gearhead about the bike racks on RTS buses and the few locking posts installed on some commercial blocks in the ring of so-called urban villages. And as I’ve said many times, this area has a world-class multi-use trail system. But look at downtown: all the millions of dollars that years ago went into new sidewalks and lampposts and benches, and there’s nary a bike facility or amenity in sight. And the planners, movers, shakers, and imploders still won’t say what they’ll do to encourage bicycling.

Bike advocates, though, have plenty of ideas to offer. Here’s a short list: Put post-and-loop locking facilities up and down Main St.; make sure secure bike racks are in place outside every public building, and put them outside major private buildings within the public right-of-way, too, with or without the consent of owners or merchants; try some marked bike lanes on suitable side streets and arterials; plow and sand the Genesee River Trail and maybe other multi-use trails so they, like New York City’s Hudson River Greenway, can be used year-round; restore two-way traffic to downtown streets, with as much curbside parking as necessary; bring back, and expand, the downtown fare-free bus zone to promote intermodal commuting. And when those 8.6 acres that Midtown Plaza now occupies are cleared or reconfigured, make sure you create a biking-and-walking refuge of some kind.

There are bigger ideas that should get attention, too, like the creation of a light-rail system through downtown that would give intermodality a boost. (“People Movers” and other commuter trains, which move on dedicated rights-of-way, beat buses all hollow, especially at rush hour – and you can walk your bike right on board, too.) But many of us would be happy to see some baby steps. The main thing is to get moving without delay. Otherwise we’ll plunge into the era of Peak Oil as just another washed-up Motor City.

[From jackbradiganspula.net] So Midtown Plaza soon will bite the dust. Actually, it will be Rochesterians who’ll bite any dust raised in the process: the inevitable though unseen air pollution from dismantling and imploding older buildings laden with asbestos, gypsum, silica, and other things inimical to human lungs. But that’s progress, right?

I’ve had a love-hate relationship with Midtown for years. When I was an Eastman student, and later when I worked there in the Sibley Music Library, Midtown offered me a respite from the unfortunately small world of the arts. Never mind the kitschy Clock of the Nations; the plaza floor itself measured, step by human step, the depth and range of city life. You could see anybody at all walking through, waiting for a slice of pizza, pausing over a cup of coffee, focusing on urgent or imaginary business, trying to find a seat among the “No Sitting” signs on what looked like natural benches – you were part of Midtown, whether you looked eminently respectable or like any other form of lost soul.

The hate part of my feelings was architectural. Even when it was a newborn, as the gleaming progeny of once-revered Victor Gruen, the plaza always looked cheap, and the 1960s-style updating of several older buildings that staked out the site like pylons depressed the aesthetic value even more.

Yet Midtown at its best fulfilled the promise of good urban design. It brought people together – as close to “everybody” as you can get, and as you do get on Saturdays at the Public Market, to cite Rochester’s greatest success. And as you won’t get with whatever succeeds the plaza – whether it’s a stuffy office tower for Paetec, as now promised, or the plans change again and we get a stuffy collection of boutiques and upper middle class retreats and redoubts.

At the very least, some effort should go to saving the more valuable older buildings that the plaza swallowed whole, or nearly whole. Why demolish everything on the 8.6-acre site? There’s got to be space that’s retrievable.

But most of what needs retrieval is the life of the street. When Rochesterians reminisce about Downtown in the old days, they mostly talk about the crowds, the packed department stores at holiday time, the annual monorail in Midtown loaded with kids. It’s that critical mass of humanity that we need to worry about most. And as we assess the Paetec plan, we should be asking what life it will bring to East Main, Clinton, East Avenue, and Chestnut And forgotten streets like Euclid, Lawn, and Atlas. Where are those, you ask? Exactly my point.

When Jason, Adam and I did our Thursday night quickie tour of the Genesee River Trail N to Charlotte and back, the subject of tools came up. Not that we were calling anyone names: we just compared notes on what was in our emergency toolkits. So this post is about what’s in mine, and how I’ve tried to strike a balance between raw weight in the pannier and potential immobility in the “breakdown lane.”

Here’s what you’ll find among my collection of tools for emergency repairs and adjustments: a decent frame pump (i.e. one that actually pumps sufficient volumes of air in a reasonable time, as opposed to various “mini-pumps” that fit nicely in your pack but give you bursitis and heart failure when you have the misfortune to use them), a full patch kit (including rubber cement, at least several patches of different sizes, and a piece of sandpaper or the like for roughing up the butyl surface), a spare tube (to render the patch kit redundant, naturally! – it’s always easier to pop in a new tube instead of patching a punctured one), tire levers (a.k.a. “irons,” for prying the tire off the rim when changing a flat; BTW, put the tire back on the rim by hand, to the extent possible, to prevent damaging the new or patched tube), a multi-tool (there are many brands and types, but yours should have several allen wrenches in common sizes, a selection of hex/box wrenches, a 6-inch adjustable wrench to use on the pedal axles and other parts and to make the wrenches on your multi-tool redundant!), slotted and Phillips-head screwdrivers, a chain tool for “breaking” and re-joining your chain (with replacement links), a knife blade for general purposes, replacement brake and derailleur cables (braided stainless steel, preferably). Hope I haven’t forgotten anything. Oh yeah, on a tour in remote country you might include a “cone wrench” for adjusting your hubs/axles, plus a headset wrench (your adjustable wrench won’t open wide enough to do the job).

Sound like a lot of gear? Maybe – but if you get bike-specific tools, your toolkit won’t be very large or heavy; mine fits easily into a wedge pack, the sort that hangs under the seat, and weighs only a pound and a half.

Your kit will also prepare you for an enhanced social life. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve stopped to help out a cyclist marooned on some far-off stretch of trail – the terrestrial equivalent of being up the creek without a paddle – and got into a fascinating conversation.

Jason’s note: This is Part 12 of Jack’s essay about his recent trip through the northeast. Here are the previous installments:

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 |Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 |
Part 11

Travel by bike often translates into travel with bike. That is, when you need to make an intermodal connection, your vehicle becomes a piece of luggage. So it was for me at one point this summer: I needed to get back to Rochester for a few days of paid employment, in part to finance my summer rambles, and that meant a quick zip west from Schenectady by train or bus. For this “detour,” I picked the train, mostly because I like Amtrak – which you should keep in mind when you see the criticism below. (And did I mention I’m a member of the Empire State Passenger Association, a fine public transport advocacy group that works to bring rail service up to par? Check it out at http://www.trainweb.org/espa/ — and think seriously about joining.)

Now, traveling with a bike shouldn’t be a problem – after all, the thing weighs only 25 pounds or so, and though it’s bigger than a bread basket, it’s not much bigger than some bags that are wheeled through the train station or airport every day. But the transportation system, such as it is, can’t seem to handle a bike.

I chewed on this fact several times during my summer tour. The first time was when I made an abortive stop at the Fort Edward Amtrak station, which I’ve already described. The second was at the Schenectady station, a “full service” hub where, like the proverbial glass, the vessel is only half-full.

What I chewed on was Amtrak’s schizoid attitude toward bicycles. There’s a limitation that applies to all routes: you can take a bike aboard only those trains that have a baggage car, which knocks you out of half the schedule. But on east-west routes in this region, you must box the bike, while on the north-south Adirondack line, you can check the bike unboxed - apparently a special service for the New York-Montreal traveler, who’s more likely to be a cyclist. Compare this to Canada’s VIA Rail, which allows unboxed bikes as checked baggage on every train with a baggage car – slightly better, more predictable service. Neither Amtrak nor Via provides free bike service; the former charges $5 for checking the bike, plus $10 for the box (unless you provide your own and truck it to the station).

You can circumvent the problems by traveling with a folding bike, which is legal on all trains and is not treated as checked baggage; on Amtrak, your folder slips into the oversized luggage area at one end of the passenger car. (I’ve got a Dahon folder that I used for part of my tour; more about this later, in regard to the New England leg.) This is similar to the European system – only across the pond, they allow full-sized bikes to be brought aboard passenger cars and stashed securely in a special area. No reason Amtrak couldn’t do the same, except for the fact that their leadership and political sponsors suffer from what I call hardening of the arterials, a transport syndrome that closes off the blood supply to creativity and innovation.

Well, I’ve said a lot about travel considerations and the ups-and-downs of intermodality. But what about the actual train ride to Rochester? Truth is, it was wonderfully non-eventful. I bought a bike box at the Schenectady station, then packed my beloved Miyata and checked it at the desk, and then proceeded to kill a few hours checking out, first, an new Irish pub near the station, and second, the modestly gentrified old section of town only a few blocks away. Think Corn Hill, but with more limestone than brick. I finally arrived in Rochester around 11:00 p.m. Seems like it should take a much shorter time to get from there to here; indeed, if we had modern high-speed rail service, the straight shot from Schenectady to Rochester would take an hour and a quarter, and I’d have got home by 8:00. And it would have taken me about ten minutes to deboard, unboxed bike in hand, and get to my front door.

I know: Dream on.

Jason’s note: I’ve asked my friend and veteran cyclist Jack Bradigan Spula to contribute to RocBike.com. This is Part 11 of Jack’s essay about his recent trip through the northeast. Here are the previous installments:

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 |Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10

I spoke too soon (see installment 10). Someone or a force of nature removed my edits from the USMC insignia on the River Trail. So I’m issuing a call to peace vandals. Your help is needed. And your paint.

But enough for now on the fine arts. Let’s transport ourselves to Route 50 between Saratoga Springs and Scotia, a 21-mile stretch that leads to Schenectady’s north portal at the Mohawk River.
(more…)

Jason’s note: I’ve asked my friend and veteran cyclist Jack Bradigan Spula to contribute to RocBike.com. This is Part 10 of Jack’s essay about his recent trip through the northeast. Here are the previous installments:

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 |Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 |

The transportation corridors between Lake George and Albany are among the most heavily used north of Westchester. And they have been since before the days of James Fennimore Cooper, whose romanticized and racialized imprint still lingers over land and water – as at Lake George’s reconstructed, indeed reinvented Fort William Henry. But here The Last of the Mohicans won’t grip your mind for long, not with the tourist glitz that is today’s commanding presence.

Yes, Lake George village, with all its lights, cameras, and action, is a nice place to visit briefly but a better place to leave, especially for a bicyclist. And luckily, the towns and villages south of the lake have capitalized on this by creating a 17-mile, largely paved bike path that goes through magnificent woodlands and open spaces.

This bike route, well-mapped and marked, connects the communities of Lake George, Glens Falls and Fort Edward. The route’s northern section, labeled the Warren County Bikeway, follows the “Old Military Road,” a shaded path below congested Route 9 that makes you think of the very old days when colonial armies went to and from the original Fort William Henry and points north, like Ticonderoga. But after a half dozen miles, and then a slight detour onto the roads, the bike route becomes the Feeder Canal Park Heritage Trail, which provides a trip through the industrial history of several towns beside the Hudson River.

The Feeder Canal itself, which is still watered, goes through various abandoned and semi-abandoned industrial sites and a stunning series of locks (reminiscent of the spectacularly engineered “17 Locks” of the old Genesee Valley Canal near Nunda, NY) and eventually joins the Old Champlain Canal and its accompanying towpath/trail. The Champlain Canal, though, has become a marsh – still attractive, and certainly more of a wildlife refuge than it used to be.

This interconnected canal system then leads you to the edge of Saratoga County, and before you know it – partly because the roadways, unlike the slow-paced, moribund canals, inspire you to make time – you find yourself in Saratoga Springs.

And only then do you understand you’ve made quite an economic journey, too. So few miles from the middle-class resort of Lake George, to the hard-luck town of Glens Falls, to the even harder-luck towns of Hudson Falls and Fort Edward, and then to affluence of Saratoga Springs, still banking on its Gilded Age legacy.

How to characterize these contrasting towns? Well, Saratoga Springs has the typical ooh-and-ah storefronts: designer clothing, you name it. And of course there are sidewalk cafes and restaurants, though the morning I was there, hardly any customers were around. But Fort Edward? Part of the reason I went there was to check out the Amtrak station; I was considering hopping a train to Schenectady and then catching a westbound train to Rochester for a couple days so I could finish some paid jobs. (In a future installment I’ll tell how I ended up biking all the way to Schenectady and catching the train there.)

Well, the Fort Edward station, a beautiful old building that’s being restored with grant money, is hardly ever open. You can board a train from the platform, but you can’t check baggage, etc., and so if you’re packing/boxing a bike you might as well forget it. But at least as you stand there admiring the architecture and pondering the history, you can reflect on what might have been and still may be.

And so it is with the village of Fort Edward, which, like the milltowns of the Mohawk Valley or eastern and southern New England, is a survivor. Maybe because I was born and raised in the rundown industrial city of Niagara Falls, I appreciate the classic milltown’s rugged poetry, written in limestone and brick and the good faith of people who refuse to let their hometowns die.

Postscript: Just before I jotted this stuff down, I went for a ride on the Rochester River Trail from downtown to Genesee Valley Park. A few things struck me. Why haven’t they opened the trail under the west side of the new Anthony-Douglass bridge yet? Why are cycling improvements always the last things to get done, even though they’re the simplest and cheapest?

Going further south: Why does the RPD continue to ignore illegal parking on Moore Road within GV Park? The few spaces provided there are supposed to be for park users, yet every time I pass through the area, I see that UR and Strong employees have hogged the spaces for free workday parking. UR parking staffers are aware of the situation, and so are the cops, so where’s the action? Ordinarily I don’t give a rat’s ass about parking — but here’s a situation where parkland is being abused and officialdom is looking the other way.

I saw great things on my ride, too: a wide selection of birds, including a great blue heron, and the oddly compelling phalanx of black (or European) alders along the northern stretch of Wilson Boulevard, coming visually alive in a reddening dusk. But the greatest sight was a paint-job. I noticed months ago that some jerk, maybe a ROTC type, had stenciled the Marine Corps emblem in two spots along the river trail, one near the UR Quad, the other almost at Ford Street. As an ex-Marine myself (heavy accent on the “ex”), I knew it was my duty to obliterate these guerrilla images, lest they corrupt the youth. So one night a few weeks ago, I took a can of gray spray paint and messed one of them up pretty bad. Unfortunately, there wasn’t enough paint left in the can to cover the image entirely, so I said to myself that I’d have to re-arm and complete the mission later. But whaddya know? Some other anti-militarist came by and took care of it. Thank you, anonymous benefactor! This is the kind of rural pacification program that fits perfectly with the biking ethos.

Jason’s note: I’ve asked my friend and veteran cyclist Jack Bradigan Spula to contribute to RocBike.com. This is Part 9 of Jack’s essay about his recent trip through the northeast. Here are the previous installments:

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 |Part 7 | Part 8 |

I’ve tossed a few thousand words into cyberspace about my summer bicycling trip – but, as a few friends have pointed out, I haven’t dealt with the primary question. Why did I get on my bike in the first place?

Sure, I could have taken the same route by car (or approximately the same route by bus or train) and done the whole 1,000 miles in a couple of days, or a leisurely week by motoring standards. And to tell the truth, I would have seen pretty much every high point along the way.

But in these facile determinations lie the answers to “Why Bike?”

First, long experience leads me to believe there’s unbreakable link between biking and the human biological clock. Not an original thought, but so true: Just as in music, it’s a matter of rhythm and tempo.

Whether by accident or technological limitation or whatever, the bicycle was designed to be a close extension of the human body. It’s not a cocoon like a modern automobile or truck. (Recall that early cars and trucks were pretty open-air.) It’s not just a multiplier of muscle power, it’s almost part of your arm-and-leg motion and your biological drive to cover distance. (Think long runs across the savannah.) And as such, it heightens your awareness of the terrain you cover, not just on fast downhill “runs,” but also in quiet moments as you roll past woods and fields and (let’s face it) strip malls and used car lots.

In a car, you’re mentally at your destination before you’ve earned the journey, and the distances are the psychological equivalent of stoop labor. On a bike, though, you may be thinking about a hard pull ahead – that monster hill or unplanned ten-mile detour – but fundamentally you’re right “there,” in the Zen sense that you cannot be anywhere but where you are, if only you’ll realize it. And because, if you’re lucky and realize this, your body has to go peaceably along with your mind.

Somewhere Thoreau asks the reader, What mode of travel is the fastest? His answer: walking, which he contrasts with the trains of his day. But Thoreau wasn’t posing a Zen koan; as with much of his work, he was making a stripped-down calculation. To be able to ride the train, he said, a person must work x number of hours to buy the ticket; but walking is practically free. So when you compare the hours of work required to support each mode of travel, then add these hours to those spent en route, you have to conclude that walking is fastest.

I don’t claim that biking is faster than walking, in this sense. But I think it’s competitive, and that it transmits similar wholistic messages and values back through our bodies and spirits. Biking may be an industrial-technological compromise. (It’s certainly not atavistic or romanticist – not in a world where, way off the First World radar screen, hundreds of millions of people either use bicycles as their primary transport or wish they could afford to.) But it’s still uses the same language as the one we feel in our gut, genetically speaking.