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.

You really, really have to be dedicated to mass transit to place your fate in the clutches of Amtrak.

I went back to Rochester this weekend for the first time in a couple weeks. I’ve been wanting to bike to the Amtrak station here in Albany rather than drive, but I wasn’t too keen on leaving my bike locked up in the parking garage for three days while I was out of town. I discovered on Thursday that you can lock you bike in the baggage area at the station for $3/day, so I decided to do it.

I’ve read online about the Dunn Memorial Bridge being used as a crossing for cyclists, and that it had a sidewalk along one side. I rode my bike to the entrance to the bridge and was annoyed to find that the sidewalk was about 12 inches wide and had a guardrail that actually narrowed it even further in some spots. That was useless, so I rode on the pavement instead.

When I got to the apex of the bridge, the three lanes on my side merged with three lanes coming in from my right, and that left me on a 2-foot-square section of white paint in the middle of six merging lanes of highway-speed traffic. I’m a vehicular cyclist, but that’s just ridiculous. I waited for the traffic on the right to clear and then shot across to the rightmost lane and descended into Rensselaer.

I entered the Amtrak station through the main lobby and asked where the baggage area was. It was on the first floor, so I took the elevator. Sadly, the elevator wasn’t built with Xtracycles in mind. I had to lift the front wheel and put it over my shoulder so the whole bike would fit. I tried to get my camera free to take a self-portrait of this dignified elevator ride, but I was stuck.

The rest of the check-in was smooth. I paid $3 for the first day, put the bike in the baggage room and hopped on the … er … bus. That’s right, a CSX train had derailed, spilling thousands of tons of coal on the tracks near Rochester and stopping all train travel between Buffalo and Albany. Instead, we got a bus trip to Rochester. Not quite as luxurious, but we were still close to arriving on time. (Side note: I think it’s more newsworthy when a CSX train stays on the tracks. Google them if you don’t believe me.)

That was last Thursday. On the way back today, I sat down next to a guy reading The Sun, a magazine I used to read. I also noticed he had a copy of the Mountain Record on his tray table — that’s the journal put out by the Mountains and Rivers Order of Buddhist practitioners, a group of which I was once a member, back in my Brooklyn days. In fact, I thought I recognized the guy from pictures I’d seen and from my time sitting in the (then) new Brooklyn zendo. After a while, we started talking, and it turned out that I did know him. He’s a very hip monk who’s also a cyclist. What are the odds, right? We had a very nice chat for a couple hours of the trip.

The train pulled in to Albany right on time. I went up to the ticket window to pay for my two additional days of storage. The ticket agent said, “You have to go down to the first floor to do that.”

“I can pay down there, too?” I asked. He said yes, so down I went. I rang the bell for baggage service and waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. Initially I rang the bell every 2 minutes. After about 10 minutes, I rang it once a minute. After 20 minutes, I went back upstairs to the same ticket agent. It was 7 p.m.

“Could you page someone for me?” I asked. “I’ve been ringing the bell for 20 minutes and no one’s coming.”

The ticket agent looked at the clock. “Oh, they’re probably working on the 7:05 train. I’m sure they’ll be back in a few minutes once the train leaves.”

I’d just spent two hours with a Buddhist monk, and I was really trying to be as enlightened as possible about the whole experience. So I dutifully trooped back down to the first floor and waited until 7:05. Then I rang the bell and waited. And waited. And waited. On my 39th ringing of the bell (40 minutes after my arrival in Albany), a guy finally showed up and got my bike for me. Then another employee came out.

“How much do I owe you?” I asked.

“Six dollars,” she said.

“Great, here’s my money.”

“Oh, you’ve got to pay upstairs.”

“That’s what I thought,” I said. “In fact, that’s what I told the guy upstairs, but he wasn’t very helpful.”

She took me upstairs to the very same guy, who was astounded that it was possible to pay at his REGISTER. WHERE THE CASH IS!!!! AM I YELLING?!?!??!?

Sorry.

Anyway, I finally got the bike and left through the street-level parking garage, which is on the same level as the baggage area. I rode up to one of the parking attendants at the exit gates.

“Would you mind raising the gate for me?” I asked. “I already paid inside.”

He stepped out of the booth and walked over to the gate. He pointed at the base of the gate, on which there was a picture of a bicycle with a circle around it and a slash through it.

“No bicyles,” he said.

“How am I supposed to get out? My bike won’t fit on the elevator, and the baggage office where it was stored is on this level.”

“We don’t care if you walk your bike out,” he suggested helpfully.

So I got off the bike, walked it around/under the gate, and got back on.

“This is really unbelievable,” I said. “I thought you’d have a button to raise the gate.”

“Oh,” he said, again helpful.

By this point, I didn’t need my cycling jacket. My Zen-like calm had dissolved and my boiling blood was enough to warm me as I headed back to Albany. Luckily, there was good news ahead.

First, I discovered the actual sidewalk on the Dunn Memorial Bridge. It’s marked on the Rensselaer side, and I got some cool pictures of the cityscape from the bridge.

Then I rode through downtown and over to Madison, along Washington Park.

Midway through the park, I saw three guys on BMX bikes doing tricks on the tennis courts. I stopped and asked if I could take pictures. They were very nice guys, and we chatted between jumps. They said there used to be a good BMX scene in Albany, but it’s gone downhill because there aren’t many places to ride and because the police “really hate us.” I told them about this site and took a few more shots before heading home.

That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

I’ve become both a bike and train commuter since moving to Albany. I bike during the week and then take the train home on weekends. Most of the time, it beats the heck out of driving, and I’ve always loved train travel anyway.

May 10 is the first annual National Train Day. Visit www.nationaltrainday.com for more details.