No signs, no speed limit, where the hell am I?
I layered up for an early start. Faced my first real traffic since I left Seattle area a month ago. Ottawa traffic was light in comparison, but the drivers were the same, I almost got side-swiped by two different Asian drivers (I’m sure not Koreans, if you are reading this John). It was short lived, but still heart-pounding, why anyone would want to live in a metropolitan area is beyond me. Too many damned rats in the box, if you ask me. I buzzed on down the road and finally returned to the USA. I was glad to put Canada behind me. I was getting sick of the bi-lingual-ness of it all, every credit card or ATM transaction it would ask me “1” for English; “2” for Francoiseauxois—or something like that. I suppose there is a good reason, since Canada was a French colony up until the Seven Years War, or as we know it in the US as the French & Indian War, or as it is known in Canada, the Croissant War of 1750’s. See, England and France were at war in Europe because crazy King George flung a booger at the French monarch. In the states, or colonies at that time, the British were busy trying to teach the Americans Cricket so they let the French & Indian make croissants that really pissed off some of the other Indians, etc. Who knows how these war actually start. Well, at the end of it, the British gave up on the cricket thing with the colonist, so they kicked some French arse and took over Canada, Anglo-izing the spelling from the original French CehNehDeh’eaux. The official language of the British Royal court is French, so they acquiesced to those Quebec bakers. Therefore, today Canada has two languages. Unlike, the good old U. S. of A. where you never have to press one or two for deciding a language!
So, back to my story, I cross the bridge and chat with the friendly US customs officer, who was thoroughly bored, and then, paid for my bridge toll by giving all my Canadian change to the toll booth attendant. He counted out more than enough and handed me back the change. I don’t know if I paid twenty-five cents or twenty-five thousand Canadian. They use that funny plastic money, and the exchange rate fluctuates every minute, so I used plastic the whole time and hope the bank has it figured out. I’ll get my bill with a check from Canada or the bank will repossess my home. I’m not sure which it is.
It was great to be back in New York, the Upstate variety. I rode these great tracks of asphalt into the Adirondack Mountains, this park is bigger than Yosemite and Yellowstone combined. The GPS sent me on a narrow little road that had no signs, no speed limit, and I asked myself, “Where the hell am I?” Every turn was blind so my average speed was probably only about 35 mph, I didn’t dare take my eyes off the road. Without the yellow speed signs before each turn, I truly had no idea of the radius, and before I entered I saw more of those dang moose crossing signs warning me of these awkward creatures.
I made it to Lake Placid, saw the Olympic bobsled run, the nordic ski jump, even the equestrian field (why Lake Placid, a winter sports town, has an Olympic equestrian center I’m not sure), Rachelle would have liked to see that the event advertised at end of July beginning of August. I ate lunch in the touristy lake-side village (back east towns are large tracts, smaller than counties, but small cities are called villages—for you westerners). I continued on after talking with a fellow motorcyclist from Indiana on a three month trek. He even carried an old Army cot on his Goldwing—said it was the most comfortable thing to sleep on. I departed the Olympic village and ended up on some dirt road, the old GPS keeping me from the interstate. I traveled along Lake Champlain for awhile, beautiful homes. One of the things about this day, the homes are old, really old (not by European standards, but US stds) and I saw no new developments. There were a lot of homes that had been renovated. So, over the bridge into Vermont. A beautiful state, that continued the hilly, twisty all day sexual experience, using my previous analogy. The Vermont farms, unlike the NY farms, have that refinished look. They were too pretty to be functional. Especially, since they had new SUVs with badges like Lexus, BMW, Porsche, even saw a Bentley Continental GT in one pristine farm house. I think they must all be Rural-ized Yuppies from Wall Street, baby-boomers who decided to retire to that farm in Vermont. The small towns were all vibrant, every one of them had four things in common: 1-Wine shop, 2-Coffee house, 3-Pizza parlor, 4-antiques store. I didn’t see a single feed store in Vermont, nor a working farm. Nonetheless, going over the Green Mountains was spectacular. I had the road to myself, until about the last 4 miles. This day was my best riding day thus far. It’s too bad the taxes are so astronomical, or I’d retire to New England also.
trafalgar adventures 