Mud!

Tom of the Window Box Guest House snaps our photo and we’re off for Day 8 of this Erie Canal bike ride. It’s poured all early morning, so we’ve got the gear on.

But Luck is with us and we barely feel a drop. In just a couple of miles we shed the rain gear; my Showers Pass jacket should be renamed Saunas Pass — it’s a steam bath inside. The discomfort combined with the threat of rain makes for a distracting start to this our next to last day on two wheels. Before we know it we’re miles down the road; just as Kent predicted, the road to Albany will be downhill as the Mohawk River seeks the Hudson. There’s monster Tribes Hill ahead, but after yesterday’s roller coaster ride to Cooperstown we power our way up.

We’re gonna see lots of damage from Hurricane Irene, but first we see the giant gravel trucks; they’re fully loaded and dozens pass us to repair some road damage ahead — we never see their destination because the Erie Canal bike path comes to our rescue. The path is paved for the last 35 miles and we always feel more relaxed off road, so there’s no question, onto the bike path we go, but several miles down the road a sign warns: Path Closed. It couldn’t apply to us, could it? We just scoot past it and continue rolling along.

There’s a lot of debris that’s been pushed off the trail. This must have been a first class disaster a week ago. Then we find the real problem, or the first problem as we now know — mud!

The first reaction is to keep your balance. We haven’t hit this much mud before and it grabs the tires and wants to throw you off. I suggest to Kent, “This would make a great picture,” but he stays upright as we zigzag through. But my bike, whether it’s the bigger tires or the close fit of the fenders — I’m getting caked in mud! I assume I have no brakes, but I don’t want to stop in the middle of this goo; I look up and see Kent has made it through and he’s on an incline. I catch up and take stock.

Kent’s already figured out what to do; he’s walking his bike in the grass along the path, surely that’ll fix everything. I try it too, but I need something like a fire hose to get this off. I try a bush branch, cutting it off and poking around the brakes — it does some good, I’ll be able to stop, but after a minute more all that’s changed is my assessment of the pickle I’m in. I picture checking into the hotel, “Bikes ok in the room?”

Kent’s moving and so I start rolling, too. The bike feels heavier, but otherwise fine. We continue on for another mile and we see why the trail was closed — there’s a giant pile of chipped wood; it must be 15′ high and it’s squarely blocking the path. Kent thinks quick, maybe we can walk over to the edge of the Lock and tiptoe along the retaining wall — he checks it out; someone’s tried it before us. We move down the slope to the river’s edge.

It’s one thing to look from above at the edge of the lock wall, but standing on this 2′ wide precipice is another thing, and the path forward is blocked with all kinds of branches and construction junk — I have to hold the bike with one hand and clear the path with the other. One false move and the bike will be in the drink 30′ below.

We make it through this disaster zone; we can see the bike tire tracks of someone before us. In just a few more miles we’re on the outskirts of Schenectady. All I can think about is finding someone with a garden hose, but we’re on the wrong side of the street all the way into downtown — then I spot it, a long hose lying along the sidewalk, seemingly made to order. We spot the two hose-owners as our eyes follow the hose to the spigot.

How do you start this brief appeal? Kent is direct, “Can we borrow your hose?” In a few seconds he understands our plight and has the younger man go turn on the spigot. After we tell him of our journey and where we started, he wants to know, “Are you Buffalo Bills fans?” “I am until you get that hose working,” I kibitz back.

This is one of the best parts about touring — we’re moving at human speed and finding lots of opportunities for interacting with passers-by. People are delighted to offer directions and I get the sense that they’re going to tell their friends and loved ones about the cyclists they chatted with that day.

It takes a good 5 minutes to clean each of the bikes — the trick is to not get soaked yourself while hosing off all that mud. Eventually the bikes are clean; it’s us who look the worse for wear.

We’ve got a choice of hotels, so we cruise around town to check them out. We pick one in a nice part of downtown. An hour after we get settled a thunderstorm blows through — we would’ve been soaked to the skin, but we’ve dodged the worst of it again.