I don't know if anybody's interested, but I'm glad to send a map or info if you contact me.
Happy riding,
Ben
I dropped my wife and daughter at the airport Thursday afternoon for a European trip, and worked like a guy with but one purpose until almost midnight to get my week’s paperwork finished.
I had a hard time getting to sleep, but managed to roust myself at 6am to start packing.
My friend Steve and I had been making day trips for the last 2 seasons, and had finally decided to try and really get somewhere and see America. We opted to make a three day weekend of it and planned to leave on August 3rd, returning on the 5th, with a rain date two weeks later. Steve had gone to the Americade rally at Lake George in June, and had become smitten with the area. We both had fond experiences traveling Vermont’s route 100, myself on a trip to visit my daughter last September, and Steve two years before. A plan emerged when I found that Lake Champlain had a ferry service that would carry motorcycles and riders from a number of locations without reservations, and for less than $7.00 each way.(Lake Champlain Transportation:
http://www.ferries.com/)
The weather was looking shaky for Friday the 3rd as I checked at the long term weather reports on Monday and Tuesday. On Tuesday eve, I found myself having to make other plans for our rain date weekend, and realized we were going on Friday, weather fair or foul. I got serious and started trying to make reservations for Friday and Saturday eve.
It is very difficult to book reservations along lakes Champlain and George in August. Many hotels ask for a two night minimum stay. If it rains and you don’t feel like going, you’re stuck for the room deposit, usually the cost of one night. The Best Western in Waterbury VT has been an accommodating my family on and off for many years, and while they don’t know me from Adam, I was able to book a room for Steve and myself easily, after being turned down everywhere else. When I asked what the cancellation policy was, I was told 6pm on the day of. When I asked if there was a place to put the bikes under cover, I was told it would not rain! Infected with a positive attitude, I called around the NY lakes/ Adirondack State forest area. Turns out there’s a big soccer festival around Saranac Lake, and every kid in the US and his family were going. Further, any place around Lake George is booked as well. However, the lady receptionist at the Best Western had laid the positive vibe on me, and I told Steve on the phone that we’d find someplace on route. He agreed, although I thought I noted a bit of doubt in his voice.
Friday morning, some broken clouds, and it’s going to be a hot one. I manage to remember to pack pretty much everything I need, but can’t find suitable rain gear. Steve calls at 8 to say he’ll be a bit late. I get a nylon tarp at the hardware store just in case, and strap it to the rear carrier on my bike. I had found an ’82 BMW R100RS 3 years ago that was supposed to have 6900 original miles on it. While the odometer is somewhat ambiguous and it could have been 106900, I’ve had no reason to doubt my seller’s veracity. The previous owner had removed the fairing and replaced it with conventional headlight ears and a set of early K bars that had a rise of about 2 or 3 inches. He did retain the stock bags and mounts, and I packed these as I waited for Steve.
Steve’s black GM pickup and matching trailer came around my corner just before 9am. We unloaded Steve’s 2 month old GSXR from the trailer, made last minute adjustments and jabbing our fists in the air as if we were teenagers, made our way about a mile down the road where we stopped for coffee and gas. So much for teenagers, I quickly remembered we were a couple of fifty something guys, and we needed a little caffeine kick to get us going.
We took back roads up to route 2 in Acton, getting on from route 27. Big nice banked exit ramp, plenty of coffee induced pep, I laid into the ramp with glee, accelerating through the apex, ready to hit route 2 with some speed, as I see a huge crater at the bottom of the ramp. Only partially able to miss it I carom somewhat askew and sideways onto route 2, watching behind me as Steve get pronged into oncoming traffic by the pavement hole, narrowly missing a car. Reality check one: it only takes one mistake and it can happen real quick. Lesson learned: avoid the route 27 north exit ramp to route 2 west!
Making time going out route 2. While it’s a great scenic road that turns to one lane when you get past the Winchendon/Phillipston exit, and gets really beautiful west of Erving, I’ve traveled it too many times. Passing through Gill, I noticed AJ’s BMW was open. I’d gone by it a bunch of times in the past, but it was either too early, too late, or Sunday. I asked Steve if we could stop there for a minute.
The throttle on my bike gets to me after an hour or so. I usually feel like my wrist is getting stiff and achy, tell myself I’m getting old and weak, get mad at myself, and keep going. As route 2 is a bit old hat, I was kind of thinking about the friction thumb screw I had on my ’71 r75. Turn it in and it would counter-act the throttle spring, the Flintstone of cruise control. While I was happy to find that I could use one on my current mount, I had crashed my r75 while riding no hands with the screw tightened , back in the day near the front of my high school. I’d been somewhat reticent to get one since. My wrist called to me as we passed AJ’s and Steve agreed to stop without any convincing.
AJ’s is my romantic vision of what a motorcycle shop used to be and still should be. There’s an old store front display area and parts counter that looks like it was once the living room of somebody’s grandparents. Local event posters, maps and interesting stuff line the room in a neat, but comfortable way. A contiguous barn-like building houses an active service area. Steve has got eyes for the black Guzzi 1100 Griso on the front porch, and I wait for Alan to finish speaking with a prospective buyer before asking if he might have a thumbscrew somewhere. It’s that kind of place, but it’s not to be for my thumbscrew. I give Alan my name and address to order the part, and we chat. One conversation leads to a couple of others, and concludes with some directions for getting onto route 112 that would lead us to rt. 100. By this time there are a number of local participants. The compilation of landmarks from three locals goes something like this: “Go past where 91 comes in, look for the route sign that says Colrain, but has no route number on it. Take a right there, it’s across the road from the coffee brewers.” Archaic, but right on accurate.
Ah, route 112 is a delightful road that brings you across the Vermont. line into the rural town of Halifax. Little towns with Grandma Moses farms, and little traffic on a Friday afternoon continue up to Jacksonville where route 100 joins in.
Route 100 in Vermont has certain mythical connotations for bikers. It pretty much extends from the bottom of the state to the top. For the most part, it is a rider’s road. The police seem to have little interest in motoring enthusiasts, in a way that is almost unfathomable to city fellows such as Steve and myself. There are very few lights and the pavement is fairly good in most places. There are lots of turns and elevation changes, most benign, some more challenging as speed increases.
Past Mt. Snow, Dover, and Rawsonville, where my wife’s family comes from, we move northward. Ski towns in summer and stretches of woodland that might be lonely and desolate when it’s cold and dark. The biggest drawback to this otherwise lovely road is the lack of adequate passing areas. Though traffic was fairly light, Steve and I were forced to make decisions about crossing on the double yellow. It was not a preference for either of us, but getting pelted by trucks with muddy off road tires, and having to maintain patience while uncle Henry and aunty Mimi from Ohio hit their brakes repeatedly to look at some obscure landmark on a 50 MPH road gets to be too much. Steve and I noted that there are plenty of other beautiful and challenging roads besides route 100. 103, 107, 30, and 22A all look like interesting and perhaps less traveled roads. Next trip!
Making it into Waterbury and our hotel at the end of the day was a triumph and relief for us both. We’d done 300 miles and we were ready for a bit of socializing and a beer. The Alchemist pub and brewery fit the bill nicely. Nice folks, locals and tourists alike, eating, drinking, and chatting. The IPA and Light Weight went down without hindrance. I got some route advice from a local fellow who suggested taking the ferry from Grand Isle to Plattsburg as it provided more riding in New York where, he said, the roads were smoother. I asked him what he was riding, and he said he had been on a Honda 1100, but his wife had left him, he’d sold their house and was trading the Honda in on a Road King. We toasted the Road King and a new life.
Waterbury is an old town that appears to have been injected with money from weekend ski home purchases. The buildings are nicely restored in the center of town, and there’s an easy going, but somewhat affluent feeling.
Heading 10 miles down rt. 89 to Montpelier for dinner at dusk. An easy ride to the state capitol, Montpelier is tiny, especially for a capitol town. It is also a lovely place to stop and walk around. There is a youthful and energetic air to the place. The New England Culinary Institute is based here and offers a good student run restaurant. As an alternative, I suggested eating at the Black Door, an upscale, upstairs place across from the Lost Nation Theatre. Steve found the waitresses cold and unfriendly, and I was disappointed to find the scallop special to have only two scallops. Not a great stop for us, next time we will try a different spot. Back up to Waterbury. The Best Western is not the most beautiful spot, but it is clean and the beds were bliss after 8 hours of assuming the café position. We left the bikes under a covered side entrance, and watched the Red Sox until we passed out.
Saturday morning, as blue a sky as you could hope for. Reading maps while drinking Green Mountain coffee and listening to a truck driver recount being on the Minneapolis bridge when it let go. 9am and we’re on the road heading up to Stow and the junction of route 108. A cup of tea at a busy bakery there, then up 108 towards Smuggler’s Notch, climbing until we reach the route’s highest and narrowest point. We have to stop because two cars are unable to go in opposite directions due to the rocks on either side of the 6 foot wide route. After a couple of silly minutes, one car lets the other go through first, and we’re on the down hill run, through snaking switchback turns, eventually making a left on route 15 to head to Burlington and our ferry to New York. In Essex Junction, I notice Frank’s motorcycle shop, and stop in to ask for some help in tightening a loose steering stem crown nut. Nice shop that looks modern but has an older experienced feel to it. The folks there were extremely helpful and knowledgeable. Thanks Frank!
Burlington is a much bigger town than Montpelier. It’s a college town and feels like one. Spread out along the side of Lake Champlain, one descends into the town from the highway with a lake view that is massive, impressive, and any other word you can think of that ends in immense and beautiful.
We came into town from Winooski, to the north, and worked our way to the ferry terminal at the King Street Dock. For ten bucks each we purchased a ferry ticket for the hour ride to Port Kent, and a beer. We sipped our beers and waited 30 minutes for the boat to dock and disgorge it’s New York passengers. The ferry terminal girl was cute and apologized for not putting our bikes on ahead of the cars due to rough water on the lake. She receives our thanks for doing so, as the choppy water on the New York side sopped the cars at the front of the ferry. Our bikes were several cars back and stayed nice and dry. We ate pop corn and mostly listened politely to a vacationing couple from Schenectady relate their take on world politics and the prices of furniture grade hardwood.
New York feels different compared to Vermont. My first though is that it seems spookier. It feels like there are more secrets here amongst the prim little towns and gingerbread trimmed 19th century houses in the affluent and poor towns that seem to alternate with each other. “There’s a lot of movie people that live over there”, the man from Schenectady had told me on the ferry. “Harrison Ford and John Travolta. People in the towns don’t treat them any different than anybody else”, he said. I looked for famous people as we headed away from Port Kent, to rt. 22 and Ticonderoga. I didn’t see anybody I recognized, but was impressed by the lake side towns such as Essex and Hague. Just south of Port Henry is an access road to the Champlain lake bridge, an old girder style bridge that crosses a narrow point on Lake Champlain between New York’s Crown Point park and the Chiminey Point park in Vermont. Good alternative if you don’t like boats or are short on cash for the ferry.
An old mill town, Ticonderoga is the gateway one must pass through to get to Fort Ticonderoga. In some ways the town appears more interesting than the fort, probably because we did not pay the $12. fee to enter the fort, and did not get to see the commanding view of the river which the French, English, and Americans frequently fought over in the 18th century. Ticonderoga, the town, gives the impression of a close knit place with a high unemployment rate. The town appears to care for its less fortunate citizens, and does not have as much of the edgy feeling that old mill towns sometimes have.
The ride along the west side of lakes Champlain and George is a tourist’s ride. It’s more about watching the scenery and being calmed by the tranquility of the lake views than making believe your on a road racing course. Route 22 is a pleasant, unchallenging road that led us into route 9N and Bolton Landing. There, Steve led me to the Sagamore, an old, but carefully restored resort hotel on a small island in Lake George accessed by a short causeway. We were ostensibly stopping for a drink, but Steve had an ulterior motive. Convinced that there were no rooms to be had anywhere, he figured to see if the most expensive hotel around might have a place for us.
“The only room we have is a large suite on the water”, our hotel desk person related apologetically, looking at his dubious guests, wearing jeans, and in my case, a dirty Stevie Ray Vaughan RIP tee shirt. “It’s $495. plus tax per night.” Steve and I took in the info with barely a stagger. I suggested we think about it over a beer at the hotel bar, but Steve wasn’t letting go as easily. He asked if we could reserve it, leaving me to be the one to confess that I wasn’t comfortable ponying up almost 300 bucks for a night without any romance. We went to the bar to lick our wounds and drink a beer.
In the bar, sitting at the counter, chatting with an investment banker and her friend. I finally ask if the bartender might know of another place to stay that has vacancies. The two women and the bartender all suggest staying at the Sagamore. They find us a lesser expensive room after we agree to a king size bed and cot arrangement. That calls for another beer and more chatter. Steve has eyes for the Italian dinner he suggested the previous evening and knows a place. We say our goodbyes, promising to meet for a nightcap, and go to find our rooms.
Motoring into the center of Bolton Landing, we are greeted by throngs of fellow would- be diners. The town is jammed to the gills, but its somehow not hard to park the bikes close by. Steve notes that the Landing is the smaller, upscale version of Lake George, the town. There are a lot of tee #$%*s, but also a lot of Escalades and Lexus. After waiting upwards of an hour, we are finally rewarded with a table at Cate's Italian Garden. The food comes quickly, is plentiful and delicious. Worth the wait, two thumbs up.
We decide to make the 20 mile round trip into Lake George to see what’s going on. Along the way, I note the no vacancy sign on every motel we pass.
The town of Lake George is best experienced at night, when all the honky tonk bars, arcade rooms, junk food, and junk shop vendors are going full tilt. It’s a much younger crowd, seemingly inner NYC kids up for a holiday in a place that is doing it’s best to appear as an amusement park town on the ocean. There’s salt water taffy, the Cape Cod motel, fried sea food. I’m starting to think I can smell low tide, but I’m just standing next to a large dumpster. We buy a couple of soft serve cones and walk around enjoying the hormonal rush of youth. Back to the Sagamore where the room temp indicator is pegged at 45. Falling asleep with two blankets on a cot made for a 50 pound kid, watching The Wedding Crashers.
The Bolton Landing fish market reinvents itself each morning as Bagels and Beans. Steve had the remaining raisin bagel, leaving me the last everything, which we both prefer. I figured he might be feeling guilty about the cot.
Sunday morning was crisp and clear, somewhere in the low 60’s. We headed back through Lake George, which by day was a pale version of itself the night before. Stopped to buy gas, $3.48 per gallon. I wonder what Govenor Pataki’s take home salary is, as gas has been $2.99 to $3.10 in Massachusetts and Vermont.
We head out of Lake George on route 9L, then head east on route 149, a big two lane job that one can ride quickly and with confidence. Steve and I have by now pretty much figured out how to ride together. Steve doesn’t care much for riding side by side, preferring instead to ride on a diagonal, the lead rider on one side of the lane, and the trailing rider on the other side. Both riders can see everything, and pick their line down the road. I immediately enjoyed riding this way, and we had perfected our formation as we traveled. Steve also developed a series of hand signals to designate circumstances such as, “your blinker’s on, moron”, or “I need gas”. Initially I found myself riding out in front most of the time, Steve seemed content to follow. As he became more comfortable with his new bike, Steve opted more frequently to take the lead. We challenged each other to periodically hit it hard on fun stretches of road, and we became more and more interchangeable as time went on. NY county route 30 is a national treasure of a road, and I shouldn’t even be talking about it. Climbing past mountain top farms and snaking through little towns stuck down in ravines, I realized I’d reached the apex of what I loved about riding. Route 30 left me a contented man. I remember thinking that I had had a good life and didn’t mind if there wasn’t a whole lot more. The thought lasted for about 5 minutes as we descended into the town of Salem and route 22.
Steve and I pulled over to the side of the road to check our route and to gush about how cool the ride had been from Lake George. As we were talking, a red pick up truck sans tailgate stopped and asked us if we need any help. The three of us talked for a bit, and the pick up drove off with a wave. I’ve been in the city way too long. Route 2 joins route 22 in the town of Petersburg, although I didn’t notice that until we were 5 or 6 miles past it. We backtracked to 2 east and crossed the Mass line into Williamstown and lunch on a park bench in the middle of what has to be one of the safest towns in America. The town is dominated by the classic architecture of Williams College buildings. I kept looking for Floyd’s barbershop and Barney Fife.
Riding up through the Savoy state forest on route 2 east of North Adams can be a real treat, but not on a Sunday. It’s a tough road for cars as most drivers leave their transmissions in D and apply their brakes with a jerky combination of speed and fear on the fairly steep grades that incorporate mostly well banked turns. The road is in fairly good shape despite the harsh winters. We hump it down route 2, Steve has to see his girl friend and pick up his dog, and my dad’s left me a cell phone message that his car has quit, and he needs a loaner from me. We’re stiff and tired, but we’re both well aware of how lucky we both are. 739 miles, no rain, and a headful of great memories. I sleep 12 straight hours that night. I can’t wait for the next ride.
