This article was written in collaboration with Scott Saunders ([email protected]).

The plan

I met Scott Saunders, from New York City, on a diving trip to Roatán, Honduras, in January, 1995. In spring, I invited him to come up to Montréal to spend a few days. One night, Scott phoned and told me he was considering riding up on his bicycle and going back by plane. Half joking, half boasting, I said: "Do something. Come up by plane and I will accompany you back to New York City". Scott said that he liked that idea, and he made it happen. When I realized that he was definitely coming, I got nervous: I was not a trained cyclist. Even worse, I was certainly going to kill myself if I used my heavy mountain bike for the trip. So, one week before Scott's arrival, I bought myself a used classic 10­speed bicycle in a yard sale (for only $20 Canadian!). Then, I went to see Philip at my friendly neighborhood bike shop and he fixed it up for me (complete tune­up, new brakes, new tires plus a few accessories like a stand, a back rack, new handles, etc.). For less than $200 Canadian, I got a decent bike for the trip (which Scott would call "the clunker").

The Route
The easiest and shortest route to New York, (which is 400 miles ­ 650 kilometers ­ due south of Montréal) follows the Richelieu Valley from Chambly, Québec (20 miles southeast of Montréal) to lake Champlain, from lake Champlain to lake George, and finally, the Hudson Valley down to New York City. It is a beautiful, scenic route, passing through (or smack in the middle of) sites of forts and historic battles dating from the times when the French, the British and the Americans considered traveling mostly as an opportunity for clobbering each other. We decided to cross to the east side of lake Champlain (in Vermont) because Scott wanted to see beautiful (and hilly) Vermont. (Doing so, we certainly roughed it up a bit, because the western side of lake Champlain, in upstate New York, is a flat stretch, a piece of cake for cyclists).Then, from Vermont's "West Coast", we would cross the southern tip of lake Champlain to follow the Hudson Valley in New York State down to New York City.

Scott near the Port Henry bridge
(Vermont - New York State).


 

The Equipment

We carried full camping and cooking gear; each of us had his own tent because I am supposed to be a heavy snorer (according to my wife, anyway). We also packed some (ugh!) power bars (we had two flavors: "funky chocolate" and "chemical banana". While not exactly a gourmet treat, they did supply instant energy whenever we had steep hills to climb.

Other useful items:

­ various wrenches
­ spare tubes, spokes
­ patch kit
­ air pump

Itinerary

When I picked up Scott with his bicycle in a box at Mirabel International Airport, the summer was well in; actually, Montréal was a little too warm to be comfortable. We brought that box to Philip who assembled Scott's snazzy high­tech bike. I showed Scott around Montréal. We visited beautiful Mount Royal Park, overlooking the St.Lawrence River and downtown Montréal. This park, by the way, was designed a century ago by architect Olmstead, the designer of Central Park in New York. This is one of the many things our two cities have in common. Among other things, Scott wanted to sample Québec's poutine (a gooey, high­fat, high­cholesterol concoction made of French fries and fresh curd cheese, topped off with a train of hot chicken gravy. Would you believe it's delicious and beats peanut butter anytime?). Before we left, Scott told me he wanted to do some shopping and asked me to bring him to the best bike shop in town. So we went to La Cordée downtown. There, it became clear to me that the shopping Scott had in mind was mostly for things that I should buy. He gave me no choice. Grudgingly, I bought, among other things, two brand new side panniers and a second bottle holder, which would prove to be most useful. Finally, the night before we left, we packed up our gear. My bike, with a dry mass of 37.5 lb., was now weighing 62.5 lb. fully loaded, excluding myself, of course (174 lb.).

DAY 1 (Tuesday, June 27)

Montréal, Québec to Keeler Bay Camp Ground, Grand Isle, Vermont (70 miles ­ 112 km)

We left my place at 10 a.m. The day was already getting hot, and the weather would stay torrid for the whole trip. We went downtown to cross the St. Lawrence River on the nice bike path that goes through St. Helen and Notre­Dame islands. Then we hit the hot pavement inferno in the nondescript south side suburbs for a few miles. The fun part started in Chambly, as we turned due south on the bike path that runs along the Richelieu River. Québec now has an extensive net of paths exclusively reserved to bicycles, most of them along waterways or using decommissioned railroad tracks. The Richelieu path, from Chambly to Saint­Jean, runs along the Richelieu Canal, now used only by small crafts transiting between Lake Champlain and the St. Lawrence River; it is a quiet, cool country ride. We stopped for a double expresso in Saint­Jean and moved on Highway 223, stopping only to buy cold fruit juice in convenience stores, as the heat was building up in the afternoon. Near Lacolle, we turned due east to cross the Richelieu, then south again near Noyan until we reached the Québec­Vermont border near Alburg, Vermont (which is one of those new binational custom offices, would you believe). The custom officer had seen other long­haul cyclists; he was very kind and he waived us through with a big smile. We stayed on Highway 2, in the middle of lake Champlain, hopping from one island to the other, until we reached Keeler Bay Camp Ground, on Grand Isle, around 8 p.m. With canned Italian tomatoes, garlic, curry and olive oil, Scott cooked us some delicious pasta; we wolfed it up and slept very well that night. Seventy miles is not bad for a start. Because we were mainly on flat land, we had a good opportunity to get in shape for the hardest part of the trip coming up.

DAY 2 (Wednesday, June 28)

Grand Isle, Vermont, to DAR State Park (60 miles ­ 100 km)

The next morning, we hit mainland Vermont just north of Burlington. Vermont is definitely a hilly country, as I was soon to learn. Worst of all, I had trouble getting used to my saddle; after a while, I had the impression that it was literally sawing off my butt. Scott, who was my bicycle mentor (and claims he still is), told me that I would eventually get more comfortable, and he was right. He also taught me the right way to climb by "spinning up the hill", i.e. by maintaining a constant hi­rev cadence in low gear. To tell the truth, I must admit that from time to time, I had to downshift to "extreme low gear", i.e. dismounting. Scott, who was then, and still is, a superbly trained cyclist, would wait for me on the top of the hill. He made a point of never using his front low gear, which he called "the granny gear". I didn't feel concerned, mainly because I was riding a regular 10­speed bicycle without any "granny gear" to fall back on in the first place. Past Burlington, we stayed on Highway 7 up to Vergennes. It was a hot day! A few miles before Vergennes, as I was spinning up in pain an endless hill, I distinctly say, just like in a dream, a can of soda spewing droplets flying right under my nose, as a pick­up truck was passing me. What a shock! Before that moment, I thought that all the inhabitants of the green hills of Vermont were decent, nature­loving, mild mannered, pleasant folks. So up went my finger at the bastards, who yelled catcalls when they passed up Scott 500 yards ahead (I suppose they were out of soda cans). Anyway, thanks to those poor slobs, my adrenaline level went so high that I didn't feel the rest of the hill and made it to Vergennes. Then, rather exhausted, we turned westward on Route 22A until we reached DAR State Park, on lake Champlain. We took a dip in the algae­covered lake, had dinner and went to bed early (after another extravagant pasta dinner ­ the true food of cyclists) We had covered only 60 miles that day, but as for me, I was so glad I was still alive.

Michel, glad to be alive in Vergennes, VT.

DAY 3 (Thursday, June 29)

Addison, Vermont, to Lake George State Park, New York (60 miles ­ 100 km)

At about 11 a.m., we crossed lake Champlain to Port Henry, New York State and we turned south on Route 9N, in a rolling hills country. I was leading this time. After a while, I noticed that Scott wasn't following. I decided to keep on, as he would soon catch up. When he eventually did, he was a bit upset because he was afraid that I could have gotten lost. So, we negotiated contingency rules to be followed in case we lost each other. Then, near lake George, we attacked the Tounge mountain, the crown of the north­south divide between lake Champlain (which drains in the St. Lawrence) and the southward flowing Hudson River. While climbing in the intense heat, I was in pain, gasping for breath (I even swore off my only vice, cigarillos, for a few weeks), with visions of heavens and hell, the agony and the ecstasy. Of course the ecstasy part was resting on the way up (panting, and sipping tepid water) or, better still, going downhill at breakneck speed, oblivious of everything. Scott had to stop for water, so we decided to meet on the beach in Bolton Landing. As luck would have it, there were two beaches in that place, and we wasted two hours running after each other, just like in a Keystone Cops movie. Some bummer! But the real fun started when I developed serious bowel problems. I felt so sick that I thought that I would have to quit. But we decided to wait and see, and camped at Hearthstone State Park, near Lake George. Scott put me on a bland, sticky food regime to plug me up, and it certainly worked. The next morning, I was back on my saddle, fresh as a rose.

DAY 4 (Friday, June 30)

Lake George, New York, to some cheap hotel in Hudson, New York (90 miles ­ 160 km)

After three days, I was still alive and kicking asphalt, and the worst part was behind us. At that point, we knew that we could go on forever: we were on flat land now. We went through Glens Falls, then we took Road 32 up to the Hudson River, just before Schuylerville. In Stillwater, we saw kids jumping from a bridge and swimming in the Hudson; we wouldn't see that downstream, as Troy and Albany lay ahead of us. Troy is a rather dirty industrial town. Albany, in contrast, is a schizophrenic cross between a clean and dignified country town and a postmodern urban nightmare, complete with a girdle of skyways and a cluster of pompous high­rise buildings popping up in a vast, empty space, like a De Chirico painting, or better still, like fat mushrooms on a lawn ­ an eerie place indeed. On our way down the Hudson Valley, trying to make better time, we were going from one side of the river to the other. That day, we covered 90 miles. It was an easy ride, since now that we were both seasoned cyclists, and running on our second wind. There were no more campgrounds, so we stayed in a cheap, $40­a­night­motel. But we did have a sumptuous dinner in the best (and only) Italian restaurant in town (pasta alla putanesca, bistecci ai ferri, complete with salads, assorted cheeses, prosciutto and freshly baked Italian bread). This was our first "big" meal; Scott, a high­carbohydrate food nut, would stop at every other bakery to buy muffins, date squares and whole­grain bread. That proved to be a wise strategy, as I was to find out later. In a place called Mechanics Falls, we cheated and treated ourselves to a luschious pizza with all the trimmings, including pimientos. I was duly punished: for the next six hours, that stuff felt like a brick in my stomach.

DAY 5 (Friday, July 1)

Hudson, New York, to Manhattan, New York (130 miles ­ 203 km)

We didn't like the idea of camping in the Yankee Stadium in the Bronx, so we decided to go all the way to Manhattan. For that, we had to pump 130 miles in one big, final stretch, first on the east side, then on the west side of the Hudson, in order to arrive by nightfall. At high noon, half­baked by the searing road, we passed through an asphalt oven under repair called Poughkeepsie. Later, completely pooped, we stopped for a sandwich in Cold Spring, which is kind of nice. Then the clouds set in and cooled down the air: at last we got a break. We crossed back to the west bank on Bear Mountain State Park Bridge and then, we headed for the roller­coaster hills of that vast and beautiful park, just a hop away from the Big Apple. On the final sprint, we were beyond pain, just mindless muscle machines hauling our butts up and down the hills, as the night was falling. Nothing could stop us now, except, of course, fresh whole wheat raisin and walnut bread with coffee in Nyark. Finally, we were in New Jersey, and it was getting dark. We crossed George Washington Bridge to Manhattan at 9 p.m. However, we didn't get a chance to celebrate because the moment we reached Manhattan, we were greeted by a short deluge complete with natural fireworks. This was the first (and only) rain we had in the whole trip. Of course, we were completely soaked, but we didn't mind now. We reached Scott's place, on 10^th Street, at 10 p.m.

The End

Scott showed me around everywhere in Manhattan and NYC. After the thunderstorm, the weather had cooled down a bit and was unusually comfortable for that time of the year. We criss­crossed through Manhattan on our bicycles; this is certainly the best way to travel if you watch out for Yellow cabs and skaters. I even did some shopping: I bought some dried fruit at Balducci's for my wife and a Grateful Dead T­Shirt for my teenage daughter. For the 4th of July celebration, I was invited at a party on the top of a high­rise. The fireworks over the East River was something to see. In the morning, I took a cab to the bus terminal. My bicycle was cleanly stored in a cardboard bicycle box that I got from a friendly bicycle shop near Scott's apartment. At the bus terminal, I had some trouble getting the right information; apparently, some dumb attendants don't care much about strangers going round and round schlepping huge pieces of luggage. Eventually, a helpful soul gave me the right information, and I hit the bus on time. On my way back, (an 8 hour trip), I had all my time. I used it to sleep and to gather my memories about New York and its denizens. As I can see, except for the bus terminal attendants, New Yorkers are friendly, fun­loving people. They don't have any complexes. They sincerely think that New York is the only place in the whole galaxy worth living in ­ though they are too polite to say it directly. Having the "right" look is most important in NYC. Every part of the city has its own vestimentary code. You may like it or not, but you will certainly notice it. That applies to wearing a three­pieces gray flannel suit on Wall Street as well as to wearing Nike Aeros on Canal Street. In a nutshell, New Yorkers are a mixed bag of people who seem to have learned to work and have fun together, despite their differences and the lack of privacy of a mega­urban setting ­ or, on second thought, perhaps because of it: do they have any other choice?

Scott and Michel on 51^th Street