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Setting Sail
Thoreau, in his essay entitled “Walking,” threw down the gauntlet, an open challenge to those who dared practice the art he dutifully mastered:
“If you are ready to leave father and mother, and brother and sister, and wife and child and friends, and never see them again,—if you have paid your debts, and made your will, and settled all your affairs, and are a free man, then you are ready for a walk.”
It was the first week of December 2006. There was a pile of books waiting on the table for me. My room was otherwise bare. Everything was boxed away in anticipation of an indefinite voyage. The leaves had all fallen. The frost was settling on the ground. I watched the weather anxiously, hoping the relatively benign temperature would hold another week.
I would be leaving any day, and yet I paid no mind to my departure. No goodbyes to my family or my friends, just work. My equipment waited neatly packed away. No dry runs to work out the kinks. I would just slop together what I needed and head out.
If it snowed, I’d just camp out and wait until the plows cleared the road. If it were bad enough, I’d figure out how to get to a bus station or airport and fly south enough to avoid the worst of winter.
It was going to be an interesting challenge. I had calculated that my cold weather gear would allow me to survive the occasional double-digit negatives. Looking at weather trends, I reasoned that if I could stay near the Atlantic coast, I could avoid these dips in temperature. Also, Evelyn Garriss, a climatologist for the Browning Newsletter and guest expert for the Financial Sense Newshour, predicted that a strong El Nino would push east. This warm air would first force, and eventually displace Arctic air from where I would be riding. If I could ride through this warm pocket, avoiding its recession, I would be well off.
How quickly things change without ever seeing it happen. I went from a slow, steady, methodic cadence, to a last minute, all-out push to get everything done. At the rate I was working, I was months away from being ready and spending tour money every day.
It would have been logical to wait out the winter, but it was beyond my patience. I took the pile of books, all the unfinished business and threw it on the bike trailer. New York City would be my first destination. I would do my research there. It was time to pack and head off.
Weight of the World
Commonly, when backpacking or cycling, the following rule applies: after acquiring all your gear, lay it out in front of you. From this pile, remove everything you don’t need. From what remains, cut that pile in half.
For some, the refining process can be emotional. When I hitchhiked across country a few years back, I found myself progressively discarding “indispensable” items. Only after weeks of carrying a heavy backpack did I relinquish those precious ounces.
Much in the same way as my previous adventure, I found myself with far too much gear at the outset. Over a period of two years, buying equipment was my indulgence, a way to live the adventure without ever hitting the road. Eventually, I had more gear than I could fit in the bike trailer.
In my defense, I spent much time experimenting with the gear, using it in different ways and in combination with other pieces of gear. I lived out the future in my mind, going about the process of cycling long days in the rain, of setting up and breaking down camp repeatedly.
Because of these mental exercises, I concluded that it was not enough for me to have a camp, I had to have a home. If I were to spend years on the road, I needed something more than minimal. I convinced myself to add an extra ounce here and there. I reasoned that the weight was on my bike, not my back, so that I didn’t have to worry about the strain on my body. If I needed to push my bike uphill, I would push my bike uphill. After all, I was in no rush. The world was my home.
Thus I packed. My gear bulged uncomfortably from my trailer. I had to use my external frame backpack to lash on the gear that wouldn’t fit inside. The weight of it was incomprehensible. I could barely roll it downstairs without scraping walls and falling off balance. I had to repack.
I removed more clothes than I would have liked. I discarded some of the bulkier bike repair equipment. I pared down my equipment one piece at a time, still left with a little too much. The books and the electronic equipment were killing me, but it would have to do.
My training consisted of two dry runs with all the gear hooked up to my bike. I cycled a total distance of less than five miles. I would have to rely on my backpacking and hitchhiking experience to see me through to Manhattan.
On December 13, 2006 with a little haste, I loaded my gear on the back of my brother’s truck. I arranged for him to drive me south in order to shave off some time in the winter weather zone. We took off on a rainy Wednesday as far south as we could get in two hours: my brother had obligations later in the afternoon.
Due to my lack of sleep the night prior, I found myself napping in the truck for most of the journey. I tried not to think about the fact that I would be heading out on a rainy winter day along some unfamiliar road, relying on my GPS to guide me from one place to the next. No longer would I be sleeping in a bed in the village of Ballston Spa. No longer would I have dinner on Front Street or ice cream on Milton Ave.
Eventually, the time came for me to go. We pulled up into a gas station in the town of Woodbury, New York. I unloaded my gear and checked to see that everything was in order. Before me stood a brave future. I said a reluctant goodbye to my brother, who offered his unconditional help. He drove off on the thruway, I saddled up for a global tour.
Not as Expected
My GPS informed me I was forty miles from Manhattan. It also informed me that sunset would be at 4:30pm. I suspected that I could make it to my destination by nightfall. Without delay, I followed the path my GPS laid before me.
It didn’t take long before I realized something was wrong. The GPS informed me to take a right onto the thruway. Looking closely at the map, I realized that only the preloaded basemap was displaying.
Taking care to keep the rain from entering my GPS, I opened the back up to find that the memory card was dislodged. I quickly locked it in place and recalculated my route: 100 miles. It was clear to me that I wouldn’t make it to my destination in a day.
I canceled my reservations to Hostelling International in Manhattan and followed my new course. Luckily, I had packed enough food to last me a few days without going to the grocery store. I could devote my day to riding exclusively.
Despite the rain, I was at peace. There was nothing for me to do but pedal. All the great haste of preparing for the journey was over. It was hard to believe that I was actually on this new adventure. I had grown accustomed to planning over the years and forgot what it was to reap the rewards.
This initial euphoria subsided when I reached my first notable hill. After a protracted struggle, I submitted to gravity: I slowly made my way on foot. I could sense that the weight of the books would be of concern in the coming days.
The day was waning when I reached Harriman State Park. It was a ghostly quiet place despite the regular traffic. Glacial moraines littered the hilly landscape. A light fog rolled in, further obfuscating my presence from motorists as they sped through blind corners. I began to worry over my obtuse trailer pushing out into the road. I tried my best to hug the narrow shoulder.
Twilight approached. I was angry to see that I had made less than twenty miles. I attached my bike lights and pressed on.
The tail light fell off at one point; I had to backtrack to pick it up. Cars drove past precariously close. I was in a sour mood as I pushed my bike up another hill in the dark. My legs kept cramping, so I could only limp slowly without seizing up. I noticed that no one beeped at me; usually at this hour, people are very irate when sharing the road with a crazy nightrider. I think that the sight of my huddled limping body drew pity.
I was dreaming of a warm bath and well-lit rooms. I was craving hot chocolate, books, and friends. On that dark and damp hill, I quit the journey altogether. I wasn’t sure what I’d do next, but it wasn’t cycling.
A police officer pulled over opposite my side of the road. Obviously concerned with my outward condition, he questioned me. Where did I come from? Where was I going? How was I doing? Was I okay? Deciding that I was well, he drove off. It felt good to have that support system there.
After my encounter with the police officer, I realized that it was a good idea to pull over for the night and collect my strength. I pulled over along Lake Welch to set up camp. The temperature was mild but pleasant for the time of year, 40°F. I was tempted to drop inside my Golite Lair I Shelter and Nest. I pitched the tarp haphazardly amongst broken bottles and boulders. The sandy glacial soil was mostly impenetrable. My sagging shelter was weakly staked to the ground.
I laid out my Therm-A-Rest sleeping pad and Northface sleeping bag inside the bug net and crawled in. I laid there for some time thinking. I could feel my thoughts pulling into dreamlike strands of logic. I would shake the dreams only to dream again. After this back and forth, I got out of my shelter to let the sleeping bag and pad expand.
I was very happy to have packed dehydrated meals. I picked Mountain House Pasta Primavera for this evening’s dinner. I heated up the water in my Jetboil PCS. The water boiled quickly. I emptied the water inside the dehydrated meal pouch and starred sullenly out over the lake. I was too nervous to eat. I could only think about the uncertainty of my future. I yearned for a house, a car, and a steady job. In my mind, I was in this alternate life. I was lying in a warm bed surrounded by four walls and a ceiling. I felt at a loss for inspiration.
I forced myself to eat, as I knew that I had a long day ahead. I had trouble holding the food down, but I managed to eat everything. Even more tired now with a full stomach, I stumbled through my toiletries, my clothing, and my hydration bladder to construct a camp shower.
I brought out my MSR Miniworks water filter to the lake. I was surprised to see a thin layer of ice over the water. I tossed a rock out a small distance to make a hole for my filter. I could see clearly that I was near a road so runoff was a concern, but I was too tired to care. I started pumping. The water passed through slowly. I realized that it was clogged again. I had to scrub the filter to make it pump efficiently. After a little work, water was flowing.
In the cold of the night, I washed myself in sections, exposing only a portion of my body at a time to the cold. Surprisingly, I felt warmer as I cleaned myself. Changing into a new silk shirt, Smartwool boxers and Smartwool sox made me feel much better. I looked out over the lake and began to appreciate its beauty. For a moment, I felt like I was on the right path. Sleep, however, fell like a ton of bricks. I was out as soon as I crawled in my shelter.
…
I awoke in a thick fog that surrounded the lake. Every piece of exposed gear was drenched from condensation. My drooping tarp dribbled water on my face and sleeping bag. Despite these things, I felt well rested.
I noted that I slept over twelve hours. The sun was well in the sky. The fog was beginning to evaporate. Lake Welch seemed eternal and mysterious in the morning haze. I could only make out the outline of bare trees on the opposite shore.
I aired out my gear for a few hours as the fog cleared. I consumed some fruit, packed up, and was back on the road.
The temperature was just right as I commenced my ride. I was powering up hills efficiently, confidence returned in my travels.
Unknowingly, I was at the base of a major decent. In the crisp, cool breeze, I rolled downhill for at least ten minutes. Fog rolled in along the winding road. I cut through these pockets of limited visibility at over thirty miles an hour. I enjoyed myself thoroughly. The trailer rattled unhappily behind me but seemed to manage.
I reached the Hudson River in good time. On North Liberty Drive, I passed a hotdog stand. My stomach controlled the direction of the bike at that point. I did a u-turn to grab a quick lunch. Goodie, the proprietor of the stand was a very kind man. I grabbed a hotdog with sauerkraut and a soda for three bucks. I consumed both voraciously. In the short time I inhaled my lunch, a couple of vehicles stopped at the stand. I was surprised to hear that business was good along these parts. A lot of cyclists and truck drivers like making the quick stop.
There was a decent climb once I entered Bear Mountain State Park. I held my own until I reached a bridge that crossed the Hudson. As the road continued to climb, I lost my energy. I was back to walking the bike. This trend continued each time I reached an incline. No matter how much I ate, I couldn’t get my strength back.
The Bear Mountain State Parkway was a terrible place to lose energy. There was a lot of elevation gain and no shoulder. I did a lot of walking. Cars flew by. I was back to thinking of quitting.
My troubles were compounded by a flat tire on my Burley Nomad trailer. With low blood sugar, I found focusing on the repair difficult. I spent some time going through the process of a repair with every desire to pull my bike and trailer into a ditch for the night. I forced myself to make more mileage.
Walking now a bit unevenly, I made my way up further. Not only was the shoulder nonexistent, frequent drop-offs of up to a foot hugged the edge. At one point, my trailer took a dive in one of the holes.
I pushed and pulled madly. Cars were just too close for me to be playing with this predicament. I managed to unhook the trailer, right both the trailer and the bike, and carry on. All I could think was that my GPS was leading me to my death.
In the process of righting my trailer, I lost a pivotal component to the trailer’s hitch Unknowingly, I rode without it for some miles. Luckily, I caught it before anything bad happened.
As night approached, I attached my lights. The back light fell off despite my new configuration. Again, I was precariously close to traffic, backtracking to where the light fell.
Exhausted now, I pulled into a dark wooded path in Yorktown, New York. I followed the trail to a seemingly unused portion to set up camp. As there were houses in the distance, I set everything up in the dark. Surprisingly, I did a much better job using more feeling than sight. I washed up, changed my clothes, and headed into town to find dinner.
I stopped at a pizza joint for a slice, followed by a trip to Starbucks in hopes to access the internet. I felt much better surrounded by four walls and heat. I spent an hour or so venting to my friend about my troubles and worries. The transition to this new mode of living was more brutal than I imagined it would be. Many of my problems I felt were linked to the books I carried. My mood changed with the elevation profile.
As Starbucks closed, I filled my hydration bladder. I took to the now foggy road. It was very surreal to traverse these unfamiliar roads in limited visibility. Riding around for some time, I felt as if I was in a dream, or I was a ghost overlooking my past. Late now, I made my way to bed.
…
I awoke after another twelve hours of sleep, this time in no mood to get up. I lounged in my sleeping bag for at least an hour. I was very sluggish getting up. I cleaned up a little and made my way to Starbucks. On the way, my front tire went flat, so I walked the rest of the short distance. After having breakfast, I managed to get my bearings straight. I decided to rest the day in Yorktown. The next few days would be good for riding.
Back at my site, I had a couple of cups of Formosa Gunpowder green tea. I sat a while under a tree collecting my thoughts. I went over the mistakes I made the previous two days and came up with a strategy to mitigate my fleeting emotions. Mostly I tried to convince myself that I was doing the right thing. My body was raging against this new way of life.
After sufficient reflection, I proceeded to my site in order to repair the damages that occurred during my rough riding. I managed to clean and tune my bicycle to good condition and I fashioned a new part for my trailer hitch out of a length of cord. Fiddling around camp took a good portion of the day.
As evening fell upon Yorktown, I ran some mundane errands in town. Upon completion, I configured my bike for stealth riding and pierced the inky darkness of a forest trail in silence.
As I prepared for bed, I could hear the rustling of leaves in my vicinity. I made a habit of keeping my headlamp off to avoid drawing attention. I sat on a log listening to the footfalls. It was some kind of animal. I looked around the foggy basin of my campsite from time to time. The light from distant street lamps cast an eerie orange glow on the fog. The dark bare trees cut through the pale glow. Every object was a hazy shadow. I could sense a presence.
I shifted my legs a little. Behind me, about fifty feet away, I could hear something move. I turned in time to see the blackened silhouette of a deer jumping from shadow to shadow. It snorted at me.
To my left, I thought a branch moved. I stared in that direction for some time. Like liquid, the ground seemed to rise slowly until the outline of some kind of dog became clear. It moved with its head to the ground too quiet for me to hear. It circled my site and disappeared. As moved as I was by the beauty of this night, I forced myself to bed…
…
It was sunny but cool, a good day for riding. Without delay, I disassembled my site and aired out my gear. A tire repair I made previously did not hold. Since it was a ten-hour leak, I decided to let it take its course throughout the day.
A couple of quick stops and I was off. I recalculated my route. To my surprise, it took twenty miles off. Without much effort, I was now forty miles from my destination.
The weather was perfect for riding. I found myself on some very nice rural routes. I was still doing a lot of walking. In addition, my bike was acting up. The quick release lever on my back wheel kept dislodging, so I was riding with an unsecured wheel. Luckily, my fender warned me when things were becoming ajar. In addition, a defective panel on my Burley Nomad had a loose fabric wall, so the fabric would push against the tire, scraping annoyingly along the road. It was a defect I detected months ago, but chose to ignore. Riding now with it, I came to regret my decision.
Also of note, my fenders were a little too narrow for my tires; the adjustment screws kept scraping the tire wall. Overall, there were many stop and go adjustments.
I stopped at the Croton Watershed for a couple of pictures. New York City gets a significant portion of its water from here. I suppose it was my first connection with the City, the wild parts.
Even though I had many more hours of riding ahead of me, I found myself actively scouting a place to camp. I was looking for ease of access, concealment, and proximity to healthy water. I wasn’t sure how closely to Manhattan dense developments form.
Darkness was beginning to suggest itself in the sky by the time I reached White Plains. I was beginning to sense dense development. Had I stopped, I would have made it less than twenty miles. Had I kept going, I risked losing opportunity for setting up camp. I decided to continue.
As darkness fell, I donned my night gear: a reflect sash, a headlamp, a tail light, and guile. I stuck to the sidewalk when I could but found the bumpy ride unpleasant and slow. In dense clusters of population, navigating the streets seemed impossible.
Reluctantly, I took to the street for the first time in such dense population. I made amends with my past and accepted the prospect of hospitalization. To my surprise, vehicles seemed to anticipate and respect my presence.
Where I come from, people don’t take well to bikes, let alone bikes with trailers. People beep and yell at least once a day. I feel like some kind of effigy for all the anger of the world when I’m on a bike. Then again, there are the people who slow down and give you the thumbs up.
It was a different jungle here with different laws. Maneuvers I considered risky at home were conservative in White Plains. With cautious hesitation, I placed my stake on the road.
My battle was short lived. White Plains gave way to pockets of affluent and lower class neighborhoods. The yellow glow of windows and the multifarious colors of Christmas lights extended into the darkened hills. It was clear to me that I would have to go all the way tonight.
I called Hostelling International to see if there were any vacancies. I was in luck. It was okay to check in past 10pm. I was a little reluctant to cycle through The Bronx and Harlem at night, but I figured that even in a shady neighborhood, at least five miles per hour was a healthy speed.
The Bronx wasn’t nearly as bad as I expected. In the places with most graffiti and metal fences, people would stand and watch, sometimes in groups of three, rarely more. When I was forced to stop, some would stare at my trailer. I didn’t sense any predatory behavior in their demeanor. Compared to Chinatown at night in Honolulu, the streets were tame.
The closer I got to Manhattan, the denser the population and infrastructure. I was back to a hyperawareness of the road. Again, I sensed hesitation and awareness on the part of drivers and pedestrians. The road was often two lanes. The rightmost lane was littered with double-parked vehicles: some occupied, some vacant. I cautiously weaved around these vehicles and stopping buses. I began to press riskier maneuvers for the sake of experimentation. Again, drivers were perceptive: no beeping, no yelling.
At one congested intersection, I witnessed the tumult of a density of vehicles I have never before experienced. Cars were weaving in strange, illegal ways. Vehicles waiting at red lights were beeping, as if compelling the lead driver to push into moving traffic. Some cars at the lead were inching forward, confused, looking back and forth, as if they missed their cue. A parked police car was flashing its lights across the street, taking people’s statements. An ambulance passively pushed through, making slow progress. For the few minutes I waited at the intersection, I began to understand the rules of the road.
As the light turned green, I began to explore these premises. With my trailer behind me, I weaved in and out of the chaos. I passed buses; I passed cars; I wedged cautiously through pedestrians. Hundreds of people were making split-second calculations, weaving through the path of least resistance. It was poetry in motion.
The whole day of riding, I ate only one croissant. I was living off the stimulation and it was eating me alive. As I approached the hostel, my ears were ringing and my head ached. It was a little past 8pm.
I locked my bike in front with a U-lock and a cable for my saddle. I rolled my trailer into the lobby.
It was a clean lobby. The staff was well dressed and friendly. I checked into a 10 bed male dorm for a little over $30 a night. A security guard guided me to a locker room. I was surprised to find lockers that could fit my trailer and all my gear for $5 a day.
I disassembled my trailer, separated the gear that I would need for the next few weeks from the gear I wouldn’t need. I placed the gear I didn’t need inside the spacious locker. The rest I brought to the elevator.
My 10-bed room was on the second floor. It measured 16’ by 18’. I needed a keycard to access the room. By the time I entered, a couple of men were asleep but the lights were still on. By all appearances, everything was clean, a little austere perhaps. I tried to quietly pack my locker. It was very spacious, 35” high, 18” wide, and 19” deep. Packing it was like an episode of Mr. Bean. A gentleman was trying to sleep in a bed right next to me while I shifted around in my crinkling nylon clothing. I kept crinkling paper receipts and plastic wrappers. I tried to set large items on my creaking bed quietly. I pulled off the long, loud Velcro of my gaiters. I unzipped the long, loud zipper of my rain pants. As quiet as I tried to be, I only ended up prolonging my loudness. Items dropped out of my locker. The gentleman kept tossing and turning. I expected him to grab my throat as the process extended beyond half an hour. I was so hungry that I couldn’t think straight. I kept forgetting where things went. Ultimately, I grabbed what perishable food I had and made my way to the dining area.
I made a few quick calls, had a bite to eat, and made my way back to my room. I was quickly losing consciousness. I managed to wash up in the bathroom and eventually crash in my bed. Laying there in Manhattan with ten other people snoring or wheezing at different cadence, I couldn’t help but feel like an immigrant from some distant land. Fresh from Ellis Island, I found lodging in the same room as so many other immigrants. What whim brought them here?
A Cell Contemplating a Biome
December 17th, 2006. I awoke after nine hours of sleep. People were up and out before me; they served as a passive alarm clock. I sat up for a small time on my top bunk reflecting.
I was in Manhattan, the first destination in a long strand of destinations. I had a pile of books to review before I was prepared to analyze the city properly. Namely, I was interested in understanding how the city came into existence.
It was clear to me that New York Harbor played a major role in its development. The large, sheltered harbor is the gateway to the Hudson. The Hudson connected to the manmade Erie Canal, ultimately connecting regions east and west of the Appalachian Mountains. Early settlement of North America relied heavily on waterways as a means to transport goods. It remained to continue my course of studies in order to form a more comprehensive analysis of New York City.
On my first day in Manhattan, however, I was compelled to explore with my own eyes, unfiltered by the conjecture of others. I mounted my bike and headed south.
Ironically, as a New York resident, I have spent only a few hours in New York City during the course of my life. I was thus overwhelmed by the scope of daily existence in such a complex environment. Millions of people, largely unaware of the history and infrastructure around them, went about their small piece of existence. Each individual had his or her own act in this play. Payment was a part in the drama.
I cycled for many hours aimlessly. I let the urban world saturate my senses. Night fell but the city raged on. I let it carry me wherever it felt I should be.
The city carried me thus for two weeks.
In order to form a comprehensive analysis, the subconscious needs to absorb patterns on an intuitive level. From there, the conscious mind may isolate and explain tendencies in a communicable format. I found myself, weeks into the endeavor, still absorbing raw data.
At the pace I was absorbing information, it would have taken me at least a year to form a satisfactory overview of New York City. This changed everything. It meant that the nature of my studies would require me to seat myself in a given region for an extended period. I would not be able to generate intelligible analysis of my observations for at least a few months. In other words, regular, intelligent writings would be very difficult, requiring a base understanding of various sciences in order to expedite the interpretation process.
Winter was pressing on. I was still in New York and it was January. I was not in the mood to stay in New York City throughout the winter. It would have required a different frame of living. I chose to press on towards Washington, DC.
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