As I headed out of town toward the east, I spotted a clutch of scorchers, out for a Sunday morning ride, the first such group I had seen since Montana, and I tried to catch them, just to see what they could tell me of the roads in the area. Alas they were too fast for me and they turned off my route before I could make contact. I had a long way to go on this day, and a sensible pace was called for.
I was determined to ride along the Hudson River for awhile, and this was to be my chance. My father grew up in New York City and had always had a fascination with the Hudson. We had many times looked over prints from the last century, depicting the landscapes of the Hudson valley, and I have always tried to appreciate what life would have been like back in the middle of the last century. An hour of cycling through the area, combined with a little imagination, can conjure realistic pictures of the time. I think it is fair to say that I was as impressed with the Hudson as Babcock was with the Mohawk. One is never sure how much anticipation one should muster before seeing something, as it is easy to overdo, and be disappointed. This was not the case today.
I got to Bennington before I noticed that I still had all of the skinny part of Vermont to cross and I had already gone 55 miles. This was going to be a long day, compounded by a crossing of the Green Mountains. As I pressed on, the territory became more and more familiar, and steeper and steeper. I encountered the place I first skied, and some towns I had cycled through only a few years before, but it was not until I saw familiar family faces that I eased up. In absolute terms, it was my hardest day to date, but after 4600 miles, my legs were up to the task and I was not at all drained. It was very nice to be home again.
Mr. Babcock was still riding alone at this point, and that being the case, he was quite free to make ad hoc decisions on the spur of the moment. In the newspaper articles he described one such decision:
I spent the night of August 24 at Amsterdam and arising at 6 o'clock found that I could not get breakfast at the hotel before 7, so concluded to run down to Schenectady, sixteen miles, before breakfast. As I rode slowly out through the town I observed Barnum and Bailey's Greatest Show on Earth just unloading from the cars. Farther out in the suburbs I passed the open fields where the tents were being erected. The scene had a peculiar interest for me, perhaps it was the bracing morning air, perhaps it was the fact that, not having had any breakfast, my appetite brought back childhood's days. On second thought I believe the few show wagons unloading over in the field, with the crowd of urchins gathered around made me wish for a real circus holiday myself. It took me back to the little country town where the circus and the country fair were the events of the summer, and where with other lads I "worked my way in" by bringing water in a vain endeavor to quench the unquenchable thirst of numerous camels and elephants.
I wheeled on, little thinking that night would still find me in the state of New York after a day of circuses. A few miles farther on I met six wheelmen who were going up to the races at Saratoga and it seemed as if everyone was having fun while I was at work. I went on and entered Schenectady. The city was decked with a profusion of bunting and even at that early hour a band was playing. I was told that it was the day of the Sangerfest. While at the breakfast table another band went past followed by about 100 young men in white caps and with a look of inquiry I turned to my neighbor at the table. "It's the young men's club going to the Republican state convention at Saratoga," was his reply to my unspoken question. That was too much; leaving my bike at the hotel I went to the depot just "to see the crowd off," and in an hour was at Saratoga.
So Mr. Babcock also made it to Saratoga unexpectedly. And tomorrow's journal entry will describe the show that awaited him.
Today 106 miles sneaked up on me. But the last 15 were on the excellent dirt roads of Vermont. All the adversity of the day was forgotten.
I am laying over a day in Guilford, before the final push to Boston.
Plans call for me to arrive in Boston on Wednesday at about 2 in the afternoon and end the trip on the grounds of the Public Gardens, near the intersection of Arlington St and Marlborough St. It seems like I started this adventure only a few weeks ago, and yet here I am, on the verge of its end. Hard to believe,
Dennis