And suddenly we're almost done!

It seems like only a couple days ago that we were reposing in the sweet, conditioned air in the public library in Ortonville, MI. Now, however, we find ourselves in leather sofas, with our feet up on leather ottomans, next to a dying fire and watching the last light on Saratoga Lake. That’s right: New York.

Back in the library, we were befriended by a nice man/motorcyclist/cyclist/small plane pilot who took interest in our travels and invited us to sleep in his spare bedroom just 4 miles out of town. While he went off to fly rich businessmen to out-of-state meetings (read: expensive dinners in faraway places), we—fittingly—watched The Aviator, washed all of our clothes in a real live washing machine, made mac ‘n’ cheese on a real live stove, and followed it up with fresh homemade chocolate pudding. Then we slept in a bed. And in the morning, our friend made us pancakes, gave us a map with our day’s ride highlighted for us, and proceeded to give our bikes full tune-ups before he sent us on our way. Cost: priceless. Thank you Paul!

Next stop: Grosse Pointe, the suburb north of Detroit riddled with Ford mansions (and the only slightly less grandiose estates of the nowaday auto execs) and home to our friend Rush. Rush wined and dined us: dinner at a bustling sushi restaurant, brunch at her country club, a motor tour of the Motor City, and 3 movies in one day in the big comfy chairs in her den, accompanied by our most faithful friends Ice Cream and Candy. Our second full day of sweet sugary rest of the trip. Thank you Char.

Nevertheless, we weren’t heartbroken to pedal out of the vehicular capital of the country—it wasn’t really our bag. And before we could say “Pontiac Grand Am,” we were on a little ferry crossing the St. Clair River into Ontario with a bunch of Canadians who had hopped over the border to buy some beer (it’s actually cheaper for them to buy their very own Labatt Blue on US soil). We happily headed straight into the middle of nowhere, a place we had come to miss. Nothing but farmland and teensy towns all the way east along Lake Erie, right up until we crossed the Peace Bridge and landed in the slums of Buffalo, NY. Suddenly, there was no confusion about it: we were in America, in the thick of the red white and blue, and, most shockingly, within striking distance of the Atlantic coast.

Biking through NYS we’ve met with some unexpected conditions—the steepest hills yet, the coolest weather and thunderstorms nearly every day, and the widest and smoothest shoulders of the trip. Quite a combination. We pushed ourselves up and over and up and over through the Finger Lakes, each time feeling like we were on top of New York, each time half-expecting to see the Manhattan skyline and our long lost ocean. Each time descending somewhat unwillingly into a valley and facing another wall of road. It seems that our morale is tested in a different way at every turn. Once the hills toned down, we had to dodge thunder, lightning, and sky-darkening rain, ducking into convenience stores just as the clouds closed above us. Or, when we weren’t so lucky, getting stuck in the middle of it and then getting two flats within 10 minutes of each other. We succumbed to one last hotel room to avoid the relentless wet and cold and slept ravenously for the next 12 hours (with a brief break to eat ravenously).

Needless to say, we arrived yesterday in Saratoga with elation. We were greeted once again by Libby’s mom and pop and their old friends, the Estridges, and we have been pampered since. We went to the horse races today, ate fair food and ice cream, strolled through town in the perpetual drizzle, and did plenty of in-home relaxing as well. We couldn’t turn down the invitation to stay one more day—what will be our fourth and final day of rest—before the home stretch of 180 miles to the coast. We can’t believe it.

Love to all, and pictures to come soon, methinks.