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Adirondack Weekend
Damn! I always hate it when the phone rings
early in the morning awakening me from sound
sleep. It usually portends disaster of one
sort or another. I rolled over wearily and
snatched up the receiver. "Bro, get
your butt out of bed, it's already sixty degrees.
They say it's gonna be clear. I figure we
can scoot out to Red's house."
My brother-in-law Dan has never let me down.
Good rides on great roads always are his
specialty. Beside that, I had heard before
that a trip to Red's was always an adventure.
After a quick shower and a quicker coffee, I was
in the saddle.
Sunlight splashed through overhanging branches
beginning its daily task of drying up
the morning dew. The bike felt
stronger by the minute as she warmed up
completely. I cut the engine as I rolled
into Dan's place -- I didn't
feel like blasting anyone out of bed.
Not that my bike is all that loud but any sound
in that crystal-like morning air would shatter
the magic of an early summer day.
Dan was already out in his chicken coop where
he garages his bike. "Ready to roll? Want
some coffee?" I replied
"I'm good to go". Dan
rolled his Harley Softail out of the coop. We
are definitely a strange sight on the road the
Kawasaki Ninja and the Harley Davidson, me
in my one piece black one-piece leather and
blacked full face helmet, Dan in his chaps and
fringed vest -- Darth Vader and Easy Rider
laughing and yelling back and forth, and having a
great time.
It always seems that his electric starter is
going to just miss actually starting his bike.
You'll hear one piston rise through TDC and then
silence for a fraction of a second as the starter
gathers its strength to lift the other piston.
Unless it's below 30 degrees, she'll always
start. Thunder erupted from the Softail's
pipes as she settled into her choked idle My
brother-in-law and his buddies used to kid me
about my bike when I had the stock mufflers.
Its exhaust note sang with all the passion
of a major household appliance. A set
of Cobra F1-R's makes my bike sound like
Doug Polen's Ducati, but at
relatively polite volume levels.
We swung out onto the two lane blacktop and
headed through the sleepy little town of Hagaman,
on our way to County Highway 107 which leads to
Route 30. There is a diner in
Hagaman called Cronies. They serve
breakfast, lunch and dinner -- hey, they actually
advertise themselves as a pizzeria. I've
never had their pizza. North on Route 30 is
the beginning of many scenic rides through fine
twisties. Herba Honda - Suzuki -
Yamaha is located in Perth on Route 30. (R.D. 4
Perth Road, 518-842-8812) They don't deal
Kawasaki but they've always been very helpful.
Route 29 crosses 30 about a mile or two past
Herba. Turning east at this intersection
takes you out to Saratoga with its quaint hotels
and bistros as well as its famous horse track.
Traffic through here during race season is full
of partiers so caution is well advised. Twenty-nine
also leads to the Northway (87), which can
take you to Lake George sight of the Americade
every June.
Our trip would take us past this
crossroad and continue north on Route 30. Great
Sacandaga lake is the first major tourist
attraction though you will see very little of it
from the road. Sacandaga is a very pleasant
lake for swimming and picnicking but we planned
to ride much further. After
Sacandaga. Route 30 begins to climb up into the
Adirondack Mountain range. These are old
mountains geologically speaking. Weathered
and rounded, the mountains possess charm
and beauty that might be lost on someone
accustomed to the crags and pinnacles of the
Rockies. They suit me though. Uphill
sweepers abound along this section of highway.
Just as often, the road will throw a quick set of
downhill esses before settling back into its
ascent. The road follows a river that
feeds into the Great Sacandaga. This churning
current plunges into the woods and hills
then emerges on the left hand side of the road, a
stone filled rapid, rushing past under the pine
trees.
I sniffed the air as we passed under the
trees. That is one of the blessings of
riding-- actually experiencing the landscape as
you travel through it rather than merely watching
it go by until you arrive at your destination as
you do in a car. Of course, you
really "live the reality" of riding
past chicken farms!
The highway winds and climbs through scenic
small towns with great names like Speculator and
Indian Lake. There is a diner in
Indian Lake. It is situated behind a
bar and supermarket. Dan knew of it and
had eaten there many times. They serve a
huge breakfast for a small sum. It was 10:30 when
we arrived, but there was still a healthy sized
breakfast crowd. That didn't keep us from
finding a table. I ordered scrambled eggs
and sausages. It came with four slices of
toast, home fries juice and coffee -- huge
mugs with limitless refills. I swear the
price wasn't much past three dollars which is
quite good especially considering the jumbo
size of the servings. My leathers felt a
quite a bit tighter after finishing. I'm
very sensitive about such matters! I don't
think anything is as satisfying as a big
breakfast after a long, brisk morning ride.
At Indian Lake, Route 30 continues
north. Dan and I hooked a left onto Route
28. The first settlers of this area must
have had no romance in their souls whatsoever.
The landscape is punctuated by some of the most
beautiful jewel-like deep blue lakes surrounded
by post cars mountains and forests. These
pioneers gave them charming names -- Lake One,
Lake Two, etc., apparently up to Lake Seven.
Talk about flower imaginations! Poor
naming aside, this part of New York state is a
dream to ride through with lots of spectacular
twisties with rapid elevation changes. My
favorite kind are those banked right-handers in
between two small hills. You know the type
-- where the bike's suspension compresses from
the gravity load -- the whole weight of rider and
machine coming down on the suspension while the
tires are hitting the bottom of the bowl
forcing up on the suspension. Here
you can turn harder than on a flat surface
because gravity is gluing your bike to the
pavement.
We had fallen into a definite rhythm with the
road when I started began to notice Dan
slowing down and gazing intently into gaps
and holes in the surrounding forests or
hillsides. We had come upon an area
that he recognized as being close to the Moose
River and he was looking for a seldom-used side
road that parallels it. Finally he
swung right. Sharp turns and
switchbacks swirled at me almost faster than I
could pick a line. Unfortunately the best
lines were also the ones chosen by sand and
gravel washed from the shoulder. This led
to some interesting mod-corner heroics! My
Kaw always seems to handle better the more I rely
on her. On this day, the more I
asked, the more she gave. After about
eight miles, I was starting to get tired of razor
precise moves and was glad to see Dan heel over
hard into Red's driveway.
Red has the ideal set-up for a motorcyclist.
His garage is detached from his house but has a
wood-burning stove to keep the humidity out and
the temperature comfortable. This is an
absolute necessity this far north. The
garage itself would have fit about six
cars, but Red had better ideas. Beside a
huge stereo and sofas, he's got an automotive
workshop and a fridge stocked with beer and
pepperoni. Like I said, ideal! (On a
future trip to Red's, we would ride the last
fifty miles in a thunderstorm complete with large
hailstones. Boy, did it feel good to roll
into that garage full of dry heat.) On
one wall hangs a Champion spark plug add
with James Dean working on his Porsche Spider
-- a sort of memento mori for the
place.
An old Harley FLH resides in that garage as
well. Red traded a very nice '55
Chevy street-rod for that bike. He got the
better end of the deal. I'm not
particularly a Harley man, but this one is sweet.
It's basically a stripped dresser, silver on
gray. He's polished the pants off of
everything he could. It's detailed as nice
or nicer as anyone's ride.
So, in we roll. He must have heard us
coming because the e automatic door is on the way
up as we coast up the drive. Red greets us
in his pleasant, laid-back style. He makes
me feel right at home even though I don't have a
Harley. There are some guys out there
who actually have enough love and respect for all
things mechanical that they don't automatically
rag your ride just because it isn't what they
ride. Both Red and Dan are planning
to add V-Maxes to their stables in the future.
After stretching out a bit, we decide to all
go out for a short ride. We took Route 12
south for a bit. This is a terrific road
for seeing just how fast your mount will move.
It's also well known as a high speed testing
venue to the State Police. We did not wish
to collect any High Performance Riding Citations
from the State of New York, so we only blasted
for a short stretch of very clear road.
It's amazing what a little torque (lots,
actually) can do. My Kaw generates just as
much horsepower as Dan's Harley. He puts
out lots of torque low in his rev range. In
a drag race, he pulls ahead of me right after
launch. After about forty, I am catching
him. At sixty, I've just hit the meat of my
power curve, while he's starting to near the end
of his. At eighty, I'm leaving him
further and further behind. Past the
ton, he is all out of revs, I'm still holding a
substantial reserve.
We turned around at Corning (where they make
the glass and cookware) and headed on back to
Red's garage. Dan and I planned
to return home by this route the following
morning. At Red's we barbecued and bench
raced the evening away. Things that
are pleasant to relate never make a good story,
but things that are shocking and horrible make a
great tale. Therefore I won't go into
details about the evening since it was neither
horrible nor shocking. I awoke on one of the
sofas in the garage feeling just like I had spent
the night on a sofa in someone's garage.
The sunlight was streaming through the window
over the workbench illuminating a small mountain
of beer cans. But that's another story --
and I'd probably take a beating for talking out
of school. We had a famous
breakfast and loaded up the bikes. The map
below shows the route we followed on this trip.
We left the Amsterdam area and traveled
counterclockwise.
Utica is connected to Amsterdam by at least
three roads. The New York State Thruway is
one way of making the trip if speed is essential
and you like paying tolls. Personally, I
can't stand having to take a toll ticket, find a
spot in my leathers for it and then, having
arrived at my destination, having to stop, take
off my gloves, retrieve the ticket, find some
change, zip myself up, put on my gloves and leave
before the hoard of angry cagers behind me
organize a lynching party. I digress.
When traveling from Utica to Amsterdam, the only
route to take is Route 5S which parallels the
southern banks of the Mohawk River.
The Mohawk River of James Fenimore Cooper fame
is steeped in history, most of it bloody. You
might find The Martyr's Shrine in Auriesville
interesting. High cliffs overlook a
picturesque valley with gently rolling hills and
farmland. I can understand why people
fought and died for this real estate. On a
tourist-type note, the Mohawk is also intertwined
with the Erie Canal. Between Amsterdam and
Schenectady there are a number of functioning
locks that service pleasure boats during the
summer months. Most of these locks have a
picnic area and park attached to them.
5S is less patrolled
than the Thruway and it's a good thing too,
because this is one nice road to take at somewhat
more than the national limit. People will flash
you if a State Boy is lurking near.
Rolling hills through open farmland lends to a
great feeling of freedom. One must watch
for the gates into the farm's fields though.
The tractors that use these gates deposit large
quantities of mud (or other brown deposits
associated with farms) in the roadway -- not nice
to find as you're leaned over and committed to a
corner! Sweepers are the norm along this
road and it's just as much fun in either
direction.
Little towns and villages hamper a truly
headlong attack of 5S which can be a good thing.
I find the scenery very relaxing and some speed
zones make it easier to appreciate it. You're
forced to slow down and notice. The
landscape is punctuated by abandoned farms and
factories, mute testimony that any given quantity
of political rhetoric won't cure a fallen
economy. Ilion, just east of Utica seems
particularly hard hit. You slow down and
notice this as well.
Heading east on 5S, we eventually saw the city
of Amsterdam down in the valley a few miles
distant. We had had a terrific weekend of
riding but it would soon be ending. Just as
well though, I needed a shower! Nothing
like being zipped up in black one-piece leathers
and riding vigorously on a warm day. I
sometimes feel I could just get on my bike and
ride forever, but maybe it would take the
excitement and adventure out of riding if one did
it all the time -- sort of turn into a job,
maybe. NOT!! They always say home is
where the heart is though, and my new wife was
there waiting.
We swung back over the Mohawk river once again
heading north on Route 30. We came up the
hill out of town towards the Shop 'n Save and
K-Mart and stopped at the last traffic light.
We waved and silently parted.
Harry
G. Pellegrin
READ THE PRESS
RELEASE!
is Published by Bedside Books, an imprint of
American Book Publishing.
ISBN
1-58982-074-6
LOW ENDCopyright
2003 Harry G. Pellegrin
In
God We Trust
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