FLCC> Five Lakes and a Steak: the view from behind

[John Dennis]

Finally found my ride notes tucked into my wallet…and then two video
attachments of 100 and 50 mile rides taken by Bill Lodico violated the
message file size. 

 

Having never been on the Five Lakes and a Steak ride before, I must
pronounce it a truly marvelous route with a mix of intimate lakeside
vignettes along the west shore of Keuka Lake followed by ridge top views of
both Cayuga and Seneca Lakes (or so Steward Wolsh assured me; I wasn’t sure
which finger I was looking at when).  

 

Admittedly, the trip—for me--got off to a less than brilliant start.
Inexplicably,--I almost never clean my bike--as everyone else saddled up in
the Marina parking lot at Watkins Glen for the 100-mile loop a bit after 9am
and departed, I was still polishing my Ksyrium rims with a damp rag I had
found in my car. 

 

JD (wondering morosely): “Why isn’t the Lodico contingent here yet? And no
Terri?”  

 

When I finally took off in pursuit of the 100-milers, I headed north on 28,
marveling at the cleanness with which the group of ten riders had “gotten
away from me.”  After struggling up the steep glacially-steepened valley
wall, I came to that shady intersection about halfway to Irelandville, where
folks often wait for stragglers coming up that first steep rise on the
Seneca Lake ride.  A stark realization occurred to me.  I pulled out the cue
sheet from a rear pocket.  Sure enough!  This ride was designed to be done
in a clockwise direction, not a counter-clockwise direction.   

 

JD (pondering cue sheet):  Hmm, I suppose this is one of those
mission-critical details. What to do? 

 

I recognized right away that this was indeed my first attack—and a
pernicious one at that--of late-onset lake dyslexia (LOLD).    My would-be
road soulmates were already scudding their way westward several miles SW of
Watkins and there was a deep and presumably roadless east-west-running gorge
between me and them.  I had no desire to lose all the altitude I had just
worked to climb and—and, tail between my legs and hopelessly behind, past
through Watkins Glen again. So, bushwhack mode. I would proceed more or less
due west for about six miles—as the crow flies--and intercept the group as
they headed north on Route 22 towards Pine Creek. 

 

To digress just a bit, I suppose that road bikers as a group are just
another typical subset of the population at large, but then again, maybe
not!  It’s worth noting that on closer inspection there are two discernible
personality groups. The larger, dominant group is highly
achievement-oriented.  These roadies are Type A folks who thrive on
competition and on an orderly pursuit of goals. Discipline, organization,
and attention to detail are all part of their MO, the same MO they apply
while at work. Members of this group are likely to not only know the number
of teeth on their largest and smallest gears both fore and aft, they may
even know the number of teeth on intermediate sprockets and chain rings as
well. They may even adjust the mix to reflect the expected topography of an
upcoming ride. This sort of rider prefers to know where he or she is at all
times and so is likely to have some sort of GPS-device on board.  

 

At the other end of the spectrum—sorry, there’s really no dignified term for
them—are the bushwhackers.  These roadies are apt to be, ah, big picture
people who don’t really relish delving into the tedium of counting sprocket
teeth or memorizing sequences of road names or—in some cases—even looking at
cue sheets in advance of a ride.  This sort of roadie does not have a career
sitting at the controls of a nuclear power plant.  They are spontaneous,
go-with-the-flow, good-hearted types—with an over-weighting of English
majors in their midst—but, alas, are not so likely to be pulling their
weight at the front of a peloton.  They are, well,—along for the ride—and
presumably pull their weight in more nebulous ways such as being providers
of garrulous chatter, discursive discourses on escoteric topics and that
sort of miscellania.  They are eager to please, but tend to drop back when
the chips are down.  Sort of like a timid beagle whose bark is louder than
her bite. 

 

Hugging the contour, I headed due south paralleling the Norfolk Southern
rail line for less than a mile and then headed uphill and west on County
Line Road, an odd name for a road deep in the heart of Schuyler County.  I
could hear the whining of race cars over on the Watkins race track and was
just as glad not to get any closer to it. I did take one southbound road
that looked poised to cross the gorge, but after losing a lot of altitude it
veered east toward Watkins, so I turned back and resumed my westward climb.
Cresting the ridge, the road pushed through open-field habitat and then
descended rapidly into a forested terrain and crossed Glen Creek. I opted to
follow a dirt road due west rather than take a paved road due south.  I rode
in shaded canopy without any traffic and soon spotted three riders on
horseback in the forest about 30 yards down below the road.  A man wearing a
black and red checked flannel shirt had stopped to wait for two women riders
wearing those heavy great-coats worn by the drivers of stage coaches in the
days of the wild west.  Had I just stumbled onto the  movie set for Raiders
of the Lost Ark?   Clearly these horse people thought they were in the
middle of winter. With a heart rate close to 170, I was breaking into a
heavy sweat as the road pitched up hill and down dale.  Could this road have
been designed when horses pulled wagons?  It seemed unlikely.  As the road
pushed into the territory of the Sugar Hill State Forest, I came to a Y in
the road with dirt road going off to the left and south and the dirt road
doing due west marked as a seasonal road with no maintenance form December 1
to April 1.  I kept going due west on Sugar Hill Road but as the road became
more rutted and gravelly, I began to worry I might slice a tire or break a
wheel. And indeed on one ascent I heard the ka-ching, ka-ching, ka-ching
that sounded a lot like a broken spoke. But then I remembered I had near
indestructible Ksyrium wheels and pushed on. 

 

Finally, back on paved roads, I proceeded to Lake Lamoka where two riders
from the group caught up with me, Bob Stocks from Binghamton and Frank
Venuti from Big Flats. Both had flatted and they were pushing the pace to
catch the pack of eight which they thought might already be in Hammondsport,
the old resort town at the base Keuka Lake.  It was, frankly, a bit of an
effort to keep up with Bob and Frank and it was only as we approached
Hammondsport that I discovered that I had broken a rear spoke on that very
rough section and my wheel had been seriously rubbing against my rear brakes
all the way past Lake Lamoka and through Bird’s Eye Hollow State Park and
Forest.  Bob was irrepressible, Frank and I conceding without too much
argument that he could pull us to Hammondsport.  Three weeks earlier he had
come in 159th in the Wisconsin Iron Man out of 2200 contestants.  And he had
done all of that with a back injury from bucking hay bales.   

 

Once in Hammondsport,  we found Ruth Sherman, Julie Riplinger, Stewart
Wolsh, Evan Palmer-Young, Brian Klotz of Painted Post, Steve Burdette of Big
Flats, and Mike Timoteeff and Dave Georgia, both of Elmira.  The road hugged
the shoreline in a charming manner with an endless series of gracious summer
homes tucked along the tree-shaded shore.  These homes has been the weekend
and summer homes of Corning industrialists for century and a half.  Rounding
one curve we came upon a group of bikers blocking the south-bound lane of
traffic. Had there been an IED-event?  One large black-clad biker lay in the
road and we gathered he had taken a spill in the past minute or two. Frank,
a physician with emergency room experience, laid his bike down in the same
lane and quickly took charge.  911 had already been called.  On learning
that the injured man’s bike had fallen against his right ankle, Frank eased
the boot off and palpated the ankle.  No significant pain.  He said the man
might want to get some images done, but there was no sign of breakage.
After helping the man out of the road, we proceeded north as no less than
seven emergency vehicles descended upon the scene.  We refueled in
Branchport and continued due north and away from the lake shore.  

 

Climbing to the top of a ridge, some of us waited beside a Memmonite or
Amish farm while waiting for Mike.  A young man in a shiny black carriage
pulled by a black horse came out and proceeded east.  We later caught up
with him noting that he had functional electric turn signals. Although not
on the original route, we proceeded through Penn Yann.  A stone house at 324
Main (I think..the number washed off my hand 10 days ago) was a stunning
piece of old stone work.  Water draining from Keuka Lake at 715 feet above
sea level down to nearby Seneca Lake at 446 feet above sea level, has  269
feet of head that was tapped in the old days at towns along the way such as
Keuka Mills, Milo Mills, Seneca Mills, Mays Mills, and Cascade Mills.  Keuka
Lake Outlet enters Seneca Lake at Dresden. Now we are paying for our
feckless desertion of water power for fossil fuels……

 

We found ourselves off-course heading due south on busy Route 14a south of
Penn Yann. We sent Bob ahead to bring back the lead group, with Stewart
leading the rear group west onto Milo Center Road.  Testimony to the risks
of riding solo, while Bob was gapping ahead to the lead group a motorcyclist
buzzed him “going about 120 mph.”   “I could feel the shockwave from the air
he displaced and I saw him swing back into his lane after he buzzed me.”  We
wandered east until we found Himrod Road.  Refueling was across the road
from the Glenora Wine Cellars and soon we came upon 50-mile participants,
Bill and Lou Lodico and Mark Sheehan. Bill’s cell phone videos of Lou and of
the 100-milers catch’ the 50s are [no longer] attached. Other 50-miles
included Terri Barnic, LiLynn Graves, Jack  Rueckheim., Janine Lodico, Barb
Burdette, and Steve Kremer of Big Flats. And Ailene??

 

The RoosterFish dinner was everything one could have asked for.  Evan
Palmer-Young, however, gave it a miss, preferring to ride back to his start
point in Ithaca for a 150-mile day! Phew! 

 

Ride safe,   John

 


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