Tour de Foschewel

From days long past when, seeking an activity in which a recently divorced single father and his three subteen offspring could joyfully immerse themselves, I chauffeured the four of us across the expanse of Smith Mountain Lake aboard a twenty-one-foot Baybreeze runabout (once almost foundering, as chronicled on this web site in September 2007), I knew my oldest, David, yearned for his own waterside retreat.

Boldly spurning the parental advice of one who shudders at the mere mention of dual residential responsibilities, he realized his dream in 2009 when he and a fellow film producer (who subsequently sold out his fifty percent share) purchased an aging but roomy two-story ranch house two hours from New York City in the Catskills community of Livingston Manor. Perched atop a ridge overlooking a semi-private lake, flanked by a broad deck and pool, the beneficiary of a decade of tender loving care and serious refurbishment, what was conceived as a modest weekend haven for family and friends metamorphosed into an attractive and valuable property. Even after a curmudgeonly neighbor disinterred a long-buried clause in his deed that forbade subleasing and forced him to terminate his lucrative Airbnb rentals, no one, least of all this humble scribe, could deny that my son had made a wise decision.

 

 

 

Fleeing the claustrophobic confines of an Upper West Side apartment and its surrounding clamor and commotion is de rigueur for Manhattans who can afford it -- and David engineered a permanent getaway in 2018 when he, spouse Mary, and three-year-old son Frank vaulted the Hudson River into the charming village of Montclair, NJ -- but when my daughter Sara announced five months ago that she and husband Nate were casting for their own Lake House, I began to wonder who had spawned these gay vacationers. There must be something in those placid waters besides, well, fish.

After all, they already lived in the prettiest town in New York State (according to Architectural Digest, July 2018), Ithaca, and only one-and-a-half miles (as measured by a slow jogger at an eleven minute pace) from the longest and fattest of the Finger Lakes, Cayuga. The area is a recreational paradise, flush with diversions for both tourists and residents: hiking, biking, and running trails to suit the exercise capacity of all ages and levels of fitness; one hundred fifty waterfalls cascading into steep rocky gorges, including the 165-ft Buttermilk Falls and the impressive Taughannock Falls, which rises thirty-three feet higher than Niagara; a favorite Saturday-Sunday brunch spot, the lakeside Farmer's Market, where the assortment of ethnic cuisines, homemade pastries and delicacies, and locally sourced fresh produce and protein is irresistible; the downtown pedestrian Commons, along which one casually explores a variety of cafes, restaurants, apparel stores, and gift boutiques, and, for bibliophiles like me, the endless aisles of the Autumn Leaves used book store; and for those with more discriminating taste buds, a host of breweries, whiskey and cider distilleries, and award-winning wineries, many scattered beside Lake Cayuga along America's oldest official wine trail dating back to 1983.

On the other hand, how many of my friends and acquaintances here in the most interesting spot of Lynchburg have planted secondary roots in places near and far, from Elon, Smith Mountain Lake, and the Homestead to Hilton Head, Bald Head Island, Arizona, Jamaica, and Italy (although at our age many have transitioned to the deaccession phase), and branded me a stubborn outlier? Compared to some of those leaps of faith, fortune, and distance, Nate's and Sara's acquisition is a mere dipping of the big toe -- not that there weren't a few slippery stones lurking below the surface.

These days it's a seller's market, and for desirable real estate the asking price is the baseline. Outbid on their first strike, they got more aggressive on the second, and assumed their offer had been accepted only to be thwarted when the owner reneged and allowed a previous player to up his ante. They reeled in their prize on the third try -- a two-story cottage forty-five minutes from Ithaca on Lake Owasco -- for less money than either of the other two but, by consensus, "not quite in as good condition," for confirmation of which scroll down.

Ithaca is home also to Ivy League outpost Cornell University, whose sprawling 745-acre campus, ranked among the most beautiful in the country, boasts historic Gothic and Neoclassical architecture planted amidst dense woodlands, a botanical garden, and stunning views of the city and lake. It's a jewel that most certainly would have escaped me had not my son-in-law alighted there as a professor of computer science and director of research after earning his undergraduate and graduate degrees at Williams and Penn. Or, if one wants to delve deeper into the mysteries that shape our experience, had not my daughter, a nursing student at the University of Pennsylvania at the time, initiated a conversation with him on a dating site while they were both living in Philadelphia.

 

If one couldn't deduce from his resume that Nate's really smart, a cursory glance at an impenetrable doctoral thesis confirmed it for me during an early visit to his and Sara's apartment. But unlike some other reputed intellectuals he possesses additional attributes that would categorize him as a Renaissance man: athleticism (holding down third base on his high school baseball team); the cooking skills of a gourmet chef (regularly preparing chopped salads, their dressings, and sauteed brussel sprouts at Thanksgiving gatherings); and the ability to repair numerous complex mechanisms ranging from a Nissan Leaf to a well water pressure regulator.

Among the many traits Nate and Sara had in common -- a love of the outdoors, a thirst for fitness, an appreciation for the culinary art, ambition tempered by frugality (no new cars for them), self-reliance (sometimes to a fault, requiring me to rebuff Sara's proposed loan to pay for nursing school), and innate authenticity -- was a legacy of divorce. Hoping to avoid the turmoil and repercussions of these nasty fractures, they deferred marriage and childbearing until they felt confident in the strength and longevity of their relationship, which was embodied in the conjoined surname they coined at their wedding: Foschewel, a contraction of Foster-Schewel. (To be fair, my two sons, David and Matt, have followed a similar pattern, acquiring very compatible spouses and forging what appear to be blissful, durable unions.)

Although their engagement announcement pictured them crossing the finish line of a half-marathon, it's their shared enthusiasm for cycling that mated their souls. If their first date was at a wine bar, I'm sure the second was two-wheeling along the Schuylkill River. No walk-up was ever too small to accommodate at least one, and sometimes two, bicycles, even if it had to be parked in the kitchen. The only deal breaker of a prospective home was the lack of a backyard shed large enough to store their collection of road, mountain, and hybrid riders and all of the necessary ancillary equipment. Not many couples would transport their bicycles (plus their two children's) five hundred miles in order to rise at 6:00 AM the morning of a family wedding and compete in the seventy-five-mile Storming of Thunder Ridge.

While by no means a zealot, I have done a fair amount of cycling myself in recent years, having been reintroduced to the sport in 2011 when my lovely partner Jacquie, whom I had been dating for ten months at the time, innocently inquired if I would like to escort her on a bike tour of northeast Italy and Slovenia. Little did I suspect that it would launch us into a whirlwind of adventure, periodically landing us in such exotic locales as Ireland, Scandinavia, New Zealand, Croatia, Chile, South Africa, and Provence, where a multitude of visual, gustatory, and cultural delights awaited us.

Once one learns to tolerate the vehicles speeding past him like he's a hapless turtle and the pain constantly reverberating through his nether parts, he can't deny that there's no better way to see the world -- nor the residual benefit of a little exercise.

With two bicycle beasts in the family and one aspirant, should I be surprised when a series of texts, emails, and live calls between Sara and Jacquie (with a few contributions from Nate) transforms a restful visit with the family at their new lakeside abode into an elaborate four-day riding exploration of upstate New York worthy of Backroads Active Travel -- a Tour de Foschewel, if you will? Who am I to be the spoiler? And if the forty-five-mile per day itinerary stretches the limits of one's conditioning, there's always the sag wagon to drive.

Once we're on board -- or in the saddle, so to speak -- the next steps, obtaining bicycles and transferring them (if necessary) and us from here to there, turn complicated. Sara scours all the bike shops within a fifty-mile radius for rentals with no success, which is hardly unexpected considering the abysmal shortage of everything from furniture to automobiles to bananas (I couldn't find any at Wal-Mart last week) currently roiling the economy. As Jacquie abhors driving herself and detests being a passenger beside me, it appears that she will have to suspend her anxieties and hand over the key to her Volvo Crossover (it has the bike rack attachment) for the nine-hour trip, which I will make solo while she avails herself of the recently installed daily flight from Charlotte to Ithaca (thanks to Cornell, no doubt). Then just days before our separate departures is birthed the deus ex machina: Sara finds two brave souls willing to risk their bicycles for the sake of friendship, her mother-in-law and a colleague, and enable me to join Jacquie in the friendly skies.

Nate is kind enough to pick us up Friday night at the Ithaca airport where we have been deposited right on time -- American Eagle commuter time, that is, 11:30 PM, which is ninety minutes past our our scheduled touchdown. And he's got to be up at 6:00 AM the next morning, since just about every Saturday, weather permitting (which is a relative term, obviously, depending on one's tolerance for wind, precipitation, and near-freezing temperatures), he, Sara, and some like-minded masochists mount up for a seventy-five-mile jaunt through the Tompkins County countryside.

Jacquie and I awake to an empty nest, as the routine is for the two children, Lia and Ari, to spend the night at Nate's mother's house. She's Maka to them, a delightful hostess (always prompt with a drink or snack for her guests, proclaims Lia) and an energetic grandmother, whose career as a preschool teacher guarantees that she is never at a loss for a useful activity; during my previous visit in April I sat at her dining table and helped the three of them hand craft a pinata for Ari's birthday party.

That gives us the morning to grab a cuppa joe at the neighborhood's favorite cafe, Gimme Coffee, then continue to the downtown mall, where Jacquie window shops and I search Autumn Leaves for a backup (Mohawk, by Richard Russo) should I manage to digest in the next five days the remaining half of Ken Follett's most recent nine-hundred-page opus, The Evening and the Morning, and be left, alas, with nothing to read. 

We're almost home when we receive an ominous text from Nate; he's broken a chain ten miles from town, which prompts the thought: "Let's get this out of the way now." We clamber aboard their Subaru Outback, set our GPS, and race toward Trumansburg. We circle the end point, the Americana winery and bar, looking fruitlessly for our stranded cyclist before Jacquie spots him on the third pass chilling in the shade of a backyard gazebo. Our rescue mission accomplished, we hasten to the Fosters', where Sara, Maka, Lia, and Ari are putting the finishing touches on a platter of grilled cheddar on Texas toast. After lunch we load the two vehicles with food and beverage containers, biking equipment, and our travel bags; hoist the two borrowed bicycles onto the rack; secure them; and head north to Fire Lane 23 off West Lake Road (Rt. 38) near Wyckoff.

"Abba [Hebrew for father although I'm the grandfather]," says Ari, "when we get to our house, the road is vewy, vewy, vewy steep," which he proceeds to demonstrate by dive bombing the open palm of his hand like a spent rocket falling to earth. Yet even after that descent, a walk through the top-floor garage, bedroom hallway, and spacious living and dining area leads one to a deck at least two hundred feet above the water level with a sweeping view of the lake and surrounding terrain. Ari is eager to show me the tiny beach and dock, but cautions me to follow him carefully along the circuitous path that avoids the muddy swamp impervious to all drainage. 

The place needs some work -- the brown shingle exterior could stand two coats of paint, or total replacement, and the recurring loss of water pressure is somewhat annoying (until Nate conceives the final fix) -- but they love it, and who am I to be a critic? Jacquie and I are allocated the entire lower level, which includes a bedroom, family room with television (which is only turned on once, to watch the animated film The Incredibles), a bathroom with shower, and plenty of outlets to recharge our devices.

While it's a little late to take out the kayak or motorboat (which came courtesy of Maka by way of her friend Bruce), Nate engages the kids in a constructive family activity: fishing. While it's never held much attraction for me -- probably the last time I fished was at summer camp sixty years ago -- their enthusiasm is palpable as they tie on the lures, swing their arms back, cast their lines, and reel in the occasional strike. Was there ever a more poignant validation of the (slightly revised) adage "Give a child a fish, and you feed him (or her) for day. Teach a child to fish, and you feed him (or her) for a lifetime." Since this is strictly a catch and release exercise, instead of a fat trout for dinner we feast on chicken breasts barbecued on the grill. As good as that sounds, verisimilitude compels me to report that it will be surpassed by tomorrow night's butterfly pasta smothered in sun-dried tomatoes and Nate's homemade sauce and finished off with Maka's biscuit-based strawberry shortcake.

 

It's risky to talk about one's grandchildren; not only is it well nigh impossible to maintain objectivity despite the best of intentions, but one also exposes himself to favoritism when he fails to include the entire set in his narrative. While undeniably guilty of the first charge, I plead innocent of the second, assuring my two sons, David and Matt, and their spouses, that I will spotlight their children in some future article.

I had almost despaired of ever seeing a next generation, since I was one month shy of sixty-five when its first member, Lia Elisabeth Foster, burst upon the scene. If, from the beginning, her resemblance to her father was so uncanny that her maternal parentage may have been doubted had he not witnessed the birth, it has become even more pronounced as she has grown long and lithe. While we won't allow him to take all the credit for her ability to enunciate clear and complete sentences before she breached the three-year milestone, her splits, handstands, round offs, and vaults are a type of acrobatics I've never seen from this side of the family.

From a spunky toddler with a tenacious attachment to a stuffed bunny, she has matured rapidly into a confident if at times reserved young lady who is very much at ease in the company of adults. She takes great pride in her job as family barista, serving up espressos and lattes every morning as requested. Of course the pictures her mother sends me of her lying in bed or stretched out on the couch with a book in her hand win my heart. Last year I was yanked into the twenty-first century when shopping for a birthday present I discovered that fifteen cent comic books had inflated to $10.99 graphic novels. She's progressed to chapter books, specifically female biographies (like Who Was Anne Frank? and Who Was Sacagawea?), but on this visit, which coincides with the Summer Olympics, we both get engrossed in The Story of Simone Biles, whose rise to prominence is an inspiration.

I got my own doppelganger on the fourth try (Matt's Ana and David's Frank were clearly their mothers' handiwork) with the arrival in 2016 of the appropriately named Ari Schewel Foster. He could have been my twin seventy years ago except for the blue eyes. As he lagged behind his cohort in language learning, his parents resorted to signing, and were considering therapy when the dam finally burst; the words flowed forth in torrents, and his precocity bloomed.

Physically and mentally, Ari's a boy in a hurry. Whether inside or outside, whatever the activity or destination, he's always running (sometimes a little too fast), as if, even at the tender age of five, time is slipping away. He reads like a second grader. He builds a nineteen-hundred piece Lego Saturn V Apollo launcher in six days, and doesn't rest. He jumps up behind me while I'm playing bridge on my Android, points to the screen (and the correct suit), and exclaims, "Play a spade!" While we're having lunch in a park, he's furiously taking photos on an old i-phone, and changing his home page three times faster than I can type this sentence. 

In psyche speak Maka says he's a "helper," a tag he justifies as we prepare to play the game "Guess Who." Each person's board has attached to it about two dozen plastic frames into which he slides the face cards of various characters. As characters fail to meet criteria established by a series of questions (face color, hair color, gender, e.g.) their frames are flipped down until a single card is left standing, presumably matching the one which was randomly drawn by the opponent and whose identity can now be deduced or "guessed." As I start to flip up each plastic holder one-by-one, Ari says, "Wait, Abba, you need to do it like this." He lifts his board, turns it upside down, shakes it once, and, presto, all frames rotate into their proper upright positions.

Monday morning, well fortified by Nate's paper-thin crepes rolled around strawberries or blueberries and dipped in syrup, we're ready for Day One. Lia and Ari will be riding tandem with Nate and Sara, respectively -- for the entire one-hundred-eighty miles, as there are no options for shuttling their bicycles -- while Jacquie and I will alternate driving the Subaru to a meeting place and then trading places. I've got the first driving assignment, so I avoid having to maneuver the bicycles up that "vewy steep" hill, which, Sara later confesses, was the hardest part of the trip. 

Considering the extra weight they're pulling, if Jacquie and I were contemplating keeping pace with Nate and Sara -- or possibly exceeding it -- we are swiftly disillusioned. Within fifteen minutes they are out of sight while we are out of breath. Or at least Jacquie is, since I'm ahead of the pack trying to mimic the tour guides I have followed across three continents. After stopping the car at the next two intersections to indicate where the cyclists are to turn, I am reprimanded by Lia as she and Nate go speeding by: "You don't have to wait for us, Abba. We know the way."

Well maybe they do, but I'm not sure I do. As instructed by Sara, I have downloaded the Strava app on my phone, on which I can see clearly a bold orange line traversing a digital map from our starting point to our destination: Sodus Point on Lake Ontario. Problem one is that the line completely obscures the name of the road we are supposedly traveling on. Problem two is that road signage is apparently not included in these New York counties' budgets. Problem three is when I enlarge the map to a readable size I keep outrunning the coverage, and must either stop every five minutes to reset or risk losing control of the car if I swipe while driving.

After one minor misstep, I enter the town of Montezuma (population 1,277 in 2010), and search in vain not only for the obligatory coffee shop and restrooms but in fact for any sign of human life. To relieve boredom, having parked at the post office, I wander inside, stare at the lock boxes, and peruse the legal notices, local announcements, and photos of missing persons (around 1,277) tacked to a bulletin board. If there was ever a place even a cyclist could miss with the blink of an eye, this is it. The family powers on through, and within minutes I'm back on the road.

It's a straight shot until I reach Evans Corner, where I swing north off Rt. 89 onto Hogback Road. From there, it's about ten miles to our lunch stop, Clyde, which belies its Scottish origins by harboring two alternative ethnic eateries, one Mandarin, the other Italian. Since the former is closed, our choice is an easy one. Papa's Place, named after its founder and the grandfather of the current owners, looks rather mediocre, but its oven-baked pepperoni pizza and turkey and provolone sub sandwich earn four stars from these ravenous riders. We carry our bounty across the street to the Village Park, and enjoy it in the shade of a stately maple tree under the stony gaze of a transplanted George Washington draped in full military regalia.

Tagged by Jacquie and now "it," I mount up for the duration, which is actually quite pleasant once I resign myself to watching the Foschewels drop below the horizon. The balmy eighty-degree temperature is moderated by a fifty percent humidity. Beneath an unspoiled cerulean canopy, a cloud is as rare as a car or truck on these deserted rural roadways. The rolling hills are no more strenuous a climb than the Kemper Street spur on Lynchburg's Blackwater Creek trail, and open up a panorama of the sunflower fields and apple orchards the area is known for. Pedaling past their isolated farms, we elicit curious stares from children and livestock.

Around 4:00 PM we cruise through a residential neighborhood towards the Sodus Point Harbor, three blocks from which we locate our lodgings for the evening: the Wickham House Inn. It's a converted fisherman's hostel and, with three or four twin beds per room, ideal for traveling families, although having to share each floor's single toilet and shower does require an attitude adjustment. Upon our checking in, a surprise awaits us: a package of tee shirts, courtesy of Nate, Amazon, and UPS, each one embroidered with Tour de Foschewel on the front panel and his or her name on the back above the abbreviated current year, 21, which presumes, I guess, that this is only the beginning.

There may be other restaurants around, but without a reservation we are limited to the capacious Captain Jack's, which covers an entire block and whose patio overlooks the bay. I am enticed by the Prime Rib Special ($14.99, regular $24.99), while Sara and Nate opt for the Haddock Fish Fry, Jacquie lights on the best quesadilla on the bay, and the kids split between a hot dog and chicken and chips. Jacquie recommends a local craft beer over the Yuengling I initially order, but truthfully my palate is too provincial to appreciate it.

After dinner we wander along the point past a small beach and onto a concrete pier extending a hundred yards into the bay, at the tip of which rises a fifty-foot cast iron lighthouse remarkable mostly for the vulgar graffiti scrawled on the seaward side. The spindly guard rail is more decoration than protection when two rambunctious children are prancing around the edges oblivious to the stiff breeze and a six-foot drop into the swirling waters; perhaps it's my own unsteadiness rather than theirs which worries me. All fears prove groundless as we trek safely back to the Inn.

Spotting us out in the yard the next morning, the proprietress is intrigued by the Foster adult-child tandems, and insists on memorializing them for the Wickham House Facebook page. As for the Schewel-Glanz teammates, we are canceled from the photo faster than we can say "Robert E. Lee," and gratefully expel a sigh a relief.

Day Two finds me again behind the wheel trying to keep my eyes on the road while Jacquie strains her neck to catch glimpses of the shimmering blue surface of Lake Ontario just to our north. With suppressed glee, I can attest that two persons with multiple devices can make a wrong turn as easily as one when, approaching Pultneyville, we bear left on Lake Avenue rather than continuing straight on Lake Drive. It's too bad, because our error, even after corrected, has detoured us around a roadside book exchange, an instant snapshot of which the cyclists following in our wake and knowing their "Abba" too well can't resist texting to me. Two can play that game, as we return the favor several miles later when we make a pit stop at the Webster Arboretum.

The plan is for Jacquie and me to park the car at the halfway point of the ride, the Lyndon Road trailhead on the outskirts of Fairport, unload the bikes, and begin cycling along the Erie Canal, which after all, is the most recognizable landmark in this part of the country, although from our current point of view we only catch a glimpse or two through the thick foliage. Nevertheless, because of its mythical status in American History, seeing it is like walking a Civil War battlefield: one is intoxicated by a sense of being transported to a bygone era.

Stretching 363 miles from Albany on the Hudson River to Buffalo on Lake Erie -- the second longest canal in the world -- it took eight years to build (1817 to 1825), cost $7 million (equivalent to $116 million today), included thirty-four numbered locks, and ascended east to west a total of 565 feet. More than half of the original canal was abandoned or destroyed, and replaced by the New York State Barge Canal in the early 1900's; sections of the remaining half were widened and improved.

The project was a marvel of contemporary engineering. The only sources of power were humans, animals, and the flow of water. In order to minimize lengthy delays, new techniques were developed for uprooting trees and removing excavated soil. One after another, each impassable obstacle was conquered: the Montezuma Marsh, where malaria struck and crews could only work when the swampland froze over; Irondequoit Creek, requiring the raising of the canal seventy-six feet over a "Great Embankment"; the Genesee River, spanned by an eight-hundred foot stone aqueduct standing on eleven arches; the imposing Niagara Escarpment, scaled by two sets of five locks; and the Onondaga Ridge, a mass of dolomite limestone blasted away by black powder.

Because the Canal reduced transportation costs ninety-five percent, the prices for food for Midwest agriculture products and Northeast manufactured goods fell dramatically. New York City -- in fact the entire state -- exploded in wealth and importance, and established itself as the nation's economic hub. Freight tolls exceeded the state's construction debt in its first year of operation, and enabled the loan to be paid off by 1837. Convenient and scenic, the Canal became not only a gateway to the West for migrants and business but also a popular mode of travel for peddlers, tourists, sightseers en route to Niagara Falls, and even escaped slaves traversing the last leg of the Underground Railroad.

Once we master the tricky traffic pattern through Fairport -- there's some road construction underway and the signage is not clear -- we are in for a beautiful ride reminiscent of the one we did a few years ago from Utrecht to Amsterdam in the Netherlands. Bisected by the canal, the picturesque village is sprinkled with charming waterside shops, restaurants, and pastel-hued cottages, and shelters a small harbor for recreational craft. Breaking into the countryside, we pass by forests, cornfields, flower beds, boat launches, three parks, and several crossings until we reach the village of Pittsford. At Lock 33 just shy of Rochester we call a halt, and retrace our ten-mile outbound course for a luncheon engagement with the Fosters.

On a deck overlooking the canal and lift bridge -- a treat for the kids when it creaks upwards -- they're waiting for us at Lulu Taqueria, which claims proprietary recipes handed down through three generations and serves up portions hefty enough to satiate the heartiest of appetites, of which at least four are seated at our table. Matching pairs of Mexican lagers and signature Margaritas are just a warm-up for burritos (vegetarian or Lulu) the size of footballs, a quesadilla grande that puts the Starbucks venti to shame, and a fish taco that should be named the Liberty Bell. And if the kid's plates are more appropriately sized, they've room to sample a couple of the savory gelatos on display at the Royal Cafe next door: green mint and peanut butter chocolate.

From there it's less than two miles to our next station, the Woodcliff Hotel and Spa; the final two hundred yards is, as Ari would say, a "vewy steep climb" for our four cyclists, duly noted by Jacquie and me from the comfort of the Subaru. Compared to the Wickham Inn, the accommodations are quite luxurious and the amenities abundant. After a brief nap beside the pool, Jacquie and I freshen up, then walk the property, which features a grand ballroom, a detached enclosed event pavilion, and a outdoor wedding venue backlit by lush green hillsides and the Rochester skyline. The Fosters head to a nearby Italian bistro for dinner, while Jacquie and I are content to amble downstairs and enjoy a quiet and modest meal of calamari and salad at the Horizons Restaurant and Lounge.

Upon awakening, another daunting challenge awaits me. My fellow travelers take off on their merry way, leaving me to navigate the tortuous route from Fairport to Lyons, thirty miles as the crow flies but almost an hour by car along a hilly, winding road made more frustrating by blind curves and confusing intersections. When I finally merge with the pulsating Strava dot at Abbey Park and unload my bike, I see a trail, but when I intuit -- or guess -- the proper direction, it appears either to terminate or be under repair. I decide to follow the road instead, and after about a mile (and one wrong turn into a manufacturing facility) discover another access point.

I'm heading west now, mostly through a heavily wooded area with the canal intermittently visible; if all goes according to plan, I should reconnect with the FoSchewel-Jacquie crew in about an hour not far from Palmyra. Little do I (or anyone else in our party) suspect that we are within shouting distance of the Sacred Grove, where transpired the founding event of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints: the appearance of Heavenly Father and his Son before young Joseph Smith on his family farm in 1820. Otherwise we would surely have detoured for our own visitation. After all, the plausibility of a miracle in the vicinity is substantiated by the occurrence today of another one: my actually showing up at the appointed time and place.

Newark, about ten miles back the way I came, is our desired lunch stop, and we settle on Grind-On Coffee, not only because of its alluring sign but also because of the bike parking lot in the rear. If the mixed berry smoothie falls short of expectations, the homemade chicken salad is better than advertised, and the toasted bagel, cup of broccoli soup, and grilled cheese sandwiches certainly adequate. Most enjoyable is the private area where we are seated and allowed to relax and dine at our leisure after a strenuous morning.

I surprise Sara by volunteering to ride with her, Nate, and the kids for the rest of the afternoon; it's twenty miles to Geneva, and I've already racked up an equivalent amount. In part, my boldness can be attributed to a refreshing lack of soreness, as my bicycle seat is the gentlest one I've ever known; if I could steal or order one like it, I wouldn't hesitate for a moment. In spite of a few pesky inclines, the miles roll by effortlessly, melting away in a gorgeous amalgam of blue, yellow, and green vistas.

Nate is eager to explain that we are traveling on Preemption Road, which divided competing territorial claims in the post-Revolutionary period between Massachusetts and New York. The two states agreed on a disposition in 1786 when Massachusetts ceded all the land in question to New York while reserving the prerogative to purchase some 2,600,000 acres owned by the native Iroquois. In 1788 Massachusetts sold those rights to two individuals who did indeed consummate the purchase shortly thereafter. A second dispute arose when it was discovered that the initial survey erroneously allocated additional acreage to New York. The new survey, accepted by all parties in 1796, moved the Preemption Line two miles east, effectively relegating Preemption Road to an historical oddity.

We are spending our last night out on the northwestern tip of Seneca Lake at the Wyndham 41 Lakefront Hotel, notable for the contoured contemporary chair sitting at the end of our bed, the likes of which I have never seen in forty years of Furniture Market attendance. It's also quite comfortable, although within minutes of sinking in I'm yanked to my feet and informed that the troops are restless and hungry.

If one would think that finding a place suitable for family dining in a former All-America City (2015) on a Wednesday night in August wouldn't be that difficult, he would quickly be proven wrong. As we explore the grid of Geneva's downtown -- to which we are confined by the passenger limitations of the Subaru -- we pass empty storefronts, a main street construction project all too familiar to Lynchburgers, and a handful of restaurants with the doors shuttered. Perhaps Covid has struck here harder -- and lingered longer -- than in other communities. Even in an era of instantaneous communication, a barrage of calls from at least two phones can't seem to lock down (pardon the expression) a reservation for the requisite number (six) without a one hour wait.

We decide to risk the Twisted Rail Brewing Company (even though two in our party can't partake), and are pleasantly rewarded with homegrown beverages and a menu that is diverse, tasty, and filling. Having determined by now that sharing is the prudent method of ordering, we are not intimidated when the Big Seneca Burger (one-half pound Angus beef, thick-cut Cherrywood bacon, smoked cheddar, onion ring, lettuce, tomato) and the three-person Farmers Depot Pizza (artichoke hearts, sauteed mushrooms, marinated olives, semi-dried cherry tomatoes, mozzarella) almost swamp our table. Upon exiting, we spot the Opus Coffee Shop across the street, where the next morning we will discover two more super-sized treats: buckwheat pancakes and the crossbred croissant doughnut (cro-nut for short). If that isn't enough to make the stomach grumble, after dinner Jacquie and I amble along the lake front to a food stand dishing out soft serve hot fudge sundaes.

The final day of our tour involves some complicated supply chain logistics, which, counter to the current global disruption, are carried off without a hitch. After all gear is packed and stowed, Nate drives fifteen miles to the Montezuma National Wildlife Refuge, where he will park the car, meet Maka (his mother), and return with her to the hotel. After a photo shoot on the boardwalk, she will accompany us on the first half of our ride before looping back to Geneva. (A true Foster, she owns at least two bicycles.)

Ten miles out, one more historical marker beckons: the town of Seneca Falls, where the first women's rights convention was held in 1848. From the porch of the coffee shop where we've stopped for a break, Nate points out a two-story brick building constructed atop the remnants of the Wesleyan Methodist Chapel, site of the convention. Built by a congregation of abolitionists, the church was a haven for antislavery activity, political rallies, and free speech events, and certainly well-known to the principal organizer of the convention and local resident, Elizabeth Cady Stanton.

On July 16th, three days prior to the convention, Stanton met with Mary Ann M'Clintock and her daughters at their home to draft a Declaration of Sentiments, which, modeled on the Declaration of Independence, consisted of ten resolutions demanding equality for women in education, religion, morals, job opportunities, property rights, and family matters followed by a list of grievances. Stanton added a controversial eleventh resolution stating that "it is the duty of the women of this country to secure to themselves the sacred right of the elective franchise," of which men had deprived them.

Stanton spoke for many in the audience when, at the opening session, she brazenly exhorted each woman to take responsibility for her own life and to recognize the "height, depth, length, and breadth of her own degradation." The only resolution which engendered serious debate was the one on suffrage; it was thought to be too radical and likely to undermine the credibility of the entire declaration. The issue remained in doubt until Frederick Douglass, the only member of his race in attendance, rose and spoke eloquently in its favor, asserting that he could not accept the right to vote himself as a black man if women could not also claim that right.

One hundred persons (sixty-eight women, thirty-two men) of three hundred present signed the Declaration of Sentiments. According to historian Judith Wellman, it was "the single most important factor in spreading news of the women's rights movement around the country in 1848 and into the future."

It's a brisk five miles to the refuge, where I am charged with retrieving the Subaru and figuring out how to get home. But I've only ridden fifteen miles, which is hardly enough to break a sweat on someone who is compelled to burn at least seven hundred fifty calories a day. After trailing the pack for a couple more miles, I bid farewell and, returning to the refuge, decide to see what it's all about. From the Visitors' Center I follow a dirt road that runs between a low-lying restored wetland and a landscape of scattered shrubbery. The all-encompassing silence, the absence of any sign of wild or human life -- other than two isolated vehicles and the occasional crunch of a sharp rock beneath my tires -- are slightly unnerving. The three bald eagles reputed to be nesting on the grounds are well camouflaged, as are, thankfully, any coyote, foxes, and bats known to roam the area. Concluding that I've pushed my luck far enough, I reluctantly surrender to nature, and make tracks to my own refuge: air-conditioned, gasoline-powered, and shielded from all the elements. 

I'm back at the Lake House an hour before the rest of the family -- just enough time to unlock the doors, dismount the bicycle, make a good-faith start at hauling a few bags into the house, and watch the riders swoop down the "vewy" steep hill and coast up the driveway: Nate and Lia in tandem, Sara and Ari in tandem, Jacquie finishing strong. Smiles, hugs, and high fives are passed around. Sara adds the fitting epigram: "We made It!" -- four days, three overnights, constant packing and unpacking, uncertain fare at unknown restaurants at unscheduled hours, one hundred eighty miles, with hardly a complaint, conflict, or time out from child or adult.

We've got twenty-four more hours of leisurely lakeside living. It's like unwinding and rewinding at the same time: another Foster feast, another game of "Guess Who," more fishing, a little kayaking, and, as the sun sets, a quick motorboat tour to scope out the homes of the rich, famous, and ordinary. 

Jacquie and I close out our visit with some kids' quality time. Sara dispatches us a few miles up the road to Auburn where an astute operator's triple threat/triple treat enterprise is a local hotspot: the Tom Thumb mini-golf, fast food, ice cream combo. It takes only a few errant strokes for me to realize why I gave up the real version (at least five times) years ago. The blind shots, strategically placed barriers, and annoying risers on every hole swiftly put par (forty-five) out of reach, while revealing aspects of each player's personality. For Ari, the putter becomes a hockey stick, as he runs beside the ball and tries to guide it into the hole. Lia thoughtfully inspects the layout, patiently waits her turn, takes careful aim, and accepts the result with equanimity. I expect to shoot the lowest score, and, beneath a pleasant demeanor, become increasingly exasperated when, despite two holes-in-one, it's clear I'm in for disappointment. And as victory looms ever closer, Jacquie's competitive juices flow faster and stronger, precluding any last-minute collapse.

Win, lose, or draw, there's no better nineteenth hole on a round of golf (when half the quartet is underage) than four double-scooped ice cream cones.

Sitting beside Lia, I tell her that one day many years in the future, when she has her own granddaughter, she needs to tell that granddaughter about the time her "Abba" rode with her, her parents, her brother, and their friend Jacquie for four days in upstate New York along the Erie Canal. She looks at me with a quizzical expression that says, "What in the world are you talking about?"

Undaunted, I continue. "And if you want to describe that trip in more detail, or refresh your own memory, because what's posted in cyberspace is there for eternity, just google 'myoccasionalpieces.blogspot.com/2021/10/tour-de-foschewel.html.'"