GFNY Magazine Fall 2013

regardless. We are heading north on Route 18. The road rises a little, it dips a little, and now it’s rising again—I guess there are some ‘flat’ roads even in the mountains.

We pass quaint little houses and surprisingly adorable barns, before passing a fridge…wait, what?! A fridge, on the side of the road? Standing tall and proud, under its own little pergola…yes, a fridge. James educates me; it’s fresh milk and cheese. Just leave some money and take what you want.

We roll on, but at more of a clip now as the energy of the day warms us up. I breathe deeply, not because I am working hard, but to make the most of this immaculately fresh air. More miles tick by with us sitting in the saddle, spinning a comfortable 20mph—fast enough to enjoy the ride, but slow enough to absorb more of this lush, beautiful scenery. It’s purely spectacular.

James asks if I’m ready. I am ready. We sweep right through the bend and James tells me to go. I go. He described this as a punchy climb—Pink Street Hill, the punchy climb. So I go at my punchy pace. Suddenly my long season of riding is screaming at me from my legs, and I notice the first half-mile of the gradient has steadily risen with me. 6%, 8%, 12%—oh my, 14%. Back to 4% for a moment, then a kick into 17%. How long did 34