ECG Day 4: Into Connecticut

 Note: This journal entry is for Friday, September 10.  Hoping to make this entry quick - trying to catch up a little since I’m rapidly falling behind.  Didn’t take many photos today - everything was  GoPro videos.

I’ve started a new diet: dill pickles.  Supposedly they do wonders for people doing long bike rides, or so I’ve been told by more than one adherent. Both Bill and I have been struggling with cramps,  but last night was the worst for me. I had to lay on my back like King Tut in his sarcophagus, arms at my side, nose and toes pointed straight to the sky, avoiding the least stray movement that would send my muscles into clenching spasms of agony.  If you notice any typos in these posts, it’s because my thumbs unilaterally decided to fold across my palms while tapping away.

We left Ben’s and headed across the Williamsburg Bridge back into Manhattan, headed for the Hudson River Greenway on the western side.  I have only one word for this segment: EPIC.  All the folks hustling to get to work, all the bikes and traffic and construction guys, all the different languages and styles and sizes and shapes, and in an almost surreal moment, a model having a photo shoot in the middle of the street.  Of course there was - it’s the most New York thing ever.

The weather was gorgeous, but the forecast called for a small craft advisory, which didn’t register with me until we reached the Hudson River and headed right into the teeth of the wind.  I’m not sure we’d be considered “small craft” - more like a couple of barges plowing through asphalt - but we fought that wind all day, and gusts knocked us sideways more than once.

Once we hit the Bronx, we left the Hudson and headed east again toward the spiked teeth of coastal Connecticut.  Somewhere in that stretch we came upon a farmer’s market, and pulled in, hoping to get something to drink. I was able to harvest a half-pint of half-sour pickles for my diet; promptly scarfed them down, juice and all. When I got back to the bikes, Bill was standing in a cluster of tour groupies, with a big smile on his face.  People were asking us questions, taking our picture, taking pictures of our bikes, the stickers on our bags, you name it. “You riding the Greenway?” was a common question for those in the know.  One guy took a Polaroid and handed it to us for a souvenir.  Everyone was so friendly, it was just wonderful.

This was a long, long day. We made 75 miles, and earned every inch, pulling in to the hotel after 6:00 pm.   I convinced Bill that we should celebrate by eating at a local Hungarian Bistro, which had good reviews, and he was game.  Google directed us down some dodgy, unlit alley, with three guys eying us suspiciously from behind the raised hood of their car.  I was just about ready to bail when Bill noticed the “Hungarian Bistro” sign hung outside a basement door lit by a single lightbulb.  We peeked in the windows and could see mostly empty tables with red checked tablecloths, and a couple of husky, hirsute guys eating with that two-handed, knife-and-fork, shovel technique you might see in a Hollywood movie set in, say, Hungary.  

It turns out that this was the basement of a Hungarian church, and they only serve meals on Fridays.  We were greeted by an adorable young waitress, who was on about year two of her English studies, from what I could guess.  We tried to order, but there was some confusion about exactly what they did or didn’t have vs. what was on the menu, so we put our fate in her hands and let her choose our meals for us. We had dumpling soup, something with chicken inside of a fried potato pancake, pork spare ribs, red cabbage, and mashed potatoes.  Shared it all between us, and were so full we could barely walk back to the hotel.  Fabulous.













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