Woe be for all the stories that begin with, "it seemed like a good idea." And yes, my friends, this is such a story. A story about one of those ideas that sounds good, so very good, when it first pops into your head. Even after a little initial research, it was still sounding like a pretty good idea. Even now, as I look back and reflect on the plan, I can almost convince myself that it still sounds good. But then the hard hand of realty comes a-swinging and strikes me straight across the face to slap be back into some semblance of reality. Experience is the cold rain that deluges me with the icy cold waters of fact. But take this for a moment, if you will, outside the realm of fact and roll the idea to and fro in your noggin: a cycling tour through the historically and geographically rich, gently rolling countryside of Sleepy Hollow and the lower Hudson Valley, taking time to digest the literary heritage of Washington Irving and the architectural boldness of the Rockefeller homes and the Lyndhurst Mansion as one takes a leisurely roll down sparsely trafficked, lightly undulating Sleepy Hollow roads.


Sounds positively divine, at least as described in the guidebook to which I was referring when looking for a splendid way to while away a perfect summer Saturday. So I sold the notion to my better half, and she smiled and agreed and seemed happy that I was sensitive to the fact that while she enjoys a good day hike or bike ride, she doesn't share my country boy fascination with using nature to punish myself, presumably as some sort of penance for moving to one of the greatest affronts to nature man has ever concocted. Yes, here I was putting on hold me curious addiction to soul-scouring punch-outs with nature and geography, doing my best to find something that would challenge the both of us without leaving us huffing and utterly spent at the end of the line. How perfectly sweet of me.

It was my hope that she might remember with particular fondness my true and earnest desire to avoid leg-searing punishment, endless ascents, and ambitious distances as we huffed and puffed and staggered with leg-searing punishment up endless ascents and ambitious distances. Remember, I told her, that I honestly believed the guidebook's description of the route, and that the revelation that the lightly trafficked, gently rolling countryside was in fact absolutely jam-packed with speeding traffic and seemingly comprised of non-stop steep climbs along roads that afforded no view whatsoever of the Hudson River or anything but traffic, interstate overpasses, and blurry SUVs rocketing obliviously by mere inches away from us at 70 mph was as much a surprise to me as it was to her. Nor was I any happier than her that the road was so packed and afforded us not the slightest respite, nary a sidewalk or shoulder or inch of grass that might lend us a little more space between our bodies and the metal beasts piloted by at high speeds by people more interested in their cell phone conversations than in the fact that they were almost certainly going to be dealing out bone-crunching death to a couple cyclists any second now.

It, umm, it wasn't exactly what I'd had in mind.


Of course, what I'd had in mind, really in mind, I knew was a flat out fantasy, seeing as how it practically had her in a fancy summer dress and me in my finest white trousers and a sweater (and sporting a handlebar mustache and straw hat no less) riding our penny-farthings down to the rolling grassy banks of the Hudson, where we would stop and have a picnic lunch and champagne, she reclining beneath the shade of her parasol, I strumming my ukulele and singing "When the Swallows Come Back to Capistrano."

So sure, I'm guilty of being something of an old-fashioned romantic and naturalist in my way, and it pains me to admit to living in a world that has no time for romance or style or champagne on the riverbanks, where the river banks have, in fact, been fenced off, boarded up, over-developed, over-crowded, and clogged with vomitous urban-suburban blight, decay, and incessant noise. Always, the noise. No, now that you mention it, I'm not particularly fond of modern society and the world we've constructed for ourselves.

On the other hand, I'm happy we licked polio, and I'm sure glad I didn't have to ride a penny-farthing up those hills.

But at the very least, even if I was some hundred years or so behind in my visions of what the world should be like on a fine summer afternoon, I expected the ride to be very much like the read about which I'd read in my guidebook. I mean, that only seems fair, right? The route was to take us from the Tarrytown Lakes to the banks of the Hudson, past the home of Washington Irving and the gothic bombast of the Lyndhurst Mansion, through Sleepy Hollow and the Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, and finally through the Northern Woods and farmland, where I surmise the Headless Horseman lives. Some mild hills, a couple steep climbs, and two very short stints along busy route 9. Otherwise, we're in for nothing but lonely country roads and quaint American villages. Mmm-hmm.


From the ride journal, and yes I already know it changes tenses an atrocious and thoroughly unacceptable number of times:

12 p.m. - Starting much later than we should thanks to some wicked traffic between here and New York City. Stuck on an entrance ramp for half an hour, staring at someone's else's frustration taken out in the most creative way possible when stuck on an interstate entrance ramp. Whoever it was leaned out the window and wrote "We are all here because of assholes," on the guardrail. But we make it through and finish the forty-minute drive in just under two hours. Finding the Eastview park and ride off the Saw Mill River Parkway was a snap. Just look the one full of cyclists loading and unloading their rides. Cross a busy and somewhat dangerous intersection out of the park and ride, and we're on the trail. No, scratch that. First, in our zeal to be out of the car and on two human-powered wheels, we take off down the well-maintained North County Trailway in the wrong direction. It's five blissful and enjoyable miles before I stop to look at the map and wonder why we haven't seen the lake we were supposed to see immediately upon setting out. No big deal. The ride was nice, and I got to see a snake. Had I known then what I known now, we would have just kept going along this trail.

Back in the right direction. Hey, there's our car again. Now across the dangerous highway and onto the North County Trailway in the correct direction, riding along the paved banks of the Tarrytown Lakes. Lots of family's out fishing. Always good and refreshing to see that there are still a few families who get out and do things in the outdoors, even if it's in an over-developed park. Still better than sitting at home in front of the television. A nice way to start the ride.

A little over a mile later, we merge onto the street and ride through the tiny campus of Fordham University's Marymount College. Time already to stop for lunch. The traffic jam and little jaunt in the wrong direction loused up my plans for lunch by the river. After a jumpy security guard chases us off a sorry looking lawn in front of the main campus building, or what I assume by its size and big roundabout driveway is the main campus building, our riverside lunch becomes a lunch at a sun bleached, shadeless picnic table outside an athletic facility echoing with the cries of joyous and/or terrified children engaged in swimming lessons within. The day is hot and bright and beautifully blue, and we had to forsake our champagne anyway for delicious, delicious Vitamin Water. Someday, I'll try and come up with some sort of Vitamin Water cocktail. Until then, I figure the parents with their children inside probably wouldn't want a couple of strangers outside whooping it up with the bubbly anyway. I'm sure the school wouldn't appreciate a couple sweaty weirdoes getting jolly on alcohol next to a bunch of toddlers in swimmies.

At least we had the foresight to pack some good food. Tuscan chicken salad, pasta salad, good stuff from Dean & Deluca. Hey, I'm not backpacking, so I might as well enjoy the ability to carry some extra weight. I also have some Hudson Valley Camembert and crackers. The cheese tastes like sweaty, unwashed feet, and never mind any comments about how I would know what those taste like. Wretched, sour stuff that I'm sure tastes quite lovely if you have a taste for such things. I'll stick to my Plebe cheeses liked smoked Gouda and baby Swiss from now on. Or maybe some Laughing Cow, adorned with the laughing cow wearing a package of Laughing Cow in its ear, adorned with a smaller picture of a laughing cow wearing Laughing Cow...you get the picture.


A steep hill greets us post-lunch, and at the top I get yet another warning about this ride when my chain pops off and refuses completely to go back on. What should be a simple fix even for a lunkhead takes nearly half an hour as my bike simply refuses to accept its chain. Finally, I get it to stay on so long as I stay in lower gears, something I'd end up having to do anyway. I wish I was better at interpreting omens.

A quick downhill coast and 3.5 miles into the ride (actually 13.5 or so given our earlier detour) we're dumped onto wide, aggressive Rt. 119, but only for a short distance and with the safety of a deserted sidewalk. Normally I don't bike on the sidewalk - I do have some respect for rules. But who the hell was going to be walking out here? There was nothing but six-lane highway, I-87 above us, and nary a pedestrian in sight. We turn of Rt. 119 onto Taxter Road, and whatever enjoyment we've gotten out of the ride comes to an abrupt and merciless halt. The road is savagely and relentless uphill at one hell of a grade, which wouldn't be so bad except that there's also no shoulder and a steady stream of cars kept whizzing by well over the speed limit. Someone yells at Ellie to "Get on the fucking sidewalk!" even though there isn't a sidewalk.

It goes on forever, or so it seems, and by the time we finally take a pit stop at a small convenience store, I'm pretty steamed. Whoever wrote that book must have assessed the traffic situation at four in the morning, to say nothing of his judgment when it comes to light hills. I'm not Lance Armstrong, but I'm not bad on a bike either and I like hills. But even for me, these were not even close to gently rolling small things. They were great beasts that seemed to defy common sense by managing to always go up and never down. At the very best, we could get a little even pavement for a few tenths of a mile. The traffic only gets heavier. They speed and pay no attention even around hairpin turns. We're both nearly nicked more than a couple times.


16 miles or so in, counting our ten mile addition when we went the wrong way on the easy path, we finally get a brief respite from traffic if not from climbs as we cross Rt. 9 onto a narrow, winding wooded road leading to Washington Irving's home. You have to pay to get in, so we admire from the outside then move on, following the welcome grass-and-packed-earth trail along the Aqueduct Trail through some gorgeous woods. Once again, we should have just ridden this trail. I think you can take at the way to or from the Bronx and Van Cortland Park - you know, where the Warriors went to that big meeting.

Lyndhurst is a gothic wonder, a mansion suggesting a castle or fine British country manor. It costs to go inside, but outside is where the show is anyway, and lounging on the gorgeous grounds doesn't cost a dime. Hey! Here, finally, is my glimpse of the Hudson from a rolling grassy bank lined with trees and flowers. Better enjoy it now.

After Lyndhurst we have to bike along Rt. 9 for a mile or so, and it's the busiest road yet. Luckily, sidewalks come in fitful stretches and, since no one seems to want to walk anywhere anymore when they can drive huge cars instead, we opt for the safer stretch of concrete. The Hudson is to our left, but interstate and power lines and Metro North train tracks blot it out. Probably a nice train ride, though. We get a nice view of the Tappan Zee Bridge, though that's not really what we came here for. But at this point, we'll take what we can get and be thankful that we're on sidewalks and relatively level ground.


19 or so miles under our belts, and we're finally in Tarrytown, where the guidebook's route highlights the least attractive streets it can find. We're riding along wildly steep hills that look like something out of San Francisco. Can't enjoy the downhill that comes every now and then, because there are stop signs at the end of every city block. Streets are lined with dumpy looking tenements. Might as well be back in Brooklyn for this crap. Our route weaves in and out of uninteresting residential apartment streets until we reach the Philipsburg Manor and have to rejoin the accursed Rt. 9.

A little over twenty miles in we reach the Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. It's somewhere around three-thirty or so. Lyndhurst was worth visiting, but this is the gem of the ride. The cemetery is as creepy and beautiful and romantic and eerie as you want it to be. We do the paved loop around it, and then plunge down one of the many grassy paths through the graveyard proper, walking our bikes so as not to disturb those who might be resting. We're the only people in the whole place, it seems. So many ornate, stately plots and crypts and statues. Stone-eyed angels and Jesus stare out at us from amid tombstones with dates reaching back beyond the beginning of the Revolutionary War. Here and there are names familiar from Legend of Sleepy Hollow. There are Van Tassels everywhere, especially in memorial grounds dedicated to those killed in action during the Revolutionary War, War of 1812, and Civil War. They allow a World War One memorial as well, but those killed during World War II are without a doubt the young upstarts of the grounds. It's the kind of place you could wander around in for hours. We almost do, partly because it's too ominously enchanting to leave, partly because about forty minutes in, we realize we can't find our way back to the entrance. The place is huge, though it doesn't look it at first. We wander down silent grass paths, past looming mausoleums, pillars, and statues, listening intently for the sound of traffic.

When we finally find a crack in a sidewall that is big enough for us to pass through with our bikes, we take it. A quick guess at which direction is the right direction eventually leads us back to the cemetery's front gate at the Old Dutch Church. They are closed and securely locked. We were apparently in there long after they assumed everyone had left and closed up for the day.

The route sends us through a ritzy neighborhood via a network of punishing hilly residential roads. They're brutal and frequent, and the river is still walled off by train stations and tracks, but at least there's no traffic and the surroundings are pretty. That all ends though as we're send back out onto Rt. 9, and this time with no chance of escape. Everything that was nice about the ride, those few spots we'd enjoyed, all that was negated by the sheer godawfulness of the next three miles. Traffic is heavier than ever, as heavy as it can be without being bumper to bumper, and still moving at alarming speeds. The road climbs an unforgiving, relentless hill for it's entire length. We've been doing this all day, and Ellie's legs finally mutiny. They will pedal no more and frankly, mine aren't far behind hers. Again, there is no shoulder, no sidewalk, not an inch of space to the side of the road. We're forced to limp along, riding and walking, in the middle of traffic that seems completely taken aback by the fact that someone has dropped below sixty-five on these winding roads. I'm certain one of is going to get hit.


The ride is completely and utterly grim, a death march, and the only enjoyment I can derive from it in between shudders as SUVs and Saturns come within an inch of killing me over and over comes from cursing the name of the man who wrote our guidebook and making elaborate plans regarding how I'll torture him if I ever find him. What the fuck did he do? Drive this route on a motorcycle at dawn? I can't possibly fathom how his descriptions could be so wildly off base. It really borders on negligence, and it had certainly put us in a precarious situation where we couldn't even take any satisfaction from an adventurous death well-earned. Run down by a speeding SUV driven by someone talking on their cell phone - and I swear, nearly every goddamned person who passed us was talking on a cell phone - while walking your bike up a nasty hill in the middle of traffic is not a noble way to die. And like I said, I try to be honest with others and with myself when assessing my physical fitness. I'm not bad on a bike. I like hills. I can deal with traffic. I bike in New York all the time, after all. But this was absolutely fucking insane. I was pissed.

The parking lot for a Mexican restaurant gave us a break, and from there we were able to walk our bikes through the weeds alongside a fence. It was painful going, but it was a hell of a lot better than riding slowly uphill in fast car traffic.

Finally, roughly 27 miles from noon, we hit Sleepy Hollow Road and were able to turn off the goddamned highway. We were spent. More than anything physical, though that had certainly been a part of it, our nerves were fried from all the riding in close quarters with really mean, aggressive, and unending traffic. Sleepy Hollow Road still spends the bulk of its time going uphill, but there is at least only very sparse traffic. A car or truck every five minutes or so. It's slow going for us, but peaceful and cool in the late afternoon. We pass through tunnels of trees and ride the road along creeks and fields. Son of a bitch, I think to myself. This is what I wanted to do today. This is what the whole goddamned ride was supposed to be like, and yeah, I'm sorry. I don't normally curse this much when writing these things, but my mood is exceptionally foul at this point.

Steep climbs through forest roads serve to sooth me somewhat, though my heart sort of sinks when, roughly thirty miles in, we turn onto the ominously named Long Hill Road. And yeah, you know it lives up to its name. The climb is shocking, almost indescribably painful, and it never ever seems to end. Approaching Bacon something or other road, my legs finally surrender. Pedaling is literally impossible for me. I try and nearly fall over. Looks like I'm walking from here. The hill finally crests what seems like miles later. In reality, I think it was a little less than a mile, but it was a damn steep hill, I tell ya. Our labor pays off with a wild rocket ride down the other side of the hill. I don't even think of hitting my brakes. I'd rather sail off one of the many hairpin curves and impale myself on a tree branch than slow down. It doesn't last of course. This country has an infinite number of hills under its belt, and now so do we.


We take a break along an old stone wall snaking through the woods. It's lush and quiet and cool, and the woods look like they've been carpeted with moss and ferns. We watch a couple of deer who are watching us, then mount up for the final stretch. It's through undulating farmland, though I don't know if I'd call it gentle. Whatever the case, it's beautiful, almost painfully picturesque as deep orange and yellow slants of late afternoon sunlight kiss brilliantly green pastures and old wooden barns. Farm equipment sits in the fields, and lazy cows watch us as we push onward. Yet again I'm cursing. This is beautiful, so beautiful that I can almost forget the rest of the ride. I vow when I get back to work out a route that only includes this portion of the ride. Easy enough, though I'm stumped as to exactly how to get the cemetery into the picture as well. Well, it's a project.

Our last stretch is a meager but welcome pay-off for everything that has come before. The encouragingly named Lake Road promises us we're near the end of our miserable trek. We are dirty, beyond tired, angry about being misled, streaked with road grime. But we're also riding downhill fast through a cool, breezy forest that seems to have soaked the whole world green. At the bottom of the hill we see the Tarrytown Lakes, and to our left, a little over forty miles after we last saw it, our car. Suddenly, I'm elated. As grim and harsh and joyless as the ride had been, that last part was stunning, and hell. We did it. We finished the damned wretched beast. My sense of accomplishment outweighed my sense of outrage at the guidebook. Look, I already said neither of us was Lance Armstrong. He'd laugh at us as speed on by. But like I said, it wasn't hills or the demanding physical nature of the route that angried up my blood. It was the traffic, or more accurately the promise of very light traffic and sparsely traveled roads. The final fourteen miles fulfill the promise, but the first fourteen are so wildly crowded, aggressive, and genuinely dangerous that about all I can say for the ride as a whole is, "Man, that really did suck." But we did it anyway and finished. Forty miles, most of it uphill and in treacherous traffic. It wasn't fun, but it was something to gloat about, at least for us. We vow to finish the adventure in a steakhouse.

Looking at the map, the peaceful country route would be to take Lake Road to Long Hill to Sleepy Hollow. You still have to ride on Rt. 9, but downhill toward the cemetery. A short distance later, Bedford Rd. connects back to the lower portion of Lake Rd. Don't know the state of Bedford Rd., but it can hardly be worse than what we were sent up. As for how you get Lyndhurst into your trek - you do your trek, then drive there. Touring the towns of Tarrytown and Sleepy Hollow is a waste of time unless you like looking at people grilling out on the sidewalk outside their little apartment building or really consider Citgos and train stations to be scenic.

Labels: Travel