Early Sept. 2008
All dog owners who happen to be cyclists will suffer pangs of conscience at least once a season when they set out for that 50-miler on Sunday. Not mother: she suffers the pangs every time she goes out. That's because I send brain waves over in her direction telling her so: "Suffer, suffer, suffer." Adding some white of the eye action, head on paws, helps.
Little did I know she would take me on that rat-trap tail wagon that I inherited from Tiggy. Not just on that wagon, but on a freakin' trail, with rocks, and bumps and crap, that shattered my poor little brain.
Okay, so here is what happened. I showed like I was itching to go, and I was thinking, Talllman Park. But I meant walking! In goes the freaking wagon. Then there's the sweating, cursing and near death as mother tries to put the Trek mountain bike on the roof of the Sub'--it's too hard for a lightweight like her, and I am no help and she almost killed herself--that bike is darn heavy!
Okay, so we get to the head of Tallman and I am thinking, great! She changed her mind. Not so fast Little Miss Apricot, I say to myself. If I could curse out loud I would: instead I growled. But she paid no attention.
In she shoves me, into that little yellow hut, and ties me down like a freakin' horse on the inside, sooooo logically I won't jump out. "Well, I wouldn't jump out Mommy, I promise," I say with my eyes pleading upwards.
One thing I have to credit the mother for is the smarts: she clearly didn't buy it.
So, off we go--We're doing like 20 miles an hour on this trail, and I'm loving the breeze. Then down the big hill into Piermont where we have a brief rest stop at the Piermont Bike Shop for some necessities (more items to tie me down with ), and some hob-knobbing with the locals, who LOOOVE me, and we're off again backwards along the road to Sparkill. Right at the corner of Sparkill, we take a sharp right onto the old Erie Trail.
Now this part, although lorded over by all those freakie cyclocross dudes who imagine they are hot ( I know they're not, first of all they have no hair on their bodies, what a turn-off) during the winter crowding this trail and pretending like they're actually getting a work out and what not. But you know, the only thing they get on this trail is a brain shake, ubba, bubba, ugga, mugga, dubba, ugga.
We get to the crossing in Piermont (it's a kind of double back, but above the town) and there's the old train station! Quaint. Phew, no more rocks, at least not for a while. We're speeding through this verdant trail surrounded by all the flora I would rather be peeing on, and passing nice houses mother can't afford with her measly journalist's salary. It's kind of cutsie-wutsie, you know I am imagining running through all their back yards in search of live chickens to eat.
But it's not happening. We come upon a nice couple and they have two friends for me to play with, but darn! Nothing doing. They take a bunch of pictures, and you can see me, down there with my little face, and I am screaming, "LET ME OUT!"
Off again, and mother calls out to every passer by, as if she were running for the freaking mayor! And we don't even live here. She says out loud that it reminds her of a trail in the 1800's in the countryside of England. I am scratching my little head with my paws --the ones that aren't tied down--wondering how she has managed to live that long.
Go figure. Anyway, if she is running for mayor, she only got three votes, because that's all we saw on this portion, three people, and one didn't even speak English, he was hauling a wheelbarrel full of weeds through the umbrage.
So we go past some more undergrowth which mother communicates telepathically to me that this was the home of five little fox once, and you know I am only 1.5 years old, so I have no freaking idea what a fox is. I mean I had to look it up in the dictionary to write it here. But she says they were so cute, and I wish they were still here, etc., but I am kind of dubious: she says they would be bigger than me now, I am quintuply dubious.
We paddle along, her feet flying dangerously three inches from my brown nose, until we hit Nyack where we ride along Franklin Ave., then down to Main St., then all the way north to the park at the end. That's my favorite place, or one of them, and I recognize it right away. Again, I start struggling to get out: OUT OUT OUT I insist!
Nothing doing. Man, when mother is on the bike she is all freakin' business! That trail along the river is cool. Finally, we get to the end. That's three miles, and I'M OUT! Hey, it's mess up hair on the beach day and why not take a few plunges in the historic Hudson, my favorite body of water.
There we met three people who had driven all the way from Queens, and then hiked down from Hook Mountain, above us, to sit by the river: they had NO idea where they were. Funny, I knew more than they did and I don't even speak English!
Okay, it's shove back into the wagon, back along the river road, to Main St. and down the hill to Grandview, But what's this? Freaking car drivers, they think we're potshot targets, as they ram their freaking big butt steel carcasses inches away from my little brown nose.
This riding on the road thing is for the birds, or policemen with hatchets and guns: that's the only way to survive.
Once back in Piermont we take a well deserved break at the farmer's market where mother buys really good veggies, chicken sausage, whole wheat bread, and lot of corn. YUM!
Then it is off again through Tallman--and I wish, just wish she would have let me out, the white-clad business woman, so I could douse myself head to toe in the mud on the side of the trail, but it ain't happening.
Then we're back in the car, and I am happy to say--we called it a day!
Well, ta-ta, until next time!