Burlington, Vermont

 

The cycling gods must pay attention to my blog.  Less than an hour after my last post lamenting I’d passed through New York once again without finding a license plate along the road they provided me with one and then another when I opted to return to the state and bike up the west side of Lake George to Ticonderoga for its Carnegie rather than sticking to the Vermont side and then taking a ferry across the lake.  Five miles after the first came another, and then a few miles later a New Jersey plate as well.  It was my biggest license plate bonanza ever.  That brings my total of states to twenty-seven. The gods will truly be benevolent if they provide me with a green beauty from Vermont in the relatively few miles I’ll be biking across the state and the same for New Hampshire.

The gods were looking after me too when I left Ticonderoga at sunset, providing me with a campsite a mile out of this town that attracts recreational tourists, big enough to have a Walmart.  With dark coming on I had a debate with myself whether to sacrifice a few precious minutes of daylight to stop at the Walmart, the first I had come upon in these travels, for a jug of chocolate milk.  I knew it would be a risk to spend several minutes venturing around its labyrinth of aisles, but I couldn’t help myself so strong was my hankering for chocolate milk.  The gods didn’t take kindly to my decision, as the only chocolate milk on the shelves was in gallon containers, which I didn’t have space for.

I had the option of camping behind an abandoned store next to the Walmart or take my chances and head out of town.  There hadn’t been much sprawl entering Ticonderoga, a town of 5,000, nor was there much on the way out, so I was rewarded with another fine campsite in a small forest besides a field under cultivation.  

It left me fifty miles south of Burlington, where a Warmshowers host awaited me.  I decided to avail myself of this service since I had to take the time to search out supplies—a tire and an improvement on my sleeping bag.  It was rated to 25 degrees, but had barely been keeping me warm when the temperature dipped below fifty, as had been the case since the first two days of these travels.  I’d needed a sweater and sometimes a vest and leggings to stay warm. Evidently the loft of my bag had degenerated and no longer retained so much warmth.

Burlington had an REI, so I knew I could find an adequate upgrade.  My Warmshowers hosts, however, recommended the Outdoor Gear Exchange that dealt in used as well as new gear and was just a mile from their home and a couple blocks from the Carnegie Library.  It was a huge store packed with customers and incredible deals.  I left with a new Marmot bag for $130 rated to twenty degrees and a tire for $20.  Inflation seemed to have yet come to Burlington, as a motel on the outskirts advertised a rate of $48.50.

The store was in a several block long pedestrian mall in the heart of the city that was a hive of activity, contributing to the appeal of this city of 44,000 people, the largest in Vermont and the smallest largest city in the fifty states. The store was in a former Woolworth’s, commemorated with a plaque.  It was the largest Woolworth’s in New England and had been in fixture in Burlington at this downtown location for one hundred years until Woolworth’s closed down in 1997.  Its lunch counter is fondly remembered by many.

Learning of the store was just one of many of the great benefits of availing myself of Warmshowers, the first time I’ve done so in the US, after superlative experiences in Abu Dhabi and Brazil and Turkey and Madagascar.  It was thanks to a Warmshowers host in Madagascar that I still have my present touring bike, as he rescued it from the airport when Turkish Air wouldn’t let me fly home with it and sent it later.  

Carmen and Dave were as wonderful as any of my hosts.  Dave had been touring longer than me, getting his start in 1975 when he lived in Cincinnati.  Carmen was a native Vermonter and could remember when Bernie Sanders was elected mayor of Burlington in 1991.  She was a youth and couldn’t understand why an uncle was so upset, not knowing what it meant to be a socialist.  Dave is an ardent sailor as well as cyclist.  He hauls his sailboat to nearby Lake Champlain on a trailer he attaches to his bike.  And they are avid salsa dancers, driving ninety-five miles regularly to Montreal to dance.

They warned me to keep a close eye on my bike, as there had been a glut of bicycle thievery from a growing homeless population.  Ever since a hotel near their home had started housing the homeless, cars left on the street in their neighborhood had been broken into.  There was a cluster of homeless outside the Carnegie.  I was relieved I had stripped my bike of all its gear when I ventured over to it.

The library had had a large addition to its side.  The Carnegie portion was now the children’s section.  Carmen mentioned they’d had a guest a few years ago who had also come to see the Carnegie, but it was so long ago and they have had so many guests, she couldn’t remember who it was or how to contact him.  They’d had many fine guests over the years, but some clunkers as well, including one guy who spent all day sitting on their couch drinking beer while he awaited a package he’d had mailed to their address.  

We sat around the dining room table well into the night reminiscing about our travels and discussing life in Vermont. Dave and I both had early-day TC panniers and still have a pair in our archives.  I’d read on a plaque that Vermont was the first state admitted to the union after the first thirteen.  Carmen said that is something all Vermonters know.  It came in 1791, fifteen years after the initial thirteen.  The flag with fourteen stars lasted only a year, as Kentucky followed in 1792.  New Hampshire was one of the original thirteen.  Vermont had been part of New York, then broke off to become a republic of its own, before seeking statehood.  

I was eager to put my new sleeping bag to use as I slept in their backyard not far from a huge cluster of rhubarb.  I could immediately feel the warmth it retained of my body.  I dared not zip it up.  No worries now of needing extra layers as I sleep.  I left my old bag with Carmen and Dave who may save it for other guests in need.  They have occasional guests from New York City who arrive by train late in the evening and are short of gear.  They have a regular guest from Germany who leaves a bike with them.  As many guests as they have had, they have never stayed with another Warmshowers host in their travels, preferring their independence as I generally do, not wanting to make arrangements ahead of time.  But I will certainly be happy to take advantage of this great network again.