Jim's Adirondacks

Sorry to disappoint right from the get go, but sadly, Adirondack National Park in upstate New York, all six million acres of it, with its 6,970 miles of roads, 3,000 lakes and more than 30,000 miles of rivers and streams, does not belong to Jim Mandle.

It sure seems like it though.

Having spent a day touring the park with Jim as my guide...

... I think it's fairer and more accurate to say that the Adirondack National Park owns Jim.

Jim and I had been conspiring for some time.

These things have a rhythm. A comment on an article, a couple of e-mails, a phone call or two. That's how it goes.

My Adirondack tour started as a very ambitious plan hatched by Jim.

I say ambitious, because that's what it was, honestly.

Jim, myself, Ken Wilson, and Sergei Belski, hailing from Calgary, Northern Florida, Montreal, and upstate New York in reverse order, would assemble some place, like say New York City, then ride up to the Adirondacks, all on Vespa GTS's, crash the Americade Harley/cruiser extravaganza in Lake George, and have a blast along the way.  Something like that.  Jim pitched the idea to Piaggio SpA as a unique marketing ploy for Vespa North America in which Piaggio would pony up some sponsorship cash for travel expenses. We all thought it was crazy.

In the end, Piaggio didn't take the bait, and the project sputtered. But I firmly and truly believe in the 'go big or go home' approach that Jim took. He actually got Piaggio to listen, to give him the time of day.  That's an amazing achievement and speaks to Jim's advertising and marketing expertise.

The plan Jim hatched didn't die though, it just morphed.

First it changed into a slightly less ambitious meet up among Jim and I, and Stephanie Yue.

That plan was torpedoed by... very good fortune, if you can believe it.

First Stephanie was invited back to L.A., interrupting her quest to cross the U.S. from the southwest to the northeast corner on her continuing 48 state odyssey, but landing her an advertising and promotion gig that was just too good to pass up. That meant pushing her arrival in upstate New York into July.  No big deal.  But... the final bit of good luck that sealed the fate of that moto get together, was that Jim got a buyer for his house in Lake Luzerne. That meant that Jim and Grace had to pack up and leave for Florida.

See how amazing good fortune can spoil a great moto party?

That left Jim and I.

I knew Jim and Grace were frantically packing up to meet their unanticipated end of June closing date. Could Jim tear himself away from the preparations for lunch, I enquired?  If so, I would jump on my Vespa and truck on down to Lake Luzerne.

Do I have to keep you guessing on Jim's response?

I left the house at 8:30 last Wednesday morning, an hour later than I had hoped, so I made a beeline for the border.

That meant a first for me, crossing the Mercier bridge, one of the massive bridges that span the St-Lawrence river to Montreal's south shore and the only one I had yet to cross on two wheels.

Just to the west of the Mercier's twin spans there is a railway bridge.

In no time at all I was over the border and cruising south on I-87 bound for Lake Luzerne.

One of you loyal readers (I won't mention names) wondered why I would need both GPS and iPhone mounts on my bikes.  Well the answer came no sooner than I was off the Interstate and headed west towards Lake Luzerne.  You guessed it.  No cell coverage.  Nada. Zip.  It stayed that way for the better part of the day.  Thank heavens for my Garmin. It took me to Jim's front door without a single bad turn.

I knew I was in the right place as soon as I saw Jim's GTS.  Rarer in these parts than... well as rare as a Vespa in upstate New York.  That explains the U.S. border guard's odd questions about my bike, like, was it highway legal, did it have a license plate, and how would I cope with the daunting super-scary 18 wheelers on the big bad Interstate.  When I said "I just pass them", he seemed incredulous.

What a nice balcony Jim and Grace have...

... a view to calm even the most restless spirit...

... and more than enough room for Vespas.

In no time at all we were ready to roll.

It was high noon and time for lunch. I had skipped breakfast and was famished.

Jim led the way to the centre of town to the Upriver Café, a delightful restaurant right on the banks of the Hudson River. We ate on the veranda out back.  What a delightful place it was.

We grabbed a bite, Jim started planning a grand tour of key Adirondack must-see sights, we paired our Sena helmet headsets, chatted with some locals explaining the wonders of Vespa travel, and set out.

I was concerned that Jim would mess up his packing schedule.  But Grace insisted he take the afternoon to show me around, and I got the feeling that Jim needed to break free and enjoy some time off from the moving chores.

Our first stop was at an overlook that no casual tourist might easily find, other than by dumb luck.  I knew instantly when we got there that I was in the hands of a very experienced Adirondack guide.

There in the distance was Lake George.  Jim pointed out the paddle wheeler, barely visible, plying the vast lake no doubt with a boatload of spellbound tourists, their imaginations adrift with thoughts of the great Mississippi and Mark Twain's epic yarns.

The first major stop was the Adirondack Museum.  I knew nothing of this marvel.

I was impressed by the huge Adirondack chair.  Jim offered to sit in it for a photo, but I felt that would be unbecoming.  I had already sensed I was privileged to have Jim as my guide.  Like getting a tour of Buckingham palace from Queen Elizabeth, or a guided Vatican visit from Pope Francis.

Jim had a chat with the lady manning the reception desk, quickly negotiating a waiver of the admission fee so that he could show me the view from the museum's café.  Being with Jim at the Adirondack Museum was like being at the Guggenheim with Guggenheim, or the Getty with Getty.

"Wow!"

"Wow!"

"Wow!"

"Wow!"

 More "Wow!".  This where Stephanie, Jim and I would have had lunch had good fortune landing on Steph and Jim left and right not robbed us of the opportunity. No biggie. There will be equally good times to be shared I'm sure.

We were destined to travel all day long in the park.  Jim estimates (actually more of a dead-on calculation) that we covered 186 miles in all from the time we left his place in Lake Luzerne until we parted ways in Keeseville.  And all day long, I heard myself utter "Wow!" like a dumbstruck numbskull hamstrung by a limited imagination and even more limited vocabulary.  Sorry Jim, but the ever increasing numbness in my bum must have been traveling northward to affect my speech.

Not only is Jim a certified Adirondack guide, but Jim and his family are benefactors of the museum.  Seriously.  His name is engraved there.  Honest.

See that canoe in the photo above? The one on the left? It's famous. Jim has one. He allowed in all seriousness and genuine humility that his is a better specimen.

The Adirondack Museum is to canoes and all things Adirondack-related, as the Museo Piaggio in Pontedera is to Vespas and all things Vespa-related.

The museum is truly a gem.  Anyone who finds themselves in upstate New York must pay the museum a visit. I promise it won't disappoint. Even if you won't have Jim to show you around.

There was no time for any more loitering in the museum, even if the exhibits were fascinating and the views breathtaking. We saddled up and shoved off.

Jim had more sights to show me.

We came to a stone bridge.  We stopped so I could snap a photo.  Jim rolled on a bit, and I heard him speaking in the headset but he was out of sight. At first I thought he was speaking to me. But no, he had stumbled on some local fauna.

Artistic fauna to be precise.

Jim must count his friends and acquaintances in the thousands. He has irrepressible good spirits and a genuine love of people. And shyness is not in his nature. I guess that's what made him a success in the advertising business.

Jim wanted to show me this place because more than any other place, it is his favorite in the park. Clearly the local artists' colony would agree because they were out in force capturing the scene in all its natural beauty.

As you can see for yourself, it truly is a uniquely beautiful spot.

We crashed the party and took a group photo.

This is Jim's special spot in the park.  Right there.

Here is Jim making new friends.

And then the pièce de résistance.  If you look carefully, you'll see that this artist has a vintage Vespa poster adorning her palette.  Vespa = art. As if you needed more proof. I rest my case.

As pleasant as Jim's favorite spot is, and as pleasant as the company was, and it was, there was more to see.  So off we went.

The next stop was to be Paul Smith's College.  Located in the park, the college offers programs in natural resources, fisheries and wildlife science, forestry, recreation, biology, hotel and restaurant management, culinary arts, and business.

The campus is simply stunning, located on the shore of one of the park's 3,000 lakes.

We may have cheated just a tiny bit by taking our Vespas where only pedestrians are truly welcome.

The clock was ticking and we wanted to be home by dusk.  So we rolled on, headed east on the way back to the Adirondack Northway, which is how upstate New Yorkers refer to I-87.

Along the way we stumbled on this raging spillway that Jim had not seen before.  That's how vast this park is.  Bigger than Yellowstone, Grand Canyon, Glacier, and Great Smoky Mountains combined, so say WikiPedia, and Jim Mandle.

You can see the spray from the spillway on the road, and on my mirror.

We were cutting across the park now, taking smaller roads, trusting Jim's Garmin and his knowledge of the park. At one point we were on a truly secondary road that seemed to be getting more and more rustic shall we say.  We had our eyes peeled on the lookout for loose gravel, massive potholes, for deer or other unsuspecting wildlife.

At one point, some turtles were making a mad dash across the road. Yikes! With incredible skill and agility, aided by Jim's alert via the headset, we swerved each in turn and avoided disaster, sparing the turtles.

At long last we made it to Keeseville and the Northway.  We indulged in some celebratory ice cream cones, refueled, and went our separate ways.  I headed north, and Jim swung south.  By nine that evening, we were each snug in our homes, our fuel tanks dry, and our minds swimming with the memories of time very well spent.

Thanks Jim! 

Depending on the way the future unfolds, an opportunity may come my way to spend more time here, at a more restful pace, and see even more of what Adirondack Park has to offer.

The tally for the day: 12 hours traveling time, 1.5 to 2 hours in lunch and other small breaks, just under 500 miles.

And that my friends is how my bum became numb, even on a very comfortable Vespa GTS.

Live your lives!  Break free!  Ride till it hurts!

Breathless...

That's right. The Grand Prix is in town.

Lock your doors, hide your daughters, batten down the hatches, and grab the ear plugs.

Unless you prefer to take a walk on the wild side, that is.

It's the ideal way to kick off Montreal summer madness and set the tone for the rest of the rambunctious festival season to come.  Jazz, comedy, fireworks, indie-rock, all introduced by a heady mix of testosterone, gasoline, black spandex dresses, and screaming F1 engines.

I thought that you'd like a glimpse into the Saturday night festivities on gasoline alley (Crescent and Peel streets and everything in between, including pop-up high-end retail shops and restaurants, and more champagne and vodka than the volume of fuel that will be burned on the Ile Notre Dame track.  There are some chi-chi restaurants in town that rake in more money during the four or five Grand Prix days than in all of January and February.

Two years ago this coming July, Bob and I rode around the F1 track at a very sedate quasi-comatose 25 kmh.

Just in case you think it's all about four wheels, think again.

 Anyone care for a high-performance electric bike?

Time to breathe

A lot of things are happening in our lives.  Our eldest son's wedding will take place in August.  My current job will cease at the end of June.  I'm learning to ride a large motorcycle that I am simultaneously equipping for serious touring.  If that's not enough, we are planning to sell our house, pack up our things and move to Toronto.

It's a series of transitions that is a lot to handle, and it can take a toll.

Yesterday I needed some perspective.  I needed to shift the scene, alter the pace, find a comfortable space, familiar, yet fresh and different.

My Vespa remains equal parts transport for the body, and transport for the soul.

I'm now refreshed, ready for another challenge today, that, hopefully, will cast the next year or so into a favorable environment for some of these large shifts and changes.  

Fuente Baena

With food addiction on the brain lately, I recently grabbed a wonderful brisket sandwich at Hof Kelsten on St-Laurent just north of Mount Royal avenue.

Seeing I was already well up the Main, why not go the extra kilometer or two? Kind of a distance equivalent of being 'in for a penny, in for a pound'.

Which forces me to digress, as I often do. Bear with me.

This is one of those things that causes my childhood to collide with my present. That old penny and pound expression never made sense to me as a kid, in spite of my still very British grandmother.  Another expression that was lost on me was when my Dad would say to me "p'tit train va loin". Why would a little train go farther than a big one?  If you risked a penny, why would you risk a pound? A pound of what? Currency and weights, machines and distance? It took years of advancing age coupled with liberal doses of education and perspective, for the true meaning of those expressions to dawn on me.

Now if they had bothered to update them to match my mid-century Canadian Anglo context, and said "slow pace, travels far", or ''in for a cent, in for a dollar", I would have stood a chance. Though why you might squander a dollar with the same carefree abandon as flipping a cent into a fountain, is still beyond me.

When I hear the siren-song of uniquely exceptional, extra-virgin, Spanish olive oil humming my name, the kilometers that separate Hof Kelsten from the Jean-Talon market mean nothing.  I suppose the English gentleman who coined that expression about squandering pound notes was wealthy beyond dreams.

A Vespa will do for squandering distance, what egregious wealth will do for squandering dollars and pounds.

My tummy full, I hopped on the Vespa and sailed off north up the Main, on a quest for liquid rapture.

I've done this many times before.  

Montreal has a whole bunch of farmers' markets scattered around the metropolis.  We're very European that way.  The most celebrated of our markets are the Atwater Market, southwest of the downtown core, and the Jean-Talon Market.  Both those markets offer a wondrous array of fresh locally grown produce, meats that make your mouth water, and a selection of cheeses to make any epicurean stall, hog-tied by indecision.

The Jean Talon Market is home to Olive & Olives.

What can I say about Fuente Baena, a delectable extra virgin olive oil lovingly produced by the oliverera in Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe in Spain? It's fruitier than any other olive oil I've ever tasted (which is not to say it's sweet, which it's not), with none of the heat or bitterness often sought after in extra virgin olive oils.  Spanish olive of any type is a relative rarity.  Unlike Italy, Greece and other olive oil producing countries, Spain seems to export very little of its annual production, making finding Spanish olive oil a tad of a challenge. 

Fortunately, this particular delicacy can be ordered online, either from the producer in Spain, or from Olive & Olives.  If you can't find Fuente Baena in a local specialty store where you live, it's worth an online ordering adventure for sure, or a trip to Olive & Olives in the Jean-Talon market.

Trust me.

Black Betty gets to work

 - or - Horses for Courses...

I've got choices.  I'm blessed.

Pouring rain in the forecast?  Take the black Civic.

No real precipitation expected?  Take the black Vespa.

No real precipitation expected, and feel like a total retro badass? Take the Black Betty!

And that my friends, is precisely the kind of day it was today.  Plus I had an early doctor's appointment.  The prospect of sitting around the waiting room with the (mostly) geriatric set sealed the deal.  Badass it had to be, and badass it was.

Though I don't look the part of a renegade with that stupid goofy grin plastered on my face, now do I?  Who can tell once the faceguard's down?  Oh, right, the real badasses all wear those ridiculous tiny black helmets.

Since I am a barely competent shifter and frequent embarassing staller, I took the slow coastal route with lots and lots of stops, and a few little-ish hills and inclines. I only stalled once, on the final hill, just before the parking lot entrance.  Not so bad.  I'm now at least twice as good at shifting without stalling as I was this morning, when I stalled in the driveway, on a slight downhill incline (let out the clutch thinking I was in neutral).

In my defense, a good number of my starts were semi-flawless.  Other than the full face helmet, a casual observer might have mistaken me for Travolta in Wild Hogs.

Sonja is fidgeting with impatience... "So how was the ride!?!?!"

It was great.  The Shadow handled the six or eights sets of railroad crossings like a champ, the des Seigneurs bridge across the Lachine Canal with the steel grate road bed was only just a tiny bit squirelly, and motoring down to P3 in the parking garage wasn't the reverberating nightmare of rolling thunder I feared it might be courtesy of those damn Cobra pipes.

Black Betty is a truly a great, quintessential retro badass ride, that's for sure.

What else is there to say?  I feel like the most blessed person.  A very minor version of Doug Cooper, but instead of a Jay Leno style barn, I have one half of a two-car garage full of really, really cool motorbikes.