"I think it's
kind of interesting that New York uses so much gravel," says the genius
earnestly. " Massachusetts doesn't do it, and neither does
God," Pike says. The genius walks off in a huff. Richard mimics him. I am
1:10 p.m. Back on
the road. We are way ahead of schedule. Someone miscalculated. Coolidge?
We turn off the
turnpike at Syracuse. Grubby city. It's all backwoods from here on in. There
are dirty patches of gray snow on the ground. The trees are still bare.
2:45 p.m. Ithaca.
The bus driver has no idea of how to get to the boathouse. Neither does
Coolidge. Freddie thinks we're in the wrong town. Finally we stop at the police
station and get an escort. Our driver almost knocks down a light pole at the
The boathouse is
behind a junkyard. It is clean, new, big. Lots of linoleum and glass and
stainless steel. Much nicer than our boathouse.
smell like sweat," someone notes, sniffing happily.
state money," someone else says.
We are staying at
the boathouse. There is a room overlooking the water filled with double bunks.
Surprisingly, they are long enough and have good mattresses. "Workout in 45
minutes," says Coolidge.
We cluster around
the scales. If they are high it will be bad for us. Richard, stripped, climbs
on. He groans. "Are they high?" "How much you gotta knock off?"
They are O.K. Richard was faking. I am 56 plus. Lots of sweat clothes should do