Harry confirms it’s a route he hasn’t done but has heard about, that we might well get lost and dark comes early, that they are all technically public rights of way and, at any rate, the farmers have given permission, the last of which especially gets my attention though the rest of it sounds interesting, too. We’re on the train from Penn Station, burnt orange light bending through smudged windows, and then our stop. The cars pull away the shaking platform is just our shivering.
Four or five of us are sharing navigation duties, the massive redundancy of it increasing odds. There isn’t the slightest sense of where we are, the autumn plowed fields browned corn stalks farm houses could as easily be Flanders or Picardie. Steaming along dirt tracks, a pile of onions have fallen off a truck, nose wrinkle and it’s a smell I like. Charging washboard kicking us from one side to the other, he’s in overalls and thick grey beard checking his mailbox. “…Headed towards a dead end,” he calls out, but some of us are making the turn already and he brightens up, “oh, you’re riding the black dirt!” and gives a sharp grinning nod.
MC called in agribiking when we were in Czech R., I laugh out loud at doing some more of it hardly an hour from the city.