Utica, New York to Troy, New York 102 miles 2502 feet of climbing

The first part of today's ride to Troy was on Route 5, heading east and a little south. The road follows the Mohawk River, just like the railroad tracks. Numerous trains came rolling by during the day, and there was much to look at as we passed through town after town. Little Falls, Mohawk, Fort Johnson, Amsterdam, and Schenectady. It was cloudy most of the day, and the temperatures were cool. No blazing sun beating down on you mile after mile. The lush green meadows and forests of upstate New York as well as the small towns, remind me of my hometown of Simsbury, Connecticut. Having lived in California since 1986, riding through this landscape is a good reminder to me of the beauty of the east coast. And I'm sure it gets even more stunning in the fall when the colors absolutely explode. 

The last part of the ride was on something called the Mohawk Hudson Bikeway. The cue sheet was sketchy, and my Garmin bike computer kept saying I was off course (perhaps because of the tree cover over the trail). The signage was lacking, so I made a few momentary wrong turns as the bikeway starts and stops in certain places. The fact that I had already ridden 80 miles before I got on the bikeway made dealing with these navigational problems more annoying because, at that point, I just wanted to get to the hotel. 

I made it, checked in, showered, and went in search of food. We are in the middle of Troy, and there is no fast food anywhere close. I found a local burger joint that was pretty good, and after that, I walked around a bit and saw a CVS drugstore. I remembered I needed some toothpaste, so I went in. The cashier, a handsome young guy in his late teens, asked me if I wanted a CVS tag for my keychain.

I said, "You know, partner, I'm here on a bike tour, so I don't have any keys, and I'm from California."

He said, "Well, I'm from Las Vegas."

I said, "Vegas? So why are you here?"

He said, "Well, they brought me here in handcuffs."

I said, "Oh, well, that's not gonna work. No way you can work this register and bag stuff in cuffs. And stocking shelves? Not gonna happen."

He laughed. 

I said, "Son, you gotta stay outta the cuffs. Do what you gotta do, but stay outta the cuffs. You know that."

I was shaking my head and smiling as I said it, and he knew I wasn't being disrespectful. He smiled. I wished him good luck, and we both said goodbye. 

Just like with the Best Dressed Man in Erie, that kid was someone I would have loved to talk to at length. If there weren't people in line behind me, I would have asked him why he was in cuffs in the first place. I'm sure he would have told me. 

As I mentioned yesterday in my blog post, I performed in Utica years ago. About that same time, in the late 70s, I also played in the city right next to Troy, Schenectady. I was playing the drums in a 5 piece show band with a male lead singer and two female backup singers. I remember arriving in Schenectady and thinking,

"This place has seen better days." 

Actually, to be perfectly honest, I remember thinking,

"Parts of this place look like a bomb hit it."

Harsh words, I know, but I was young and had not traveled very much. 

The club we played in was pretty large and, from the looks of it, probably mob-owned. Not that it mattered to me, except that my mother, seeing that I was playing close to my hometown of Simsbury, had arranged for her and my father to come to see me. They booked a hotel, and everything was set. 

Upon seeing the club, I called my mother and told her that I didn't think my father would be impressed and that maybe they shouldn't come. My mother would have none of it.

"I got your father to agree to come to see you, and we are not canceling."

I said, OK.

We played there for 3 or 4 days. On our first night, as we got ready to go on, I got to the club very early. To my delight, I watched a fantastic 10-piece Polka band entertain a large crowd that ranged in age from 6 to 90. And everyone was dancing. And not just jumping around. They knew all the steps. 

The band leader and frontman was a large clarinet player who played and directed the ensemble. (Think, John Candy and the Schmenge Brothers). Only these guys were not messing around. This was a serious Polka band. On either side of the leader were his twenty-something daughters, looking cute, singing and doing choreographed steps. They were all dressed to the nines (including all the band members) in glittery show outfits. 

I remember thinking, 

"There must be a lot of Polish people in this town."

The place was rockin', in a Polka sort of way. I played in a few polka bands in my teens, and the music is joyous and infectious; you can't help but get up and move. It was so cool to see Polka played the way it should be played, with all the horns, the clarinet, and the girl singers. That band brought it, and it was great to watch.  

They finished their sets, and it was time for us to go on. About half an hour before show time, my parents showed up at the entrance. I informed Guido, the maitre d', that they would be coming to the club that evening. I can still picture my mother and father being led to their table by a guy who looked like Luca Brasi's twin brother in a Tuxedo. My father, six-four and impeccably dressed in his suit, and my mother was also beautifully dressed. I remember thinking, 

"Oh God, what is my father thinking."

We finished our show, and the next day I had lunch with my parents at a very nice local restaurant. The conversation was mostly about our upcoming road schedule and when I might be back in the area. I can't remember if they commented on the show or if they liked it. My mother was an artist, so she was always supportive of my musical endeavors. My father, on the other hand, was never happy that I was pursuing music as a career. His feeling about his son being a musician can be summed up in what he asked me over the phone one time when I was playing in Atlanta, 

"How long are you going to play these gin mills?" he asked.

Gin mills, now there is a term you don't hear much anymore. 

My father was a great Dad. I never had any doubt that he loved me. He coached the sports teams that I was on. He took me to Celtics and Red Sox games for years. He was an extremely bright, thoughtful, and caring man. By example, he and my mother taught my brother and I what was important in life, how to treat people, and what was right and what was wrong. I could go on and on. We were extremely blessed to have them as parents. 

But the one thing my father could never come to terms with was my trying to make it as a musician. Music is an incredibly hard business, and I think he was just scared for me. 

So how exactly did we get into all this Hosley family stuff? Oh, that's right, Luca Brasi seats Don and Ruth Hosley in a nightclub in Schenectady. Backstage, I put my head in my hands. Don Hosley says nothing and just rolls his eyes. 

Two more real days of riding until we hit Revere Beach.