Livin' La Vida Local...

...or something.

By chance, I happened upon information about the Madison County Agricultural Economic Development's "Eat Local" program. There were Open Houses at thirteen area farms and you were supposed to get your "passport" stamped at each one. (A minimum of two stamps scored you a t-shirt, and doG knows I'm a t-shirt whore!) Since I'd been jonesing for a long ride, - and it had finally stopped raining for more than five minutes - this seemed like a good excuse for a ride. I figured on hitting nine of the farms on the list. The route would encompass some of my favorite terrain - the rolling hills of southern Madison County. Yeah, it would be almost eighty miles, but I've done 60+ several times already this year. Piece 'o cake. The route was supposed to look just like this:

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Insert: "Man proposes, God disposes". "The best laid plans of mice and men oft go to hell in a handbasket"....and a whole bunch of other cliches about things not going as planned. The one factor completely beyond my control changed my route - the weather.

I left at ten AM, waiting for it to warm up and the roads to dry out a bit - heaven forfend I get my new Roubaix dirty!

Out through the village and through Clockville I went, following the creek, the road twisting and turning, just like the creek itself. I turned and headed up the wall that is Burleson Road. It's about a three mile climb and the first quarter mile or so is about a 16% grade. The arm warmers came off for this climb! For some perverse reason, I really, really like that road. It's not that I have masochistic tendencies or anything....well, OK, maybe I do, but the views are certainly worth it. (Here's the link for the full view -stupid blogger software, anyway.....)


My first stop was the Foothills Hop Farm

It was there that I found out that Hop Lemonade rocks. I got my stamp and headed south on Rt 46 climbing, climbing and more climbing. 

(Astute readers of this blog would notice I've used that picture before, but since there aren't any, I can get away with it).

As I headed south, I couldn't help but notice the rather threatening cloud cover surrounding me on three sides. I hoped that if I kept heading south, I could sort of work around it.

Next up was Heritage Farm. No one seemed to be around, except for a young boy who was busy with a goat kid. I asked if he knew anything about getting my passport stamped. He just shrugged and said "I don't know". A couple more questions elicited similar responses. With the weather getting uglier by the minute, I decided to move on. No stamp. Poop.

As I reached the intersection of Route 46 and 20, I was supposed to head east to Heamour Farms, and Drover Hill Farm but the weather was really pressing in. I decided to pass on two more stamps and two of the farms I really wanted to see ( farmstead cheeses and Scottish Highland Cattle!) I headed west on 20.

From the intersection of 46 and 20 - in an area oddly named Pine Woods - Rt 20 climbs pretty steadily for three miles. As I launched into this long slog, the skies opened up. It was here too, that I happened to hook up with a guy and his son heading the same way on their bikes. As I bridged up to them I asked "Who the hell ordered this weather?" We soldiered on, making small talk. We finally reached the top and began the long descent into Morrisville. At that point, I decided to bag it and head for home. I said my goodbyes to my companions and turned off. I stopped to put my arm warmers back on and  thought "What the hell, I can't get any WETTER...." so I jumped back on Rt 20 and continued where I left off. I actually ended up catching back up with the guy and his son, when they stopped to put the son's chain back on. (It's called "drivetrain maintenance", people.....SHEESH!)

It stopped raining and I dropped them somewhere on the climb between Morrisville and Nelson. Thanks to the modern miracle of wicking fabrics, I started to dry out pretty quickly. (Except my feet....)

 I decided if I couldn't find "fuel" in the next little town along the way (Nelson), I'd bag it and head for home, but I managed to score some cheese curds and a soda, at Nelson Farms (there isn't anything else in Nelson!) so I kept on. 

I picked up a stamp from Drover Hill Farms at the Cazenovia Farmer's Market (not as cool as seeing the cattle but, hey...). I turned north and dove into the long, bomber descent of Rt 13 as it parallels Chittenango Creek and passes by Chittenango Falls. I felt pretty good as I entered the village of Chittenango, surprising myself by maintaining ~20MPH on the flats.

I decided to skip the farm stand just to the west on Tuscarora Road in Chittenango (the name escapes me at the moment). I turned east for the last leg of my journey....and into a headwind....and it started to rain again. It was also about this time that my gas gauge dropped to "E" and my "fuel" light lit up. 

 I stopped at Henry's farm stand for my last stamp.

I put my head down and went into "survival mode" as I headed into the wind and rain, determined to endure the last ten miles (and a few hundred more feet of climbing).

A few minutes later, Della Rose passed me in the car, on her way home from her stint as docent at Gage House. She waved, I waved.... She looked back in the mirror at me......and pulled over. I didn't protest and stuffed my Roubaix in the trunk. 

I know I could have finished, and part of me wishes I had, but I just wasn't having fun anymore. 56.46 miles, 3:59, average pace of 14.4MPH and 3856 feet of climbing had taken it's toll. I only had four stamps of the nine I'd planned, but I got my "Eat Local" t-shirt, a t-shirt with a story.

I can't wait to do it again! (But maybe next time, I'll eat more than a bagel, a gel and some cheese curds....)

I Blame It On The Broccoli.....

...No, no, not that... that was the dog....honest..... 

 I'm blaming the broccoli for being the gateway drug to the whole "Eat Local" thing.

Like everyone else, I've been beaten over the head with the "food pyramid". (I think they're starting that in utero now.....) As we get older, we tend also to pay even more attention to what we eat, perhaps trying to undo some of the excesses and indiscretions of youth. (As if!)

With that in mind, I promised myself to include more fruits and veggies in my diet. The fruit I did pretty well on, but the vegetable group was kind of hit and miss. At best, I drowned some broccoli or cauliflower in cheese sauce or green beans in butter and toasted almonds and choked them down, unenthusiastically. I endured vegetables in atonement for previous sins. Stoically, I bore my penance.

Last spring ('07) I once again began my annual attempt at gardening. (My previous efforts were such disasters, my garden probably qualified for FEMA aid - at the very least, I should have hit up Ag & Markets for a subsidy to NOT plant anything...). One of the items I apathetically sowed was broccoli. Why? I don't know....probably because I thought I was supposed to, I guess... In spite of my best efforts, the broccoli thrived. I even managed to harvest some before it bolted (unlike the previous year) and took it in the house to steam up and have with dinner.

I liked it.......and I wanted more..... 

Was there really THAT much difference? 

Further confirmation came a few months later. My sister came over for dinner and brought some mixed berries for dessert that she'd picked and frozen the previous summer. I admit to being somewhat underwhelmed when she brought them. Shortly after I began picking halfheartedly at them, I realized they were delicious. I snarfed mine down and started surreptitiously eyeballing the serving bowl, hoping no one wanted more. I began trying to come up with a polite way to eat the rest of what was left, without appearing rude. Is Coveting Thy "Neighbor's" Berries a sin...?

Ok, so maybe it's NOT me..... Maybe the fruits and vegetables being offered in even the best stores are but pale imitations of the "real" thing. I knew that it was a pretty sad day in our household when we ran out of the tomatoes we'd canned ourselves and had to resort to buying them, but I began to realize that produce that's chosen for it's ability to survive shipping and picked before it's ripe is a very poor substitute for the real deal. I'll leave the argument whether or not there's a nutritional difference to the experts, but damn.... there sure is a difference in taste. 

I admit, when I first heard about the whole "Eat Local" thing, it smacked of  the "New Age California Air-Head" mentality. That's all well and good when you live somewhere that doesn't have that "winter" thing, but what the hell is a Central New Yorker supposed to do? Live on bark and twigs? 

Fast forward a couple of months, and I read this. The die has been cast. We are now up to our ears in canning and freezing and scouring the local food scene for sources, determined to eat as "real" and as local as possible.

I even now have come to understand how sensible (and old-fashioned) it is to support your neighbors in your community, rather than some nameless, faceless corporation, God-knows-where.

The whole Eat Local thing even inspired a 58 mile long, rainy bike ride (with almost 4,000 feet of climbing!). But that's my next post.......