My college days are disappearing in the rearview mirror of life faster than you can say, “cheezy motorcycle metaphor”, yet the roads that connect my hometown of East Hanover, NJ to my collegetown of Ithaca, NY are etched in my mind with a permanent marker. 80 West. Delaware Water Gap. 380 West. Scranton. 81 North. Binghampton. 79 West. Ithaca. With the exception of 79, each road is a model of mind-numbing efficiency. I plied these byways as a student, forever rushing to get to one of the endpoints - with never enough time or interest to explore what lay between. This time, on a weekend trip to meet friends in Ithaca, I vowed to see what I had missed all these years.

The trip North was a dismal failure. I sense it coming, as my Friday 2pm ETD slips to 3pm slips to 4pm, slips to “Escape from New Jersey Summer Rush Hour Weekend Exodus Hell” pm. While I do manage to avoid 80 and the Gap, I follow a string of cages north on Route 206 spaced “just wrong”, preventing safe overtaking and any sense of acceleration. By the time I reach Milltown PA, I have to chase the setting sun and take interstates to Ithaca. Boring, as expected, except for toying with the odd leadfoot who thinks that their expensive European sports sedan can accelerate like a modern multicylinder sportsbike. No chance, junior executive. The weekend itself is fun - good food and good times with friends. Ithaca’s a great weekend getaway town - good restaurants, wineries, waterfalls, gorges, etc...the things I did not take enough advantage of when I lived there, but now relish.

The return trip starts much like the trip up, charging down 79 towards Whitney Point, playing some more “watch the expensive European sports sedan become a small dot in my mirror” on this rural, rolling, farm-lined two-laner. While fun, this is not the type of riding I hoped to do this weekend.

At Whitney Point, where I usually join 81 South, I stay on 79. The vibe and my attitude change almost instantly. I am still on a rural, farm-lined two-laner, but gone is the hustle and bustle of other vehicles rushing to the interstate. Now I am able to focus more on pastures than on passing, and absorb the idyllic Americana that fills my periphery. Piloting the bike through gentle bends echoing a nearby river, I roll through small, well kept towns still groggy on this early Sunday morning. No, I am not on some awe-inspiring mountain pass in the Alps, or in some too-picture perfect NewEngland hamlet - but like Goldilocks, this vibe is just right.

My meandering on 79 lasts until Route 17 at Windsor, where I choose to head East on 17 in search of the Catskills. 17 is a gawky, pubescent road in these parts - one moment a smooth, modern, 4 lane highway, the next moment an overgrown county road with traffic lights. It’s saving grace is the hilly land it traverses like a sinewy, high-speed contour line. You can balance on this line at 80+, bike leaned over some, hanging off some more, pretending to be on Monza’s Parabolica curve.

At East Branch, I detour North onto Route 30 and towards Pepacton Reservoir. Even on AAA maps that show precious little detail, Route 30 looks intriguing.  Starting at Route 17, it follows the sinuous shoreline of the reservoir, then shoots northward, eventually becoming the spinal column of Adirondack State Park’s network of roads. The road starts slow and easy with a series of bends following the East Branch of the Delaware River, and I slowly build confidence and speed. The ride intensifies as I find a quickened pace that matches the rhythm of the road, late apexing the broad turns, accelerating confidently towards the next bend. Things are happening too quickly to really see the reservoir through the trees. I catch glimpses of it, somewhere on my left, when all of a sudden - BAM! - I’m struck with a vista worth slowing down for, and cross the reservoir on a thin sliver of a bridge. Stay on this road and your heading towards the Adirondacks. That will have to wait another day, however, so I turn around and resume my journey Southward along small roads leading me to Roscoe and back to Route 17.

17 South brings me quickly to Liberty, where I exit in search of more blacktop bliss. Inadequate road signage frustrates me as I look in vain for 55 South, but I eventually find it and am rewarded with another lightly-travelled road with high-speed sweepers and decent site lines, allowing me to make good progress and enjoy doing so. Right when I think to myself, “Now might be a good time to eat lunch...” I find myself at Buster’s on White Lake, where 55 joins 17B for a blink of an eye, before turning South again towards the Delaware River. Buster’s has a lazy Summer Sunday atmosphere, relaxing on the deck, eating some really good ribs, watching people and bikes and cars and boats and life drift by. Duly sated, I resume my trip along 55 South towards Barryville and the Delaware River. Post-rib 55 is as good as pre-rib 55, the bike ignoring any added mass I may have accumulated at lunch.

At Barryville, I turn left onto 97 South, which traces an inebriated beeline  towards Port Jervis. There’s more traffic here than I’ve seen all day, but it isn’t all that much, and I’m more than happy to relax, watch the people enjoying a day on the river, and take in the scenery as the road jitterbugs towards Hawk’s Nest and Port Jervis. All that’s left between me and home now is the curvy climb to High Point, the descent down the other side, and the turn onto 519 South. These are familiar NJ country roads, which, after a long day, feel like old friends. I bring the pace down a couple of notches and cruise home.

My GPS tells me that this trip took me 7 hours instead of the customary 3.5. It also tells me that it 70 miles longer than the normal route. In my uptight youth, I might have considered this an inefficient, wasted day. But now I know better, and can’t wait for another one just like it.

[This story first appeared in Backroads magazine]