A cloudy, threatening morning. I say goodby to all my friends at the Del-Arie Campground, promise to stop and see Furly in Florida, and ride off. The goodbye is always tense for me, like there is something not right about just getting on the bike and going away. Once I’m alone, the total freedom and flexibility washes over me in a great wave of relief. The adventure is on again.

The library is closed in Windsor Locks, so I stop in a Dunkin’ Donuts to write. I’m getting addicted to their iced coffee.

The threatened rain doesn’t come, but there are hills. Long, grueling hills. I conquer two to reach Winstead. Thankfully the third to Norfolk is easier. But I volunteer for a steep, scenic road to get to Haystack Mountain State Park, which I had passed by accident.

The entry road is long and quiet. Sounds seem muffled by the woods and leaves. There is a table and water pump by the pond, where I stop for lunch. People pass like phantoms, they don’t seem real – like a movie going by, I still feel alone. To test the theory, I hail a man jogging with two kids. He stops for polite conversation, which ends, “You staying here tonight?” “I don’t think I’m supposed to camp here.” “I don’t think anybody’d know.”

I resolve to stay. I ride a ways down a path, then wriggle through striped maple saplings to a nice spot. I feel safe. I site around there, snack, and read till after dark.