It turns out that there's a lot of culture and lore around the canal, and it's lined with signs hailing its contribution to the growth of early communities along its route. Barges used to be pulled by donkeys walking along a towpath on either side of the canal, and those paths still exist in various states of repair, so that's what I followed. I woke up early and was rewarded with views of the sunrise setting morning steam on fire, which my phone barely managed to capture.
Canal traffic was rare, and what traffic I did see was all recreational. The fact that waterfront communities were built right at water level meant that any wake would cause problems, so boats had to putter along at 5 mph for most of the way. Nobody seemed particularly concerned about it, though, and most waved cheerfully when they saw me.
Everything today was pretty and serene, with no car traffic to worry about. Even riding through Rochester was easy, following mostly protected bike paths. The lack of stress was convenient, because my subconscious decided that I needed to become rather depressed for no reason. Of course, that doesn't mean reasons weren't generated for me, as depression tends to do. I thought about how my ride wasn't helping anyone but me, how it represented running away from problems rather than dealing with them, how it was a waste of privilege and resources, how people I liked were probably forgetting about me after I was gone for three months, how I'd be disappointed when it's over, how I had nothing to fall back on once I couldn't use "I'm riding a bike across the country!" as a reason to feel special anymore, and how I'd been failing to make the most of things by interacting with people when I could. Once it got dark enough out that I felt I could effectively hide off the edge of the trail, I found a hidden place to sleep in a little town just past Rochester.
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