Trip 46 — Long Island Walk

Day 4: Centerport to Stony Brook
Saturday, 8 November 2025

Yesterday: 41980 steps/31.19 km/19.38 mi/5h 48m
Total: 172606 steps/133.88 km/83.19 mi/24h 1m

The News 12 meteorologist, Rich Hoffman, tells me it's been a frosty morning. I finish the second pork chop from Nicky's, eating it cold, although Warren has pointed out the distant wing of the Chalet Inn & Suites that houses the microwave oven.

A reporter tries to make a story out of the mandated reduction in air travel due to the government shutdown, even though the local Islip airport isn't included. He speaks with a passenger whose flight is operating as normal.

"If I couldn't go, I couldn't go," she says. "But I'm glad to be going someplace warmer."

Almost all of the other stories are about cars' collisions with people, and in a few minutes I'm going to understand why.

The temperature rises rapidly, and by the time I head out, it's a comfortable, sunny morning. The swans in the adjacent pond are honking to the cygnets around them, as if having a swimming lesson. Above my room, in a giant tree with orange leaves, the birds are arguing about their plans for the day.

The intersection with Route 25A isn't any more inviting in the daylight, and yesterday's segment starts with two kilometers on that busy road. There's a produce stand, but you have to text for off-season eggs and pies. A marker tells me that the Native American name for this area is Swego, short for Otswego, "flowing out."

The road bends to the left. It's a long curve with no sidewalk but enough of a shoulder that I can see ahead and adjust. The traffic is steady, and almost every car crosses the white lane marking. I point vigorously to the center to warn the drivers of their infractions, shaking my finger for the most serious breaches. I ponder the dopamine jolt they must get out of shaving 0.0000003 seconds off their commutes.

I head north on Woodbine Avenue, which gives me glimpses of the boats in Northport Harbor. Woodbine has a sidewalk; it's ironic that the smaller streets have sidewalks while I'm left to fend for myself on the busiest roads.

Northport has all of the lunch spots that I needed the day before: the Shipwreck Diner and the Northport Sweet Shop Luncheonette, the Main Street Cafe and a pizza place. There's a pub called Gunther's Tap Room. Every façade is different. There's an analog clock in front of the Chase bank, and trolley tracks still run along the center of Main Street, a testament to a bygone day (I missed the last trolley by 101 years) when one might have traveled in as agreeable a fashion as I do now. Northport's current train station, alas, is a 40-minute walk away. Why do they do that?

I pass the Northport Hotel — why didn't I stay here? — and then the John W. Engeman Theatre. They've e-mailed me numerous times to play auditions over the years, but even early in my career, the amount they offered was insultingly inadequate.

Main Street ends at Route 25A, here called Fort Salonga Road, next to an inviting-looking German restaurant called Pumpernickel's. After a not-too-bad stretch on the highway, I turn right onto Middleville Road, round a stable with a pair of brown-and-white horses, and continue on Sunken Meadow Road until the turnoff for Old Dock Road, which will lead me to lunch.

Approaching the traffic signal here, I notice that the greens are very short. Then I see that it's usually red in both directions. It's on a sensor, and it changes only when a vehicle stops at the intersection. That seems excessive even for someone as wary of cars as I've become (a reason I refuse to use pedestrian "beg" buttons is that one shouldn't have to get to the crossing to show intent to cross), but it is fair.

This isn't the first time I've spent time contemplating a traffic signal. Liz knew she had a winner when I told her that my first high-school date was spent in my friend's car, watching the signal nearest my house in Massachusetts to see what time it changed from a regular signal to a flashing signal. (It happened at 10:58:58 p.m.)

I'm the first guest of the day at Shanahan's, where the sign outside promises Monday-night Texas Hold 'em, assuming I've correctly interpreted the missing middle letters in "Hold." I open the door to find a long-haired woman about my age cutting limes and lemons at the side of the bar. There's no music on.

"Are you open for lunch?"

"Yes. Sit anywhere you like."

I sit at the bar and order a Coke, which comes in a plastic cup. I have a bowl of chili while I consider a main, and there's one option that's so outrageous I have to try it, even though I'll be disgusted with myself if I eat it all.

"Half of it is coming home with me," I tell her in advance, so she won't think of me as a total pig. "But I have to try the Fat Irish Bastard."

She puts the order in. "I can't get the TV on," she says. "Verizon says it's because of the storm. What storm?" It's a gusty afternoon, but the rain isn't supposed to come until midnight. She gets the audio going, though, and plays "American Woman." Then it's quiet again.

The behemoth arrives: two eight-ounce patties with Swiss and American cheese, plus slices of pastrami and strips of bacon, on an English muffin with a steak knife holding it all together and three onion rings around the knife. Plus fries. I'll need the knife; there's no way I — or any hippo — can get my mouth around this thing. It's one of few dishes I've ever ordered that verge on "Man Vs. Food"–worthy. I should earn a T-shirt for finishing it, but I don't want to try.

She puts on "Love Me Two Times" by the Doors, and a party of two comes in. "Play our music!" they say.

She plays "Open Arms."

When the TV signal finally comes on, she tunes each set — maybe ten of them throughout the restaurant — to a different channel, except for the two she doesn't know how to program. Nearest me, of course, is Fox News. They're talking about the flight reduction (Atlanta and O'Hare are neck-and-neck for cancellations and delays) and then they move on to the traditionally more pressing matters, such as which bathroom transgender people use.

A regular is standing by the bar, having a tequila shot and a beer, and he and the bartender are talking about their weekend plans. In addition to Shanahan's, she takes care of children.

"I hate babysitting," she tells him. "The kids are so needy."

I ask for a container for half my burger. I've made a two-hour meal out of this experience, the traffic light included, but I feel like I've finally figured out how to structure a 30-kilometer day: 15 in the morning (about two and a half hours), a long lunch break, and a shorter pause somewhere during the last 15.

For the hour on Landing Avenue, I catch up on last weekend's "Wait Wait, Don't Tell Me" radio quiz show. There are two walking-related bits, the first of which is the "Bluff the Listener" game. Which of these is real — a trend in which people walk golf courses but annoy golfers by not playing, new motorized shoes by Nike that move your feet for you, or underwear that punishes the wearer for not exercising?

(It's Nike.)

The second comes in the lightning round. "This week, Slovakia passed a law that will introduce speed limits for..." (fill in the blank).

"E-bikes?" the panelist guesses.

"No, pedestrians."

"What?" I shout, my pace quickening. "What? What?" I look it up.

It's not quite all that. Yes, they are imposing a maximum speed of six kilometers per hour (my target rate) on sidewalks. But it applies to all sidewalk users, which include scooter riders, skateboarders, and young cyclists. They aren't going to ticket people running for a bus.

Landing Avenue has so many curves to the left that I assume I'm going to end up back in Northport. All of the drivers bring their cars over the line. One, two, three, four in a row just on one bend, just from when I start counting. They should all be retested.

By the time I reach Edgewood Avenue I've had enough — well, that happened long ago, but now I take action. For the first time on the Abecedarian Walks I pick up a tree branch as protection not from dogs but from cars. I walk in the left shoulder, sticking the branch out to my right. Drivers don't care much about avoiding me, but they don't want a new paint job. They start to give me more room.

There's a long line of cars waiting at a signal as I approach St. James, and a girl in a passenger seat gives me a suspicious look.

"That's right, I'm unhinged," I say. "Don't get in my way."

In St. James, an hour short of my destination of Stony Brook, I watch a train come in and then I hit up a Laundromat. I have to change $5 into quarters, and the person in charge is unloading all the quarters from the detergent dispensers. They're clanging into the bag like pachinko winnings. She sells me soap directly and lets me use the bathroom so I can change and wash what I've been wearing. I still have to feed 15 quarters into the washing machine.

The cycle is 28 minutes, so I go across the street to the King Kullen supermarket and buy lemonade and M&Ms. I haven't been carrying around any snacks on this walk — usually I have at least some uneaten Biscoff cookies from a plane. The cycle finishes, and I put the damp clothes in my bag, to be strewm around my room in Stony Brook.

The next train comes in, and then I start the last hour. It's dark, and the first stretch is along Route 25A, another section with fast traffic, no sidewalk, and multiple curves. I'm relieved to turn left onto Hitherbrook Road into the community known as Head of the Harbor.

There are no streetlamps, and I'm grateful for the moon and the occasional house light, far from the road. Head of the Harbor isn't as posh as Sands Point, but it's still an upscale area. Among the houses are a winery and a nature preserve.

There's a strong breeze, and it's still warm, but the darkness is mesmerizing and humbling. I'm even grateful when the occasional car comes by to reconnect me with society, and there are enough hills and curves that the drivers don't speed.

Harbor Road leads to Main Street, where I'll make my final turn, but Google Maps wants me to detour for over a kilometer. I eventually see why: The bridge is out over a dam by the old grist mill, having been washed away by a storm last year. It was only last month that an agreement was made to repair it, after months of fighting about who's responsible for it.

I'm tired of the dark and my feet hurt. I peer into the mess to see whether it's really impassible, but then I resign myself to another 15 minutes of increasingly eerie solitude, hills, and turns. I finally reach Main Street and its sidewalk. I startle a group of deer in front of a house, and it takes them a moment to hop away.

I'd imagined the Three Village Inn as a quaint, quiet house — it was built in 1751 — but its restaurant is packed when I arrive, and the decibel level brings to mind a wedding celebration. I'm given the key to room 6 upstairs, from where I can hear the cacophony. Room 7 is open, with a bottle of champagne ready to be poured. I fall over on the bed and want to rest for a moment, but then I remember that I have to arrange my clothes around the room so they can dry.

I've had so much meat recently, and I still have half a burger. What I really want is a salad, so naturally I make for the German restaurant Schnitzels, the only place around with entree prices lower than the day's kilometer count. It's busy but practically silent compared with the Mirabelle restaurant at the Three Village Inn.

There's a special of German mushroom-pancake soup (Flädlesuppe) and then I have the farmer's salad, with greens, apples, walnuts, and cheese. The music is old standards but then I get Billie Jeaned — that horrible Michael Jackson song that I have an opportunity to complain about in every travelogue. I almost wait it out in the bathroom or outside. But then it's back to "Swinging on a Star," and I'm smiling again.

It rains overnight, and I wake up still smiling, because Liz will be coming out to visit today and I don't have to walk any farther than the Long Island Museum. I watch the animatronic eagle flap its wings over the post office, and then I join the brunch crowd at Sweet Mama's. The culinary theme of the walk (and maybe America) is sweet and savory clash, so I have the fried-chicken "sandwich" with cheese and coleslaw between Belgian waffles. In a nod to the garden, I add a side Caesar salad, which comes with croutons big enough to crack your high-school girlfriend's bedroom window.

I walk back to the intersection with Harbor Road. If I'd known exactly where to climb down and up and hadn't minded some wet toes, I probably could have avoided the long detour last night. But coming upon it in the dark, I'd had no idea where to go. The grist mill, incidentally, is still functional.

The Long Island Museum's largest building houses more than a hundred horse carriages that depict life around the island and in New York City in the late 1700s and 1800s. The variety is striking, including carriages for the wealthy to see and be seen, carriages for the masses, merchants' carriages, firemen's carriages, one for hunters, and one driven by women — thought a bit naughty in those times. There are also children's carriages (pulled by goats or dogs) and sleighs.

The model of Stony Brook's town center includes a carriage for bringing people to and from the train station, as well as old railway timetables — it did not take much longer from Brooklyn then than it does now, and for a while one could continue past Port Jefferson (just east of Stony Brook) to Wading River, where I'm spending tomorrow night. To travel from Manhattan required a ferry until 1910, when the Long Island Rail Road started serving Penn Station.

The museum's other buildings include a barn from 1794 and a temporary exhibit called "Giants and Gems": the largest and smallest items in their collection. Of note is a painting of the Montauk cliffs by Gifford Beal. The dramatic setting — a steeply sloping grassy surface, with an even steeper slope down the cliffs — reminds me of Yell island in the Shetlands, and I hope I'll come upon the same vantage point when I reach the eastern tip of the South Fork next weekend.

Liz isn't feeling well and has to postpone her visit. It doesn't help that they're working on the tracks, so the usual two-hour trip is taking three this weekend. I miss her: The city is at once so close and so far away.

I fall asleep in my room at the Three Village Inn. When I wake up, it's time for dinner, and I check out the tavern downstairs. It's not as fancy or as expensive as I expected. Or as crowded; what sound like 300 people from upstairs are only about 75. I'm not the only one in jeans (though I'm surely the only one in Hokas). I can have a salad and pasta for under $35.

I sit at the bar and overhear some of the staff gossip. Eventually another diner asks where I'm from, and I get to explain the walk — and the engagement.

"You're an anomaly," she says. I take it as a high compliment.

Go on to day 5