Trip 46 — Long Island Walk

Day 8: Jamesport to Southampton
Wednesday, 12 November 2025

Today: 51174 steps/39.56 km/24.58 mi/7h 0m
Total: 395136 steps/307.20 km/190.89 mi/53h 26m

I suppose it says something about how much I've been walking that 40 kilometers no longer seems such a long day.

I have to ring to get into the office and check out of the Shoreditch Inn (even when I'm next to the desk I can't remember what it's called). They have a small breakfast setup, and the woman in charge takes great pains to prepare a fresh pot of coffee upon my arrival. She makes no effort to replace the orange juice, of which I take the last half-cup. I eat half a cinnamon-raisin bagel and bring the other half with me.

The sidewalk takes me safely along the zooming Route 25 traffic, and after an hour I reach Riverhead and its attractive main stretch. I stop to watch the gray seals do laps in front of the aquarium, and then I turn left over the Peconic River. Left again and I'm on Route 24, Flanders Road, heading east barely a minute after I finished heading west.

The most notable thing on Flanders Road is the giant duck-shaped building, which serves as a gift shop and museum. After that it's a fairly boring hour, with the same trees, a wide bike lane for walking, and the somber memorials to two crash victims — the latter opposite a sign denoting a speed limit of 55.

Maybe I should point out that discrepancy when I exit onto Old Riverhead Road and pass the offices of public safety and the superintendent of highways. Old Riverhead Road then winds through a residential area and does a little jog under the Sunrise Highway — no doubt at one point it was a through street.

It delivers me to a string of Mexican and Central American eateries along the Montauk Highway. Mi Pueblito has nowhere to sit, so I head to the next one, El Nuevo Diamante. The door and windows are obscured and I can't tell whether there's anyone in there, but I'm able to open the door.

A teenage girl is curled up on a bench opposite the bar; she greets me sleepily with a "Buenas." A woman at the bar wraps up her phone conversation and then welcomes me in Spanish.

I may sit anywhere I like. There's one party at the dining room in back. All the window shades are almost fully down, and the place feels more like a nightclub than a restaurant.

"Is it OK to open the shade?" I ask. There must be some kind of greenery outside worth seeing.

She opens it. I have a mug of horchata so big that it takes two hands to lift it, and then I have the chicken fajitas, a portion so large that it brings to mind family-style Chinese meals served on lazy Susans. The tortillas are Salvadoran-style, thick and not so malleable. When I try to use them to convey food from the platter to my mouth, it drops it at the last minute, like those claw games they have in arcades. (Liz mastered them in Japan last month, winning a white stuffed animal that we call Frankie.)

I continue east on Montauk Highway and then up North Road. The 92 bus goes by, and I notice it's serial number 7003. It's the second time that bus has gone by today, and I saw it once yesterday. I wonder whether the driver recognizes me.

North Road is fairly busy, and I take a slightly longer but more serene side street. It affords me a view of the bay that separates the North and South forks. Across, far across, is Mattituck, too distant to make out. I've come a long way since last night.

I'm back on North Road. It's about to merge in with something called the Southampton Bypass. There are eight large, red "Wrong way" signs shouting at me. But I'm facing traffic, walking the way I know is best.

The merge happens and there's a guardrail with a few warning posts smushed against it, as if workers have left them there for future use. There's no shoulder to speak of — a few inches — but I'm all right as long as I jam myself against the rail. The speed limit is 35, but the traffic is incessant and much faster. There's a bus stop, so people must walk here, right?

The guardrail goes away. It's just grass, but it's wide enough and flat enough that I barely have room to proceed.

Until it isn't. It becomes steeper, with my right foot lower than my left.

And then it's too steep. And in front of me is a tangle of branches and thorn bushes. There is no way to continue without stepping into the road, but the traffic is fast and never stops.

I can't believe Google Maps has routed me along this stretch. Ahead I see a man operating a leaf blower. How did he get there?

For the first time in the whole Abecedarian Walks, I'm stuck. Stunned. I wait a couple of minutes. At least it isn't raining, snowing, windy, or dark.

"Fuck cars!" I yell. I've yelled it before, but never quite like this.

There's finally a gap of a few seconds, and I'm able to get to the next safe spot, and eventually the next, and to where the leaf guy had been working in front of his house.

"How do you live here?" I shout, but I don't see him. And then I'm at the next bus shelter — better not miss your stop on this route.

I turn left onto Shrubland Road. I've just completed the most dangerous kilometer in 26 islands, but I'm safe. Wobbling, dazed, and safe.

There's a long line of cars waiting to turn right onto the highway. I can't imagine going through that every day.

The next stretch is peaceful, past a pond and then a golf course. I consider a shortcut through the greens, but I decide against it, more because of the possibility of a locked gate at the other end than because of any worry about trespassing.

It's getting dark, and now the traffic is back again, lights and noise. There's space for walking, but it's not pleasant. The traffic is a steady stream, cars and trucks.

I step over a dead raccoon. "Fuck cars!" I yell again. "And again and again. Preferably with a sledgehammer. Sorry, kiddo," I say to the animal.

I take a slightly longer route along a side road, and it's peaceful once again, with only the occasional vehicle. Then I'm at the start of Noyack Road, where another line of cars is waiting to turn. They're stuck, barely moving, and I'm safe.

But when I get past them, it's another stressful stretch. I console myself with the fact that Liz is on a train and I'm going to see her soon. The cars are speeding by, and I can't tell where I can walk until they illuminate the few meters in front of me. Most of the time there's a raised shoulder of grass, but it's uneven and sometimes strewn with branches, and sometimes it isn't there at all. I move fast and keep my feet high.

I'm excited about a quick break at Porco's Country Deli, which is supposed to be open until 6:30. The stressful stretch continues much longer than I've bargained for.

"Where is this store?" I yell. "And how are there so many trucks?"

I finally reach the store. It's across the street, and it's a long wait before a break in the traffic lets me cross.

It's dark, but they're open. A man and a woman are inside.

"Are you looking for drinks?" the woman asks, pointing to the room in back.

There's a folding chair leaning against the wall. "Is there anywhere I can sit for a few minutes?" I ask.

"You can't stay here," the man says. "We're closed."

"You could sit outside," the woman says.

"I have an outside," I say, and I exit.

I wait to cross over again, and then I stop at Captain Jack's, a few minutes ahead.

I'm not there for dinner — that's coming. I just want a drink and a moment's peace, and some working time.

Just before 6:30, I turn right onto Turtle Pond Road. All is silent. I fumble in the blackness, and then I find Kristy's house. She's left the garage open for me, and she greets me when I enter.

I'm grateful to have a friend out here who's invited me to stay. And she's about to collect Liz from the train station. The afternoon was a mess, but the evening is going to be wonderful.

Go on to day 9