Into the Mountains - Pt. 3
Sat Oct 22nd - My head hurts.
It seems to me that, when it’s your head that hurts the most after hammering away at the pedals of a bike for this many hours, that’s… well that’s probably somewhat significant, right?
Really hoping I’m not sick. But I’ve been around a lot of strangers the last 5 days, so like… wait, what’s the backup plan here? If I wake up tomorrow morning in this tent, middle of the woods, miles from anybody, and I’m wheezing and unable to exert myself at all, what then? Call the paramedics and hope they’re up for a bike ride? Sit next to the path and wait? Hope the next group of Chinese tourists coming through takes pity on me?
Really hoping I’m not sick.
It started yesterday evening, but I thought it was just sunburn giving me the headache. Yesterday, moving out of the woods and into farmland, was the first time I spent much time in direct sunlight and of course I didn’t think to put on sunscreen. So that seemed a slam dunk. First thing this morning I checked the mirror and… nope. I’m a little tan, but definitely not burned enough to be feeling this way. Just exhausted then? Dehydrated? Tired of that garbage hotel?
Speaking of lodgings, I was looking up more info on that Husky Haven campsite I stayed at the night before last and discovered that they are closing permanently after this season. That’s Nov 1st, 9 days from now. Should I ever come back this way, the campsite with the washer and dryer, bottle fillers, bathrooms and showers, and my bestest giant wolf pal will all be unavailable. Or, I guess optimistically, owned by someone else? They opened in 2007, 15 years ago, coincidentally the same year I did my original C&O canal run and I just so happened to catch them on their second to last ever weekend open. Happy that I got to experience it. And meet Zeus. But kind of a shame to have such a good experience and no there’s no going back for seconds.
Anyway… back to last night’s lodgings.
The place got the job done, no bedbugs or anything that I could find, but it was definitely a garbage hotel. I woke up, tired and stiff and headachy, caaaaaarefully put my contacts back in, and went down to scope out breakfast. They had a small section of a much larger restaurant area sectioned off for a couple card tables’ worth of “breakfast”. A tired looking older lady, as wide as she was tall, was dutifully waddling in and out of the area trying to look like she had something to do. All I really wanted were my eggs. Need my eggs for breakfast. Instead they had… is that… gravy!?!?
Biscuits and hot gravy. Some prepackaged little debbie breakfast things. Some bananas. Three kinds of generic store brand cereal. Yogurt cups. Coffee. I sat there in silence in this place that looks like a relic of the 80’s and picked at some of the cold stuff while I watched a few other guests find their way in. All of us looked ashamed of ourselves even being there. No greetings. No smiles. Just heads down and silently mulling over the disgusting looking tub of warm breakfast gravy.
I sure wish that other hotel had rooms.
I decided that I could use a monster for now and some more dried fruit for the road. I checked the map and found a CVS just a few blocks away. Bundled up and wandered out that way. This was almost 10:00, the time they open, but as I walked up to the entrance there was a sign saying they would not be open due to a pharmacist being out. What? The whole store is closed because a pharmacist is out? What kind of crackerjack operation is CVS running here? I walked another quarter mile through the cold until I found a family dollar. Bought the family dollar dried fruit, perhaps not the best, and my drink and hustled back to my room.
I was not so sad to pack up and say goodbye to Cumberland. It’s probably not Cumberland’s fault. I showed up without a reservation at the hotel I wanted, completely exhausted from the previous two days worth of heavy riding. I didn’t want to ride my bike back to the fun part of town so I ordered pizza. And now I’ve just wandered through some strip malls and judged the whole town on them. I’m sorry, Cumberland. I’m sure you’re beautiful and you have pockets of awesome areas with great people and amazing potential. Perhaps, the next time I do this, I’ll book ahead of time and take an extra rest day to wander and learn to love it there.
But that day was not today. I packed up and rolled out, only stopping for the quick town landmark picture that I had neglected yesterday evening.
As I set out along the C&O Canal towpath, the first half mile or so definitely looked familiar. Had it really been all the way back in 2007 when I did this? I remembered the wide canal on my right, slowly bending path in front of me as the town blinked out of sight on my left. Then I got into the woods and it was all new again. The canal on my left was more swamp than anything, green and festering, while mostly farmlands rolled out to my right. Being back in the woods felt good. My preferred biome. I am definitely a creature of the woods. All of this was matching the description of how I remembered the path, but the specifics, the foot bridge I pedaled under or this street crossing or that farmhouse, that I couldn’t recall.
And then I passed the sewage treatment facility.
WOOOOOO BOY, OH I REMEMBER THIS PLACE. Nothing like an overwhelming smell to jog the ol’ meningitis addled memory, eh?
I scooted along as fast as my burned out legs would take me.
On that note, legs are definitely burned out. Quads especially. The final climb yesterday, on top of my marathon day before that, definitely got me. I appreciate the level ground here, and I’m not making terrible time, but I am for sure nursing my legs as the weak link in this chain. That said, I’m THRILLED at how this saddle is holding up for me. My memory of getting destroyed by the cheap saddle on the last ride had me really scared about this stretch. After 4 days pedaling already, I thought hitting the dirt trail would very likely push me over the edge. But, while the previously described butt callouses are weird, they seem to be doing their job. I’m not comfortable, per se, in that I wouldn’t choose this feeling over my ferrari recliners or lovesacs at home. But I’m comfortable enough to keep going without feeling like I’m being impaled by a flaming stake every time I hit a rock.
How’s that for a very specific frame of reference?
What my souped-up saddle can’t fix for me is the path itself. Remember how I was describing the incredible condition of the GAP trail? Wide, flat, and even? And how I remembered the C&O path as being bumps and rocks and dirt? Well I remembered correctly, and it’s less than fun. Not because of discomfort this go-round, but because of the attention it needs. The ruts in the dirt path are deep, long channels that are mostly straight but weave around slightly. Deep enough to take your bike tire and steer it if you’re riding in the rut and try to gradually turn out, or if you’re riding on the top and accidentally steer into one. The rest of the trail is often rocks or grass, so you don’t want to end up riding between the ruts. There is no zen flow state to find here, no getting lost in the scenery and taking in the beautiful views as I casually make my way East. I have to be laser focused on the path itself or risk being sent sprawling by the next big rock. But like, for 180 miles? Is that gonna be fun?
In this way, the path started to become very samey. Already. Just dirt trails and leaves blocking my view of the dirt trails while other stuff sailed past on the periphery. Occasionally, a canal lock (where they would raise or lower the water level to send goods on rafts on their way) or a gate house (the old homes that would lodge whoever worked the lock) would come into view. These are usually in a little clearing with a short dip in the path before you climb up the other side and go right back into the woods. Pretty cool to think, historically, that donkeys were pulling rafts of goods along these trails. Kinda wish I had a donkey to tow me along at this point.
I started to run into the next big issue on the towpath - water. Whereas the GAP trail had those bottle filling stations every so often, the towpath’s rusted iron pump handles every 5-6 miles are… what’s a nice way of putting this… fucking gross. The signs on them say the cisterns that feed them are treated with iodine, but that we should be using our own purification methods as well. I had bought a box of highly rated tablets to drop in my water bottles each time I filled them. So, after chugging the first bottle of the day, I set it down beneath one of these pumps and reached up for the handle… and it IMMEDIATELY dropped a bunch of rust flakes directly into my bottle. After 15-20 pumps, I was getting enough somewhat smelly water to rinse out the rust, and another 10 got me the water to fill the bottle. I dropped in the first tablet and stared at it. And stared at it. And stared at it.
It wasn’t dissolving.
Reading the box for the tablets, I see the fateful instruction - it takes FOUR GOD DAMNED HOURS FOR THE TABLETS TO WORK.
…
Ok, welp…. start the timer I guess?
I stopped at a point in the trail that overlooked farmland and had a picnic table set up. I’m about 70% sure that I stopped here on my first ride, but it’s hard to say for sure. Everything looks so similar for so many miles that I might be mixing two campgrounds in my head. I had a quick snack, took the obligatory landmark picture, and kept rolling.
The second bottle of water was gone long before the first was ready. I stopped off at another eyesore of a pump and filled it back up. Another tablet into that bottle, and another mental note of when it’ll be ready. I now have a bottle I can drink at 5pm, a bottle I can drink at 7pm, and no bottle to drink now. And of course, where the GAP went right through towns every 10-15 miles or so, the C&O canal passes by very few towns without having to go several miles out of my way on roads. So there are no convenience stores to stop in and buy something.
Well fuck.
The weather was nice again anyway. I passed through a big park area with a few families riding. A guy, likely in his 50s, pulled his bike up alongside mine and pedaled with me for a mile or so, chatting about the day and the leaves blocking our view of the path. He asked some questions about where I was headed, how far I had come, and then he was gone again.
Cool man. Good talk.
The bike is handling the paths well so far. No more busted spokes or shifters giving me hell. The saddle does keep slipping back on the post, so as the day goes on I’m sitting further and further back and reaching more and more for the shifters. Note to self - get a new post.
At about 3:30 my head was really pounding and I could feel my legs giving out. 5 hours of pedaling doesn’t feel like a super productive day, but it got harder and harder to argue with my body about it. I was back to the 1-2 miles at a time before stopping to stretch cadence, and the war of attrition is really no fun. I decided that it wouldn’t be the end of the world to stop a little early today, get camp set up well ahead of sun down, and maybe read or journal or listen to some podcasts to unwind a bit before dark.
Naturally, the next campsite I passed happened to be PACKED. Chinese tourists in groups of 5-6 wandering along the path ahead of the site, and at least 10-15 tents set up at the site itself. Knowing sites are spaced out only 4-5 miles apart, I figured I’ll push through to the next one for the sake of quiet and a better sleep.
Ohhhhh that fateful decision.
Weaving through the path walkers another mile or so I came across signs for Paw Paw Tunnel. I remember Paw Paw. Last time through I dismounted and walked my bike for what felt like an eternity, almost too dark to see and trying not to jostle other walkers with Roach's wide pannier bag hips. Apparently the tunnel itself is over a half mile long, hand built back in the canal’s heyday by a bunch of poor sots and who knows how much TNT. I imagine there’s likely an old graveyard not too far from the start of the tunnel. But it’s one of the C&Os big landmarks, and I was kind of excited to see it.
Ohhhhh that foolish excitement.
As I approached the tunnel, there were signs. Orange signs reporting that work is being done on the tunnel, please follow detour.
Wait… detour?!? It’s a path in the woods, what could that even mean? I slowed down to ask a few individuals coming the other direction if the detour was for real, hoping someone had just blown through it and been fine. No dice, they said. The tunnel is open on this side but completely blocked off on the far end.
As I got up within sight of the start of the tunnel, I came nose to nose with my impending demise. A mile and a half “strenuous” hike. Up, around, and over the tunnel. Too steep to ride, so I would need to push my heavily loaded, steel framed mammoth of a bike. On dead tired legs. And no water.
Shit.
After a moment to gather myself I set out, pushing Roach, up the side of a mountain. I made it about 150 feet before having to stop and catch my breath. My watch said my heart rate was up in the 160-170 range for essentially a dead sprint level of effort. Already.
I am rightly and royally fucked here aren’t I?
It took me some 45min to an hour to get through the 1.5 mile hike. The first third was a steep uphill. 100-200 feet at a time, then having to stop and catch my breath and wait for my heartrate to return to some semblance of normal. A few groups went by the other direction on foot, unburdened by loaded bikes, enjoying the downhill, and I managed to deflect my struggle with a few decent one liners (“Hey how are you?” “OH IM GOOD. IM GOOD. JUST DECIDING WHERE SPECIFICALLY I SHOULD CURL UP AND DIE.”). Eventually, finally, I summited. There were a few construction vehicles at the top clearing and nothing else. Relieved, I took a few minutes to gather myself, and climbed back into the saddle.
Nope. Not to be. Peering down at the start of the downhill, it became immediately apparent that I wasn’t going to be able to ride this leg either. Between the weight of Roach + myself + cargo and the steep bumpy dirt surface the first bend would send me careening over the side of the trail into a tree at mach 4. So I dismounted again, leaned way back to try and keep Roach from lumbering off on his own, and slowly worked my way back down.
By the time I got to the end of the detour, I was completely shot. Legs buckling trying to climb in and out of the saddle. Head throbbing. Still no water to drink. Mercifully there was a bit of a downhill, so I pedaled/coasted until I came to my campsite for the evening. The luxurious looking and equally luxurious sounding Stickpile Hill.
Maybe not 5 stars, but it beats the Ramada.
Setting up camp was slow. Everything hurt at that point. I got the tent up. It’s broken. The front and rear poles are made up of several hollow sections with sleeves to connect them together and elastic through the middle to hold them in place. The rear pole has a section that is splitting somehow. I manage to shove the split end into its sleeve anyway, but it won’t hold tension evenly so now the back of the tent is torqued at a weird angle. Fitting - I don’t think I’m standing up very straight right now either. Oh well. It’ll keep the rain off anyway.
By the time I got the pad and pillow inflated, the sleeping bag rolled out, and my devices on battery it was FINALLY time for the first bottle of water to be imbibed. I downed the whole thing in nearly one long sip. Still thirsty. I walked back to the Stickpile Hill iteration of the rusty water pump and got my refill on. Popped another tablet. It’ll be very dark by the time this one is ready to drink.
I snacked. I can’t stomach another dry protein bar while I’m this thirsty, so I just skipped it. Dried fruit and trail mix and a bit of the remaining beef jerky for dinner, with a few gummies for dessert. Somehow there wasn’t a decent branch to toss my food over in its bear bag. I must have trudged 100 feet in each direction on the path. In the end, I wound up slinging it over the top of the bottom half of a dead tree. The bag is too low to be bear proof. And it’s within 100 feet of my tent, which isn’t great either. Am I just going to be drawing wildlife towards me? At this point I’m too exhausted to care. Let them come.
As I lie here, sun setting, thinking about the day, I become more and more convinced this headache is a result of dehydration. Every day on the GAP I was able to stop somewhere to fill my bottles when needed and grab a gatorade whenever I wanted. Today was every bit as much effort as those, but on a grand total of 3 of these bottles of gross tasting cistern water. Wait…
… okay. 4. 4 bottles of gross tasting cistern water. The four hours were finally up on my second bottle. Somehow I don’t feel any better. I made myself get up out of the tent to refill this one so I’ll have it in the morning. Tablet tabletted. I don’t think I’ll be getting up again this evening. I’m not sure I could if I wanted to.
Earbud in. Game of Thrones audiobook playing. Zipped up in my sleeping bag. Crickets chirping. Cold.
At least it’s not the Ramada.
Sun Oct 23rd - I shouldn’t have complained so much about the Ramada. This new place is far worse.
The tent held up alright anyway. It needed to - weather got drizzly shortly after dark last night. Another cold night out here with the sleeping bag hood drawn tight until there’s just a breathing hole left open. I’m getting used to sleeping in the cold. But this time, for whatever reason, the critters decided to join in my camping fun.
On my first trip through the C&O canal, my second night camping was the memorable one. The one I always think back to fondly when I recall that trip. A small site down by Sharpsburg/Shepherdstown. It had an upper clearing by the path and a lower clearing right up against the river. I set up this very same tent, brand new and unbroken at that point, against the water with a willow framing my view out of the tent and nobody within miles and it was absolutely perfect. Serene. I liked it so much that I took Vally there for our little hike/camp excursion a few years back. Hell, the land I was thinking about buying at the beginning of the pandemic I had been interested in because it was only a half mile from that site. Everything about it on my first trip was idyllic.
… until night fell.
Once the sun went down and I started trying to sleep, it got cold. Not as cold as last night, but at the time I had a crappy cheapo sleeping bag and no sleeping pad to separate me from the chilled ground so it felt much, much colder. As I lay there, shivering, I started to hear the noises. Sharp noises. Cracks or pops or snaps or something of that sort it was hard to tell exactly. At first it was only one or two and I imagined it was acorns falling from the trees, but then the noises became much more frequent. Like something stepping on a twig and the twig snapping. I had heard some sort of animals calling to each other earlier in the night, sort of a cry and sort of a howl, but they sounded far off in the distance. Could it be them? Maybe the calls were to summon the rest of the pack to a fresh kill, or something?
The noises weren’t coming from one direction anymore, but all around the tent and nearly constant. I lay there, frozen, staring at the ceiling of my tiny one man ultralight tent just a few inches above my face. I couldn’t see what it was surrounding my tent but I was fairly certain that its jaws would be coming through the fabric at any moment. I had laid there for a couple hours in this mixed state of exhaustion, panic, malnutrition, and confusion before I finally decided that, if I was gonna be mauled to death by a bear or a pack of wolves, there’s no sense in being awake for it. Somehow, that doomed nihilism was enough to let me sleep for a few hours before I woke up at first light, unmauled and unmolested, but still tired and very very cold.
It wasn’t until I had some distance between me and the situation before I reasoned out what probably had been stalking me that night - freezing twigs. Twigs have moisture inside, and it had gotten below freezing. Moisture expands, has no where to go, a mini-twigsplosion to release the pressure resulting in a crack. Just a theory, but makes way more sense, right?
Fast forward to last night. I was ready for the freezing twigs. I heard them a bit at Husky Haven two nights ago and didn’t let them startle me, even in the pitch black of the strange woods. I heard them again last night. It was unnerving, sure, but I knew what they were and so I wasn’t going to have another sleepless night because of them.
And then the critters showed up.
The sounds I started noticing were not random pops coming from all around the tent. They were shuffles along the ground coming from across the clearing. Sometimes sticks breaking, sometimes leaves rustling, but it would go for awhile and then stop. Go for awhile and then stop. Go for awhile and then stop.
Something was lurking in my camp site.
Wide eyed but unable to see what it might be, I pulled out my phone from the battery charger and, I swear I am not making this up, googled “WHAT TO DO IF A BEAR IS OUTSIDE YOUR TENT”.
… Any guesses?
Time’s up. The answer is - don’t startle it, but make your presence known. Bears, skunks, and other critters don’t want anything to do with us, they only attack or spray or whatever when startled. If they know you’re there, they’d much prefer to just avoid you entirely. So make it obvious that a human is in the area without causing alarm.
I took a deep breath… and rolled around inside the tent. Deliberately. Making noise. Then I waited. Tense. Unmoving. There was a long pause… and then the shuffling came back. Right, of course, because that wasn’t a human noise, that was just a noise. I need to let whatever it is know I’m human.
…
… “HEY! BEAR!”
…
… “LISTEN UP, BEAR. IM A HUMAN! OKAY? DON’T BE STARTLED BUT PLEASE GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE ALRIGHT?”
…
This seemed to work for several minutes at a time. Then the shuffling would start back up and I’d have to try again.
… “CMON BEAR IM A HUMAN AND YOURE A BEAR IT CAN NEVER WORK OUT BETWEEN US DONT MAKE THIS HARDER THAN IT HAS TO BE”
…
After several of these attempts to reason with it, the shuffling stopped long enough to get to sleep. I woke up to a drizzly grey campsite, the back pole of my tent flopped over, but me and my food bag still unbeared. I drank one of my two prepared bottles of water and ate some more dry cold garbage after retrieving it from the dead tree.
I am very tired of trail mix and dried fruit. Iodine treated cistern water is not my favorite either, but I dutifully refilled the empty bottle anyway. Figured I would need it. Then I packed up and set out.
I had taken some time last night before dark to look at my map and plot out where my next few days might lead me. Williamsport seemed like it could potentially be within reach today, about 50 miles away. Hancock is almost exactly centered between Williamsport and camp, 25 miles each side, so that would make a good lunch stop. And… what’s this? 10 miles from camp there’s a town called Little Orleans with Bill’s Place, a little bar/restaurant/convenience store that is just off the trail and caters to cyclists.
Sweet heaven above, a warm coffee and some bottled beverage? Maybe even a warm breakfast? TO BILL’S PLACE!
This was my only goal getting out of the tent, packing up, and setting out. Bill’s Place. Gotta get to Bill’s Place. Just a few more miles to Bill’s Place. I only made it about 5 miles before the regular breaks pedaling had to start. Not a good sign, but I’m likely just dehydrated and undernourished. Bill’s Place. That’ll get me back on track today.
Little Orleans had a campsite with a bunch of locals just waking up from their RV assisted tent outings. The hell are these people doing out here? They’re not in the woods, not alone, not roughing it in any way. They’ve just packed up all the creature comforts of home they could fit in an RV and driven it out here for a night. I pulled up to the map sign, uninterested and uncaring, just trying to figure out which way to Bill’s Place. Behind me, up the hill, under a bridge. Got it. Bill’s Place. Bill’s Place. Bill’s Place.
I walked Roach up the hill to my new favorite place. The main building was on the right, a little barn with some picnic tables and a long row of bike stands on the left. I set up my bike and sat down. It didn’t open until 11, and it was only 10:30. A half an hour seemed a long time to waste, but I needed this. So I waited.
As I waited I pulled out my phone and sent a few update texts out. One went to Bruddah. I cautioned him that I was going to be trying for Williamsport today, but that I was struggling. There was a chance I’d be calling for that ride this evening. We chatted a bit about why, how I’m feeling, where I was, and how far left to go. He started, for some unknown reason, to offer me advice? Don’t be afraid to load up on carbs? Just pace yourself? Some other mundane shit that had maybe occurred to me in my 30-40 hours in the saddle this week ya think? Then he told me that, after I had come so far and was so close to the end, he would almost feel bad assisting in my giving up.
… excuse me… what?!?!
I bristled. Then I furrowed. Then I fumed. Assisting in my giving up!?!? Who the fuck does he think he is, sitting in a comfy chair somewhere, likely nursing a hangover after spending all his money on bar tabs and ubers the night before, to judge me for “giving up”?!? Or to tell me that the 140 miles, at least 3 full days of pedaling, was “so close to the end”?!? Fuck, I had said FROM THE BEGINNING that my only plan was to go for as long as I wanted and then stop. What the fuck kind of friend insinuates that he would withhold the emergency ride he had promised to somehow goad me forward to complete some goal that he’s trying to force on me?!? That motherfucker can barely even ride a bike!
As I sat there, getting more and more angry, watching these texts dig him deeper and deeper into whatever the fuck hole this is he’s digging, an obese man walked out from behind the main building, dragging a huge rolling trash bin. He nodded at me. I nodded at him. Then he dragged the bin past the fence behind me and out of sight.
So what, am I not allowed to call for a ride now? Are people going to think I failed if I ONLY made it 220 miles on this trip? Will I wind up looking back at it all with that mindset? “The Failed Adventure”. “The Time I Almost Did It”. “When I Wasn’t Quite Enough”…
A bad smell shook me out of it. I looked up to find dark ash and smoke wafting everywhere. I followed it and realized that Tons o’ Fun had dragged the garbage behind the fence to burn it. I listened to him coughing violently as he stirred it around and decided this trash smoke is probably not great for me. I need to get out of here. Where the hell is Bill?
I looked down at my watch. It was 11:15.
… oh no.
I walked up to the main building and pulled some handles. Nothing. Locked up tight. No Bill’s Place. No coffee. No fresh water. No salvation.
I waded back through the ash, climbed back on the bike, and set back out for the path. 45 minutes gone. Still hungry. Still thirsty. Head still pounding. Pissed off at everything. I had 15 miles to go before lunch at Hancock. That could be my food and drink I needed. Just 15 more miles.
I tried my best to shake it all off. It’s just the lack of food and water getting to me. Bill didn’t know any better. Bruddah was probably just trying to be supportive. He just says dumb shit sometimes with that stereotypical male solipsism that doesn’t let him see what an asshole he’s being. But as I eked out a mile here, a few miles there, I was stewing on it. Pissed off. Unhappy. Everything hurting. The fucking nerve of this guy, who’s never even attempted anything remotely like this, to think that a couple cliche passing phrases was what I was lacking. Like I hadn’t already been pushing myself out here.
I went through the last of my gummies and the last of my iodine water. Bad to worse.
As I trudged along I started to form a plan to continue this trip. Realistically, I don’t think I’m gonna make 50 miles today. There is no lunch powerful enough. So maybe I need to find a place in Hancock and take the short day that I should have taken yesterday. Rest. Matter of fact, I should take the rest of today AND tomorrow, because it’s gonna be 25 miles by the time I get there today and while that is light, it’s not a rest day. If I kill the rest of today and tomorrow kicking back in a hotel bed somewhere, exploring the town a bit, hot showers and local brewpubs, I’m sure I could get the last 140 miles done. All with a few days of my vacation to spare once I got home.
After a lot of trudging and a lot of planning, I finally spotted some buildings and the familiar shape of a town directory sign. Hancock. There was only one place to stay within safe bicycle reach of the path - a Super 8 motel. Between here and there was a Sheetz. We’re in business. Let’s do this.
I pedaled my way across some sidewalks, trying hard to look spry now that there was traffic watching and judging, and pulled up to an absolutely bustling Sheetz. Pickup trucks everywhere. Lift kits. More than a few confederate flags. A few trucks rolling coal out of the parking lot. And lots and lots of side eye. More than at any point on this trip, I felt out of place and more than a little uncomfortable, but not uncomfortable enough to pass on drinks. I bought two big bottles of gatorade and two big arizona iced teas, stashed them in my panniers, and got the hell out of there.
As I made my way to the motel, it was more of the same. Nobody slowing down as I tried to get across streets. People glaring out their car windows. More confederate flags in the windows of the houses I passed on my back road route.
This is not my place.
As I pulled up to the Super 8, an old school motel with smoking units facing the parking lot, I couldn’t help but feel like this looked like the sort of place that rented by the half hour to locals turning tricks. But whatever. None of it mattered. I had gotten to a stopping point. I could drink my drinks and get a hot shower and rest some. I don’t require luxury.
Some ultra tacky color changing LED light strips greeted me at the check in long before the very effeminate clerk did. Eventually he came over and coo’d something about the bike can go in the room too, handed me the key, and I walked to the door of my salvation. Finally.
I opened the door. Ohhhhhhh no.
What, in the name of all that is holy, is this abomination of a room before me? The smell and the look hit me with a one-two punch that almost sent me scrambling back out. Musty. Or moldy. Or both? Stains on the torn chairs. The color scheme looked like a wannabe Sprite commercial, leftover from god knows what era of the last century. As I slowly walked the bike in, the floorboards under the carpet were soft and spongy in several places. Water damage. There’s your mold problem. I leaned Roach against a wall and opened the window to try and air the place out. Two women were gossiping in the parking lot and smoking just outside the window. Now I’ve got cigarette smoke competing with the dank mustiness of the room. Less an improvement and more a lateral move. I shut the window again and started to drink a bottle of gatorade.
And then it hit me. Like a wave crashing over me all at once, it hit me. I think I’m done.
Like, for real.
Had this been Connellsville, where I was in a nice clean room in a fun little town with places worth exploring, I’d have been happy to spend a day and a half of my vacation there. Thrilled even. But this is not Connellsville. This is a moldy dilapidated room in redneck bumfucksville. I don’t want to spend any time here, let alone two days of my vacation.
All along, I said I was going to go until it wasn’t fun anymore. This is not fun anymore.
I’m done.
I finished the first 32oz gatorade as I texted Bruddah to let him know. I got no response. Great.
I had half of the first iced tea down before I made it to the shower. It felt wrong somehow, showering in a place like this, but the water was clear and hot and I likely emptied the town’s outdated wells with the amount of time I spent standing under the hot running water. Ahhhhhhhhh… At least I got this out of my money for the room.
By the time I was out I had my text response. He pretended to have mixed up which town I was in for one closer to where he currently was. He used a lot of words to try and make it sound like what I really wanted was to rest a night and get picked up sometime midday tomorrow, but what he was saying was “I’m not coming today”. What a selfish, gaslighting fucking asshole. I texted my backup plan, the retired neighbor who had saved me getting to and from my procedure in March. He was out the door and on his way within 30 minutes. God bless that man. He’s a better friend than my “best friend” of the last 15 years.
And now I wait. Washington vs Green Bay is on the TV. I’m laying on top of the comforter because I don’t dare risk bed bugs this close to home. I’ve killed both gatorades and one and a half iced teas. Oddly enough, I haven’t had to pee at all. After 110 some odd oz of drinks? That’s… probably not a great sign. I didn’t bother unpacking here, just got out the clothes to change into after the shower, so all I have to do is pop back on my shoes and roll out.
I wonder how Ace at the front desk will take the news.
It’s supremely weird. Two hours ago I was in survival mode, struggling, grinding, trying to figure out how I was gonna get through the next 3-4 days, and now… all of that is gone. I’m going to get in a car and go home and not struggle for anything. No more conserving battery on all my devices. No more worrying about my water supply. I won’t have to plan ahead for where I’m going to sleep or where I’m going to use a bathroom or where I’m going to find supplies. I don’t have to spend 5-7 hours each day on one single physical task. It’s just… gonna be normal again. How can normal possibly sound so foreign after just a week?
There’s definitely a bit of disappointment. The dream scenario of riding the train from DC back to home was an awesome one. I hope I don’t wind up regretting this. This has been an awesome adventure, one I’m not likely to forget (barring further meningitis of course). I struggled. I overcame. I went to a new city. Climbed a mountain. Donated a can of bear spray to the homeless. Made some new friends. Explored a small town. Had a nice little chat with the local nocturnal wildlife. Pedaled over 200 miles through wooded trails over 6 consecutive days after not pedaling a bike in 15 years.
I’ve done a lot. But I’ve reached the point that I simply don’t want to do it anymore. I’m not enjoying it. I would only be doing it to say I did, and the amount of time I’d need to invest and suffering I’d need to endure in order to continue is no longer worth the bragging rights. Expectations or future regrets be damned. This feels like the right thing right now.
Neighbor almost here. I’m gonna find someplace awesome for dinner later.
Maybe I’ll play a game this evening.
I wonder how the kittens are doing.
-M
Wed Jan 4th (Epilogue) - it's been a few months now since all this went down. I had originally intended to get these put together in the first week or so back, but they proved daunting. Pages and pages of notes scribbled in my chicken scratch, often out of order, to be put together in some sort of semi-coherent fashion. Hours and hours of GoPro footage, even at the warp speed timelapse pace, to be compressed down into a few bite sized daily chunks. It's taken a lot of time to put together, but it's been fun. I've enjoyed reliving it through the process, and I'm sure I'll appreciate having the details to look back on later.
The transition back to usual home patterns really only took a day or two. That was surprising to me. My every waking moment had been laser focused on maps and mileages and bottle filler stations for 6 days. Dropped several rungs on the hierarchy of needs, to where if I didn't plan well and execute I could be without shelter or water. And then it all just sort of melted away the moment I got home. Like all those pressing concerns were just an emotional reaction recalled but not felt after a good night's sleep. Like reading someone else's first hand war memoirs in a textbook. Distant and cold, where they had one been anything but.
One emotion that has successfully lingered had been gratitude towards my neighbor who came and extracted me from that godawful motel. He was there in a flash, didn't make a big deal out of the two hour trip on a Sunday evening, and asked nothing in return. I may not have much of a community around me these days, and I will never ask Bruddah to do anything important for me ever again, but it's nice having a few individuals around that can be relied upon and are willing to show up. A week after my return I dropped off a gift bag with $40 for gas money, his non alcoholic beer of choice, and a literal full size superman cape. Myyyyy hero.
When I got back I dragged Roach and cargo inside, dropped it all on the floor of the living room, and went right back out for food. I had asked neighbor about where, in his opinion, the best cheesesteak in town was and he pointed me to one place in particular without hesitation. They were only open another hour when I needed them, but I wasn't about to let that stop me. I dropped the car off a few blocks away (driving. weird.) and hustled inside.
The place is within a half mile of home, in the remains of an old fire station. My sister had played at the previous iteration of this bar/restaurant before the pandemic put an end to that place. I hadn't been back since. Walking in on a Sunday evening did not give me any confidence in this incarnation’s longevity. A single couple sat at the bar, and the place was otherwise deserted.
I ordered a beer and looked at the menu. The cheesesteak was $18. Yikes. I asked about what sort of side came with it and the bartender just shook his head. Oh, it's one of these huh? $10 to add some parmesan truffle fries, but I was too hungry to say no. The food was indeed delicious, but by the time I added a piece of fancy chocolate mousse cake for dessert and another drink my tab was up around $60. Yikes. A good splurge place. Not a good regular haunt.
The couple left before I could place my order, so it wound up being just me and the two bartenders. I told them all about why I was so hungry, and the guy told me about why he was so exhausted. His other job was voice work. Live voice work. He had been the emcee voice of Disney rides and events, then universal studios, and the next day he had to hustle down to Medieval Times where he was to put on armor and get on a horse and be the knight host of the evening. Fascinating. I guess I knew that was somebody's job, but I never really processed that they were a real person outside of it. They walk among us, I suppose.
What really struck me was how effortless it was for me to head out and enjoy myself when I hadn't gone to that bar on my own in the previous 8 years of living in town. Why? Was it that I was still in the mindset of being out of my comfort zone, or was it because I had this cool experience to talk about? An easy fallback topic in case of social emergency? Whatever it was, I enjoyed myself, and I should try to harness that energy more often.
Going to bed that night was bizarre. I got myself a glass of water from the fridge to keep at my bed. I turned up the heat a few degrees for my first night back. I brushed my teeth and washed my face and lotioned up. I plugged my phone into the outlet to charge. I watched a little YouTube on my bedroom TV before I turned out the lights. Not a single one of these things seem noteworthy to me now, writing about it a couple months later, but at the time each felt like a mini miracle. Some sort of magic trick. All these things that had been hard were suddenly… not even worthy of consideration.
I wish that appreciation for my cushy life would have stuck around, but within a day or two I was taking it all for granted again. But it was wild getting to experience that appreciative mindset for a day or two.
Regarding the decision to end the ride when I did, I'm even more convinced of that decision being the right one now than I was at the time. As much as I'd like to be able to say I did the whole trail, I wasn't going to be able to without killing myself. Possibly literally. The water situation was not likely to get better, and the level of dehydration I was hitting seems to this uneducated mind to be approaching dangerous. The 130 some ounces of drink I housed in that hotel room barely even hit bottom. I didn't have to pee until I got home, and, without getting too graphic, it was clear my kidneys were having a rough go of it.
Maybe “clear” isn't the best word choice here. If you catch my meaning.
Don't know that I had ever been that dehydrated before, but seeing as how I had the headache building for two days before it got to that point, I think heading home was the correct self preservation move. If I try it again, I'll need to get one of those purifying straws people have since told me about.
Another try. That's something I've been considering already, and another reason I think calling it was a wise decision. While compiling all my notes and footage into these entries, I've already been thinking back fondly on the trip. Missing parts of it. Wishing I was back out in the woods with just Roach and my thoughts. It took me fifteen years to stomach the idea of getting back out there after I ruined myself the first time. Now I'm already thinking about putting some proper practice miles in and seeing if I can get my fairy tale ending in 2024. I credit that largely to knowing when to stop on this last trip.
It was a fun journey, this stupid adventure of mine, and I'm so ridiculously glad that I went through with it. After several years of health anxieties and loss and being isolated at home in the slow death that is modern comforts, it jumpstarted my system. Got me out of my comfort zone and living again. And reframed the life I live day to day in what seems like a very healthy way. I can't imagine many things that could have done all this as well in the space of just a week.
So here's to the ride. To the wrong turns, cut fingers, broken tents, and midnight critter visitors. To the river’s ever-present companionship. To my two campsite friends and their stories of even more extreme adventures. To Zeus and his retiring owners after a decade and a half of supporting adventurers. To the various bike shop mechanics that patched me up along the way. To bourbon maple dipping sauce on sweet potato fries. To Roach’s steadfast loyalty after years of neglect. To the mechanical song of a 2am train winding along the side of a mountain. And, most of all, to the glorious downhill stretch after many miles of grueling uphill struggles.
Until next ride, trail. Thanks for everything.
-M
