Hoping for a Tail Wind

Sometimes when I’m drop dead exhausted, I stop to rest and just lay down in some shady grass. I end up using my helmet as a makeshift pillow of sorts. It’s an exhilarating high just laying still and looking up into the sky. The exhaustion many times sends me into fits of delirium, yelling out: This is my helmet-pillow, there are many like it but this one is mine.

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Check your stupid Facebook memories for that time that I fucking jinxed myself by telling Daniel that I’d been sleeping like a baby the entire trip. I toss and turn and deal with excruciating knee pain and get pretty much zero sleep. Plus I somehow lose yesterday’s entry and have to do it all over again – what you’re reading now is so much shittier than the original. I pull myself out of the tent. It’s soaked from humidity and morning dew. My sleeping bag is wet from condensation. It’s literally raining inside my tent but sunny outside. I fling no less than seven slugs off my tent.

Veloccino. It’s part bike shop, part coffee shop and one hundred percent my thang. It’s next to our campsite. We wait for it to open. There’s an outdoor shower so I get naked in front of strangers and wash up. There’s outlets so I charge up. I buy a bike light and a coffee. We leave much later than normal, content to get about 10 miles outside of DC and find another rogue campsite.

We’ve struck out approximately thirteen times trying to find somewhere to stay the night in DC. I want a day off. Maybe tighten up some of the minor issues on my bike. Maybe get a souvenir tattoo. Maybe show the fine permanent art on my ass to the puppet occupying the White House… I feel like he’d like it – if he’s not busy playing golf or suntanning or dying his hair. But nothing. No warmshowers hosts available. Hostels are closed. Neither of my friends down there are able to let us crash with them. Some other friends who biked down from Pittsburgh tell me DC is a heavily policed right now and that illegally camping on public land is gonna be tough. Apparently Seattle, Washington is not Washington, DC. Nonetheless, I work up the energy and we hit the Maryland hills westward toward Reistertown.

We arrive the 15 miles and partake in what has become a daily ritual: the thick Italian-Argentinian accented “egg and cheesy”, or what I call a “breakfast sammich”. That helps. Then, a friend of Daniels just a couple miles outside DC offers his backyard to us! Heaven yes. A cushy landing spot is exactly what the good Dr. Strangelove ordered. (That’s the second Kubrick reference today if you’re counting from an undisclosed location.) We divert off the ACA route and hit some heavy traffic highways, all in the interest of a solid sleeping arrangement.

We come into our second Columbia in as many days. Columbia PA yesterday and Columbia MD today. Apparently Cristobal Colon’s genocidal ways really left an impression on the folks who name cities, states and counties. Go ahead and file this under the “no shit Sherlock” part of today’s entry. Chill at a park, nap, head south on some trails and then BAM, the worst thing everrrrrrr:

Fucking suburbs.

I hate them. More and more each time. We deal with three lanes of screaming traffic and zero shoulder. The massive death machines want to see us splattered and I know it because I’ve seen all the road kill. Two lanes is not enough, we have to die so they can have three lanes. We stop for a break. And another. It’a hot. And now it’s rush hour. What’s the rush for anyway? I hate this but having a landing pad is crucial for us. I feel like closing my eyes and riding no-hands in this traffic… focusing the entirety of my being and energy into the sentiment that dinner and a shower and some sort of minimal comfort will provide is worth all this vehicular madness. The kids call it harvesting my chi. Or harnessing my chi. I dunno. But that shit is interrupted by some cunt beeping her horn at us. Bitch, please. I can hear your car’s engine, you don’t need to beep. When is the last time you actually got out of your car and gave a listen to anything the real world has to offer? A little bit of me dies here on that highway somewhere in this suburb squished between Baltimore and Washington. But I survive it. Though you can see that I didn’t take photos of any of that crap.

Pat is part of the world famous Buffalo diaspora. It takes about three minutes for him and I to pinpoint the 1.3 degrees of separation that manifests throughout western New York. This means we know all the same people and even vaguely recognize each other from years of hanging in similar circles. Theres a vend diagram somewhere for that. Pat’s backyard is 4 miles outside of downtown Washington, and my tent is up as he’s cooking some wings on the grill. Homemade baba ganoush alongside some kale and cucumbers also occupy the picnic table in tonight’s kingdom. Mint juleps and cigar smoke circulate amongst our post dinner conversations, all under a wonderful and almost-full moon. Daniel is talking about “floating on water, but then floating on air” as we joke about our 50 mph downhills. Pat is bemoaning the Buffalo winters and I nerd out about homogeneous vs truly culturally unique cities. We’re chatting on such a wide range of intelligent yet whimsical subjects that for a moment I forget how tough the last week and a half has been leading up to this tranquil yet exhilarating evening. Then I shift around in my plastic Adirondack chair and am greeted with a subtle yet jarring reminder of it all. Familiar pain. And by every account I know I am ready for a good nights sleep.

For those who’ve never pedaled 70-90 miles a day – day after day – it is difficult. Add in the hills, the wind, the heat, the rain and the mechanical issues and it’s not for the faint of heart. Nah. Fuck that. Really it’s not for the faint of mind. The much required mind power became apparent my first tour. Its probably in much the same manner that long distance runners defy conventional physical limitations. In the words of George McFly, “like I always say, Marty”. With just myself and Daniel – another experienced bicycle tourist – left to talk to, our conversations reveal to me that the way I go about this isn’t just my way of doing it, but it’s the only way to do it. Mindgame, mindset and mindmatch, mother fucker.

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Snotty, beam me down to when the permeating scent of cow manure is my first sensory experience of the morning. (If you’re keeping track at home – and you should be – that’s the second Spaceballs reference this trip.) The tree line my tent is on is also on a farm fence line. It’s about 0500 and the sun is coming up. Morning motive: break down and head back to the covered patio to charge the batteries with caffeine and electricity. Daniel and I head out through thoroughly Mennonite and farm country. Nothing but churches and cows, both qualifying as nothing but bullshit to me.

I’m still dragging ssd quite a bit through 25 miles of morning rush hour and hills, our intended destination is breakfast on the Susquehanna River. It’s been rough of late and my mindset is total crap to boot. I know I’m so close to that point where everything kicks in but I can’t lock in that dedicative focus. We haven’t seen much in the way of services lately, and the google maps show that we will have options for what every single morning Daniel calls “egg and cheesy”. We make it to Columbia PA and both of the spots are closed. Stupid pandemic. One was a deli and the other s coffee shop. Defeated and on fumes I spot pure tour gold in the form of a breakfast diner they are open and we can sit down. What is a mainstay for me on any other tour has been absent unti now. We do the math on eggs+potatoes+pork+toast+coffee and it all equals lifted spirits on the Susquehanna River.

Our proper tour breakfast cherry popped, I’m thinking about a shortcut. Looking over the route, Daniels digital updated ACA route (which we’re not currently on) takes us west to York PA and my printed 2012 ACA route (which we are on) takes us south along the river to Maryland. Upon further inspection we find a rail trail south out of York. U know, the kind that’s graded and doesn’t have motorized traffic. More gold. We hit it hard to York, grab some puerto rican food to go from a bodega in town and boogie down the trail, skipping our previously planned midday stop. As it turns out, part or all of this trail is in the rail trail hall of fame.

Hold up. There’s a rail trail hall of fame.

It’s clear that this is trail is superb in many ways. Fine crushes stone. Free ice cold water to drink. Free ice cold river to refresh and bathe. We push 20 miles on this thing and stop to indulge in the pernil, plátanos y empanadas. There’s little sculptures along the trail and quaint PA and MD towns along the way. We eventually jump off at the point our our different routes re-converge. The hills return and I have end of day legs. We get to a small Maryland and find a store for provisions. I head over and knock on the door at the local volunteer fire company. The guys inside are ok with us setting up camp in the land behind the station. Brotherhood.

The castles are built for the night in Butler Maryland. My front yard is a giant field along a stream thanks to the Butler Fire Company. Only two of us left means a six pack equals I drink three beers. Daniels in his tent already snoring away. I’m sitting outside, teasing what appears to be a millennial aged deer (in deer years, duh) trying to get across the field to the stream at dusk. I let the young buck get just less than halfway across the field before jumping up and down and yelling. He goes sprinting back each time. The sun gets low and I give up on communicating with deer, happy to watch the light show provided by fire flies, lightning bugs and the constellations, all on a ceiling so high that none of us can build anything like it.

Where does the phrase “dropping Ike flies” come from? I’ve heard how “mind your p’s and q’s” came about: pub patrons who had had a few too many would have their attention drawn to a board or ledger that communicated how many pints and/or quarts they had consumed. The barkeep would then presumably tell the drunk bastard “mind your pints and quarts”, or something to that effect. But dropping like flies? Help me out here.

Damon and Chad are heading home – and just like that our crew is cut in half. (Not counting FH, of course). They’re packing up and hopping on the train to a Philly. Both have real world things happening and were also slightly undergeared. I’m super proud of both of them getting 600 miles in on there first journey out.

Their departure was set yesterday, which prompted the hotel celebration the night before. Which also prompted polishing off the cheap bourbon we’d been toting around. Which also prompted a sluggish and late morning. Per protocol, I’m up first. I’ve already taken a shit and kicked back a single serve cup of coffee that I brewed in the hotel bathroom. NOTE:this story might not be told in chronological order. Once everyone else is up, I make them each a cup too. We pack up and Daniel and I hug it out (remember when people hugged?!?) and say adios to our amigos slash tour apprentices.

Five miles in and Daniel both feel the pain. Not the pain being brought by Method Man. The pain of sore legs from hills on hills on hills. The pain from all that Evan Williams the night before. The pain of of losing our pals. Hippies would call this a total drag, man. And we are sho nuff dragging. We push through Valley Forge with zero historical interest and then are pretty much in the middle of nowhere.

West bumfuck…. Nothing but farm.

We ride for miles looking for a gas station or a store or something or a park with a tree to sit under. We finally find a gas station. It actually only sells gas. Nothing else. We’ve got 40 miles in and it’s dumb hot again and we just need some public shade. We find a barbecue spot. Score. Fuck, it’s closed on Tuesday. Who knew it was Tuesday? We hang under their covered picnic area anyway. Because we’re pooped and because it’s got a water spigot and an outlet. Picnic tables naps commence.

I wake of first, per protocol. A storm rolls through. I’m glad to still be under this shelter. I munch a protein bar and make some coffee. Daniel and I chat a bit about the difficulties of the day. Just yesterday we were talking about how compact and together the group was. How the two newbies were keeping up ya vets and how we were all on the same time schedule and pace. And how difficult that is to normally find and line up. It was pretty amazing. That didn’t hold up much longer though. Maybe we jinxed it. But I miss my friends already. I miss the social energy we gave to each other. We take some absentee jabs like “who’s gonna do our laundry now that Chad is gone” or “where will we find another water bit without Damon.” Then we joke about finding someone else to ride with us so they can do all that stuff. Eventually, the humor rolls back to revolve around normal joking when Daniel drops a gem: “Your pants say yoga but your ass says McDonald’s.” We feel better and push on.

More miles and more pain. Daniel says his bicycle just doesn’t want to go. I’m feeling ok but not too inspired. I haven’t even played any music all day. Just pushing on and pushing on. Rolling hills. Rush hour traffic whizzing past is at 70mph and we only have a one foot shoulder. Too many trucks. Too many of them brushing by us at about 3 inches instead of 3 feet. Fuck, where’s my pool noodle? We literally pull off into someone’s yard just to let the traffic die down. They want to be in a hurry. We want to live.

At some point we realize we have two different versions of the Adventure Cycling’s Atlantic Coast Section 3 route. I found a used printed version and the bought the phone app versión. We’ve following mine because it’s easier to navigate. Mines a few years older. They must have changed it. We don’t know why. Since they will rejoin in a couple days we stick to mine, but I can’t help but wonder what prompted the complete overhaul of the 120 miles of the route.

We ride until sunset, moving about 7 mph. We’ve once again got nowhere to legally camp so we come up to a covered picnic table in a tiny little town. This is it. We hang a bit here. There’s a working water fountain and an outlet. Dusk hits and we hit the tree line. Set up and pass out.