Hoping for a Tail Wind

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.

This hotel room was a lot more appealing last night. I wake up in a bed for the first time in over a week and holy hell this shit sucks. I sleep til 5 until I realize how bad the bed is. This hotel is a piece of shit. I cross the bridge across the street from this dump and I’m back into New Jersey. The second of what are two on-duty occifers comes out to let me know about not riding on it. I explain I didn’t see the sign until it was too late (true) and add two doses of “have a good day” to whatever he was babbling about after that. Deli coffee plus a bacon egg and cheese hits the spot. We have 15 more miles past a nuclear power plant to somewhere resembling a town.

There’s a rail trail out of Easton and we decide to divert off of the adventure cycling route. So worth it. It’s a fantastic trail. Graded. Well covered from the late morning sun. Crushed stone. Some washout. Some mud. I have the thinnest tires of the group at 32c so we’re relatively all good. A couple spots make for tight knuckles but overall it’s wonderfully gorgeous. Running south on what is an isthmus of sorts: we are between the Delaware River and the Delaware Canal on what once was the towpath. Now we duck under cute trestle and/or covered bridges alongside fantastic little locks of love. The backyard game is popping in these parts. Some people live on what is almost an island – each body of water on each side of their house. I need to go home and step my game up or commit landscaping harakiri.

Straddling the Delaware River, we cross it on bridges and each time we’re back and forth between New Jersey and Pennsylvania. I am in pain. I’m reminded of my time last year on the Natchez Trace. It tried everyone’s strength and patience. Yeah. It’s that part of a tour. And it hurts. I find some relief when we hit a swimming spot in the Delaware and refresh. A few more miles and we get to New Hope PA. This is Princeton territory, as evidenced by the houses and the cars and the general demeanor. We cool out in the blazing 94° heat.

We bid the Delaware River adieu and follow the ACA route toward Philadelphia. We will get close but not enter any larger cities until Washington DC. I’m sure Philly and Baltimore could be fun but the suburban ring around any American city is a near death sentence for bicyclists. No bueno.

Campsites are still a problem. Few allow tent camping dude to covid. We get into the Philly suburbs. There ain’t shit for us. Chad decides to mommy-warbucks us a Hampton Inn. Two hotels two nights in a row!!! Bike tour first for me. My first time doesn’t hurt as much as they say it would. In fact it’s not bad at all. In fact it’s super mega ultra awesome. We shower and do some laundry and hang for a bit and get into some verbal jabbing wars, since we’re all too physically beat for much else. We decide no TV and just entertain each other. Plenty laughs. I can’t slap my knees because they hurt, but things are literally that funny. Snores will abound with two in beds and two on the floor. But I think we’re all sleeping like babies tonight. However it is that babies sleep, because they usually don’t.

Daniel has a knack for spotting swimming holes. And for finding various roadside accoutrements. At one point the heat and the hills have us hurting. Like delirious. We find a swimming hole and that’s where it’s get really weird. Please welcome Mr. Freakin’ Hot. We’re working on a better name. Please suggest one. But he’s coming with us.

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The sun pops up an I emerge from the castle. After a quick roll out from prime stealth camp territory is followed by the hardest segment of climbs yet, we’re coming up into the Delaware Water Gap. 33 miles of foggy hot climbs has us gasping for a break and some breakfast to go along with that break. The Walpack Inn is out. And still doesn’t open for two hours. So we snack on what we have and set up for nap time behind the pace in front of a gorgeous vantage point of rolling green lushness. I lay there in the grass and simply can’t move. Some of the climbs are relentless. The kind that keep going after a bend just when I think I’ve made it. I scream out various hoots or grunts or woos. My exhales start spraying all sort of non COVID germs on the county roads.

Mateo tells me he wants to get into a hot air balloon. We have a little chat about instant coffee. It’s blasphemous as fuck quite honestly. but Mateo is now whipping some up and I accept a small amount. I have a jetboil french press in my rear left saddlebag, so it’s not that I don’t have options. (See above for that part where I simply can’t move.) He’s gotta be more gassed than any of his. Day two for him is brutal for all of us on day 8.

We’ve got the winding climbs and descents along the entire Delaware Water Gap National so and so to come. Please just open the goddamn bathrooms so those of us on bike don’t dehydrate. PS what the fuck is a water gap anyway?

Mateo tells us he wants to get in a raft. I’m soaked in my own perspiration when we cross the Delaware River into Pennsylvania. Two climbs specifically are now branded into the part of my brain that died to make it up them. And with no services and al potholes the last three hours, we are desperate for food and water. This little outdoorsy town has a taco truck for the win. That’s followed by more nap time on some picnic tables by a stream. We’re feeling ready to head south along the Delaware River.

Mateo tells me how some guy in a Mercedes pulled alongside him and asked if he wanted a ride. Every campground we’ve tried the last few days has not allowed tent camping which has proven to be a real pain in the ass. So we have no destination but will simply ride until we can remote sleep. This is my personal preference and I take pride in skillfully pulling it off. Plus we get to knock out more miles and now that it’s raining, I’m feeling refreshed and ready to push. Damon is down. We take a little ten mile break and he proposes it to the group. Seems like a go. Except Mateo says he’s gotta call it quits. I kinda saw it coming with the whole hot air balloon/raft/Mercedes thing. It was nice to expand the team for just a couple days and I hope he had fun. We wish him well and continue on.

The rains pick up. We roll along the Delaware River into a little town with a run down family owned restaurant and hotel and are instantly drawn back into the normal way of living. We can’t resist and 20 minutes later I’m showered and wearing clean clothes. 40 minutes later and I’m sitting at a table being served dinner. What world am I in? This would be abnormal in normal times, but it’s even more surreal now and at this moment David Byrne is spot on about what I may be asking myself. The answer, David, is by bicycle. Bicycle is how I got here.

At dinner Daniel gets into some good old fun with the owner of the place. An older gentleman with a thick accent, he’s been teasing us the entire time in good fun. “I’m not Italian. I’m Greek,” he tells Daniel. They are talking about sex, I think. I’m not really paying attention. “You Italians are all talk while us Greeks are action.” And this old man starts moving his hips. Now I’m paying attention. And I’m laughing uncontrollably. He walks off, “I’m sorry. You opened the can with the worms you know? So what can I say?” Daniel laid off him a bit before the old mans blood pressure skyrocketed. We didn’t see him after that.

We pay the bill and I pass out in a not so comfortable bed. I’d have preferred my tent but the shower and the meal make the sacrifice of sleeping indoors worth it.

• La Carmen
• Day 7. 446 Miles. What Is A Title Other Than A Restriction On Creativity?
• Days 5 & 6. 408 Miles. People, Places, Pooping, and the Oxford Comma.
• Days 4. 290 Miles. Three Years Old.
• Day 3. 209 Miles. Day Trois.