“New Mexico’s not gonna work.”
“Why?” Mike asked.
“Way too far between motels, altitude’s gonna screw up our daily mileage until we get used to it and it’s too far between motels. Like sometimes a hundred miles or more.”
“Okay, then ‘what’s the plan Dan?'”
Well we made our first-stage (eastern) objective, despite two days of threatening skies and intermittent rain. We were greeted by friendly faces, the first home cooked meal in four weeks and my wife Marilyn, who showed up to surprise me. But we didn’t make our seventh-hundredth mile. Oh well. Odometer evidence below.
Ken and Clare Hall, my brother-in-law and his wife, have been an integral part of my life for a long time. And not only are they family, they’re close friends as well. One of those nice twists of fate that has you actually liking the people you are related to.
Ever since we left New York, crossing the Appalachian Mountains had been a big milestone. We knew the range had nothing like the height or reputation of its western siblings, but this gnarly, weatherbeaten series of ridges was intimidating. And while we only nudged 3000 feet a couple of times, that intimidation was richly deserved. Finally, when we crossed the Ohio River this morning at Wheeling, WV, and entered Ohio, that milestone had been accomplished.
But the very day that the one objective had been accomplished, another was proving impossible. It had finally sunk in, that while we made it from New York to Ohio in 16 days, we just weren’t going to make it to California in the four weeks we had left. The solution seemed obvious.
The lightening flashed and the thunder boomed. There was still some space between the two, and it wasn’t raining yet, so we kept on moving. Then the wind started blowing. In the lee of the houses there was a false sense of security, but when we came to the cross-streets, the gusts carried dust, sand and leaves sideways. Its strength made handling our overloaded bikes challenging. We finally stopped when trash can lids and other debris were blowing across the street in front of us, and there was less than 5 seconds between lightening and thunder. Then the rain came.
Bedford, Pennsylvania rings a bell with me, but I can’t figure out why. Maybe it’s the hometown of some sports figure or movie star or just possibly something famous happened here. So far I haven’t had the energy to Google it.
– We’re spending a quiet Sunday here because I have some, ahem, groin distress. I believe the term is chaffing. All told I’ve been in the saddle 12 days without a break, and as a result, my “tropical” area is beginning to feel the “heat.”
–
Shanksville wasn’t our destination, nor were we even planning to go by it, but on a beautiful September afternoon there it was. The sign on PA State Highway 31 said the town and the United Airlines Flight 93 memorial was four miles to our right.
Yesterday’s rain was over, our clothes were dry and the bikes oiled. We were all set for our first real mountain day of the trip.
We left tiny Hancock, MD and its intermittant internet for what we had been told was the metropolis of Cumberland and its relative urbane charm, a mere 40 miles down the road.
We gained a lot of elevation during the first five miles only to lose much or all of it moments later. Five hundred feet up, four ninety five down. In the hiking world such maneuvers are called PUDS or “pointless ups and downs.” After numerous repetitions we were already sick of it.
It would seem, given our recent experiences, that biking flat-free from Gettysburg, PA to Hagerstown, MD on the most flawless day of our trip would be sheer bliss. Right? Wrong.
York, PA had been a nice place. Friendly natives, a clean motel, plus a convenient bike shop only three miles from our abode. And we had needed it. Poor Mike was on his third flat in as many days, and he badly needed two new tires.
“You guys really biking to California?” the bike owner asked after seeing our ID as he rung up the tires.
“Not necessarily, just as far as we can get in six weeks,” Mike responded.
“Well you won’t be having any more tire trouble.”
“That’s the way we’d like it.”
Less than a day later, halfway to Gettysburg, my phone rang.
“I just had another $#@%& flat,” Mike angrily yelled in the phone.