Saturday, October 30, 2010

Another Day in D.C.

Oct. 15th

Now this is what a Post Office should look like!
Jon and Sylvia are kind enough to offer us lodging for one night. We share stories of the years since High School, the years in high school, and Nicole and I try to explain our bike trip as a combination of fun and frustration. As former residents of Baltimore, Jon and Sylvia can't help but laugh at our experience in the state of Maryland.

"That's the Pulaski Highway for you," said Jon. "When I worked in Baltimore there was a motel across the street. It was just named "Motel."

Apparently, "motel" didn't have any all-night clientele either.

Nicole claims these to be the best Eggs Benedict ever.
In the morning, we head to a nearby restaurant that serves local produce. It's a 25 minute wait, say the hostess. No problem. Jon leaves his name with the hostess and we walk across the street to the local farmer's market. Nicole and I grab some more apples for the road.


After lunch, Nicole and I head back to downtown D.C. for the most interesting garden of all: The White House! Michelle's garden is part of the walking tour of the White House grounds. It's not just Nicole and I who are excited when we see the garden: practically everyone else on the walking tour lines up to take a photo as well.

Later, we head to the Air and Space Museum. We get there with just enough time before they close to ride a virtual reality fighter jet. I'm the pilot; Nicole, the gunner. I scare Nicole with my aggressive maneuvering. I ease up a little bit, but that makes it harder for us to chase the Russian MiGs. Oh well.

Let's crash land honey!


In the evening, we tour the Supreme Court and the Capital (again) at sunset. Once again, the Capital is beautiful. Afterwords, we return to the Chateau Jon and Sylvia, where Chef Jon has prepared dinner for us. We share some more stories, and before long it is time for us to retire, before getting back on the bikes tomorrow and heading into the Confederacy . . .

We arrive in our nation's capital


October 14th

Getting out of Laurel, Maryland is a little hectic. We have a "cycling" map that we picked up at Patapsco Valley State Park. It has multi-colored lines indicating bike routes and bikes paths. No streets are labeled, so we have no idea where these bike lanes and paths are--except the Pulaski Highway. We decide to just leave the map at the hotel.

Traffic continues to increase as we get closer and closer to "the Beltway," that ring of suburbs within I-495. The shoulder on Route 1 disappears and Nicole and I are forced to ride on the sidewalk. At one point, we start getting air on some of the steep slopes! The side roads are worthless because they are all recently built subdivisions--only one way in and one way out. We have to keep riding.

Once we reach College Park, we find a bike shop that has a D.C. area map. It's clearly a wise investment. This map actually has roads and bike paths labeled. We find a bike path and before we know it, we've entered a residential area on the outskirts of the District!

D.C. has a Chinatown--who knew?
The bizarre maze of streets in Washington are disorienting, even with the map. Avenues have names, streets have numbers. Or letters. And there is no comprehensible logic behind them. We find ourselves riding through Chinatown (yep, even D.C. has one) before we arrive on Pennsylvannia Avenue. It is done!

We ride towards the capital, then ride through the Mall to the Lincoln Memorial. As always, it's a beautiful sight. The mall never fails to inspire, and for the first time I feel like I've really accomplished something on the bike.

No trip to the Mall is complete without viewing the respective memorials. We park the bikes and proceed on foot as we tour the respective memorials.

3 decades after its construction, the memorial draws new visitors.
The emotional power of the Vietnam Memorial has not diminished with the passage of time; it is just as moving to all who see the names etched in stone. When it was first built, many mistook it's simplicity as weakness, rather than strength. It's very powerful, and I recommend everyone visit if they have not done so already.

Lesser known but equally important is the Korean Memorial, which flanks the the south side of the mall. Unfortunately, the memorial is much more powerful at night. It's designed to give you the viewer the perspective of walking with a platoon, somewhere in Korea.

The World War II Memorial is at the foot of the Washington Monument. There was some controversy over the memorial's location because it would allegedly "interrupt" the sight-lines between the Lincoln Memorial and the Washington Monument (it does not). On the one hand, if anything should disrupt the sight-lines of the mall, it should be a memorial to the people who fought and won the greatest war in the history of the world. Just my opinion on that.

As the sun sets, we head towards Columbia Heights to visit some old friends, Jon and Sylvia. I haven't seen them in far too long . . .

Thursday, October 28, 2010

Maryland continues to frustrate

October 13

When we woke up this morning, Nicole told me that her knee was still hurting, so we decided it might be a good idea to take a rest day and enjoy the park. All it would require from us would be to simply walk over to the ranger station where we checked in the night before. Or so we thought.

Just walking to the ranger station was quite a hike. It was over a mile and through a steep gorge. Why didn't the great state of Maryland simply build a bridge? When we arrived at the ranger station, though, the hike was the least of our concerns.

"We'd like to stay a second night," we say.

"I can't do that," says a uniformed park official. "I don't have the password."

Huh?

"Jerry's coming in at 2 o'clock," said someone else without a uniform. "He has the password. He can check you guys in. Until then, you have to check in at the headquarters."

Then the kicker. "It's not a long drive."

Yeah, it's not. It's two and half miles. From where we are now. It's three and half miles from the campsite. I try calling the number to reserve online to avoid wasting any more time. Every thing appears to go well until I hear this:

"We don't do same day reservations," says the voice on the other end of the phone. "You have to do that at the campsite."

I've had more productive conversations with my credit company than with these guys. Nicole and I have had enough. We trudge back through the steep gorge and back towards our campground. Once we reach our site, another uniformed park ranger is at our campsite, writing us a ticket. She sees us approach.

"Is this your campsite?" she asks.

"Yes," I say succinctly. "And we are on our way out."

She seems a little flustered by my attitude.

"Well, this is just a reminder that check out time is in 10 minutes."

"We know," said Nicole. "We tried to check in another day but they told us to walk to headquarters."

"Yeah," said the ranger. "It's not that far, it's just a short drive."

I sighed. I rolled my eyes.

"Yeah," said Nicole quickly. "We're on bikes."

And we're getting out of here.

Yumm!
Nicole's knee was feeling better, so we head out on the road towards Washington, having wasted two hours already. Still, it felt good to leave this park and all its bad vibes behind. Not long after we left the park, we found a nice Greek restaurant we're we each had pizza. At the other end of the plaza was a very nice bike shop with Bontrager Hard Case 700x32 mm tires. We were golden!

By the time we got back on the road, it was nearly 4 o'clock and we had only traveled about five miles. That wasn't looking good. We rode for about an hour and saw the sun starting to sink in the horizon. Now the sky was golden.

The bike shop had all of Lance Armstrong's Jerseys on display.
We got to an intersection and found ourselves with a tough decision to make. If we followed the Adventure Cycling Route, we would go west, then south towards Washington, with no campgrounds or hotels in between. If we went off the route, which lately has been a disaster, we would at least be able to find a hotel. Ironically, we were standing outside of a bar and restaurant called the Friendly Inn. It was neither friendly, nor an inn. I walked inside to speak to the owner to ask if we could gain permission to camp out behind his restaurant. He said he would get back to me. I made the mistake of waiting for his answer, wasting another 30 minutes of precious daylight in the process. He could have just said no and I would have rode on. Instead I waited and waited.

"I don't think he's going to answer us," said Nicole.

That left us with one choice: ride off the route to a hotel. It was dark now. I could see thanks to my NiteRider X2 headlight--it's nearly as bright as a car headlight. And they could see me. But the ride was still harrowing nonetheless. It took us about three hours to get to a hotel. Even though it was only 8:30, it felt like midnight. But we looked forward to the rest.
During our ride at night we saw grazing cows silhouetted against the evening sky.

Next stop: Washington D.C. For real this time . . .

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

The Great City of Baltimore

October 12th:

Funnily enough, the traffic mostly dissipated after we left the diner around sunrise.

"That's odd," I said to Nicole.

We rode onwards into the city with much less traffic (although we did have to endure a hideous paper mache statue of some local politician mounted in the breakdown lane). As we got closer to Baltimore, I noticed my rear tire pressure was a little low. I was bobbing up and down like riding a full suspension mountain bike. That's not supposed to happen. I pulled over and quickly topped off the tire pressure. A few miles later, I was bobbing up and down again. I pulled into a Toys R Us parking lot (completely abandoned) and changed the tube. This time, I was careful when placing the quick release skewer back into place!

The new tube worked well, but I was a bit nervous. The hole was in a different spot than the screw from new Jersey, but I've already put 1,500 miles on that tire, and I know I'm pushing my luck. Since very few bike shops will carry such an obscure tire (Vitorria Rondonee sound familiar to anyone?) I resolve to get a Bontrager Hardcase tire from the next Trek dealer I see. It's a known quantity, and I'm in no mode to experiment.

As we ride into the city, I'm amazed by how little traffic there is. I expect to see thousands of commuter cars and delivery trucks from the likes of UPS, FedEx and other distributors specific to local merchants (food, flowers, etc), but Nicole and I constitute about half the traffic at any given intersection. Boarded up buildings surround us. Welcome to Baltimore.

A local bike shop is located between the northeast side and downtown. Unfortunately, because we left so early, it's hasn't opened by the time we arrive. It's 10 am, and we can either wait for an hour or ride onwards towards the next bike shop. As always, the answer is to keep riding.

It's a little bit tricky to navigate through Baltimore's revamped waterfront district to the next bike shop. The GPS is a little confused by the pedestrian only streets in the rebuilt outdoor mall area that once entail the city's seedy warehouse district. The turn-by-turn directions just turn us around in circles before I finally just ask someone how to get to Light Street. A good Samaritan tells us it's in the Federal Hill neighborhood. Great. Talking to a human being does what nearly $600 worth of technology cannot.

When we arrive at the bike shop, the owner can't contain her excitement when she sees that we've been touring.

"How did you get here?" she asks, her eyes lit up like a small child.

We tell her the horrors of the "bicycle lane" on the Pulaski highway.

"I knew it," she said. "The same guy has been the transportation commissioner for almost ten years and he does nothing!"

She also likes our story about the Edgewood "motel."

"Yeah, metal theft is a big problem around here," she says with a slight Southern drawl. "No wonder the owner of that hotel didn't want you staying there."

We roll our eyes--but only because we knows she's right. She also takes a look at Nicole's front derailleur cable. Just as I had suspected and feared, the cable is shot beyond belief. In sympathy to our pain and suffering, she gives us a new cable and installs it. We thank her for our service and head back towards the harbor to check out the city's revamped waterfront.

Up until about 15 years ago, downtown Baltimore was like, well, the rest of the city. Basically a symbol of decay. Highways had replaced cargo ships as a means of warehouses, and the once busy waterfront was nothing more than rat-infested empty buildings. Fortunately, some good people in government and private industry banded together and turned the locale into various malls. Although the cleanliness and commerce is a more appealing alternative, I was particularly interested in the floating museums the city had to offer.

15 stars and 15 stripes adorn the flag of this naval cutter. They even went so far as to greet us with cannon fire!
As we walked towards one of the city's permanently moored tall wooden ships, we were greeted by cannonfire from an early 1800s era vessel, complete with 15 star-and-striped flag to boot (history buffs will get the reference). Nicole snapped some photos, and I took a look around. I noticed that pretty much every flagpole in the harbor--whether on land or boat--had 15 stars and stripes. Hey, this city loves its history.

After a brief stop to each lunch, we checked out two of the city's floating museums: The U.S.S. Constellation and the Torsk. In each case, we found ourselves humbled by the immediate feeling of history as we walked onbard.

The Constellation is over 150 years old. A wooden ship constructed in 1853, the vessel served as anti-slave runner in the years leading up to and during the Civil War. Although most of the wood on the ship is restored, it has been done so to the ship's original specifications. And seeing the original wood on the ship does bring chills down one spine. It was within these very floorboards that the Constellation's crew captured slave running ships and returned the "cargo" back to their native west Africa.

Nicole's shark feels at home alongside the U.S.S. Torsk.
After walking through such a specter, the Torsk almost paled by comparison. It's a diesel-engined World War II submarine. The Torsk holds the distinction of being the last ship to sink an enemy vessel during the great conflict. From the dock, the size of the ship didn't look very impressive by comparison, but it proved a lesson that important things come in tiny packages. Inside, the ship could hold a crew of over 70 (just barely, you'd have to hold your breath). The many gadgets and knobs inside were a source of great fascination for Nicole and me.

Wake up sailor! Talk about tight quarters.
Perhaps we should have taken a boat to MD.
We haven't gone more than five or ten miles before Nicole's knee starts hurting. It's only a few miles before we can find a pharmacy that actually has ice packs, but it feels like an eternity. Once we get the the knee treated and we feel ready to go, it's almost dusk. We arrive at the campground with what should be just enough time before dusk. Should be.

At  the entrance, there is a fork in the road. There is a sign that points to headquarters in one direction and campground in the other. I assume I should check in at the headquarters. It's uphill, so Nicole wisely decides to wait this one out. I ride about half a mile to headquarters to find that the building has closed for the day. Not long after I arrive to men in a Maryland State Parks pickup truck drive by.

"You need to ride back to your friend," says a voice from the truck. "Check in is at the campground."

Oh, what little money the state of Maryland could have afforded to white lettering on that sign: Check-in, this way. That would have been nice. Oh well.

I ride back to Nicole and let her know that she was right. It's not to relieving as daylight is running out. We lose even more daylight once we check in. The poor guy doesn't know how to use a computer. Once we get there, it's basically dusk. Sigh.

Another long day, but Washington D.C. is within our sights . . .

Saturday, October 23, 2010

Pulaski Highway makes an interesting ride

October 11th

We hadn't ridden long before we felt a substantial increase in humidity. Once again, we had crossed a state line, this time in Maryland. We were off Adventure Cycling's route, and my GPS had us routed on the Pulaski Highway, supposedly the quickest route to Baltimore.

At first, there wasn't much traffic, but there was a wide shoulder and plenty of signs that said "Bike Route." Great, we thought. We'll just ride this bike route all the way to Baltimore. Ah, but the best laid plans of mice and men . . .

Around mid-day we got to a bridge and the shoulder disappeared. Uh oh. Construction workers had closed off one lane of traffic. Well, the bridge wasn't very long, and if there's room for bicycles in the construction lane . . .

We started riding on the bridge. We were about 40 percent of the way across until one of the workers spotted us. "Hey, you can't ride here!" One of them shouted. "This is a construction zone!" Then a police pulled up along side of us.

"No bicycles," he said. "You have to turn around."

At least I knew better than to argue with a police officer. We turned around, knowing the irony that in doing so we were riding virtually the entire length of the bridge. Once we got back, we saw a Maryland Transit Authority Police Station on the other side of the road. We crossed, hoping we could get some advice on how to cross the Susquehanna River. Once we got to the station, we saw another officer in his car.

"How do we get across," we asked.

"Yeah, it's a real pain," he said. "You have to call the Montville Taxi company."

"There's no other way."

"No there isn't," he said. "And we hate it. This is the only bridge within 40 miles that someone can cross this river, and every time someone tries to ride their bike over the bridge or jog over the bridge we have to go and stop them and tell them to call the taxi."

He also told us he had voiced his concerns to the powers that be but these fell on deaf ears.

"They said they didn't want a pedestrian section because that would increase suicides. That's crazy. If someone wants to do it, they'll go and do it. A pedestrian walkway isn't going to make it any easier."

The whole situation was almost funny, if not for the fact that we had to call in a taxi minivan and fork over 8 bucks to go over a bridge that we nearly rode the entirety of it. We had to unload all the bags off our bikes and remove the front wheels just to get them in the back of the vehicle.

So far, Maryland has not been a warm welcome.

We kept riding, and as we approached Baltimore, we noticed that traffic just kept getting busier, and these "bike lanes" starting disappearing and reappearing to make way for exit and entrance lanes. What was once a rural road was looking more like the Berlin Turnpike. In a supreme act of laziness, the good government of Maryland had simply declared that the breakdown lane of the Pulaski highway was a bike lane! What was worse is that 90 percent of the roads were just cul-de-sacs for housing sub-divisions, giving us no choice but to stay on the road we were on.

Fortunately, we were able to navigate through traffic. As daylight started giving way to dusk, we decided to find a hotel for the night. We found a place that said they had vacancy and pulled over. When we got to the main office, we found a rather frantic looking shirtless man. There was a screen door that he didn't bother to open once he saw us.

"You can't stay the night," he said quickly. "It's not a hotel, it's not a hotel."

"But you're sign," I said. "You're sign--"

"No no no, is not hotel anymore. You can't stay here."

"But," I said, motioning with my hand towards the cars in the parking lot.

"They are staying the week. I am turning this into apartments. Everything in the rooms is out. Not there anymore. No hotel."

He kept talking.

"You want to stay someplace cheap? Edgewood motel. Just a few minutes down the road."

Well, whatever. We road on, marvelled that this man kept up a giant sign that said "Motel," and another large sign underneath that said "vacancy." Whatever, we figured, we had another place to stay just down the road.

When we got to the Edgewood motel, the owner was incredulous that we wanted to stay the entire night. He sighed and gave us the key. What followed was one of the worst hotel experiences in my life.

The room had a stale air quality to it. Whatever. I'll grin and bear it, I thought. A few flies in the room? I swatted them. No other signs of bugs. We can bear it, I thought. Nicole fell asleep. I tried. I couldn't sleep. One hour went by. Then two hours. Then it was almost midnight. I started pacing. In doing so, Nicole woke up.

"What's wrong," she said.

"I can't sleep here. The air is just too bad." I could feel my nose stuffing up. My head was starting to ache. Something was rotten in the state of Maryland.

"Well it's almost midnight," she said. "We already paid to stay here."

"Well I'll just sleep outside!" I said grouchily.

I went outside, I took some deep breaths. Outside the hotel, I could hear that some people had their air conditioners running. That must be the secret. A.C.

I return. I turn the A.C. on. The air is a little bit better. Just a little, but enough such that I can breathe without feeling sick. I'm able to sleep for a few hours . . .

I wake up to the sound of power tools and metal banging up against metal. I hear engines revving. What the hell is going on? It's a quarter to six a.m. in the morning.

"He's been doing that all night," said Nicole. "I haven't been able to get back to sleep."

"Well, let's get the hell out of here," I say. We pack up and are out the door in 10 minutes. Once we leave, traffic is almost a nightmare. Why is it so busy at this hour? Before long, we see a diner on the other side of the road. We cross at a light and sit down to eat.

I look at Nicole. We're exhausted, ironically not from riding but trying to sleep.

"Yeah," I say. "That's never going to happen again."

Next stop: Baltimore . . .

Friday, October 22, 2010

Forget New York, Wilmington is where it's at!

October 10

Our view outside the window when we woke at the hostel.
We left Chamonix Mansion and headed southwest with optimistic hopes of reaching Baltimore. We rode through Philadelphia and into the suburbs when Nicole encountered another problem with her bike, courtesy of yesterday's "mechanic."

It doesn't shift right," she says. "I can't get into the small ring."

This isn't good. That's her hill-climbing ring. I try adjusting the tension on the front derailleur cable, but no matter which way I turn it doesn't seem to have any impact on the bike's ability to shift into the smallest ring. I loosen the pinch bolt by the actual derailleur and recoil in horror: It's frayed beyond belief. I loosen the pinch bolt and the cable looses all tension. That's not good. I tighten it as much as I can, but the cable is completely shot. I have no idea what this guy did to "fix" this derailleur. Nicole can see I'm frustrated.

"Don't worry about it," she says. "I'll just ride until we get to a bike shop--a real one this time."

I sigh. It makes sense, and I calm down a little bit. I physical move the chain onto the smallest ring in front. It's a band-aid solution, but it will work, and we need to take it easy on the bike to make sure that Nicole doesn't over-exert as she did in Maine.

Not far from the city limits of Philadelphia we see a sign that says Virginia to Baltimore bike route. Not bad. We start following them. The signs take us to a nice restaurant near Swarthmore where we decide to eat lunch. Then we resume riding. Then, for whatever reason, the signs disappear.

We find ourselves north of Chester, Pennsylvania, unsure of the best route to go. A good Samaritan tells us to head almost due west to get into Delaware. "It'll be much better for biking once you reach Delaware," he says. We follow his advice, and it takes us away from the previous scenery of slum row houses to giant, mile-and-a-half-long oil refineries on either side of the road.

I wonder if people could somehow harness the energy that is blowing this flag.
There's something disconcerting about an oil refinery, and the whole is more than the sum of its parts. Partly the odd chemical smells from the refining process, partly the way you can feel the temperature rise as you ride by and can see the flames burning. Add that to the utter barrenness of the landscape: All covered with pavement or gravel, no sign of trees or even grass. No visible signs of people either. It seems less earthly and more like what one would except to see should humans ever attempt to colonize the moon or Mars.

After about a mile and half, we see two (comparably) small vats of petroleum. We laugh. We're in Delaware! The small industrial substation is literally on the other side of the Pennsylvania state line.

We ride for another hour or so before we find the great city of Wilmington. And by great city, I mean a town that looks one step above a leftover Hollywood set from cheesy movie westerns. Downtown in almost complete desolate of human activity, save for a rollarblading teenage daredevil and his friends who are recording his activity for posting on youtube. I'm not sure if it's the nature of the stunts that is amusing or the mere fact that there are humans in Wilmington. As we keep pedaling, I expect to see tumbleweeds roll through town.

The one interesting street in Willmington.
That doesn't happen, but we do ride through some more row houses. We see what looks like a fight about to break out between some of Wilmington's youth. A crowd has assembled to watch and see. Thankfully, cooler heads prevail, one of the two arguing parties walks away, too much relief for all involved.

We keep riding. The sign of the city limits is almost tragically ironic.

"WILMINGTON" it reads in large print. "A place to be somebody."

Wow. Forget New York or L.A. Wilmington is where it's at. I mean, it worked for Joe Biden, right? I'll remain skeptical until that rollerblading kid has reached international stardom.

We keep riding until dusk where we see two hotels in the same parking lot. We debate over which one to go to.

"Well I want to go to this one," I say, pointing to the Holiday Inn. "This other one is scary."

The Holiday Inn has customers. The lights are brightly lit. In the back of the parking lot is another hotel that doesn't seem to have as many customers or even a name.

"Let's at least call," said Nicole. "Maybe the other one is cheaper.

Sure enough. I call the Holiday Inn and they charge $110 a night. The unnamed hotel in the back of the parking lot is $65. Not bad.

We retire for the night. Tomorrow, Maryland.

I left my shorts at Valley Forge

October 9th

I woke up feeling refreshed in my jacuzzi equipped hotel room feeling fine. I made some oatmeal with sugar and blueberries and packed up feeling fired up and ready to go.

This feeling did not last as I realized I was missing one pair of cycling shorts. I alert Nicole to this problem and after searching the room, we conclude that I left the shorts somewhere in Valley Forge park. Reluctantly, we decide to pedal back to where we ate dinner last night. We ride over the Schuylkill River but find no shorts.

Rats.
The famed Valley Forge where Washington's troops regrouped after a bitter defeat.

We ride over the Schuylkill River again and tour Valley Forge, where a haphazard Continental Army found refuge after defeat at Philadelphia. It's mostly rolling fields at the foot of Pennsylvania Appalachians. Around lunchtime, Nicole informs me that her ankle feels a little sore. I make an executive decision that we will ride on a nearby bike trail to Philadelphia and then cut through Delaware to ride through flatter terrain. There is also an REI on route where we can stock up on freeze dried meals.

REI is about halfway between Valley Forge and Philly. I go to the camping section while Nicole decides to have her front derailleur adjusted. It does not go well for Nicole.

"Your front derailleur is fine," the "mechanic" says. "Your just cross-chaining. Your bike should look like this."

I didn't witness the damage, but he also "fixed" the brakes. "They'll stop much better now," he said.

Within five minutes after leaving REI, Nicole realizes that her front brakes are grabbing the rim. Angrily, I kick a tree stump. I had to kick something. Then it takes me about one quarter of a second to get the brakes work properly. Ah, but the agony, the agony of getting my multi-tool for such a mundane adjustment. The agony.

I calm down once we start riding again and arrive in Philadelphia. We spot an Egret underneath a bridge on the outskirts of the city. Nicole gets some great photos before we pedal onward to Chamonix Mansion. Rest assured, it is no mansion but a hostel. We have the option of dorm-like accommodations for each of us for a grand total of $46, or an apartment room for $55. We opt for the apartment and unload our bikes, eager to enjoy one of the many fine restaurants of Philadelphia.

Our bikes feel dangerously fast as we ride to a nearby Mexican Restaurant. Without the extra gear, we average close to 17.5 miles per hour, about 50 percent faster than our loaded-down speed.

We return to the optimistically named "mansion." Tomorrow, the great state of Delaware . . .

Thursday, October 14, 2010

Our first morning in Pennsylvania

October 8th

We woke up in our cute little room just in time for breakfast. I was a bit fatigued as Nicole had given me some "decaffeinated" tea before bed last night and I'm sensitive to that stuff.

Nicole on the other hand feels refreshed and ready to go. She wonders why I look tired after sleeping on such a comfortable bed after spending the last two nights in cheep motels. I tell her about the tea.

"I'm sorry," she says, almost horrified.

"Don't worry about it," I say as we exit our "hideaway" and walk down two flights of stairs to the dining room.

"Oh, you must be the cyclists." Said the host. "I took me a while to recognize you without your cycling clothes on."

Breakfast is great. We start off with a fruit bowl with yogurt and granola--a great start for a long day of cycling. Then we were treated with some sort of egg, cheese and broccoli square.

We had loaded up our bikes and were ready to go when another couple approached us. Apparently the man in the relationship loves to ride his bike and wants his wife to go with him. She would love to go on a ride, but knows her hubby isn't going to stop for anything. They ask how we do it. We tell them that we do have a schedule in mind, and we try to strike the delicate balance of reaching our destination and still taking time to enjoy the scenery.

They smile and wish us well, and then we head out towards Norristown. We don't get to far from our starting point before we see something worth stopping for. There's an abandoned mill of some kind that someone tried to turn into a private residence. Most of it is just ruins--walls with no floor and no ceiling. The rest of it is for sale. I still think it's more of a fixer-upper than most people would have patience for.

We ride past some rural farmland before entering some very bland suburbs of Philadelphia. Everything looks the same until we reach the Schuylkill River. On the north side is a bike path. East is Philadelphia, west is historic Valley Forge. The plan is to skip Philly and head west along the Adventure Cycling route.


Old movie studio we rode past on the bike path. 
 By the time we get to Valley Forge, though, it's too dark to ride to the nearest campground. I think it's a good idea to pop up our tent at this piece of American history, but I can't seem to find a place that isn't frightening. There's bugs everywhere, and I don't want to get in trouble with some park ranger. Fortunately, there's a hotel on the other side of the river. We decide to stay there for the night.

It's quite a room. We've got a jacuzzi, to our surprise. I guess it's better than sleeping in mud.

Crossing the Delaware

October 7th.


Welcome to New Hope, PA.


"There's a farmer's market up ahead," says Nicole.

"I don't think it's going on today."
  <> 
So much to choose from, so little packing space.
  I look up from the road and I see the signs posted. Then I actually look behind the signs and see the actual food stands.

"Oh," I say. "There is a farmer's market.

We've got about 30 minutes of daylight left and I'm furiously searching my GPS to find something that is not a Bed and Breakfast. Quaint and convenient as they may be, $150 a night is not in our best interest right now. Option B is to ride back into New Jersey and head five miles north to get to a state park. Neither seems to appealing.

It's not the maltodextrin or the hydrogonated soybean oil
that your body craves. The stuff you like you can also pronounce.
The farmer's market, though, is a pleasant and worthwhile diversion. One of the farmer's has some hommade Cider Mint Elixir. Real mint, not something made in a lab. We each take a cup and can't resist some of her home-grown, hommade pastry. We take a Raspberry butter bar for the road. Before we leave, we also grab some Pennsylvannia apples and a mix of fresh tomatoes and somehow have room to cram into our panniers. And is if that wasn't enough, Nicole found some pumpkin bread that she couldn't resist.

After the market we ride onward, without much luck. New Hope is a quaint little town, and New Hopers like their quaint B & Bs. There was a Super 8, but the locals tell us that they went out of business years ago. I spot a local bike shop and stop by to see if I can get any information for cross-country cyclists.

"Can I help you?" asks the lone bike shop employee.

"Yes, do you know of any place that's less than a hundred dollars a night, or failing that, if we were to camp outside, would the police care?

He's a bit surprised by the question.

"Yeeeah" he says, a bit drawn out. "There's been a string of buglaries, so they probably would."

Rats.

"As for a place that's under a hundred dollars, I can check . . ."

He looks up the websites of the local B&Bs. "You might get an off-season rate," he says.

"Hmm, most of these places don't even advertise their prices."

The Lovely Wedgwood Inn.


It doesn't look promising, but after a few minutes of searching, he finds a place that has rooms discounted after Labor Day. What a relief!

It's the Wedgwood Inn, just a half mile down the road. We check in. The owner recognizes us from the farmer's market. It looks like we can look forward to fresh food tomorrow. The room is indeed adorable, a well-furnished cozy room on the top floor aptly named the Hideaway. We take this opportunity to enjoy our fresh tomatoes with one of our freeze-dried meals. And we waste no time to enjoy our Raspberry Butter Bar for dessert.

Free Breakfast tomorrow, then onward to Valley Forge . . .

Finally, we leave the I-95 section of New Jersey

October 7th.

Peadling through rustic New Jersey, about two miles from the Delware River and New Hope.

We wake up and ride back to the Adventure Cycling route. Not far from the hotel, we a see a park. We've only been riding for about 15 minutes, so now is an ideal time to start stretching. The park has about 15 picnic tables, a softball field, and a public restroom. We park our bicycles by one of the picnic tables and I walk towards the men's room. It's locked. I close my eyes and sigh. I walk back to Nicole and let her know that the bathrooms are off limits. That's too bad she says, and also lets us know that there aren't any trash receptacles either. I sigh again. We consume some cliff bars and I place the wrappers in the back pocket of my jersey for future disposal.

As we get ready to ride onwards, we see a stone monument with some American flags near the playing field. I take a closer look, only to find great disappointment. There is some copper plating on the stone, most of which is gone, most likely due to metal thieves who stole it for scrap value. I can't wait to leave New Jersey behind.

We ride for about two more hours until we reach downtown Somerville. A different feeling comes over us. Suddenly, it doesn't smell like diesel exhaust. The roads and sidwalks are clean and the buildlings look like an early Norman Rockwell painting from his years in Yonkers.

Roasted peppers, mozzarella, basil & olive oil
on focaccia bread for a Spanish-style sandwich.
We pull over and find a nice place to eat lunch. Pretty much everything on the menu is named after a famous writer, painter, or philospher. They've got a Socrates salad, A Hemingway wrap and a Salvador Dali sandwich. I go for the Dali, whereas Nicole goes for a more hearty Fra Angelico sandwich.

After Somerville, we reach the heart of rural New Jersey, which might as well the true heart of the state. Prior to I-95, New Jersey was nothing more than a few mid-sized cities such as Trenton and Princeton and pristine farmland. Where we are riding, much of the farmland is either active or has been purchased by the state to be preserved. The scenery is just breathtaking in it's beauty.  There are dozens of small streams, rolling fields and wild horses.




One of the many streams of southwest Jersey.
 Okay, actually, the horses aren't wild, but everything else is true. Even the manure smells good compared to diesel. It's a strange sensation.

It takes us a long time to ride through this part of the state as we are constantly taking photos. By the time we reach the Delware River, it's almost sundown. We walk over the bridge and into New Hope, Pennsylvania. Oddly enough, we are now a bit sad to bid New Jersey farewell . . .

Wednesday continued

October 6th afternoon.

We keep riding. We see a city park. "Well, it looks like Newark is getting less ugly," I say cheerfully. Then a sign: Welcome to Elizabeth, New Jersey.

It's funny. It shouldn't be, but we laugh. Elizabeth is also a shame, because Elizabeth is a pretty name, but city is somewhat run down and only slightly less littered than Newark. We still haven't escaped the omnipresent smell of diesel exhaust. That's New Jersey for you: New York's left armpit.

We ride past the Academy where Aaron Burr and Alexander Hamilton where educated. I'm impressed with the history and stop my bike. I tell Nicole that we should take a photo. She is unimpressed with the value of taking a photo of the academy because her biggest priority is finding a bathroom. There are signs that say the town library is straight ahead so we keep riding.

We go about a block and downtown just ends. Our route has us going westbound through what is clearly a residential neighborhood. There is a courthouse on the corner. I tell Nicole that the courthouse may be her best bet for bladder relief. She agrees and walks in where she is greeted by metal detectors. The security guard looks at her in surprise.

"I don't know if I went to the right place," says Nicole. "I just have to use a public restroom."

"Yeah, that's fine. Do you have any metal on you?"

Nicole lets him know that she's got metal cleats on her shoes and puts them on the belt. On the scanner, she could see the vague outline of her shoe with the cleats prominantly displayed. That was interesting.

We ride onward, but it's getting dark. We stop at a Motel 6 Piscataway.

Another day, another 40 or so miles traveled. Tomorow's goal: Pennsylvania.

Entering New Jersey

Ocotober 4th and 5th

"You put the spring in backwards," said the bike shop employee.

Oops. I've got egg on my face. The literally hundreds of times I've removed a quick release and put in back in properly matter for naught. Desperate to get of the George Washington Bridge, I paid a price for my hastiness.

Fancy $3,000 bike frames adorn the walls of Strictly Cycles.
No matter. Nicole and I take this opportunity to scout out this bike shop. They also have a full service coffee bar. We need GU and recovorite instead, so we stock up and bid farewell to Strictly Bicycles.

Nearby there is an Econolodge. I haven't heard back from my friend in Hoboken, so I figure we've got a cheep place to stay for the night. We check in. What do we see? Roaches on the wall. We'll pass on that one. We get our money back and head southward. As the sun goes down , it shines brightly on the New York City skyline. We get some great views of Manhattan.

As it gets darker, we also get hungrier and pull into a classic New Jersey Diner. How classic? They've got neon lights, chrome everywhere, and an Italian man in a jogging suit. Yep, it's New Jersey all right.

We ask the wait staff if there is a nearby hotel under a hundred dollars. They laugh.

"It's all at least hundred around here," says one waiter. "The best you can do is ask for a AAA discount."

It is true: New York is the city that never sleeps. 
Oy vey. We thank them and ride onward. It's nightfall, but the bright lights of Manhattan and some newly built plush condos on the Jersey side give us plenty of illumination. Eventually, we must head westward. Our GPS directs us to a Super 8 just west of Union City. It's a steep climb from sea level to the Palasades. Once we arrive at the hotel, we are a bit confused. It took us to the back door of the hotel, which is built literally on the other side of some steep, jagged rocks. We have to call the hotel just to get in the place, and they've got no elevators. We walk down three flights of stairs just to check in, only to walk back and ride around a network of darkened back streets just to get to our room.

I get hungry just looking at this photo.
Morning proves much nicer. It's bright and sunny today. We ride into downtown Jersey City and stumble into yet another farmer's market. We each have a danish. Nicole goes for cherry, I opt for blueberry. And we get get a half gallon of cider for the road.

We attempt to ride onwards to Newark where we can link up with the Adventure Cycling route for the first time since restarting the journey. Everything looks fine until we see massive, imposing bridges in every direction. We pull over and deliberate. What's next?

A good sumaritan pulls over on a U.S. Postal Service Trek Madone.

"Where are you headed?" he asks.

"Key West," I say.

"Ah, that sounds like fun." A brief pause.

"Where is your immediate destination?"

"We're looking to head towards Newark," I say.

"Yeah, that bridge is the only way, but I'm not sure you'd want to ride on it."

There isn't any pedesatrian or bicycle path on the bridge. We would have to ride with heavy traffic. It's nearly a mile and half long over the meadowlands of New Jersey. He's never done it, he says, and he recommends we just take the PATH.

"There's a station in Jersey City," he says, "do you know where that is."

"Yeah," says Nicole, "We were just there."

"That's the best way to do it," he says. "If you take the PATH, it's only 10 minutes to Newark."

We thank him for his advice and head back towards downtown Jersey City. Nicole is confused.

"Where was the PATH," she asks me. "I didn't see it."

"There were signs for it," I say. "It was right next to were we ate breakfast."

"Okay."

Nicole is still skeptical, and rightfully so. For whatever reason, New Jersey decided to call it's rail service the PATH. I'm familiar with it. Nicole isn't. She's wondering where the bike path is. I tell her there isn't one.

"Then where are we going?"

"There's a train station right next to the farmer's market."

"That's the PATH?"

It's a bit regretfull that we have to ride another train, but I'd rather do that than risk my life. It sounds like a fair bargain to me. Once we get to the station, it's an adventure to get our bikes through the turnstiles. I'm able to lift Nicole's bike over the gate, but my bike is loaded with just to much gear. I have to take all 35 pounds of tent, sleeping bag and panniers off the bike, hand it to Nicole on the other side of the turnstile, and then hand my bike over to her.

I put my card through the turnstile. It takes the card. Then it doesn't turn.

"Oh well," I say as I jump the turnstile.

"They can't compain; I paid for it!"

We get on the train and ride into Newark's Penn Station. As soon we get off the rail car, we notice that the station smells like a toilet that hasn't been flushed in weeks. The air quality only improves slightly once we leave the station.

Once we enter the streets of Newark, I quickly come to the conclusion that this is the most disgusting place I will ever see in my life. I feel confident in projecting this into the future. It's just incredibly ugly. We ride through what looks like the warehouse district of the damned. Buildings with now windows are always creepy, but these buildings with now windows are extra creepy. Outside of the buildings is a hot dog vender on the sidewalk, and by the looks of him I feel like he's going to stab me in the throat.

The residential district isn't much relief. The houses are just as ugly. The just look wrong. The row houses don't look quaint, they just look ugly. So do the duplexes. And the single family homes. It's  beyond hideous. Sometimes it's easy to describe how bad things are, but I think the hideousness of Newark  truly descends the utility of the English language.

I also understand Newark mayor Cory Booker left a successful career in the private sector in order to help the city. I suggest that virtually every standing structure in the city be completely demolished and rebuilt in the interest of aesthetics. It really is the only way.

And the really sad things is, all the people we interacted with in that town were kind of nice.

Such a shame.

Sunday, October 10, 2010

New York City on a bicycle

October 4th.

"Check out my cooking set," I say to Monkey as I open my pannier, which is suddenly filled with oatmeal.

Oops. The box lid fell off. Now I'm short breakfast food.

Not to worry. Monkey takes us to the supermarket where he works so we can stock up on supplies. We also have the privilidge of meeting Sam the baker and he's got donut holes for sample. Nicole and I each grab one, pick up some fresh produce, all in one soap and a new box of oatmeal and we are on our way. We bid farewell to Monkey and head out towards New York State.

Kevin feels the need to flout his mascunlinty crossing a state line on bicycle.
Shortly after we cross the state line it starts to rain. No problem. We take Metro North into the city. When we arrive at Grand Central we take an elavotor. Instead of letters there are bizzare acronyms that make no intuitive sense. We see PH with a star next to it and figure that's the ticket. It takes us to "The Apartment," a ridiculously upscale restaurant. From a window we can see the Grand Concourse. We've seen it before, so we shrug and head out towards the streets of New York.

With Broadway closed to traffic we can actually enjoy
Times Square without being hit by a car.
We ride through Times Square and then north into Central Park. The weather is gray, it drizzles on and off, but somehow everything appears beautiful. A bicycle is just the right pace for exploring the massive Central Park. We can cover so much ground so easily that the inherent beauty of the landsapce is overwhelming. We ride past the reservoir, past the Gugenheim, all the way to 97th street. Unfortunately, all but the main roads are closed to bicycles, so we have to do some periodic walking to get around when we see something of interest.

A barge floats south towards New York Harbor and beyond.
Afterwards in onto to Fort Washington Park. The George Washington Bridge is nearly five miles away. Then four miles, than three miles, until we finally reach the Little Red Lighthouse at the foot of the bridge. We get off the bikes and look northward with childlike wonder. It's cloudy and foggy, but majestically beautiful at the same time. Virtually all of the immediate landscape of the banks of the Hudson are the same as when the first European explorers set eyes on them over 400 hundred years ago. Its beatiful.

But beauty cannot last. From the foot of the bridge, we have to climb nearly 150 vertical feet just to reach Washington Heights and another 40 minutes of confusion just to find the pedestrian overpass. Once we actually get on the bridge, Nicole is terrified that the bridge will collapse or a gust of wind will blow her off the bridge. I reassure her that none of this will happen. Her fears dissipate as we resume riding. Although the skyline is hazy, we are able to make out the outline of the Statue of Liberty far away in the distance.

Gotta smile in the face of adversity.
We feel a sense of accomplishment as we roll onto the New Jersey side. This is quickly overshadowed by a sinking feeling as I feel the air escape from my rear tire. I get off the bike. I rain over a screw. It's lodged so deeply in the tire that I literally need to unscrew it. I quickly change the tube with relative ease and use duct tape to mark where the hole was. Once I get the tire and tube back on the wheel I have some trouble getting the darn thing back in the dropout.

Welcome to New Jersey . . .

Saturday, October 9, 2010

Recovery with Monkey

We leave the luxurious Walsh Hotel at 8 am and head north to Hamden too have breakfast with my grandmother. She's excited to see us, as we are to see here, but Nicole needs to doze off for about 45 minutes.

Last night was a late night, of which it was worth it, and we need to recover physically and make up for lost time as well. Somewhat regrettably , that means relying on Metro-North. As we ride into Union Station, it's start to rain. We pull over and put on our neoprene shoe covers. Just like that, the rain let's up. Much like bringing an umbrella so it won't rain at the picnic, the shoe covers work as intended.

Our plan is to ride into Greenwich, meet up with old friend David "Monkey" Bruno-- alifelong Greenwich resident and college pal. What can I say about Monkey? Put it this way: He responds to Monkey. If you call him David, he'll smile and say, "call me Monkey--everybody does!"

Monkey tells me these bathrooms at  the
Greenwhich train station are NEVER open. 
We arrive in Greenwich around lunch time. We see a restaurant sign across the street that says, "Pizza." Hungry, we walk in and sit down. The waitress hands us each a menu and give us time to look it over. We look at it. No pizza.  The waitress returns.

"How are you doing," she asks?
"Do you have pizza?" says Nicole.

The poor woman appears frightened by the question. Yes we do, she says as she composes herself. We have two sizes, small and large.

No medium. Oh boy. We go for a large pizza and a salad.

Upon serving, it's pretty clear that the salad came right out of a bag, but at least the pizza was made right in the kitchen.  It's Greek pizza. Greeks often claim that
a) Their pizzas predate Italian and
b) Their pizzas taste better than Italian..

Hey, the Italians didn't invent the noodle, but they certainly found ways to serve it better than anybody else. The same probably holds true for pizza. Regardless of who was first, a traditional Italian pizza is more evenly balanced than its Greek counterpart, which is cooked at a higher temperature for crunchier crust but less hot sauce in the middle.

Either is vastly better than Domino's. Off course. and today's pie is a welcome treat for weary traveler's.

After lunch, we had over to see Monkey. He is elated to see us. He is happy to host, and we are all happy to reminisnce and talk about our more recent wheelings and deelings as well. He also has cookies, baked exclusively at the grocery store where he works. Another welcome treat for weary traveler's!

I do marvel at the fact that Monkey Bruno entered the family business after leaving Mitchell College (His grandfather once owned Bruno's Groceries in Greenwich).

We talk, and talk. Soon it's late and we're all to exhuasted to keep talking. We set to sleep.

Today, Greenwich. Tomorrow, New York City!

Monday, October 4, 2010

We resume riding at last.

Oct. 3, 2010

Shuttle Meadow Reservoir in Plainville glistens in the mid-afternoon sun.
We departed from the Jeff Manzone residence of Newington and headed south towards New Haven.

In a strange but satisfying way, I'm relieved because I can attend an Out of Darkness anti-suicide fundraiser on the one year anniversary of the very untimely passing of everyonés good friend, Mike Altieri. We had to cut our route short, but I think it's  for the better.

We ride west from Fisk Street towards New Britain. There are a few unpleasant hills climb until we reach Shuttle Meadow Reservoir at the New Britain/Plainville town line. Nicole and I stop briefly for a cliff bar lunch and enjoy the rustic view before getting back on our bikes and coasting down a steep descent towards Plantstville.

Nicole  shows off her new shoes and flexibility.


We cross a few bizarre bow-tie intersections before we find relief at a section of the Farmington Valley Greenway. It's a portion of the New Haven-Northampton Railroad that we haven't seen before and it's instant relief. No more hills, no more traffic, no more crazy intersections. Perfect.

Just when we think we will reach New Haven in decent time, we see people lined up along the road, blocking us from crossing the street. Uh oh. Then we see why: It's some sort of Harvest Day parade! It wouldn't be a trip across America without a parade of some kind, but Nicole and I have no idea how long this parade stretches. I  have to think fast. I see a break in the action and we boldly make our move.

"Excuse us," I say, as Nicole and I weave through the crowd. "Excuse us, where on our way to Florida on bikes!"
An old rail depot outside of "Downtown" Plantstville, Connecticut.

The crowd lets us pass and we are back on our way. The trail ends in Milldale, so we hop on to Route 10 until we are halfway through Cheshire and the trail begins again. Except for a very unpleasant interruption due to trail repaving near Quinnipiac University, we ride the trail into Hamden and towards New Haven.

Right behind the Stop and Shop near the Hamden/New Haven line, we get a real wildlife surprise. We see what looks like a large dog on the side of the bike path. As we get closer, we see it's a baby deer!

Of course, we can't get the camera out in time to get a good photo. The deer hides in the woods, and Nicole and I try to capture it on camera as best we can. I try to walk closer and take a shot. The flash goes off. The deer is scared and prances away. What a sight!

Our feline friend is less exotic than the nearby baby dear.
We ride into New Haven and eat Ivy Noodle, a longtime favorite of Nicole and mine. Later, we meet up with James Walsh and his friend, Dan, before we all head out to Bogart Humphrey's.

Why the inverted name? Beats me. But this was Mike's choice to sing karaoke every Thursday night. Tonight a Beatles tribute band electrifies the crowd in a convulsion of emotions. The biggest cheer of the night is for the cause, when we discover that we've raised $1400 for the cause, so Mike's close friends can continue to spread the word that no fleeting moment of shame is worth forgetting how much other people love you and forgive you .
Beacuse, a Beatles tribute band, rips through another favorite tune.

At this point it's late. James Walsh invites us to stay at his place, and we enjoy a nice night in New Haven's East Rock neighborhood.

38 miles. Tomorrow we head west towards New York State . . .

Sunday, October 3, 2010

Primary Care physician visit

While we rested Nicole's ankle, we were able
to continue our October tradition.
"It's fine," he says as runs his right hand over Nicole's tendon. "There's no damage that I can see."

I can't believe my ears. The pessimist in me fully expects to hear the worst. Four days of rest, ice, and ibuprofen have paid off. Dr. Krumeich explains:

"The Achilles tendon is like a Nylon chord. That never fails. When somebody does tear a tendon, it's almost always at the joint, where it connects to the bone. In your  case, that's fine."

The source of Nicole's agitation, he determined, was a side to side lateral motion. He suggests an old-lady style compression sock as a preventative measure. We're excited. Can we start out again, slowly?

He says yes.

We thank him for expertise and burst out of the doctor's office. The trip shall continue!