Category: Bike Touring

Sunday morning I got off to a very late start. I had an unexpected reaction to the niacin I take for my low HDL count. For about an hour and a half I didn’t feel well enough to ride. So while most of the other folks pulled out about 8:00 AM or so, I didn’t get underway until 10:00. I was joined by JAGraham, a Bike Forums poster who was riding parts of the trail with us. We rode to Dravo Cemetery, the free campsite six miles south of Boston. I had considered going there the night before instead of staying at the Yough Shore Inn, since I’d done that back in August 2008. My bonking and muscle cramps deterred me from attempting the additional miles, and my decision was a prudent one all things considered.

I knew from a discussion with the organizer that we were to meet another member of our group that morning at Dravo, but I figured he’d have been picked up when the main group went through a couple of hours before. Imagine our surprise to find Chuck sitting on a bench waiting for the group. I was startled that the group would blow past someone they knew was meeting them. 

As I said goodbye to JAGraham, who was riding back to her car at Boston, I turned to Chuck and suggested he might be able to catch the main group if he dropped the hammer. He said he wanted to ride with me instead. I warned him I’m only marginally faster than a glacier, but he said he remembered my riding and could keep ‘down’ with me. 

I’d met Chuck on my previous trip – he and Spinnaker had ridden with me for about 30 miles on the Montour Trail in August. Chuck is behind Spinnaker in this photo, riding his self-built bike – that’s the Nashbar touring frame, incidentally. 



We headed out to the trail from Dravo, after I visited the adjoining cemetery for photos. 



We stopped in West Newton, a town about 15 miles from Boston, for lunch. While there we saw a sign advertising the Movable Wall, a touring half-size replica of the Vietnam Veteran’s Memorial in Washington, DC. After getting directions from a resident and discovering the display was only a mile away, we set off for it. After some fearsome hills and lots of motorcycle traffic we came to the park with the Wall:





Once back on the trail I had as good a time riding with others as I’d ever had. Chuck and I had many of the same interests, read the same books, and possessed the same ‘gift of gab.’ We stopped at every historical marker, even ones I’d read on my two previous trips. At one of them Chuck and I discussed wild edible plants, and he went foraging on the banks of the Yough. He came back empty handed, however.





At Cedar Creek Park, south of Boston, JAGraham took my trailer from me. While I could have pulled it, I was still very worn out from the previous day and the problem with medication that morning. The ‘side effect’ this caused made me better able to keep up with Chuck. 

We arrived at our campsite, River’s Edge in Adelaide, about 5:00 PM, three hours after the others. I set up my camp, went swimming in the pool, and received a campsite cooking lesson from JAGraham. In the second photo, that’s my MSR Pocket Rocket and pot on the left. The pizza and beer were another camper’s. 



I crawled into my tent about 9:00 PM, as the bugs began to bite.

At 9:00 AM the trip to DC began. Riders gathered at the starting point. In this photo, second from the right is Spinnaker, the ride organizer. 



We headed down a steep hill about a mile to the trailhead, and we were chugging along the Montour Trail. I wasn’t maintaining as fast a pace as last August, and I chided myself for not spending more time preparing. In particular I needed to do some riding with a full touring load. Well, I’ll have to ride myself into shape, I thought. 

We paused for photos at Imperial and to regroup. Spinnaker’s plan was to keep everyone together for the first day to make sure all riders successfully navigated the detours on the trail. The riders with their backs to the camera are Bike Forums posters “Robow” and “Joel2old.”



“VT_Speed_TR” and his rig.



The policy of regrouping every few miles continued, with mixed results. I felt too much time was being spent on rest stops. While I frequently need to dismount, I keep the time spent to the minimum. At one point I apparently misinterpreted a cue from another rider and took off before the rest of the group. This did give me the advantage of being able to spend time at McDonald Trestle, one of the most scenic spots on the trail. And I could photograph riders crossing it. In the photo below, ALHanson is in the lead, followed by Joel2Old.



Bike Forums poster JAGraham was running SAG on a limited basis for us, and she provided drinks and snacks about 25 miles out. At 32 miles Bike Forums poster and Montour Trail advocate “DonMccarty” provided hot dogs, soda, and water. In the photo here, Robow takes a red-hot from DonMccarty.



By now I was starting to have physical problems. Standing around for what seemed to be forever was causing my muscles to start stiffening up. I had my first attack of cramps a couple of miles from the ‘hot dog stand.’ I stretched the legs and moved on.

The detours around the unfinished sections of the Montour are difficult. In August last year DonMccarty transported me around them. This year I had to ride them, and walk portions of them. 

As we reached the on-road portion of the trail along Piney Creek the trail leveled out, and I plugged along in the afternoon heat. From trying to keep up with the group I was neglecting hydration – I didn’t want to stop to drink. Even the sole remaining extended stop I had – providing a spare tube to a novice riding with us – I didn’t take the opportunity to drink. 

Eventually we reached the trail end and picked up the on-road Steel Valley Trail in Clairton. VT_Speed_TR and Joel2Old contemplate the plant across the road.



My second, and more or less continuous, attack of cramps took place about six miles from Boston, our night stop. First it was the inner thighs. Then after that subsided it was the quads. Then my left hamstring. I drained what was left of my water and swallowed a potassium tablet from another rider, and plugged on. The cramping was completely avoidable – at the risk of delaying the group I should have peeled off to any of the stores in Clairton or Glassport and purchased Gatorade, or indeed any drink. Unfortunately I was suffering from the belief I needed to match other riders, and I turned what could have been a pleasant echo of my August 2008 tour on the same trails into a death march. 

I arrived at the Yough Shore Inn about 20 minutes after the last rider. I drank, showered, drank again, arranged to rent a room instead of camping as planned, drank some more, and joined the group for a nice dinner at a place across the river. I fell asleep about midnight.

Early in 2009, Bike Forums member Spinnaker proposed a tour for Bike Forums posters on the Montour Trail, Great Allegheny Passage, and C & O Canal Towpath. The three trails cover 380 miles from north and west of Pittsburgh, PA, and Washington, DC. I and several other posters signed up to what promised to be an exciting, taxing, but satisfying trip. Having done the trails twice in 2008, I felt confident I could ride them again, and looked forward to riding in a group on tour for the first time. 

I also felt confident in my level of training for the ride. I’d done rides of varying length and difficulty in the weeks leading up to the tour, including a 52 mile trip into Philadelphia and back. While none of these rides were pulling a full trailer, or indeed much of a load at all, I felt I was at least as well prepared as I had been in August 2008 when I’d ridden the trails ten weeks after crashing and fracturing a rib. 

Finally the day came. Or more properly, the days before came. One of the group riders, “VT_Speed_TR”, arrived at my home on the evening of the 11th. He spent the night and we departed early the next morning for DC, where we were to meet “ALHanson” and drive to Pittsburgh in a rental vehicle. 

The trip to DC was uneventful, aside from my being talkative from lack of sleep. (I work second shift, and it takes a day or two for me to adjust to a ‘normal’ daytime life.) We arrived in Georgetown to drop off VT’s car, and awaited the arrival of AL.

We had our first surprise of the tour. Car rental companies weren’t keen on a one-way rental to the land of the Three Rivers, so the full-sized SUV turned out to be smaller than anyone expected. It was a tight fit to get all of us and our gear in, but we made it work:



Once we were moving, the hours sped by. AL and VT were good talkers when I let them speak. We reached Pittsburgh about 5:00 PM, unpacked, arranged for the return of the rental car, and soon were setting down to dinner with our host and ride organizer “Spinnaker” and other tour riders. From left to right, Bike Forums posters “Robow”, VT_Speed_TR”, “Twodeadpoets”, “Spinnaker” (obscured by Wes, riding with us the first day) and “ALHanson.”



After dinner it was back to Spinnaker’s to see the final game of the Stanley Cup contest between Detroit and Pittsburgh, and then bed on the floor in the living room. b

Final thoughts…..

I arrived home at 5:00 in the evening on Sunday. Monday I went back to work. This plan was a mistake; I should have taken a day to decompress, so to speak, before returning to the real world.

And there was so much ‘real world’ to catch up on. 300 emails, piles of mail and magazines, projects at work and home….. I needed to reorient myself to even ‘normal’ activities. Driving felt odd for about a minute when I got behind the wheel for the first time in more than two weeks, for instance. And it felt really strange to wear pants – I missed living in shorts while on tour.

As for the tour itself, there are several things I’ll do differently next time:

– bring less and lighter gear. It’s time I start considering lighter stuff. While my tent and sleeping bag aren’t that heavy, I could invest in lighter items that pack smaller.

– bring a lighter rider. My weight was a drag in every sense of the word. Had I been closer to my low of 242 from July 2007 I’d have had a more comfortable ride and have been faster.

– spend more time training. I didn’t do any overnight tours before I left for “the big one.” I had saddle problems that could have been avoided or lessened had I known of them before I set out.

– spend more time on the road. With the sun setting as late as it did, I had plenty of time to get to a campsite or hotel. No need to hurry, too much to see.

– plan more carefully. The final day in particular was plotted too carelessly. What did I think by going through Wilmington? Heading straight north would have been hillier perhaps, but shorter and more scenic. And my miscalculation of the mileage for the final day was a mistake five minutes thought should have revealed.

– cook at the campsite more often. I only cooked twice on tour. Had I done more of it I’d have spent less on food. After all, why am I lugging around the stove and pot if I’m not cooking?

That said, even flawed as my planning and execution were, I had a great time, and I look forward to my next ride or tour in Delmarva.

Sunday morning I lingered a little when packing my campsite. This was the last time I’d pack up this trip. As I rolled out of the campsite I headed to the pond the park is named for. I’d seen Nature up close for much of this trip, and I was entering the most densely populated part of Delaware. Standing on the boat landing at Lums Pond was a “goodbye”, or more accurately “till we meet again.” The waves lapped at the edges of my cycling shoes.

Then off to breakfast in the last small town I’d see this trip. I had French toast at Kildare’s general store/post office as folks on the their way to and from church stopped in. I didn’t know which of us was more uncomfortable in the early morning heat, me in my Lycra or the churchgoers in their suits and dresses.

Traffic was light as I turned right onto a road that took me to Rt. 9. I rode across highway ramps without stopping and without fear. Once I reached Rt. 9 I was near Delaware City, which it seems is nothing but a collection of refineries. I rode through one, thinking this was a scene only Ayn Rand could love.

As I climbed a hill four miles out of New Castle, I felt the rear of the bike become unstable. I had my first flat on the rear. A couple of roadies out for a spin warned me about the large amount of glass on the shoulder from here into town. I finished changing the tube and kept an eagle-eye out for glass the rest of the trip.

On reaching New Castle, I headed for Battery Park, where I ate, drank, and rested until the greenflies discovered my presence. From there I headed back to Rt. 9, passing through The Strand, the historic district. It was in this area that William Penn landed in 1682 when he came to inspect his colonial holdings. (Delaware was part of Penn’s land grant from the King; while he chose to found his “green country town” Philadelphia up the river, its at New Castle he first set foot in the New World.)

Then it was off to Wilmington, Delaware’s biggest city, a scant five miles up the road. After riding through some busy traffic I reached the town at 1:00 PM. Here’s my bike in the downtown historic district, surrounded by banks and financial services companies. Delaware’s favorable banking laws and location close to DC and New York make Wilmington a favorite place to incorporate or have an office. In fact, there are so many banks in Wilmington the city should be renamed WilmingTARP. Note the church overshadowed by the HSBC building in the second photo below.

By two I had reached the outskirts of Wilmington. I was to meet my friend Dennis at 3:00 at the PA border, another ten miles or so. I plodded on through increasingly hilly terrain. As I neared the border, Dennis arrived early, and not finding me began to travel south to meet me. I decided the three or so miles additional were meaningless, and not wanting Dennis to have to search for me, I stopped at the entrance to Winterthur, the former Du Pont mansion, now a museum and garden. In a few minutes Dennis arrived and my tour came to an end.

I took the luxury of a motel room, even a 40 dollar a night motel room, as an excuse to sleep later than normal. I was on the road by 8:30, and stopped at a truck stop in Felton for breakfast. I soon discovered my fast wasn’t the only thing broken, for two miles down the road I pulled into a gas station to fix a broken spoke. The spoke wasn’t on the drive side, so I thought it would be easy to fix it with my fiberspoke and limp into Dover, 8 or so miles on, for a professional repair.

However, my inexperience showed itself again. I made a mess of retruing the wheel. After two attempts and two failures, I decided I’d have better luck thumbing a ride to Dover. A few minutes on Rt. 13 brought me a lift to Delaware’s capitol. Tony’s Bike Shop on Rt. 13 managed to replace the spoke and true the wheel once I made them understand I was on a bike tour and couldn’t wait three days, and by noon I was rolling again.

While crossing the city I took a whim and headed into the historic district. I was rewarded with touring serendipity when I discovered an African-American festival in full roar on Legislative Square.

I rode round the square a few times, and walked around listening to the band and enjoying the sight of the city center alive with people. I pulled up to a stand advertising “Best Soul Food in the World” and ordered some sweet potatoes.

“Where are you coming from?” the fellow behind the counter asked as he handed me my food.

“I started in Pittsburgh on the 13th. I should be home near Philadelphia on Sunday.” It was a familiar question, one I’d answered many times over the past two weeks. But I’d never received the reaction I did here, which was stunned silence and blank looks. In the awkward silence I thanked him for my food and turned to leave. As I left I heard one of the servers say to another “That guy, he’s da man.” The trip to Dover was worth it for just that remark.

I pedaled across Dover to pick up the Delaware Bike Route 1 – and the only one – north. The trip was pretty, but the road was poorly signed. I got off course just after taking this photo at one of Delaware’s many millponds:

My misdirection led me back to Rt. 13. Not wanting to waste more time crossing back to the bike route when Rt. 13 led me to the same place, I turned north on it into Smyrna, turning off on Rt. 71 into Middletown. Pity this place was closed when I reached it.

I was keeping an eye on the skies. Would The Historian escape a soaking? The clouds gathered overhead.

I stopped at the Middletown Academy to rest for a few minutes. My trip north had become gradually more and more rolling, and I found the climbing tiring. Also the continuous traffic wore me down. There’s something to be said for trails after all.

But I then pushed on, and soon enough reached the Chesapeake and Delaware Canal, a shipping ditch across the Delmarva region linking the Bay and the Delaware River. Here I was almost stopped.

Ride on the shoulder or walk through the construction area? I turned and saw a fire engine take up half the shoulder climbing the bridge, and began to walk the mile or so of milled pavement. With the thought I might spend the night in a Delaware jail for trespassing, I stopped and took a photo at the top of the bridge:

Once on the other side, I remounted and pushed my tired legs to my night stop, Lums Pond State Park. I set up, showered, and settled in for the night as I listened to the neighboring “campers” argue in their home on wheels. The one drawback to the campsite was the enormous number of kids around. I overheard one of the fathers warn his son about “telling if anything funny happens” when he was in the restroom. The concerned dad was looking at me in my Lycra as he said this, and all I could think of was “If he only knew the truth.” I have a horror of paedophilia because I can’t understand why anyone WANTS to spend time with children. Where is Herod when I need him, I thought, as I went to sleep.

June 26 – A day with little to say

“Every day is a winding road” as Ms. Crowe put it, but that winding road sometimes isn’t an exciting one. Such was today. I left Cape Henlopen headed Northwest about 40 or so miles to camp. I failed to secure a reservation and Killan’s Pond State Park had no available camping spaces. So instead I secured a cheap motel in nearby Felton.

The weather was unremarkable – 90 degrees with a slight headwind. I had no anatomical or mechanical problems – knees and butt were fine, and the bike and tires functioned as they should. I passed through two “Mill” towns, Milton and Millford, without any trouble and in good time. I lingered in the historic district in downtown Milton.

I did get lost a couple of times, and in one instance a wrong turn led me a couple of miles through Redden State Forest. This wouldn’t have been so bad except that the greenflies thought dinner was served every time I stopped, and they didn’t find clothing much of a challenge to bite through. But other than that, the day was pretty ordinary. Which was fine with me, for I’d had some adventure already, and I no doubt would have more in the next few days.

I arrived at my motel by 6:00 PM, and spent the night in my room catching up on laundry, charging my cell phone, and reestablishing contact with the ‘real’ world. Considering most of the alleged ‘real’ world was rehashing the death of Michael Jackson, the King of Pop and Perversion, I considered myself lucky I had two more days of unreality. I fell asleep early to the sound of the air conditioner.

I arose early and was on the road by 8:30. My host had prepared a detailed route to Lewes, then looping north to Killan’s Pond State Park, but I changed plans once again and decided to camp at Cape Henlopen just outside of Delaware’s oldest town. I rode through more of Delaware’s agricultural area on a morning that was humid well before noon. At one point I thought I got lost, and a couple of roadies out for a ride pulled over to help me out with directions. As we sweated and said goodbyes, they saw a combine come down the road followed by a line of cars. “Hey, let’s draft the combine” one said to another, and they jumped on, clicked in, and pulled in behind the combine and ahead of the first car. “Delaware cyclists are tough” I thought as I headed towards Lewes.

Once I crossed to town, I turned right on the road leading to the ferry terminal. I passed on it and its promised trip to Cape May, New Jersey and headed to Cape Henlopen State Park. They managed to find a tent site for me, I gritted my teeth and paid the 32 bucks they required for an out of state resident, and I had a place to stay. I rode around the park on the extensive bike trail, visited the WWII era Fort Miles, and had lunch.

The park’s Scenic Overlook stands above the Great Dune, the largest such formation between New England and North Carolina. Another tourist took my photo with the Dune a striking backdrop.

I decided to finally put my swimsuit to use this trip and parked at the Point Comfort Station, changed, and went into the surf. While going into the water was a treat, I should have chosen a different beach. The surf is very strong on the ocean side of the Cape, and the undertow was fierce. I was sucked under the water several times, the first time with a current so strong it pulled my swimsuit to my ankles. Swimming was out of the question, and my bodysurfing had mixed results. And getting pounded by the surf isn’t the kindest treatment a curved spine and rickety joints can receive. I left after about a half hour and a half glass of seawater.

Sitting on the ferry terminal with the retirees watching the boat come in was considerably more relaxing. I was tempted to take the ferry to Cape May and back, but I couldn’t afford the three hours time. Another day, definitely.

Once I was rolling to the town of Lewes proper, I noticed my front tire felt spongy again. I determined to find the town’s bike shop while I was out. Before then, I stopped at the Zwaanendael Museum, devoted to the history of Lewes from the initial Dutch settlement of 1631 to the present. As the elderly docent at the museum explained to me, in 1931 the city decided to pay tribute to Delaware’s Dutch heritage, and so they constructed a replica of a town hall in The Netherlands. “We had many men out of work at that time,” she told me, “and it seemed a good way to get folks doing something and honor Delaware’s history as well. It was my generation’s version of a stimulus package.”

After more exploring, I came to the bike shop, Ocean Cycles. It was a little place that catered to day visitors wanting to rent beach cruisers. I parked my bike and trailer amid the cruisers and walked in.

“Hi, I’m having a problem with my front tire. I wonder if you can take a look at it?”

A short chubby guy looked up from filling out a rental form. “What’s the matter?”

“I’ve had two tubes go soft in two days. I’m wondering if there’s a problem with the tire.”

“You want us to replace it?”

“No, it’s a brand new tire. I just want a professional to look at it.”

The man called out to his mechanic in the back and returned to his forms. I brought the wheel back and explained what was going on. He checked it, found nothing wrong with the tube or tire, and suggested we replace the tube anyway. I agreed, and the old tube went in the trash.

While this was going on we talked about touring.

“I did a tour recently, going from North Philly to Key West. I rode my Huffy with all my gear in a backpack and slept behind 7-11s.”

“Weren’t you afraid of being arrested?”

“Nah, but the cops made me move a few times. I didn’t make it to Key West though.”

I then watched, stunned, as the mechanic tried to put a Schraeder tube into my wheel. The man behind the counter had come back stopped him. “No, it’s one of those with the long stem.”

“Oh, one of those.”

The mechanic then put the new tube in, placed the tire on the wheel, and carefully installed the wheel back on the fork. Once it was on, he tried to inflate the tire, but couldn’t get the pump attached to the valve stem properly. So the man behind the counter used a monkey wrench to yank the stem out further so he could get a tight fit. The tire was fully inflated, but no sooner did I get to the counter to pay for the ‘service’ than we heard the expected gunshot report. I wound up replacing the tube myself in a few minutes and getting the tire inflated with my Road Morph. The cost had only been 25 bucks for the ‘service’ provided by the shop, the cost of a new tube, and about 50 minutes of my day.

I’m still asking myself if this was a case of an incompetent, badly run shop or a good one getting even with a difficult customer. I don’t think I was at all rude, demanding, or difficult. Even if they were upset I didn’t buy a new tire from them, there’s no need to treat a cyclist like that. As for the mechanic who never got to Key West, somehow I suspect he never got further south than Lewes, Delaware.

After dinner and ice cream helped take the sting out of the bad experience at the bike shop, I headed back to camp to set up my tent and unhook the trailer. I was the only cycletourist there.

Once the trailer was unhooked I rode through the park again, soaking in everything. One of the WWII observation towers was open to visitors, and so I climbed up the circular stairwell 89 feet and took photos from the top. Fort Miles lay below.

And somewhere on the other side of the Atlantic was Europe:

The sun was setting fast, so I climbed down the tower steps, headed back to camp, and settled in for the night.

Once again I was blessed with a sunny morning. I had breakfast, loaded up the bike, thanked my Warm Showers hosts for the food, lodging, and companionship, and headed out.

The first stop was a few blocks away, the Delmar post office. You may notice atop my rear rack a box containing excess gear I was mailing home. I arrived prior to the office’s opening, and spent a few minutes exploring the surrounding blocks. I’m glad I did, since it allowed me to see the town’s caboose:

Once I had my package mailed, I headed east on Main Street, which is also Rt 54. The road straddles the Mason-Dixon line, so I guess I was in Maryland at this point. I crossed the road and state line just outside Delmar for more fluids, although to judge from the first photo above I appeared to be doing well with them. (I had been constantly hydrating this trip, and by now I was appearing very bloated. My shorts and jersey barely fit that morning.)

Back on Rt. 54, I rode past my planned turnoff. Once I discovered the error, I pulled over and consulted Delaware’s wonderful bike maps and found an alternate road that would take me north into the First State to Rt. 24. After I put away the map, I discovered a sponginess in my front tire. It wasn’t flat, but it felt low. I pumped it up and went on.

I turned off Rt. 54 onto my planned route, and followed it north. A check a few minutes later showed the front tire softer again, so I found a stretch of road with a nice fence to prop the bike up against and set about changing the tube. During the 25 minutes I was there I saw one car go past, so quiet was this road on a weekday morning.

Again rolling, I reached Rt. 24 after passing through some lush farmland and spending a minute at Bethany Church. The historical marker outside indicated the church construction had been partially financed by department store pioneer John Wanamaker, one of a number of such projects the retailer was involved with. I wonder if he had anything to do with the design of the church or its courtyard, since Wanamaker took an interest in such details.

The clouds darkening overhead prompted me on. My plan was to arrive in Millsboro about 1:00 PM for lunch. And at precisely one I pulled into town. With hopes of a good meal I found a little diner and went in.

My hopes were disappointed. The service was slow, the kitchen got my order wrong, and I was subjected to the attentions of Millsboro’s version of that small town staple the Garrulous Old Man.

The Garrulous Old Man is the elderly fellow who in past centuries sat outside the town general store or post office all day talking to, or more accurately at, visitors and passersby. He’s related by method to the fools in the office who spend too much time hanging out at the water-cooler or vending machine. But the water-cooler fools and the GOM not only have method in common. They also have a knack for saying the wrong thing, as I was reminded on a Wednesday in southern Delaware. Being a cyclist in cycling garb made me a natural target:

“Hey, is that your bike outside?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Do you like the brakes on that?”

“Yes, especially when I need to stop.”

“I have a bike, but I don’t like the brakes. I like the old fashioned brakes where you pedal backwards.”

“Coaster brakes? They are nice, but with the weight I’m carrying in my trailer I need something stronger than a coaster brake.”

“You know, I don’t think doctors are right when they talk about weight being bad for you. People who weigh too much can go out and do all sorts of things. What does your doctor think about your weight?”

“Excuse me, but I don’t discuss personal medical matters or my physician’s opinions with complete strangers.”

“Oh.” The GOM paused and looked towards another part of the room. “Hey Billy, come over here. Did you hear what Obama wants to do now?”

I tuned out the GOM and tried to enjoy my meal, but I was bothered by what had happened. I should be used to such comments. As a person with both a disability and obesity I thought I’d become hardened to stupid remarks. And had it been intended maliciously I wouldn’t have brooded on it. I finished my meal and left.

As I headed out Millsboro’s main street a rain shower began. I ducked into a bookshop to keep dry.

The remaining dozen or so miles to my Warm Showers host’s home were uneventful. The roads were wet but safe, traffic was light, and the miles seemed to fly by. The chafing I’d experienced had been greatly reduced thanks to the A & D Ointment I was using. I felt strong. Not fast, experienced, or good, but strong.

I stopped at a remarkable display of figures made from recycled metal. The artist behind the business, 2nd Time Designs, was home and gave me a tour of her studio. My bike looks at home amid the sculptures. He should, since many of therm use recycled bicycles for parts.

I arrived at my host’s home about 5:00 PM, and spent the evening with he and his wife discussing touring.

I awoke at first light, sticky from the sweltering tent. Not wanting to disturb my hosts, I walked across the street to the park to use a chemical toilet and clean up. 



By the time my host was ready to leave for his job, I was packed and ready to roll. We exchanged goodbyes and I sped down Main Street to Rt. 50. I turned at the church on the corner, and noted the historic marker for Nathanial Hopkins, a former slave, soldier in a “colored regiment” and churchman. Hopkins helped found the church, now Scott’s United Methodist, and organized yearly celebrations of Maryland’s Emancipation Day, November 1, 1864. (Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation had only freed slaves in states in rebellion, as banning slavery throughout the nation by executive order was unconstitutional, and thus freedom didn’t ring in Maryland. A vote in 1864 banned slavery in the state.) The town of Trappe still observes Emancipation Day, although it’s been moved to mid-October to tie in with celebrations of the town’s founding – what the residents bill as “Trappetoberfest.”





I turned south on Rt. 50 towards Cambridge. The traffic was light, and soon enough I was at the bridge crossing the Choptank River. Cambridge is near the mouth of the Choptank, and the bridge is very long. Unfortunately, the shoulder is very narrow, and I felt uncomfortably close to traffic. Clouds lowered overhead, making the day nice for photography, but not brightening my mood. Once off the bridge I pulled into the first diner I came across to have breakfast, charge my cell phone, and congratulate myself for surviving the passage. 



The diner food wasn’t very good, and already I was beginning to regret I didn’t do a better job of cleaning up that morning. Yet the breakfast was redeemed by an unexpected conversation. A middle-aged black man at a nearby table asked me about my trip. “I saw you in Trappe yesterday. You asked me for directions.” 

I apologized for not remembering him, and after discussion of my trip, he asked a question I’d often asked myself:

“Why Trappe? Why not take a vacation to Ocean City? There’s a lot to do there.”

I must have been wound up from riding across the Choptank. That would explain the bluntness of my reply. “Ocean City isn’t real. It’s commercial and developed. It’s crowded with people who go there because other people go there and spend money there because other folks do. It’s not real. Now Trappe is real, and the Little Red Schoolhouse is real, and the Wye Oak is real. I’m going to find the real Delmarva, the real Eastern Shore, in Trappe and Wye Mills and Cambridge instead of Ocean City. And I’m finding it. Just this morning I stopped at the church on the corner of Rt. 50 and read about Nathanial Hopkins and Emancipation Day. That’s not something I could do in Ocean City.”

The man smiled. “I’m pleased to hear that. I’m a grandson of Nathanial Hopkins, about five times separated. You’ll come back for our Emancipation Day celebrations?”

I smiled back. “Trappetoberfest? I hope to. Although I think I’ll stay at the Hyatt in Cambridge instead of someone’s backyard.”

Phone charged and good mood restored, I set off to the waterfront. Cambridge, the Dorchester County seat, has a well-maintained visitor center, and there’s a lovely little park on the Choptank. Perhaps this display of descending waterfowl isn’t the greatest piece of art in the world, but I found it perfect in this setting. 







My mood was restored aside from one nagging complaint. I’d had continuing problems with chaffing in the perineum all trip, but things seemed far worse this morning. I’d taken to riding my Brooks saddle with the cover on it, thinking the pebbled finish was the cause of the problem. The lack of a shower that morning only made matters worse. I sat on the docks at Cambridge wondering how I was going to get through the tour. Finally a call to a Bike Forums member brought the suggestion of A & D Ointment, and I sought out a drugstore in town. I sheepishly walked to the counter with two tubes of a product commonly sold for diaper rash. 

“So, you’re on a bike trip? Ride far?” the woman at the counter said as she rang up my purchase.

“300 some miles.”

“I’d never ride a bike that far. I’d hurt.”

“Why do you think I’m buying this stuff?” And I walked out, all pretense to dignity gone.

Because of the burning below, I altered my plans. I was to ride south to see both the Harriet Tubman Birthplace marker and Blackwater Nature Refuge, but I decided to skip those additional miles and head straight from Cambridge on Rt. 50 to Delmar, my next night stop. I did visit the Harriet Tubman Museum in Cambridge, but found the storefront location to be neglected and dispiriting. I left after I saw a cockroach climb on a rack of literature. “Moses” wasn’t treated as well as I hoped, or she deserved. 

Heading east through Cambridge, the Ocean Gateway spreads to three lanes of 55 MPH traffic and little or no shoulder. After a couple of futile attempts to find alternates, I decided to ride the monster. If I were killed at least I wouldn’t have to worry about chafing, I thought. So after a stop at a gas station for more liquids and the use of the bathroom to apply ointment, I headed out. A few car horns blew at me, but I stuck to the shoulder as far as I could, ducked into a few parking lots, and soon enough the road sported a wide, clean shoulder again. 

I followed Rt. 50 for the next four hours or so, stopping as needed. Unfortunately this bookstore was closed, otherwise I might have spent time browsing.



I took a brief lunch stop in Vienna, and sat along the Nanticoke and imagined how it might have looked when John Smith explored it 400 years ago. But soon enough I got on the saddle, winced, and headed over the bridge in the photo.





Another stop a few miles down the road led me to get a snow cone and reapply the A & D Ointment. I sent a text message that caused some banter among my friends; I advised them I was doing the ride “Clyde-style. I am stopping for a snow cone.” I received motivational texts for the rest of the trip, many on the order of “Keep going. Just think of the snow cones!”

I began to feel more comfortable in the saddle, and I headed towards Delmar with renewed energy. I left Rt. 50 for good near Mardela Springs, and headed North on Rt 54. I crossed the Mason-Dixon line, missing the marker on the Delaware border. I crossed back into Maryland at Delmar, and in a few minutes arrived at the home of my Warm Showers host. I showered, ate, and spent the evening talking about touring with my hosts before retiring.