Part I: Shooting the GAP
A tale of two guys completing the Great Allegheny Passage in a day
NOTE: This post originally published on Cycotherapy on June 28, 2023. Jace and I are planning another (smallish) trip that’s coming up quickly. So, naturally, amidst the planning — these memories flooded back. And since we have a bunch of new cycopaths joining us, I figured it would be a good story to share. Enjoy!
What are we doing?
The question pin-balls in my head like a bad song. The monotony of pedaling constantly over crunchy gravel for the last 16 hours causes something in me to break. There I sit, hunched over on my saddle cracked out on exhaustion, pedaling up the Eastern Continental Divide somewhere in Who-Knows, Pennsylvania. The person on this bike isn’t me, it’s the dark essence of me that, in civilization, I repress.
Why did I think this was a good idea? What am I doing?
Each downward pedal shoots pain through my knee. There’s a little Michael Myers rhythmically stabbing the same spot. The untold crannies of my nethers rub and throb, rub and throb, rub and throb. The jostling against my wrists shake the nerves leading up my neck and spine to oblivion. A dim force pulls the lids of my eyes down, blurring the trail.
The little light eking out of my handlebar light creates the illusion of an endless tunnel whose end I can’t quite reach.
But the reward, oh the reward. There’s still a small sliver of my optimistic self squeaking like a tiny mouse: Just ahead. A warm shower. A bed. Food. Comfort.
Oh shut up, you fool. It’s 10:20 p.m. and we still have six infinite miles before we roll up to the hotel. You’ll never get there.
Silenced now, the mouse shuts up. Instead, it projects images of the hotel on the canvas of fatigue that now drapes over my eyes. The welcoming street lights, guiding us to the hotel. A cordial clerk provides a stretcher to our room, where the shower already runs hot. There’s a masseuse. A warm meal of solid food sits waiting to be devoured, ravenously. Maybe a bacon cheeseburger piled to the ceiling. Chips. No, fries. Ah, hell — both. A fountain of ice cold beer.
What’s that?
A figure waddles just ahead on the trail. It’s small.
A skunk.
Oh God, no. Please, God, NO. Don’t let this skunk have working anal glands. They’re broken tonight. Have mercy. Not now.
I see the tail lift up and —
~-~-~
Alright, let’s back up.
It’s 4:42 a.m. and my alarm doesn’t need to awake me. I’m already stirring. I maunder downstairs and find coffee already brewed, its black richness awaiting my pour. On the county there’s an egg-bake ready to be reheated in the microwave. Fruit. Juice. Everything we need to fuel up for the day ahead.
Our friends, Bob and Kerri, graciously took Jace and me in for the night before our trip. Days earlier, Bob offered to drive us to downtown Pittsburgh first thing. He’s done the ride. He’s excited for our trip along the Great Allegheny Passage to Washington, D.C. He doesn’t tell me he thinks we’re insane for only budgeting three days to complete the entire thing.
“Three days?” he asks again after I tell him on the phone. It’s all the time us full-time working dads have, really, I explain. “It’s just such a beautiful ride. I hope you guys are able to take it all in.”
It’s Sunday morning and he drives us to the Point in Pittsburgh, where the Ohio, Allegheny and Monongahela rivers meet — also known as the start- (or end-) point of the GAP.
The GAP Trail extends 152 miles from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania to Cumberland, Maryland. Mostly, it’s made of crushed limestone, passing through several charming towns whose economies, for some, are now primarily served by the trail. The trail, of course, used to be a railroad, connecting the eastern seaboard with coal miners and steel producers in the Appalachian foothills and providing millions of men with good-paying jobs and communities featuring pies cooling on windowsills and teeming public pools.
By 1978, those railroads had been long abandoned. That year, the Western Pennsylvania Conservancy handed over the deed to 27 miles of railroad between Confluence and Ohiopyle. It would take 35 years before the GAP Trail turned into what it’s now known for: recreation.
Someone estimated that, in 2021, up to 1.5 million people used the trail, the same trail that a century ago laboriously carried opportunity. Industry and ingenuity. The future. Given its photogenic qualities, it’s easy to forget this on the GAP. If the GAP Trail had ears, would it would snark at today’s passenger snapping selfies and ironically referring to his bicycle as his steed?
So there we were, wide-eyed and bushy-tailed with our selfie devices and overly packed steeds. Pittsburgh to Cumberland, 152 miles. In one day. We had a nice hotel right off the trail waiting for us, with a hot tub and food choices. A firm mattress with soft, pressed linens.
We discussed the day ahead of us with determination and confidence. It wouldn’t be easy, but it also wouldn’t be impossible. And it shouldn’t be too hard, we say. The route has around 5,700 feet of elevation gain, but that’s over 150 miles. Once we get over the Eastern Continental Divide, we tell ourselves, it’s downhill. All the way to D.C. As long as we kept a steady pace, took in plenty of fluids and food and kept a positive attitude — we had this. We’ll probably get there by 7 or 8 p.m., we say. Nine at the absolute latest.
~-~-~
“Turning left here,” I say, making the turn. Jace and I have been talking about it all as we head south, still in Pittsburgh. He doesn’t hear me, so when I turn, he doesn’t. Our bikes collide. His front wheel into my back wheel. Not a hard impact. We don’t crash or fall. We just sorta shrug it off and keep pedaling at our pre-determined pace.
A couple minutes passes and he asks: “Has your back wheel always been that wobbly?”
I look down at the back wheel and discover a significant wobble. The rim is hugely out of true. I get off the bike for a closer look. I packed a multi-tool with a spoke wrench, but truing wheels is not a mechanical skill I’ve got dialed. I give it the old college try for a few minutes, but I know I’m only going to make it worse if I tighten and loosen the wrong spokes. We consult our map for mechanics along the way and discover one in West Newton, another 25ish miles away. The tire isn’t rubbing against the frame, I say. Should be fine.
We arrive and stop by the shop where we’re greeted by a short man with bowed legs and a deep Pittsburgher accent. He lifts the back end up and gives the wheel a whirl.
“Hm. Shit, that’s bad. A ‘little collision,’ huh?” His tone is hinted with disbelief. I reassure him the collision was, in fact, very little. We didn’t crash.
He sets it down and squeezes some of the spokes while he says, “Yeah. You need a new wheel. I think I have one. It’ll be a hundred fifty bucks.”
“You can’t true it?”
“Nah. That’ll just make it worse. It’s that bad. I have a wheel. Hundred fifty bucks.”
“Really? You can’t even try?”
“I’ll just make it worse. And the farther you go, the worse it’s gonna get,” he says. There’s a pause as I take this all in. He tacks on the word “unfortunately” to fill the silence. Like he’s trying to convince me he’s really, truly and genuinely sorry for this unlucky situation I find myself in. I’m not convinced.
I step aside with Jace, who is also sensing some funny business from this guy. I tell him we should risk it. I know for a fact I can get wheels for cheaper and who knows what he’ll try to charge me for mounting it — a simple procedure that an eight-year-old can perform. He doesn’t seem the type to just let me do that. Sure, there’s mounting the tire to the rim, but again, simple task. I don’t think the wobble will get worse as long as I don’t hit anything else or crash. Maybe there’s another mechanic further down?
He agrees. We tell the guy thanks but no thanks and keep on moving. A little ways down, we find a covered porch area with a few riders chilling in the shade. There’s a sign for $1 ice-cold water and a fridge. I ask them if any of them are adept wheel truers. One guy stands up and introduces himself as David. He’s a Latino wearing long, black braided hair that reaches down to his jorts.
“I can try, man, but I not so great at it.” He digs around in his bikepacking rig for a spoke wrench, revealing a few lighters and a glass jar holding what can only be recreational herbs. I crack an inward smile, flip my bike over so it’s standing on the saddle and handlebars and let him take his time. He fiddles around, prattling all the while about him and his two friends’ trip from Pittsburgh to Ohiopyle to camp for the night. He’s got a steel Surly rig hooked up with red waterproof panniers and one of those handlebar setups that resemble a cross between flat bars and BMX riser bars. Each brake cable and the derailleur cable are different bright colors. Looks like he lives on this thing.
“You guys are going all the way out to Cumberland? Today?” he says incredulously, his gloved hand brushing some hair out of his eyes. We confirm and he just shakes his head. “Man … you guys are crazy man. That a long ride.”
He makes the wheel worse. Then tightens and loosens some other spokes and, amazingly, it looks a bit better.
We thank him, say our goodbyes and wish him and his friends happy pedaling (and toking).
Next stop for us is Connellsville for lunch, one of those towns with lots of history vibes. It was, in fact, once the millionaire capital of the U.S. Back in the coal and coke days, when the mined hillsides resembled beehives. Coke, by the way, is a coal-based fuel that burns hotter than its cousin and was popular kindling for steel production. Given Connellsville’s proximity to Steel City in the north, well, one can imagine how the city attracted the tycoon types.
But then, ah, well, you know the story. As demand for coal and coke subsided, and technology phased out coke, so did Connellsville’s dependent economy. What’s left is a town full of really nice folk who tend to think words like “solar” and “wind” are cuss words. Knowing its history, that the town was built upon fossil fuels by men who wore coal-dusted hard hats more often than not, it makes sense.
In Connellsville, where dandy millionaires used to drive around in their status-imposing vehicles, the median household income, as of 2021, comes in at $44,505, according to the U.S. Census Bureau. In Pennsylvania, that number is $67,587. And the U.S? $70,784.
That’s pretty low, but it’s actually getting better there. In 2000, that number in Connellsville was $27,451. Why has it ballooned? Natural gas. Connellsville, and most of Western Pennsylvania, happens to be situated on top of the country’s second largest shale formation, Marcellus shale. The only way to get it is to drill down thousands of feet and then horizontally to fracture the fissures in the shale by injecting water, chemicals and sand until those gases are released and captured.
Fracking. The new “F” word.
So now, the abandoned beehives are producing a new politically charged honey. And it’s sweet, baby. (Or it was, at least, when Sir Donald Trump reigned in the White House.)
Anyway, we hear there’s a good spot there to eat and a great bike shop. When we arrive, we agree we won’t tell the mechanic what happened to make my wheel so wobbly. Just that it needs a true. Just in case we run into another opportunistic mechanic.
When I walk in, a doughy, jolly woman wearing a blue shirt and shorts greets me and asks: “Can I help you, dear?” She has a cheery voice and I start getting a good feeling about this.
I tell her I hope so and ask for a true. She guides me to the back of the shop, which is filled with all sorts of bikes, old and used. There’s a door at the back that leads to a garage-type space where a wobbly man, who is also donning a blue shirt, meets us. His limp makes me wonder if, he too, needs a true. The woman tells him my back wheel is outta whack, says “just follow him, dear. He’ll help you out,” and he guides me back further into the garage, where there are two occupied stands. He asks what happened and I couldn’t lie to the unassuming guy so I told him me and my riding buddy had a little collision back in Pittsburgh. He takes one of the bikes off the stand and grabs mine. As he hoists my bike up to the stand, he asks me to help him. “Bad shoulder,” he admits. He spins the wheel and discovers the wobble.
“Yeah.”
He takes the wheel off and takes it over to a truing stand and promises to take a look. Shows me to a seat just outside and says it’ll be a few minutes. While outside, Jace and I search our phones for a place to eat and find one.
“Alrighty, yeah it needed a true. That’s for certain. Must’ve had a pretty good collision back there,” he says. “You’ll probably need a new wheel at some point but I got ‘er pretty good.” He spins the back wheel and I wonder if he snuck a new wheel on there. There’s hardly a wobble at all. I look at Jace in disbelief.
“Wow. Man, thank you,” I tell him. I ask his name.
“Gary. And no problem! Where you guys headed today?”
We tell him we’re on our way to Cumberland.
“Oh wow, you better get outta here. Get what you need while you’re here, it’s seventeen miles of wilderness between here and Ohiopyle.”
He gives us good-natured-local directions of a place to eat, which is probably the only good place to eat because it’s the same place we found in a Google search while he trued my wheel. “Down the street, turn left at the stop light and it’s behind the alley of that church.”
As we mount our bikes after lunch, Jace makes a discovery on his back wheel. It’s his tire. There’s a bald mark on his Continental, showing the tread. Might hold. Probably not. He suggests wrapping it in the black electrical tape I brought with me. I express my doubts of it holding up as we ride back to the pavilion at the trailhead to fill up on water.
We decide it’s worth a shot, so I wrap it tight. We didn’t even make it to the shop before the tape exploded off the tire and rim in dramatic fashion.
“Hey Gary. Have any 700x25s?”
He’s with another customer but he assures us he does and motions us to the front of the shop. There are tons of tires, basically of all sizes. We promptly find a Panaracer that matches the size of the replacement. The price on it is $25 and I wonder if the tag is mismatched.
This might be a good point in the story to discuss tire width.
Some of you who know the trail might see the 25mm width as a bit skinny. Yes. You’re correct. That’s a road tire width. Now, the GAP Trail is fine for this width. Some of it is paved, most of it isn’t. But the sections that aren’t paved are crushed limestone and of tight, compact composition. A road tire does fine on this.
The C&O Trail stretches from Cumberland, Maryland to D.C. Most of it is a fire road with two tire tracks. Dirt. Rocks. At Pawpaw Tunnel, somewhere in West Virginia, there is a detour up and down a mountain. Road tires on this stretch are … not ideal. Jace would agree.
Jace, however, didn’t really have a choice. He has one bike. He made do. I slapped some 50mm gravel tires on my hardtail mountain bike for the trip. They are Panaracers. And let me just say two things: 1.) I’m glad I used those tires. 2.) They were more than $25, even as lightly used tires. Still got a really good deal on them, but they’re quality tires.
Gary, our beloved bike shop mechanic, is in the game because he loves the game. That’s all there is to it. And if you do this route, go give Gary at Bikes Unlimited a visit and a handshake.
Jace got a brand new Panaracer tire, a tube and some snacks for under 50 bucks. (And he didn’t charge for truing my wheel.) We were in and out of the shop in less than a half hour. When Gary finished mounting the tire, for kicks and giggles, he approached us both and showed us the three other bald spots on the replaced Continental. A sharp pebble at just the right angle would have spelled disaster.
“Good thing you saw that. Last thing you wanna do is run into a flat tire on your way into Cumberland tonight.”
We agreed and thanked him way too many times.
And while we’re at it with being off track, let me just say to mechanics who are in the game because they love the game — you guys rock. Seriously. May you never become the dude in West Newton who refused to try truing a wheel because he hoped to make a buck. That was uncool. Major respect to Gary, Tony B. at ABC and Eric at Y-Not. You guys are in it for the right reasons and us non-professional mechanics are indebted to you.
Alright, so we jump back in the saddle for our 17-mile nothing-but-wilderness trek to Ohiopyle from Connellsville, a town in which we stopped for two hours. Yep. Two.
Nevertheless, that 17-mile stretch was really nice. Picturesque. Lots to look at from the super high bridges with whitewater gushing beneath.
Oh, and Ohiopyle, by the way, is a wonderful little town. Actually, technically, it’s a borough. Population 38. It has a total of 13 streets and zero department stores. We didn’t stop, given our two-hour delay back in Once-Millionaire-Town. If we do this ride again someday, I’ll advocate for an overnight stop to increase the population to 40. It’s tiny but quaint, and one of those quirky towns that draws unpretentious people like our toking friend, David. I like places that have ignored the ebbs and flows of industry, relying solely on humans’ innate need for escapism through outdoor recreation. On the drive home two days later, I spotted an Ohiopyle bumper sticker: “Forget the box, think outside.” Amen.
Halfway Cumberland and it’s approximately 4:30 p.m. Once in Ohiopyle, we have another 72 miles and we keep anticipating, internally and verbally, the climb up the Eastern Continental Divide, a 50-mile ascent. But, we console ourselves, then it’s a 22-mile descent into our hotel rooms.
As night falls, so do our spirits. Or mine, at least. Since Connellsville, I’ve been dealing with a weird pain in my knee and my infamous, indefatigable indigestion. I’m popping Tums like a kid on Halloween and getting sick and tired of the same-old taste of my Strawberry Lemonade electrolyte drink.
Jace is a nurse. It’s in his nature to help, to treat. He tries to encourage me. He offers different foods. He reminds me to drink. He makes jokes. But I’m falling behind. I’m laughing less. I’m swearing more. At one point I share an idea: why don’t we stop and book a hotel somewhere and just get up early to make up the time we’ve lost once we’re rested?
His response: “Where would we stop? There’s nothing. We gotta keep pushing.”
I know he’s right, but dammit, I’m tired.
In these moments something becomes clear to me: I don’t deal with pain in a healthy way like Jace.
Sure, Jace notices the pain. He’s a practiced endurance athlete who expects the pain. When it comes, he acknowledges it with respect and swiftly subdues it, like a wolf taking down a caribou in knee-high snow. I, on the other hand, challenge it to a wrestling match like a pre-pubescent teen showing off for some girl who could care less whether I win or lose. It’s either that or I ignore it like cows ignore those bugs that burrow into their eyes. Both don’t end well.
Finally, we reach the summit of the continental divide. The night bugs are becoming accidental snacks and the owls are hooting at the idiots disturbing their meals.
When we get to the top, we know it’s all downhill. We hoot and holler as our bikes begin to move faster with less effort. It feels so good. I look down at the Wahoo computer and see our MPH reach 18, 22, 23. We coast for exactly 12 seconds before we realize it’s not exactly all peaches and cream to Cumberland. Sure, it’s a descent — over 22 miles. Even if we increase our average speed to 15 mph, we still have about an hour and twenty minutes left. I look at my watch and take note of the time: 10 p.m. An hour behind our “absolute latest” target.
I do the quick math in my head and fall into another despair.
~-~-~
Oh wait. That’s not a skunk.
A porcupine? Oh, damn — that’s a freaking porcupine. Look at those needles, man. The broken, dark essence of me in that moment thinks: maybe if I get slapped with a porcupine needle, maybe we can call 911 and end this suffering. The pre-pubescent, over-confident wrestler in me taps out.
No such luck with getting needled. The porcupine waddles off into the dark abyss of the forest and we continue our labored journey into the site of George Washington’s first military headquarters, Cumberland. I wish we could say we saw this historic, one-room cabin landmark. I mean, maybe we rode past it at some point. But it was dark and we weren’t exactly in the mood for site seeing.
We did, eventually, make it to our hotel. I remember looking at my watch and reading 11:20 p.m. There were no ceiling-high burgers. No beer fountains. Just some microwavable meals, overpriced bottled water and a taunting beer fridge that had been locked since 9 p.m. I tried bribing my way in. The clerk, though cordial, declined through silence. Good for her.
Back at our room, I stripped naked and watched the shower water run dirt-black as I took a deep breath of satisfaction. Day one. Complete. Next stop, Harpers Ferry. 123.8 miles of downhill bliss.
Thanks for reading! I’m planning to post the next two installments of this misadventure over the next two days, but you can skip ahead here if you’d like.
I thoroughly enjoyed reading this Dillon! You had me chuckling a lot!! I’m looking forward to reading the next two!
Just as good reading 2nd time!