Part II: Farewell, comfort

All aboard to Harper’s Ferry

It’s hard to describe the difficulty that is getting out of bed in the morning immediately after pedaling 152 miles over 17 hours.

As my eyes become unstuck and my brain starts shooting electrical impulses to my hibernating muscles, I realize we have to get up and do it all over again. The window of the hotel room emits a grayish hue, letting me know the ground’s thirst for rain is finally satiated. We knew the forecast promised to end a rare drought that had caused arid conditions in this part of the country for weeks, but part of me wishes for another couple days of dryness as my body prepares itself for a soggy day in the saddle.  

We have 123.8 miles on the docket for the day and time is escaping us with each sleepy second. Eventually, we yawn our way down to the lobby in search of food and caffeine. We eat in near silence and the food slowly does its thing.

We’re both in pain, but we try to ignore it, knowing it’s all just gonna come back the moment we slink into our hunched position of weary cyclists. 

Part of the reason we chose this hotel was for the hot tub. So we scarf down the food as fast as our tired jaws can and scuttle over to the bubbling bath. We soak for a few minutes, our eyes peering out of the floor-to-ceiling glass widows that confirm a foggy, wet fate for the day. We both know this is the point in which we abandon comfort.

On the bike again, donned in swishy parkas, we visit the nearest bike shop — which more resembles a mini REI than a humble LBS. I stock up on fuel that I hope my stomach tolerates and we each refill our hydropacks. The in-town trail is paved but for a tenth of a mile until we’re greeted with the rattle of the dirt road that will be our song for the next several hours. 

The rain is pleasant on our skin, but its affect on the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal trail — basically a one-lane fire road with weedy foliage mohawking down the middle — is insidious. Each and every divot becomes a mini pond with a mysterious floor. Some are deeper and rockier than others. Riding around them is equally unreliable because of the debris waiting in the margins. Rocks, branches, roots, snakes. And turtles. Lots of turtles. We see more of the orange and black reptiles within the first hour of riding than we see humans for the rest of the day. Our C&O ride becomes dodgy rather than smooth, and our cadence naturally slows.

We’re not too far out of Cumberland and I feel breakfast making an exit so we stop at a trailside campsite featuring a porta potty. I step inside and it resembles Texas Chainsaw Massacre of the bowels, both in sight and smell. The heaping pile of excrement and tissue paper that is slowly being devoured by flies prevents me from even squatting. I decide to utilize the Oh Sh*t! Kit my wife used as a stocking stuffer this past Christmas. Here’s my review: good buy. 

Back on the bike and, despite out slower pace, we’re feeling pretty good. Surprisingly good. We’re talking about life and its blessings, missing our wives and kids and telling stories of our past as the trail’s flow draws out the inspiration. We stop and marvel at a shy turtle. We catch a glimpse of a bounding mink. Gobble at a flock of wild turkeys. We imagine the days when beasts of burden lugged barges through the canal of now turbid water. Without knowing it, our existence reduces down to a more simplistic one, one that resembled the slow, unplugged lives of those who carved this towpath centuries earlier. Every so often we relish the brief geographic dimple that comes with each passing lock. There are 74 of these relics along the C&O Canal between Cumberland and D.C. and each one, at some point, provided these rural towns a link to the fruits of industry: coal, beef, whiskey and spirits, lumber, wheat, corn, bacon, ice. We’ve become spoiled with our roads and internet, haven’t we? Pedaling my bike along this now-archaic medium does something philosophical to me that I can’t quite articulate. I’m feeling forlorn, also grateful. Maybe it’s a longing for simpler times? But what is “simple” and how can something like time embody it? I don’t know.

When we reach Pawpaw Tunnel, a 3,118-foot hole through a mountain called Tunnel Hill, we welcome the change of pace. The tunnel has been under construction for years and still is by the time we reach it. The detour is a hike up and over the mountain called Tunnel Hill Trail. According to AllTrails, the hike is 3.7 miles in length, with an elevation gain of 728 feet. The top has a spectacular view of a photogenic section of West Virginia’s Potomac River. 

Top of Tunnel Hill in Pawpaw, West Virginia. The water is the Potomac River.

The tunnel is named after the indigenous fruit tree growing in abundance along the hillside. None of the trees had produced fruit, unfortunately for us. At this point in the day, I would have welcomed the mango-banana taste over the artificial mountain berry — whatever that is — gel chews.

Shortly after getting back on the bike following the hike, my stomach’s condition takes a turn for the worse. All that walking and the rattling on the way down the steep hill must have shaken everything in me loose. From here on out, around every 10 miles or so, I have to stop to take care of the annoying runs. I’ll spare you the details here, especially since I ran out of materials to properly clean myself. Yeah, gross. 

Nevertheless, we push on. We continue our talks and random singing of lyrics that get recalled out of nowhere while on the bike. It’s an interesting phenomenon. We’re singing everything from Alanis Morisette’s Ironic to Third Eye Blind’s How’s It Gonna Be. We continue to dodge large puddles and large snakes that, until feet away, appear as twigs or branches. When we don’t talk, we listen to the silent thrumming of nature enveloping us and our bike chains reliably catching the teeth of our rotating cogs. The rain stops and the sun wins a brief battle with the clouds.

And then my phone rings.

It’s my wife. Oh yeah, family. 

I take the call as an excuse to stop for a minute. Jace dials his wife to give her an update. During our talk, notifications pour in as the phone receives data after being off the grid for several hours.

She asks how many miles we’ve done. 

Just under 60, I tell her.

“So, another late night, huh?” 

“Hm, I don’t know. I don’t think so, it feels like we’re making good time. What time is it?” 

“It’s 5 o’clock.” 

Yikes. I knew our pace slowed, but not this much. We have another 60ish miles to go and we still hadn’t stopped for dinner. 

When we say our goodbyes, we pick up the pace, knowing we still need to stop to eat — the last solid food we’ve had was around eight hours ago. The only thing of substance in me is liquid at this point, and even that is being depleted at a rapid, drop-my-drawers rate.

In Hancock, we find a place to eat: Buddy Lou’s. We want someplace quick, but we don’t spot any McDonalds or Subways. As soon as our stomachs know food is imminent, we’re struck with ravenous hunger. We see big sandwiches on the menu, and beer. We order both. It feels amazing going down the gullet, but then, just as fast as it’s inhaled, we regret the decision.

Beer and a fried chicken sandwich with fries.

 Causes of fatigue, according to the Mayo Clinic, are as follows: lack of sleep, heavy exertion, jetlag, a large meal, or aging. Well, we could check off three of the five after that heavy meal of beer and a fried chicken sandwich and fries. 

It hits us hard.

“Dude, why did we do that?” I ask. 

At this point, all we can do is laugh. And get back on the bike. It’s well after 7 now. At 10 mph, our new pace, we won’t get to our hotel in Harper’s Ferry until 1 a.m. 

Dang. What happened? 

Well, quite literally, shit is what happened. Some medieval understanding of medicine within me must have thought a hefty meal would cure the runs. Fortunately, it didn’t get worse. But it most certainly didn’t improve. My Tums also weren’t working. At some point along the trail, in the dark, all modesty I once gripped vanished. I didn’t bother hiding behind bushes and trees anymore. 

And to add to the misery, my knee worsened. At every extension of my left leg, the little Michael Myers stabbed away with maniacal enthusiasm. There were moments I actually cried out in dramatic agony. I popped some Ibuprofen, but it took a while for it to kick in. And when it did, it was only a partial masking.

Then I remembered something. Way back in Pittsburgh ages ago I adjusted the height of my seatpost. The 10L bag I brought on this trip, a new purchase, had been rubbing violently on the rear tire, causing an obnoxious rub. To fix it, I hiked the seatpost up, extending my legs quite a bit. I remember thinking, in that moment, that it felt a bit too high. But onward I pedaled, giving birth to little Michael Myers. Duh. 

“Let’s stop. I have an idea.” 

I dismount and twist the seatpost back down. I do my best to adjust the bag, I even try tying it differently. Once back on the bike, my legs don’t stretch out as much and the pain isn’t so sharp. Michael Myers pitches the knife and uses his fist instead. That’s better. 

As night falls, we turn on our lights. We try to keep the pain and fatigue at bay through conversation, but we’re both shelled. The sounds coming out of us are more like mumbles and groans. We start entertaining the thought of calling a cab, or anyone, to give us a ride to the hotel. At Shepherdstown, West Virginia, we stop to refill on water. There’s a restroom with a fountain across the canal and a footbridge. I lament the climb, but we make it. In the restroom, I take advantage of shelter and modern plumbing. And then I fill my water bottle with the same water used to flush. It tastes that way, at least. My wife calls again and she hears the despair in my voice. We only have 12 miles left, but it might as well be 122. She offers to search for a place to stay nearby, cancel our reservation in Harpers Ferry. I accept, but we know there’s nothing available. 

We roll up to a campsite with a sign. Jace stops to study the sign for clues as to how many more miles we have left. Eight. I look down at my watch: 1 a.m. 

“Man, I’m feeling it. What do you want to do?” Jace asks me. 

I offer to call someone. My brilliant idea? Call 911. 

“911, what’s your emergency?” 

I tell the operator we’re cyclists on the C&O Canal, at Antietam, according to the sign. I know she’s going to be looking for an emergency, so I make up a lie and tell her our bike’s lights have died and that we’re stranded. She’s probably heard this a thousand times from a thousand dumb cyclists.

She tells us to get to the nearest road. The only way for us to do this is to climb a steep mud-slicked bank up to the road, in the dark. After a few slips and choice expletives, we manage to summit the embankment and tell her we’re ready for the ambulance to come get us. 

“Well, are either of you hurt?” 

“No, but …” 

“We can send a unit out to you to monitor you all until you get a ride. But they won’t give you a ride. I can give you the numbers for different cab companies, but we can’t send a unit.” 

I’m livid. Why’d we nearly break our legs climbing up this embankment if no one is coming? Screw the cabs. We’ll figure it out. I hang up the phone. Jace and I talk about our options. We could get back on the trail, or we could follow the road to the hotel. Or we could call a cab, but what cab companies are running at 1 a.m. in the middle of Nowhere, West Virginia? 

We decide to get back on the trail. As we mount the bikes, Jace’s light flickers and turns off, karma for the lie I made up 20 minutes ago. Mine came with three brightness settings — I’ve been stuck on the lowest setting for a couple hours already. Not sure how much juice it has. It’s looking like we’re about to actually be stranded. 

We move onto the next idea: follow the road to our hotel, guided by the moonlight. I bring up the hotel on my phone’s GPS and the route changes every three seconds. I’m about to throw it to the cow fields on my left when, at an intersection, I tell Jace this is a bad idea. I don’t have a phone mount on my handlebars, so to continue this journey will mean riding with one hand. 

“What are we going to do?” he asks, the tenor in his voice climbing to a level of agitation that, for him, is rare.

“I have no idea. Just give me a minute. Let me think.” 

I look around. My confused phone. Forest. Farm. Steep hill. House. 

“We could knock on that door and ask for a ride.” 

We climb up to the doorstep and ring the doorbell. Dogs erupt into a din of barking and I immediately regret the decision. I expect the owner to poke a shotgun barrel out of the window and blast us back to Ohio, but instead a fragile woman whose eyes I swear are still closed cracks open the door. We begin our sob story but she can’t hear any word because of her dogs. She extends her index finger: Wait. 

We wait. My fear of being shot resurfaces as I realize she’s summoned her husband, who, I imagine, is loading up the Remington and grabbing a towel to clean up the bloody mess he’s about to make on his wraparound porch. A couple minutes later we’re greeted by her tall, unarmed husband. He steps outside, silent, arms crossed. He glares down at us as Jace recites our story. 

“Can you give us a ride?”

“You do realize what time it is, right?” 

Yes sir, we do. It’s 1:45 in the morning.

“I can’t give you a ride. My wife just had surgery and I can’t leave her alone.” 

I ask him if he has an outhouse or a barn we could sleep in. 

He doesn’t. 

I ask him if he knows the numbers of any cabs in the area. 

He doesn’t. 

Tails tucked between our legs, we mosey our way back down to our bikes by the side of the road. We’re mad. We’re tired. We’re hungry. We’re annoyed by the constant barking of those poor, bothered dogs. We’re in pain, and at a total loss for what to do. So I call 911 again and ask for a ride again. The answer hasn’t changed, so I ask the operator for the numbers of cab companies. The first one isn’t available. The second company has a guy available, but not for another 30 minutes, he tells us. He even has a truck for our bikes. We tell him we’ll wait. 

It’s now 2 a.m. and I’m laying on the dewy, grassy shoulder of a moonlit country road in West Virginia, in and out of sleep, waiting for our truck cab to pick us up. 

When he finally gets to us and we load our bikes, we hop in and give him the address to the hotel. ETA 3:11 a.m. I close my eyes to sleep a little more. At 3:15, I open my eyes and look at the GPS, which is now putting us there at 3:34. He took a wrong turn as he told us a story about getting a heart attack the last time he rode a bicycle. I’d tell you the story but I truly don’t remember because, in this moment, I have strong feelings of disinterest for anything but a warm, dry bed. And he’s driving unreasonably slow, almost like the cardiac arrest also incarcerated his desire to get anywhere promptly.  

Finally, we arrive in Harper’s Ferry. By the time we get to our rooms, it’s 3:45 a.m. and we realize something: all our clothes, the same clothes we have to clamber into in approximately five hours, are sopping wet. We wring them out and hang them up and hope to God this hotel has a washer and dryer. 

I take a shower, snail into bed naked and slip into a dreamless coma.

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Hello, cycopaths. Thank you for reading this. In case you feel a little lost, this is the second part of a three-part series on my recap of a trip I took recently from Pittsburgh to D.C. with a friend. Here’s the first part. The third will drop on Wednesday, July 5.

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