Part III: Changed, but primed

Harpers Ferry to Washington, D.C.

Harpers Ferry is an explorer’s town, a sort of stepping-off point for willing, wandering souls. It’s where Meriweather Lewis and William Clark started their famous westward odyssey. It’s also where a 17 year-old George Washington made his first stop on his surveying expedition.

It was the northernmost point in Confederate-owned territory back in the day, and so seen as a perfect spot for John Brown and 21 other radical abolitionists to carry out a plan that, today, is described as a tragic prelude to the Civil War. His plan was to stoke a slave revolt by taking over an arsenal, and — despite the raid’s failure in the short term — I guess he sorta succeeded. Brown, whether suicidal lunatic or hero, was right when he said in 1859 that “the crimes of this guilty land will never be purged away, but with blood.” There wasn’t a huge uprising by slaves, but the raid contributed to Abraham Lincoln’s election. And seven states in the south seceded shortly after, leading to the Civil War’s 621,000 death toll between 1861 and 1865.

Today, the tiny, 1.25 square-mile town is both stepping stone and destination, drawing history buffs, birders and adrenaline junkies, families and solo AT thru-hikers. 

But Jace and I, though willing and wandering, are not in Harpers Ferry, despite believing this the entire day prior.

I make this discovery around 8:45 a.m. after mummying my way down from our room, covered only in a towel and a semi-dry shirt fished from my bag. My mission: to find a washer and dryer to fix the muddy, drippy mess that is our clothes. The woman behind the desk, unbothered by my precariously dressed lower half, turned my five-dollar bill into quarters for the laundry room.

The successful mission renews some of my strength as I sit in the hotel’s breakfast cove. The weather outside is bright and lively. I look at the forecast on my phone and discover we’re in Bolivar, a small town atop an Appalachian hill about a mile east of Harpers Ferry.

Chewing my eggs, I overhear tales of Appalachian Trail thru-hikers. One woman had snapped her tibia a year ago, while hiking the AT. Now, she was back to finish it. Another hoped to write a memoir after completing the entire length alone. One couple ate their cereal together in silence before starting their journey, whether by foot or by pedals, for the day.

If I had taken the time to examine a map, I would have discovered the C&O Canal was a mile downhill from our current spot in Bolivar. Instead, I unwisely rely on the word of our friendly-but-unknowing hotel clerk who tells me to turn left out of the parking lot. 

When we finally mount our bikes, at 10:15 a.m., we turn left and begin pedaling — uphill.

We reach the summit of the first hill and then the GPS rewards us with a downhill hiking trail through the woods. I think, hm, this is weird. But my mind and joints are too indifferent to question it. The trail dumps us onto a road and my GPS tells us to make a left, uphill yet again. 

At the summit of this hill, there is a clearing. I look around. The Potamac is beneath us and soon it will be behind us if I continue to obey our trusty computer. It’s in this moment I realize we’re going the wrong way. We’ve pedaled up an Appalachian mountain, expending valuable calories and time. There’s no time or patience for discussion, so we head back down the hill and wave down another unknowing local. We look around desperately and spot a public water treatment plant. The man who answers the door tells us the trail head is nearby, all we have to do is cycle down a dead-end road that turns into a rough road. Sounds a bit sketchy, but what hasn’t been on this trip?

“Follow that to the very end, hang a left and you’ll see a bridge. Cross that, go down the steps and you’re on the C&O.” 

We follow his directions, and with a collective sigh of relief, we see the river and people and bicyclists. On the Winchester and Potomac Railroad Bridge, we discover why Thomas Jefferson once said the view at Harpers Ferry’s point is “worth a voyage across the Atlantic.” The towering wall, aptly named Jefferson Rock, gives us the gumption needed for the remaining 60 miles to Washington, D.C. 

The bridge over the Potomac and Shenandoah rivers at Harpers Ferry that took us to the C&O Canal.

Onward we pedal, through locks and wooded tunnels. When the trees clear, we’re greeted by whitewater sections of the Potomac River, whose rocks protrude like the shoulders and chins of sleeping giants.

We see more people on the trail today, since the weather gods have blessed us with blue skies and a warm sun. Today, instead of dodging turtles on the soggy trail, we marvel at them basking on canal deadwood. Approaching a group of people with binoculars and cameras with sniper-rifle lenses, I ask what they see. 

“Peregrine falcons,” one bucket-hatted man says. 

I wish we could stop to peer through his lens, but we cannot — D.C. awaits our arrival. The plan today is to reach our nation’s capital with enough time to take selfies with iconic landmarks in the background. After being tourists, we need to make our way to the airport to retrieve our rental that will ferry us back to our lives, back to comfort.

Our pace picks up, but not nearly as fast as we know we can travel on a normal amount of sleep and rest. We’re tired, but we attempt to keep our minds occupied on anything but the fact that we still have around six hours left on the bike. 

“Knock, knock,” I say. 

“Who’s there?”

“Nobody.” 

“Nobody who.” 

Silence. He looks at me, wondering what happened to the punchline. I smile and he finally gets it. There’s nobody there, a symbol of the shells of people we’ve become after our battered battle in the saddle. 

As we approach D.C., I’m amazed by its proximity to serene nature available to the 5.4 million people who call this metropolitan area home. There are little swimming holes surrounded by rock walls in the Potomac on our right and lily padded Monet paintings to our left. It’s beautiful. 

Our journey on the C&O comes to an anti-climactic end in Georgetown, where mustachioed yuppies and moms with BMW strollers nonchalantly loiter while the bustle of D.C. roars around us. Unfortunately for us, we don’t have time to be tourists. We fear losing our rental if we don’t hustle to the airport. We get there two hours after our reservation, but we’re back into the gushing stream of civilization — where vehicles outnumber the leaves on trees. Our tardiness neither surprises nor disrupts the flow of capitalism’s indifferent progress. 

Mario and Luigi documenting their arrival and immediate departure of our nation’s capital.

In the rented van, we take full advantage of its cushy offerings — heated steering wheel, heated seats, consistent AC and a droning hum that lulls our tired eyes. It’s four hours back to Pittsburgh, where our friends have remade our warm beds and graciously refilled my car’s gas tank. 

In the morning, I let Jace sleep in while I load our bikes and gear and have a recharging cup of coffee. Our friends awake and I retell our tale to their ever-widening eyes. It’s another three-and-a-half hours back to our homes, so we jump in to bring this journey to an end.

Back home, we return to our life like Lewis and Clark must have — changed. But primed for odysseys waiting ahead.

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Thanks so much for reading, cycopaths. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing and reliving it. We definitely learned some things, but we also don’t regret the way we chose to accomplish it. Sometimes you gotta roll with the circumstances.

We’re happy to be back, safe and sound.

A note: I’ll be taking a bit of a break from Cycotherapy. There will be no news roundup on Friday or post on Sunday. This three-part series took a lot of time, and now I need to tip the scales back over to my family while on vacation in upstate New York and Canada.

We’ll see you on Wednesday, July 12.

I hope you have a safe Fourth and that you’re able to get in the saddle for some fulfilling cycotherapy between now and next week.

Peace!