Bicycling the Great Allegheny Passage Trail

The Great Allegheny Passage. We were finally going to experience it for ourselves, along with Michael, my brother, who is relatively new to riding. We planned to meet in Cumberland and drive to Pittsburgh where Mike and I would ride south each day while Bob drove Turtle to the end of each day’s segment, getting in what riding he could from there. What we didn’t anticipate was how steep and narrow the circuitous roads would be for Bob as he drove the motorhome through the mountains of Western Pennsylvania while we cruised on a relatively flat railroad grade.

Mike on the Salisbury Viaduct

Our first day was long even though we didn’t get in any riding. Mike had driven from Glen Burnie starting at 4:00 a.m. and reaching Cumberland by 8:00, where it was already getting hot. He cooled off in the lobby of the Marriott while waiting for his wayward sister and brother-in-law, who finally rolled in around 10:00. Nobody told us how difficult it would be to get a cell signal in the Allegheny Mountains and when we got to town, there were already two messages from Mike. We loaded up his gear and bike, registered his car for the long-term parking lot and headed off for P’burgh, stopping on the way for fuel and groceries. My poor routing made for an even longer day as I wanted to avoid the toll road. We crawled up and down the tortuous Route 40 until finally we camped at a commercial campground near Cedar Creek Park, just in time for an easy dinner of chicken salad.
Beginning at Homestead

We opted to start from Homestead on the advice of some other riders we’d met in Cumberland and we found the trail a bit convoluted through the urban areas. Sections of trail followed sidewalks, bisected parking lots and edged along residential streets until finally we were on continuous railroad grade. Bob parked at Cedar Creek Park and rode up to meet us about halfway, so he probably rode as far as we did. The last ten miles was brutally hot—in the 90’s—so we stopped often to cool down. About 29 miles, it was Mike’s longest ride yet, and that was just his first day. We camped at the same place as last night.

Enough Adventure For One Day
Our second day on the trail was about as much adventure as we would see the whole trip, which can be a good thing. Bob pumped up my front tire and we took off, hoping for the best and not quite prepared for the worst. Within three miles, my tire was low again, so Mike used his pump and we rolled on hope more than reality. By the third try, we knew we had a problem, so we found a good trail down to the river where at least we could locate the slow leak in the water. Bob had kept our one patch kit and spare tube and Mike’s kit was intact but old enough that the glue had dried up. Our only option was to hope a passing cyclist would have some glue. Instead our unnamed good Samaritan had an insta-patch, which I foolishly almost turned down. But we tried it and it held so on we went, rolling about 40 miles, another personal best for Mike. Bob had ridden up the trail but turned back, sure he’d missed us. We camped at Ohiopyle State Park, a really nice park.
We broke up our third day of riding with a stop at Confluence, where Bob met us and took us to town to shop for groceries and find access to the Internet. We finally located it at Confluence Cyclery, a really welcoming center for cyclists far from home. The second half of our day was especially pretty as we rode gradually up along the Casselman River. We camped at another nice state park, Laurel Hill, along the Laurel Highlands Hiking Trail.
Ice Cream Break and Pennies on a Railroad Track
By our fourth day, the riding was really getting rewarding and we let our schedule go slack. We took a short day in order to have one more day of riding tomorrow as well. We stopped at the Meyersdale Depot for a long lunch and when Mike suggested ice cream, we hiked down to town, stopping on the way to lay pennies on the busy railroad track. We signed the bright new walls of the ice cream shop and went back to look for Mike’s pennies. We were both pretty tickled to find them well flattened and nearly unrecognizable. Mike gave me one as a souvenir and I’ll keep it forever.
The Eastern Continental Divide
We continued on uphill until we reached the Eastern Continental Divide, elevation 2,392, the highest point on our ride. Just beyond it, in the Big Savage Tunnel, we startled at the flash of a photographer in the middle of the 3,000 foot tunnel before realizing it was Bob, giggling and testing the features of his new camera. Stopping at Frostburg for the night, we enjoyed some trail side pizza—delivered to Turtle in the parking lot—as Mike’s treat.
Our final day was an easy coast all downhill to Cumberland, where we arrived at the parking lot three minutes after Bob, though he did stop to shop along the way. It was a nice finish to a fun tour; 140 miles in five days. Before pulling out, I leaned heavily on Mike to promise we might plan another trail ride sometime soon. The C&O Canal Towpath lay straight ahead of us, continuing for another 180 miles all the way to Washington D.C.

Chocolate Gravy, a little known Southern Pleasure

When Claire and I rode our tandem Zippy 14,000 miles around America in 1995-96, we took Tennessee the long way on the back roads. I remember that we visited the Jack Daniels distillery, but it was not legal to buy it in the same county.

Claire remembers most, not surprisingly given her love of all things chocolate, the chocolate gravy she had over her biscuits one morning. We asked at several eateries and were directed to various fast-food locations; none had chocolate gravy. Some remember mothers or grandmothers making the dish, but didn’t think restaurants would have it; a dying Tennessee breakfast tradition.

But, Claire does not give up easily when chocolate is involved. We kept looking, and saw a block off our route, the Family Traditions Restaurant. It looked like an abandoned fast food place, but we did a U-turn and found it semi hidden at the back of a strip mall. We saw no cars, and our hopes dimmed. Claire went inside, and not only were they open, but they had chocolate gravy for breakfast.

She was a happy girl!

Coming Home to St. Albans, West Virginia; Class of 1962

Since graduating from St. Albans (West Virginia) High School I’ve probably visited the town a dozen or so times, most of them in the first few years. I returned for each of my parents funerals and once on our first tandem tour around the U.S. with Claire. I connected with just a few my former classmates, and not often; many had moved, or were busy with work and family.

I didn’t go to the earliest reunion, and became lost to the organizers when I became a Westerner: Oregon, Washington and now Arizona, shortly after.

They found me about a decade ago, and I planned to attend, when a sailboat owner/captain we’d met on our Australia journey, asked us to help him sail Songlines around the South Pacific for four months. We couldn’t pass that one up, and I faded from view again.

Thanks to a Facebook page some of us found each other a few years ago, and Claire and I decided it was time to go to a reunion. In the U.S. we travel in our motorhome, Turtle, and we set up camp at the St. Albans Roadside Park for the long week-end of the reunion. The park is one of the most beautiful city parks with camping for RVs in the U.S., and free, though donations are appreciated. Classmate Mac Gray, also an RVer joined us and we had a steady flow of visitors, and offers of rides to events. It was the perfect set up for a reunion visit, and since most of the events were at night, Claire and I got in a bike ride almost every day, one of them 60 miles, on mostly quiet roads. We’re exercise/cycling addicts and being able to get our fix was important to our enjoyment of the six days we spent in St. Albans.

I was not a little worried about the prospect of seeing people who I’d spent only a few years with so many years ago. I feared we wouldn’t have anything to say to each other, that I had forgotten everything about them, and they me. And there is also the overworked joke about reunions: “Who are all these old people anyway?”

I need not have been concerned. The reunion committee thoughtfully provided each of us with a name tag which included a photo from our senior yearbook. Imagine a bunch of folks wandering through a big crowd, squinting over, or through, glasses at the chests of others, followed by a squeal of recognition and an enthusiastic hug. That was the first official event, and it got wilder as the week-end progressed. The hard part was remembering the ones we’ve lost, some alive so recently I was anticipating seeing them.

Part of the fun of a reunion is seeing your former, younger, self through the memories of others. I knew I had fun in high school, but I was surprised at how many people remembered how much fun I had! As the reunion progressed, memories surfaced in joyous profusion, and new relationships were formed among classmates who weren’t close in high school.

Many of us learned how little we had changed through the years: the hard workers who were still doing the reunion organizing and grunt work, the shy one who was still a little shy, the show off who couldn’t help himself on the dance floor (wonder who that was?)…

Of course we have all changed on the outside: class total mass has increased by about 40%, wrinkles mysteriously appeared, and we don’t move as fast as we once did. But inside, where it counts, we’ve changed less than might have been expected, given the years of work, love, grief and change we have all experienced.

What I recognized most in my classmates is that the spark of life still shines. Dimmed in some by loss others by financial or health struggles, it still shines trough the twinkle in an eye, that crooked little smile, or wide grin I remember from so long ago.

There are is more adventure, and years to our lives, and our inner spark will carry us through, perhaps to another reunion…

 

Bicycling to Spruce Knob, West Virginia

Claire suggested that our motorhome Turtle wasn’t a sports car, as we sped down a Forest Service road in West Virginia. We were being chased by a thunderstorm, and it was about 10 more miles to the Laural Fork campground near Spruce Knob. We didn’t beat the storm, but Turtle did well.

The next day we cycled from U.S. Route 33 to the summit of Spruce Knob, highest point in West Virginia, a 2800 foot vertical climb; not big by Western standards, but, steeper and humid. A good workout.

I was disappointed, but not surprised to find the summit very grown up with spruce trees, not the little flag spruce I remember, but big trees with others mixed in. Nothing stays the same

 

 

The reason for the smaller trees in the past was fire, no doubt caused by logging operations in the early part of the 20th century. The same fires burned Dolly Sods; both produced a unique landscape that is now returning to something akin to the original heavy forest cover. I’m not so sure it might be time to burn both again to regain the special character they had for nearly a century. I’m sure the idea would be controversial, but worth consideration.