A Weekend Ramble

I spent my weekend in Rothrock State Forest, enjoying fall in the best way I know how: riding a bike and running. I had a blast.

Friday morning I drove up to Penn Roosevelt State Park, which is less a state park and more a collection of rustic tent-only campsites around a small lake in the middle of thousands of acres of public wilderness near the college town where football legends are excused for heinous negligence (aka State College). The leaves are in color, though not peaking yet because of this late-season heat. Still beautiful though, mostly golden, some copper.

From my base camp at the park, I went for a 38-mile gravel ride with 4,600 feet of elevation gain. The mountains were shrouded in fog. Some of the roads were less gravel and more grass/big rocks; despite my frustration while picking my way down them, it was invigorating to just be out exploring, encountering the unexpected. My Masi CXR, set up with ‘cross tires for the first time, was super solid. I found that by riding with a mindset of adventure/exploration instead of speed/get-a-good-workout-in, I was able to roll with the navigation and terrain issues. I wasn’t discouraged by the slow average speed, or the relative lack of distance. I rode up to a fire tower in the mist and saw woodsmoke curling up from remote cabins and had miles of gravel all to myself: basically, I created an experience in a new place, and challenged myself at the same time. That’s the whole point, right? Maybe not for others, but increasingly it is for me.

The next day I did a 20-mile trail run, my longest run ever. 1,800 feet of gain, most of it steady and not at all miserable. Everything was great until the last couple miles, when I went off trail to connect with the road that would take me back to the park and ended up hiking through underbrush over the biggest ridge yet. I was moving so slowly that my Garmin auto-paused even as I was making forward progress. But all told, I made it back to the car in under four hours, with my legs still attached. I figure that 20 miles on the trail is probably tougher than 26 on flat pavement, so at this point I’m as ready as I’ll ever be for the marathon.

It’s amazing what 36 hours in the woods (especially with no cell phone service) will do for you. The trip followed the familiar cycle of all my trips alone: excitement to leave, anxiety once left, enjoyment and frustration during the activity, comfort in the tent, satisfaction on the drive home. On day two, during my run, I was much more relaxed than the first day. I could have probably camped another night and ridden again the next morning. Still, as always, these trips would be more fun with some friends.

Small slide show below. I would take more pictures, but I don’t like stopping all that much.

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Rainy fall afternoons on the East Coast get me thinking about other places I would like to be. Not now, necessarily, because I’m happy here. But sometime in the yet-undetermined future, sometime before I’m too old or dead to see them. Lately, most of these visions are tied to the bike trip I’ve been dreaming up with Autumn, one that would take us around the United States in a sort of six-month circumnavigation. I don’t know when we’ll be able to do it–we’ll have to quit our jobs, store all of our belongings, figure out health insurance, have some sort of a next step in place.

But from where I sit now, those logistics don’t look so daunting. They are overshadowed by the (surely romanticized) tug of the open road, by the joy and liberation we would feel spending each day at once away from everything and a part of everything, seeing all the contours of this brawny country at twelve miles an hour.

Put me on a road somewhere 

I think about rolling along a stream in the Montana prairie beneath clouds more impressively sculpted and bulging than anything in a Bierstadt painting. I think about the starlit desert sky. I think about seeing the Pacific from winding seaside roads in California, seeing the Atlantic through a film of mist on the rocky Maine coast. I think about warm dinners in the tent and luxurious-feeling motel rooms and shade trees and tailwinds and wells pulling clear water from aquifers deep below the plains. I think about not having to work, not having to answer to anyone, not having any deadlines or objectives besides riding 50 or 60 miles each day. I think about experiencing it all with my best friend.

Our dreams don’t just happen. We make a choice whether or not to pursue them, whether they are worth the sacrifices necessary to achieve them. Basically, we decide how important they are to us, and act accordingly. This trip is really important to me. I want it to happen. But I can’t do anything about it. Not yet, not right now.

So, for at least the next year or two, visions will have to be enough.

Thunder, Gravel, Questions

“This is so stupid. Why do I do this? What was I thinking?”

I half-gasped, half-yelled these things (and other, more unprintable things) into the forest, slogging up the shoulder of a ridge on a gravel road beneath a bruised afternoon sky threatening rain. No more gears, no end in sight. Seventy-something miles already in my legs, over seven thousand feet of climbing. A loaded seat pack hanging like an anchor off my saddle, empty water bottles clinging to the frame.

I haven’t gone on a true bikepacking trip since last November when I rode out to Michaux State Forest the week before we somehow elected Trump and spent a lonely, somewhat scary night in the woods. I figured my first experience, the surprisingly overwhelming physical/mental/emotional wallop it packed, wasn’t unique. I figured future trips (in the summer, not near-winter) would be a lot easier. Less stressful, more fun. I’d be more confident, not intimidated by the prospect of sleeping alone in the forest. The daylight would be longer, the air warmer.

This weekend I found out that I was both right and wrong.

I put in time off for Friday and mapped a 130-mile loop out to Tuscarora State Forest. Mostly pavement to get there, gravel roads in the forest. Eleven thousand feet of climbing. I packed the night before, feeling that rush of excitement that comes before embarking. Tent and sleeping bad in the seat pack, spares and tools and a bag of dates in the frame bag, a loaf of banana blueberry bread and some polenta cakes in the handlebar bag. The heat made a sleeping bag unnecessarily, and the likelihood of rain made the tent a more sensible option than my bivvy.  On Friday morning I woke up, lingered around the house, ate a big pancake breakfast. Then I lugged the bike down the stairs and out the door.

Almost immediately, the feeling of excitement morphed into something else. A kind of low-grade anxiety mixed with joy. Last time, it was mostly joy–the anxiety didn’t hit until darkness crept in. Maybe it was the heavy sky, or the knowledge of so much climbing ahead of me, or the desire to have someone to do these trips with. Maybe it was just the tedious act of getting out of the city to the actual ride.

From an airplane this part of Pennsylvania looks like a wrinkled sheet, the land bunching itself into ridges. They are snakes,  rippling varicose veins. My route took me towards them and I climbed them one by one, trying to spin in my granny gear, breathing heavy. Miller’s Gap, Rambo Hill, Route 74 out of Ickesburg. They grew increasingly high, increasingly steep. Between them was farmland, rows of GMO corn scalloped into the land, big houses set back with long driveways and big SUVs. The miles ticked past in silence. I stopped a couple times to eat handfuls of sticky dates, once to refill my water bottles. The sky looked like rain but the clouds held back whatever moisture was in them.

You ride differently when you know you aren’t coming home that day. You can’t think about finishing, about halfway points and the other gimmicks that keep you going. You just put your head down and pedal and periodically check the odometer to see miles slowly piling up. A few times the thought of turning back crossed my mind, ending the night with a shower and warm bed. I didn’t seriously consider them, but I was leery of their presence. What did it mean that they arose?

I started bonking a few miles into the state forest, on a spongy gravel/sand mix that made progress slow and frustrating. The mosquitoes followed me when I slowed down. My legs were tired. The road seemed to keep winding uphill. On my Garmin it looked like New Germantown, the small village on the other side of the ridge that  I thought might be a good stopping point, wasn’t too far away. I walked the bike for a while and the dot didn’t get any closer. I weighed the speed vs. comfort dilemma and climbed back on and kept riding. I just wanted to set up camp, eat dinner, lay down, relax in the comfort of the tent. But I didn’t know how long the gravel section would last and I didn’t want to have to confront that unknown in the morning. I hate procrastination; it makes me more anxious rather than less.

More gravel, more hills. My terrible brakes made the descents a white-knuckle experience. Each corner offered the hope of pavement, then dashed it. So on the biggest climb of the day, crawling up some unknown ridge with New Germantown still an invisible oasis somewhere below, I was forced to confront all the questions that had been lurking.

Why do I do this? Sure, these adventures are fun to look back on, but why don’t I thoroughly, completely enjoy them while they are happening? Why does gravel always sound like so much fun, and then sucks once you’re riding it?

I don’t really have a good answer. Why does anyone do anything?

I want to have an adventurous life. I want to push myself outside the comfort of warm beds and electronics, at least sometimes, if only to renew my appreciation for those things. I want to spend time in nature and gain confidence and be empowered. I want to know I am capable. I want to look back on a life spent breathing hard and racing nightfall.

Still, I can’t help but think that other people have more fun than I do on their bikepacking adventures. Or maybe Instagram and The Radavist just make it seem that way. Maybe I just need some friends to go with, and that would change everything.

After another bone-rattling descent I made it to New Germantown, where I camped on the edge of a cornfield. Darkness rolled in, followed by a massive thunderstorm. It rained hard for two hours and the underside of the tent was soaking wet but the seams held. I spoke to Autumn on the phone and she talked me down from my loneliness.

The valley was shrouded in fog the next morning. I woke up, feeling better at having made it through the storm alright. Stuffed the wet tent into my bag, ate breakfast, pedaled away from the sleepy winter-worn clapboard homes lining Main Street. I rode past farms tucked up on the hillsides, cows clustered by fencelines, my neon rain jacket flapping in the wind behind me. Later I was home, returned to the spread gingers of the suburbs and then the clench of the city. The whole trip was 24 hours, more or less. Only a day outdoors, a day away from routines and comfort. Really not much. Hardly anything compared to other adventures.

But I’ve grown a little from it, and I’m a little more confident now, and the memory already has a place in my mind. And I know I’ll do it again even if sometimes I can’t make out the reasons.


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Tower Road Adventure

Yesterday the missus and I did a bike/hike up Tower Road to where it connects with the Darlington Trail, which runs along a ridgetop through state game land. My prior experience with Tower Road came last summer, when Strava failed to tell me it was less a road and more of a wide dirt path with rocks the size of baby’s heads connected to a hillside of loose gravel at 15% grade. Long story short, I spent an unknown amount of time hiking in road shoes and cursing loudly into the empty, unsympathetic woods as darkness fell.

This time I was more prepared–the plan was to bike up as far as the road was passable, then get off and walk to the trailhead, then go for a hike, then take the long way home with a stop at the Garlic Poet, a restaurant we’ve wanted to try. We approached Tower road from the southeast side. The road was better than I remembered, switching from asphalt to gravel about halfway up. The whole thing is rideable with decent gravel tires, as evidenced by the Strava segment. Autumn was tired and her bike has disappointingly narrow 25mm tires, so we walked most of the way, stupidly pushing our bikes instead of locking them at the bottom.

Looking back we saw the shape of another cyclist working its way up. Slooooowly, like a bug inching its way up a wall. Near the top the shape revealed itself to be an older dude on a hardtail.

“It’s better on the other side,” he said. I translated that to something like Why are you wimps walking your bikes?

“Yeah, we’re just going up to hike,” I stammered. I meant something like I promise, I would be riding, but I’m with my girlfriend. Some things you can’t say out loud.

We left our bikes at the fenced-in radio tower and went in search of the trailhead. The road turned into the boulder-strewn dirt path I had so unfondly remembered. “Decent gravel tires” won’t cut it on this–you’d need something pretty wide and knobby. I might try with cross tires soon, but even with those, I’ll have to take this side slowly. WTB Riddlers or something similar would be better, though a mountain bike would be ideal.

It was peaceful in the forest. The old dude passed us again–somehow he’d gotten behind–but we saw nobody else. There wasn’t much of a view, on account of the tree cover. The mosquitoes were biting and there were big puddles from the thunderstorms we’ve had all week. We walked for thirty, forty-five minutes before we hit the intersection with the Darlington Trail. It was further than we thought. We stepped onto it, walked maybe 50 yards, and looked at each other.

“Want to turn around?”

Once again, I realized that it’s about getting there. That’s the fun part. The journey is itself the destination.

Back to the bikes, back down the gravel road. Walking downhill is hard on the knees; doing it with a 25-pound bike pulling you towards the Earth’s core is harder. Lesson learned.

Autumn was a trooper, and made it another ten miles through suburban sprawl and rolling cornfields to our restaurant destination. The vegan entree options were present but lacking a little in the calorie department; chalk it up as a step in the right direction for south central Pennsylvania. Tired and not really nourished, we rode home under an early evening sky the color of battleships. Somehow the greens are sharper on cloudy days, the forests more lush and magical-looking. Through New Cumberland on Bridge Street, then Lemoyne, then home along the greenbelt. We were fast asleep by the time the rain started falling.