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Somerville, New Jersey.
On the first day of the New Year, I awoke among small puddles of water inside my Golite shelter. The rain managed to seep in through the exposed side. I did not pitch any kind of vestibule in front of it. Luckily, my sleeping pad kept me above the water. I was quite warm in the 50°F weather.
Alas, my 24 backpack was soaked and my raingear was damp. My Granite Gear Airspace stuff sack was surrounded by water, but kept the contents safe. I did not store anything else next to me.
I waited until the rain abated to get up. I tried my best to avoid getting my sleeping bag wet as I exited the tent, but it was unavoidable. I had to suspend the sleeping bag, the tarp-tent: and the sleeping pad over a length of cord to drip-dry. Over the line, I suspended a nylon tarp to prevent rain from getting the whole assortment even more wet.
I was wet and my gear was wet. In colder weather, this might have been a dangerous situation. It was warm enough, however, that I didn’t need to wear any headgear. Besides, I was adapting to my nomadic life. The earth seemed less harsh to me. My skin thickened and my mind sharpened. By slow degrees, I became a feral human.
The surrounding water followed the path I assumed it would. The area I set camp on was unsaturated. A reddish brown stream meandered nearby. The heavy clay leached into the water.
I decided to stay in the area for the day. Packing up would just get everything even more wet. Also, packing a wet down sleeping bag is not a good idea. Instead, I grabbed my laptop and made my way back to downtown Somerville. Thereupon I spent the day catching up on the website to the best of my ability.
…
I pulled out of my site late in the day, 2pm. I was up late the night prior working on the website. Also, I spent a decent amount of time airing out my gear. Luckily, the weather was favorable for riding.
I had the additional benefit of relying on Adventure Cycling Association (ACA) maps for the duration of my journey to Washington DC. I was using the GPS to get me through spots not on the ACA network. Despite calculating bicycle-friendly routes, the GPS was leading me through dangerous areas.
There is a great difference between a route calculated by software and a route planned by an organization. The ACA route was not only much safer, it was much more beautiful. I found it taking me through wonderfully secluded and scenic areas. It changed the quality of the tour for the better.
The GPS still came in handy for having a visual display of the area. I could see how far a turn was ahead. I could scroll around to look for grocery stores, parks, and all kinds of things. It also displayed speed, time of sunrise and sunset, elevation, and other pertinent data. The ACA website has a list of waypoints that can be loaded into the GPS as a way to assist navigating the route.
I kept the GPS level on my handlebar so that I could use the compass. I customized a data screen to display exactly the data I wanted to see in the order I wanted. I relied heavily on the GPS, even with the ACA maps. I would have been lost without it.
Despite my limited daylight riding time, I was satisfied with my progress. I was hindered, however, by my increasingly disappointing Burley Nomad bike trailer. If it wasn’t the loose fabric wall scraping the tires, it was another flat, or a tearing underbelly. I had to stop frequently to address one problem or another.
As night fell, I stopped southwest of Neshanic Station, NJ. Unfortunately, I was closer to the road than I would have hoped. The temperature steadied at around 30°F as I settled down. It was difficult to do much more than the basics at this temperature. Under the light of the full moon on a starry night, I fell asleep
…
I awoke to a brisk morning. My down sleeping bag was still slightly damp from a leak in the tent the day prior. I was cold but not shivering.
At 7am, in the grey dawn, frost was everywhere. It was evident that it wouldn’t be until noon that things would dry. I decided to pack most things damp.
As I packed, two police cars pulled over to investigate. Someone called in, concerned about either his or her safety or my safety. The police were pleasant enough about the situation. They suggested that I pull further away from the road when setting up—I agreed. Explaining my itinerary, they informed me that I was in for an enjoyable ride. They had favorable things to say of Lambertville.
Lambertville is indeed a very nice community situated along the Delaware River, on the New Jersey side of the New Jersey-Pennsylvania border. Coffee shops, restaurants, art galleries, and antique shops line the streets in the form of densely packed Victorian style storefronts. The community is a fine example of revitalization remaining in historical context. All too often, the transition from an industry based to a service based economy results in sprawling developments.
I had to walk my bike across a bridge into New Hope, Pennsylvania. New Hope had the same quaint feel. I was tempted to spend the day in the area, but thoughts of winter weather kept me moving.
I made decent progress, settling in a nondescript park for the night. A sprawling tree beckoned me near. I sat on a broad, horizontal trending branch for dinner and looked peacefully over a river.
…
I was up at 9am. It was sunny, mid-30’s. I took time drinking too much green tea. I aimed to settle in Norristown, PA for the evening.
I was surprised to find the map segment I was working on ending along a very nice cycling trail. The Schuylkill Trail went in two directions from the point I came upon, to the left, Philadelphia, to the right, Valley Forge National Historic Park. It was getting dark, but I felt that I could safely traverse the trail and find lodging in Philadelphia.
To my misfortune, I made the mistake of assuming the Philadelphia Spur connected with the main route. I couldn’t afford an offshoot. I didn’t realize this, however, until I was two hours into the ride. The most prudent action would have been to settle in the area for the night; Instead, I was of the mind that one bad decision deserves another.
I stopped at a Dunkin Donuts for a lot of fat, carbohydrates, and caffeine. I called my brother to inform him that I would be riding during the night through a potentially unsafe area. I set my callback time to midnight. On to Valley Forge…
I kept my pace no less than 9mph. I kept my eyes out for potential dangers along the desolate, winding route. Dark, unmonitored areas near urban clusters keep me weary.
To my surprise, I encountered no vagrants on the path. Near Norristown, I passed a couple walking together. Sufficiently away from Philadelphia, I felt safe.
I had to cross a river on a bridge just wide enough for my trailer. Interstate traffic zoomed by on the other side of a fence. The ride was disorienting. Luckily, no one but me was on the bridge at this late hour.
I had to stop to change batteries in my GPS. In the cold weather with the backlight frequently used, batteries last not much more than a couple of hours. I had a little difficulty in the darkness determining the correct course. Eventually, I made my way on the correct path.
In the moonlight, seeing Valley Forge National Park for the first time, the experience is wondrous. Rolling grass fields reflecting the silver light of the moon look like ethereal bodies of water. Deer run about everywhere, often waiting until a person is no greater than thirty feet away to snort and run.
There are no artificial lights to illuminate the stone houses and log huts. It’s as if a person stumbled accidentally into another time. I stopped for some time just to enjoy the view. It was perhaps the most remarkable thing I have ever seen. I was reluctant to leave it.
It was not too far from Valley Forge that I scouted out a camp. In the dark, it is difficult to establish a good site. An area can look nice in the subterfuge of the night, but in the light of day, it can be painfully exposed to many eyes. I managed to find a sheltered spot at midnight. Despite the caffeine in my system, I barely managed to set up camp before crashing.
…
I awoke to the rain. This time, my shelter was adequately prepared, no dampness occurred in my microclimate.
I was scratching too often to be good. I noticed a few spots where perhaps urushiol from dead poison ivy leaves rubbed against my skin. I made an effort not to scratch these areas.
I spent the majority of my day inside the shelter, waiting out the rain. I read a little bit of The History of the United States. I fell back asleep.
I awoke again as the rain abated. Though the day was late, I walked over to Valley Forge National Park. I visited George Washington’s Headquarters in time to catch a little history lesson from a guide. I touched the same banister that so many of our founding fathers touched as I made my way upstairs.
Afterwards, I walked over to the same valley I pulled into the night prior, when the moonlight made the scene so surreal. In foggy daylight, the scenery was beautiful, but not nearly as breathtaking. The deer were more guarded, carrying on life some distance away.
As night approached, I walked back to my site, taking advantage of the warm weather to shower and change into poison ivy-free clothing. Not long after, I made an effort to sleep in preparation for a long day of riding.
…
My destination for the day was Bowmansville. Progress was much slower than I hoped. My legs were not prepared for the hills. I did lot of walking.
As the sun took a golden hue, I scouted out a nice spot to camp. I found a particularly secluded patch of land. Unfortunately, as I set up camp, two men in a red truck passed by multiple times. They were taking an unusual interest in my activities.
As a precaution, I packed up and cycled into the night to avoid detection. I went a small distance to the French Creek State Park area. Again, I was closer to the road than I would have liked. I would have to leave early in the morning in order to avoid attracting too much attention.
…
I packed up at the hint of dawn. Little rest and an inadequate breakfast bodes a slow ride. On even grade, I was walking. It took great effort to make it to Reamstown, PA. There, it took some time to find an adequate site near supplies.
As I set up my site, it began to rain. Everything was up in time for a steady downpour. I managed to fit my electronics inside my backpack so that I could work on my journal.
I stopped at a bar for a couple of beers and a hefty dinner. I consumed my first oatmeal stout with an unprecedented speed. About ten minutes later, my head was reeling.
Luckily, the food was out quickly. This managed to steady my head. A football game between the New York Giants and the Philadelphia Eagles went on overhead. It was ironic; I was probably the only New Yorker in the bar. I could have mustered a nice fight with these fans, they were extreme. My ears were ringing from the play by play screaming. I was thankful to leave…
Bedtime came quick. My site was muddy, but the interior of the tent was dry. I crashed.
…
With wet roads, low energy levels, and provisions running low, I decided to remain in Reamstown, PA for the day. It took great effort to keep mud from dirtying everything. I had to take extra care to appear civil.
Despite the forecast, rain gave way to sunny skies. I was still too weak to continue. Too many dehydrated meals and not enough substance in my diet…
I spent the day running up a tab at the Coffee Pot Café. I felt better with each pastry, sandwich, and cup of coffee. I could feel the vital heat return to my body.
My pile of books wasn’t getting any smaller. My time was spent making the most of the limited daylight of winter. Whatever time remained for contemplation was spent catching up on my journal and evaluating my tactical situation.
I was still far behind and falling further every day. Ideally, I would have published the New York City publication while I was in New York City. Instead, I was postponing it in favor of making it further south. Had I stopped to finish it, I would likely have encountered a blizzard or extreme cold.
Looking at my finances, I was running into some problems. I had to purchase additional audio equipment because my Sony MZM200 broke within a week of use. The recorder couldn’t put up to the abuse of a cycle tour and the HiMD disks were hard to find. Previously, I purchased an Olympus DS-2 and found the sound quality was sub-par.
Instead of buying the next item up on the food chain, hoping that would suffice, I purchased the piece of equipment that stood the best chance of surviving abuse: the Sony PCM-D1.
The PCM-D1 is really an excellent piece of equipment for a field journalist. First, it’s encased in titanium, so it can put up to rugged use. The electret condenser microphones pick up sounds well up close and at a distance. Mic sensitivity can be quickly adjusted with dials on the right of the recorder. It takes four AA batteries. Uploading files is as simple as plugging in via USB, selecting the WAV files, and pasting them on the hard drive, no proprietary software.
It’s also $1800. I had a budget of $600 set for audio recording equipment and software. With all the equipment and software I purchased, I was up to $3000.
In the process of acclimating myself to an internet based business, I spent a great deal of money. I was not financially desperate, but it was becoming increasingly clear that I wouldn’t have enough money to continue my tour and continue the current business system. I had to make a choice. Either continue the tour without rigorous documentation, or stop the tour and work at accumulating my base of knowledge, while saving up financial resources. It was a tough call to make. At the time, I felt the best decision was to ignore the problem. I prepared for another day of riding.
…
It was a cold day of riding through Lancaster County. Amish farmland is a thing of beauty. Many homes had lines of laundry billowing in the winter wind. The clothing was simple and consistent, much like my cycling wardrobe.
The temperature sank below 40°F when I pulled into Manheim, PA. I wasn’t in the mood to fumble through another night in the 20’s. I decided to spend the night in a Bed & Breakfast.
I pulled into Dutch Pride as the day was breaking. I set my bike and trailer in Roy and Mary Jane Sauder’s garage. They led me to my guesthouse. The guesthouse was spacious: two bedrooms, a kitchen, a dining area, one bathroom, and a living area/office. It felt remarkably comfortable to have all the amenities of a civil life at my disposal.
Roy and Mary Jane were very kind and accommodating. They made sure I was well fed and content. They loved what they did and it showed in the quality of their service.
After a warm meal, a shower, and a little relaxation in a warm room, I was ready for a peaceful night’s rest.
…
Not long after I awoke, breakfast was waiting for me. Mary Jane sat down with me for some coffee and conversation. She was curious about my travels, especially that I was cycling in the winter. She remarked over a couple that was heading in the opposite direction over the summer. They were having a hard time making their way through the heat.
After sufficiently filling myself with wholesome cuisine and friendly conversation, I reluctantly prepared for another day of cycling. My next destination was York Furnace.
The trip to York Furnace was fraught with mechanical difficulties. A wheel on my burley Nomad kept pressing against the fabric, no matter how much I adjusted things. The fenders of my bike kept scraping against the tires. Then, of course, there were the phantom noises that mysteriously came and went. As darkness approached, a tire on the trailer went flat.
I resorted to walking. I spent the whole day adjusting and repairing things. I was content relying on my feet for a while.
Walking into a wintry night with a loaded bike attracted attention. A gentleman pulled over, inquiring about my well-being. I informed him I was well and that I was heading to a campground in York Furnace.
He informed me I was hours away on foot, and that the roads weren’t safe at night, in terms of visibility. I thanked him and he wished me luck.
A few minutes later, he came back. He offered me a ride to the campground. Considering my state of repair, I graciously accepted.
It was, indeed, a long ride. It would have, indeed, been very unsafe to navigate in the dark. I was thankful to have cheated a few miles. The gentleman who gave me a ride was kind enough to bring me right to the building I needed to visit in order to check in. He also waited to make sure I was able to check in, and proceeded to drive me to my site. I gave the gentleman an ounce of silver for his troubles, though he wasn’t concerned of reward.
I was surprised to find that the campground was occupied by recreational vehicles. I assumed that no one would be out in the winter in such a fashion. Only after a few minutes of setup did I piece together the clues. The vehicles and boats parked around me were being stored for the winter. I was the only crazy one riding in freezing weather.
Everything fluid I possessed was beginning to freeze. I quickly transferred some Gatorade and water into my tent where my body heat would keep it fluid. I poured a large amount of water from my hydration bladder into my Jetboil for a warm dinner and cleanup.
After a quick phone call to my brother, I was off to bed.
…
I was just a few days from Washington, DC and the hospitality of good friends. I was looking forward to familiar faces. Upon checking the weather, however, I realized I might be in for a longer wait.
It was looking like rain for the weekend. I did not look forward to riding in the rain unless absolutely necessary. I reasoned that I could arrange a friend to pick me up if I made it close enough to his home. Instead of waiting out the rain, I could spend it in good company.
I made it as far as Rocks State Park, where I called my friend and arranged for him to pick me up in Corbett. From there, we would go to Washington DC, and I would be confronted with the prospect of another publication.
Washington DC
It was a welcoming sight when my friends Brian and Jorge pulled up alongside my tired bicycle. On my way to meet them, I experienced no less than three flat tires.
I managed to patch things up before I met them, but the bike was still in need of service. I threw it in the back of the rented pickup truck and sank into the passenger seat.
It was not too great a distance to DC. We were dropping off the truck in no time. After storing my gear temporarily in a safe place, we stopped at Chipotle for a quick lunch.
I ravenously digested a massive burrito. The fatigue in my body was compounding. In the company of familiar faces, I was able to let down my guard and fall apart a little.
They were kind enough to pull my trailer through the subway system as we made our way back to their apartment. I found myself increasingly fatigued as we progressed.
At the apartment building, Brian showed me where to lock up the bike while Jorge took the trailer up. By the time we met up with Jorge, the trailer gave something of a dying gasp; equipment was strewn about the hallway. We humbly gathered its remains and tucked it away in the corner of an apartment. There it remained until I packed it up for an unforeseen trip back to New York.
Dubious Perusals
Brian and Jorge showed me some very interesting sights and sounds. Our first night, we walked the streets. It so happened that a leather conference was taking place near the apartment. People in assless chaps and leather vests were walking the streets in abundance. There were, of course the black squirrels and white squirrels I forgot to mention earlier. It was proving to be an interesting city.
Over the next few days, I got a flavor of DC. We had Ethiopian food at Lalibela Restaurant. Our combined dishes, the Lalibela Tib and Ye Som Wot, were served on spongy bread, spread out like pizza dough. On top of this were our respective dishes in small piles: lamb cubes marinated in red wine and spices, and seven other piles of goodies in the form of lentils, vegetables, and sauces.
We each had our own plate of the same spongy bread. It had a slight buckwheat sweetness to it, very wholesome. We broke off pieces of this bread to grab bits and pieces from different piles, forming our own unique medley. After working through this process, we then broke pieces off the spongy bread on the main dish. The bread was well seasoned, having a chance to soak up the juices of the piles sitting on top. It was the first dish in DC that defeated my voracious appetite. I felt pleasantly full after finishing my own bread. Working on the bread of the main dish, my stomach burgeoned.
We walked the gravel paths of the National Mall. In the winter, without protests, congestion was at a minimum. We perused the National Air and Space Museum, one of many free museums along the way.
All the while, a nagging doubt loomed in my mind about the tour. I had acquired data on the homeless population of DC, and decided to focus on that for my publication. Looking into the potential of that story, I would need to spend at least one week gathering information, essentially living out the life. However, there was still New York to worry about, as well as getting my Burley Nomad replaced with a more reliable system to carry my gear.
It was clear to me that I wasn’t quite in tune with the rhythm of the tour. I required more time and money in order to slow down and sort things out the right way. Alternatively, I would need to settle down in a region, spending my time studying in order to hone my skills as a literary journalist.
Changing Course
In order to meditate on the matter in isolation, I checked into Hostelling International. I put on my baseball cap in the common area and clattered away on the computer.
It took a few days of convincing, but I decided to go where I had the most connections—New York. From there, I would be able to advance my skills with the greatest speed. I purchased a truck from my brother and arranged to get a ride home with friends who were visiting me in anticipation that they wouldn’t see me for a long time afterward. I would have to figure out a new mode of living when I got back.
On January 27, 2007, the last full day of my tour, my friends and I went to the National Mall. We arrived in time to catch the fermentation of a war protest. Tens of thousands of people around us banded together in the name of an idea.
What, exactly, is that idea? It all depends on whom you ask. Do you rely on the banners? Do you rely on the pamphlets? What about the spokespersons who so eloquently craft a speech, voicing the concerns of the aggregate? Perhaps, it is the reporter, who samples the population for a consensus. But the reporter of what agency?
What was the count of such an event? Tens of thousands? Hundreds of thousands? What was the outcome?
It is a fine art to document an event accurately, without bias. Yet a pile of facts is as much a story as a pile of stones is a house. The facts must frame the central idea, the one that people need to understand. Moreover, that idea needs to be taken in context with the forces that shape its existence.
I was a sojourner in the world. I was a saunterer. However, I did not have the skills or resources to share the ideas that people needed to understand. What could I do but pack up and head back to that place where it all began, to spend more time reading and practicing the skills of the trade? I could not see a better path, so thereabouts I went.
Special thanks on this adventure to John Corrigan who coded my previous website without compensation, and my brother, Matt, who was there when I needed him.
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