I woke up to singing birds and the creeping humidity of July. The night brought more storms, but the rain fly over my hammock had kept my muddied body dry. The bug net around my hammock, with which I struggled and danced in a sensual nightly ritual of simply trying to lay down, featured a rainbow of insects and spiders sharing the dry space. When I was first taught about Maslow’s hierarchy in school, I thought the concept of “shelter” as a need seemed primitive, even silly. This was easy to think. Shelter is the rich world’s reality; it’s where we spend—by far—the majority of our time. But after full days and nights under the sky—jaunts through haunted tunnels notwithstanding—I found myself, on this morning, grateful for my roof.
I unzipped myself into the blue day and began unmaking camp. Down the path, Oliver and Adrian were doing the same. I could almost feel the steam rising from the murky canal waters a few feet away. A lot of our C&O journey was a tale of two waters: on the one side, the rolling Potomac, still clean and swimmable this far north; on the other, the vestige of the canal, which played between beautiful American ruin and mosquito-ridden swamp, depending on the mile marker.
Actually, there were always mosquitos.
Our fourth day biking towards/away from civilization was the most generic “bike tour” day of the entire trip. We didn’t see any snakes (just sticks that God had formed to look exactly like snakes); we weren’t butts of any practical jokes from mountaintop djinn; I don’t think we even rode through a single tunnel. In fact, I think the highlights of the day could be summarized on a resume pretty easily:
Co-managed and coordinated meetup with good friends Colin and Lilly in Williamsport, MD. Responsibilities included being thirsty and complaining about the lack of real breweries in the town, despite lofty promises to the contrary from Google.
Worked with team to explore the cooling waters of the Potomac, which led to a 25% morale increase across the organization.
Led marketing efforts to Gen Z by cliff-jumping into river with local teenagers in an attempt to retain slowly-fading sense of youth.
I’m being brief because I want to use Day 4 as the display case for the sheer monotony unavoidable during multi-day bike trips. When I think back on this journey, I think about highlights—sweeping vistas, spooky tunnels, swimming in the mist. In that way, the whole experience feels like it fits in my pocket, a convenient collage. But the lion’s share of moments were spent exactly how you’d expect—biking one pedal at a time. Here’s a shitty little poem I wrote to capture the feelings. I’m skipping capitalization so it seems more e.e. cummings-ish.
mile 10
pedal up, pedal down—
all three together, all three fresh—
oliver, ian, adrian—
the first grimly going forward, wrist aching from his fall
the second, tired but grateful for dry sky—
the third, waiting behind, beyond sight, taking his time.
oliver’s pace doesn’t agree with mine,
so i switch rear gears, there and back again, 6 7 6 7 6 7—
too fast, too slow, no goldilocks middle.
nobody to pass, no one calling out “on your left” this post-monsoon morning—
so i have nowhere to look but down
at the ever-changing, ever-same gravel path,
the whole universe of my sensory input.
i am a function, f(x) where x is some combination of roots, rocks, snakes, mud;
and f is a slight turn, slight brake, gear shift, gear shift back—
but sometimes the function breaks, and i plow through and my bike shakes and my body shakes—
and if i pull that shit enough times i’ll break a spoke which i was specifically warned to not do on the c&o and which would be a bummer indeed because i simply don’t have extra spokes so ian maybe next time bike around the root instead of crashing head on like you’re trying to collect mario coins out of it—
it’s getting hotter. mile 11.
mile 37.
early afternoon, still 20-something miles to go—
which is a normal saturday bike ride i tell myself—
in fact an easy one—
but then again on normal saturdays i am not lugging weight in four panniers—
and i am not biking on gravel—
both of which really are killer.
but we three are together—
and having lost conversation topics—
and all sense of sanity—
we are bringing the joys of a cappella music to maryland’s sylvan backtrails—
not just a cappella but improv a cappella—
which i guess is just bee-bop—
anyway adrian sets a bassline groove—
and i build its structure with some high bari—
flat 7, 6, 5, ba-ba-bad-ap-bahhhhhh on repeat—
and oliver soars in a comical lead line—
really just a yell—
which he relaxes, settling into a new pattern—
and I sing something in as high a falsetto as i can go—
which isn’t that high—
but the rhythm is good, the rhythm hits my legs—
i push down each beat—
and i take up the bassline, and adrian takes the lead—
we’re singing the same way pelotons ride—
and now we’re passing people, who get to witness the carnival—
but we do not stop and in fact don’t acknowledge them—
and the songs take us for a while. mile 38.
mile 67. it’s getting dark—
and we haven’t found camp—
the map said five more miles
feels like ten miles ago—
but it’s okay. My body
is a machine, a simple one—
in go the clif bars and gel packs
out goes foot revolution after foot revolution—
and it boggles me how pedaling feels like up and down, not forward and ‘round—
but machines don’t question, machines just crank and turn—
i read once how they teach soldiers to treat rifles as extensions of thyself—
and firefighters, axes—
and me, now, a bike.
as my legs piston up-down-up my hands commute across the handlebars—
down, middle, top position, even hybrid combos to really shake things up—
and i think about home, and family, and god, and dirt, and aches, and age, and motion, and the times i’ve been humbled, and the times as a teenager i took one step closer to adulthood, and how the weight of pride has shifted over the years, and how i haven’t talked to some people in a truly long time, and how there was just one day left on this trail.
they’re are still out there where i left them, spinning, thoughts like wheels.
Damn - love this poem. But really want to flag this Oliver kid's calves. Wow, they look great.