We’d arrived in Georgetown, unloading my gear within sight of mile marker zero—the Canal’s famed starting point (or ending point, depending on your perspective) off the Potomac River. This was it, my big adventure was about to begin. Planning ahead has never been one of my strengths and the fact that I was pulling together my camping gear at 11 pm the night before when we’d planned to leave a 6 am the next morning certainly hadn’t instilled in my spouse and one time partner in a bicycle trip across the country much confidence in my ability to do this trip alone.

Putting on a brave face, I turned to look at him as he stood at the car watching me pedal away. I could read his mind. He was hoping that I’d remember to take the right trail and wouldn’t end up calling him for directions from the Washington Monument.

As I watched him grow smaller in my helmet mirror, I flashed back to my roller coaster riding experiences as a foolhardy adolescent. Standing by our Subaru, he was the “Chicken Out Exit.” Turning back, I’d sleep in my own comfortable bed that night. Ahead of me lay the towpath leading 184.5 miles from DC to Cumberland and the Greater Allegheny Passage taking one 130 miles from Cumberland, MD to McKeesport, PA. Though I’d always taken note of those “Chicken Out Exits,” I’d never taken one, and at age 37 I wasn’t about to take it now.

Congratulating myself on my courageous spirit, I pedaled with confidence—until realizing that  I had indeed taken the wrong trail and was forced to back-track two miles. But surely, that was a minor error; my resolve was intact.  My resolve was so strong in fact that I decided to forego stopping at the Visitors Center near the Canal’s point of origin. Really, what assistance could I possibly need this early in my trip? The path was clear. I need only follow the trail to Cumberland.

One half of a mile later, I realized that what I’d thought was the towpath was a make shift pedestrian trail on the opposite side of the Canal that petered out under a bridge claimed by squatters. And so, with three extra miles behind me, I finally set my tires to the C&O Canal Towpath and made my way West.

The first sixty miles of the C&O Canal take one swiftly from urban conveniences into the wooded wilds. OK, maybe that’s not very accurate. At any point on the trail, with the possible exception of Mountain Maryland, travelers are rarely more than 15 miles away from a town with flushable toilets and other cozy amenities. But when you are on a loaded down bicycle, 15 miles might as well be 50 and the forested thickets surrounding the trail seem as dauntingly impenetrable as tropical rainforests.

There are stretches along those first sixty miles that are breathtaking. Near mile marker 15, Great Falls, the cliff faces of the Potomac leading up to it, and the jagged rocks surrounding it, were enticing enough to convince me to stop for a quick break and unpack my camera. As I snapped images of the steep rapids below, I had to remind myself that I was still in Maryland and hadn’t slipped through a portal to the wild West.

At mile 25, I was feeling fine. I’d made good time and was maintaining a consistent speed of 13 miles an hour. At the Seneca Creek Aqueduct, however, my luck began to change. I blame it on the buzzards. Walking my bike across the Aqueduct like a good rule abiding citizen, I came within a foot of about half a dozen Turkey Buzzards who decided to thwart my progress. Had I reached out my arm, I could have touched them. They exhibited no fear. To them, I was a minor annoyance at the moment—and if things went well for them, I could be their next meal. We approached one another with measured regard.

As if the carrion eaters were portents of a difficult path ahead, immediately following our meeting the trail turned treacherous.  I grew up bicycling on gravel roads, but I’ve been spoiled since taking up cycling as a sport ten years ago. I like asphalt and racing downhill at 40 mph. Trail riding is a stretch for me, but because the Greater Allegheny Passage is a short ride from my front door, when I think of trails, I think of the wide, smooth swaths of that trail. I admit it. I was completely unprepared for the rugged mountain bike terrain of the C&O Canal’s towpath.

My average speed plummeted as I did my best to dodge pot holes, jagged rocks, and mud puddles.  For the next ten miles I saw only three cyclists—two headed the other direction, and one whom I passed on the trail. When I decided to take this trip, I’d thought that I’d encounter dozens of fellow cyclists. After miles of meeting no-one, I was beginning to acknowledge the risks of riding solo.

The lone cyclist I’d passed earlier caught up with me at my lunch spot where I feasted on a peanut butter and jelly tortilla wrap. Appearing to be in his late sixties, he’d started in Frederick, ridden to Pittsburgh and flown back to DC. He would be completing the circuit that day. Unencumbered by the weight of a tent and sleeping bag, which he had dropped off at home, he was unfazed by the condition of the trail. “The last ten miles have been pretty rough,” I observed. “Conditions will improve, won’t they?”

“I’ll put it this way,” he responded, “compared to the C&O Canal, the Greater Allegheny Passage is a freeway. You just have to hope that you don’t encounter any big storms on your trip. The days after storms make the riding especially difficult.” I wished him the best as I eased my bike back to the trail and prayed that the rain gods would be silent for the next few days.

Ten miles later, I stopped at White’s Ferry for an afternoon snack of Gatorade and an ice cream bar. As I watched the ferry load and leave for the opposite side of the Potomac, I tried to shed images of the Ferryman transporting me across the River of Styx.

Feeling refreshed, I settled into my saddle for my last twenty miles of the day. I passed turtles sunning themselves in the canal, startled at least six deer, rode by a fearless groundhog, and crossed paths with the largest raccoon I’ve ever seen in the wild. Just outside of Brunswick, I found an established campground with showers and flush toilets and decided that I’d earned such amenities.

I dined on cold SpaghettiO’s and Pringles and splurged on two Diet Pepsis from the vending machine. That night, I was in the tent and ready for bed by 8 pm. It had been a long and eventful day.

DAY TWO

Touring cyclists know that the first and last days of a trip become imprinted on one’s mind. The middle days simply flow together. Everything in life other than the ride seems trivial. Work stress disappears and the guilt of not cleaning the house before your departure dissipates. What’s important now is the trail before you, rest stops on the way, and a comfortable campsite in the evening. By Day Two, I was in the touring state of mind. Sleep deprived from the trains that ran through the night, I had camp broken down and was packed up and on the trail by 9 am. The day was beautiful, sunny with clear blue skies.

With few exceptions, the trail between Brunswick and the Sharpsburg area is well kept. I was back up to averaging 12 or 13 mph and I began to think that I could reach a campground just outside of Hancock before the day was over. My mind was on the trail and I wanted to see how quickly I could pass the miles. Harper’s Ferry looked beautiful from a distance, but I didn’t want to be bothered with stopping. I’m sure that other riders visit places of historic interest along the route. In theory, that sounds appealing, but when I’m touring my goal becomes one of making tracks and seeing how many miles I can put behind me. I was aiming for a 65 to 70 mile day, so I decided to avoid long rest stops and to delay lunch until I landed in Williamsport, a midway point to my destination. After a six mile detour from the trail took me up a steep incline sapping my energy I decided that postponing lunch had not been wise.

Back on the trail, the towpath passed coincided with steep drops off cliff faces into the Potomac. It was beautiful scenery, but I confess to walking my bicycle in a couple of spots where I was dodging swimmers and sunbathers. There were times when I doubted that I was on the towpath at all. It was a lovely Friday and the Potomac was teaming with activity.

Happy, but exhausted, I made my way into Williamsport where I stopped at the Visitors Center to ask about the nearest place to eat lunch. It was there that I encountered my second group of touring cyclists. Too tired to talk, I contented myself with eavesdropping on their conversation with a local. They’d started their trip in Pittsburgh-McKeesport six days prior and had spent their days cycling and their afternoons and evenings fishing. “Now it’s flat on the Canal, isn’t it?” I heard the local ask. “Yeah,” they were quick to respond. “It’s pretty flat.” I made a quick mental note—should I do this again, I’m going the opposite direction.

Up the hill into town, I found a wonderful café and satisfied my hunger with a Steamer (the Washington County version of a Sloppy Joe), chips, and a strawberry smoothie. I was the only customer and my waitress was much impressed by my independence. “I don’t know that I could spend that much time alone,” she said. “It would give me far too much time for self reflection.” I thought about her observation later in the afternoon and decided that my reflecting pool must be pretty shallow. All I’d been thinking about was riding, eating, and pitching camp. I was Maslow’s theory in practice. I’d had no lofty thoughts or eureka moments on the trail. I couldn’t even keep a solid repertoire of songs and tunes in my head—and I’m a folklorist married to a musician! My mind’s entire song inventory consisted of two songs by Tom T. Hall and “Closing Time,” by Semisonic.

The waitress and I swapped stories about characters we’d met from the Trail. I told her about the man I’d encountered that morning who stopped me to ask if he was headed the right direction to Harper’s Ferry. He wasn’t. He said he’d hiked 35 miles the day before and when he broke camp that morning, he’d turned the wrong direction down the towpath. I asked him if he needed anything, but he replied that he just needed to turn around and start walking the right way.

“The hikers I see come through here,” my waitress told me, “they just seem like a different breed. All of them are a little off.” I didn’t ask her what she thought of thru cyclists.

Back on the towpath, I realized that I’d waited too long for lunch and decided that I might not make it as close to Hancock as I’d planned. At 5:30, I came to the entrance of Fort Frederick State Park and decided that I was ready to call it a day.

The C&O Canal boasts a number of primitive camping spots for thru hikers and cyclists. They each come fully equipped with a port-a-pot and pump water. Best of all, the spots are free. As a woman traveling alone, however, I was reluctant to be so isolated and I was a little concerned that my dried sweat seasoning made me tantalizingly taste-temping for bears. That in mind, I found myself willing to pay for a campsite simply for the security of being around other people. In particular, I looked for family oriented campgrounds along the way.

Fort Frederick State Park fit the bill nicely, but I balked after cycling up the hill for two miles to get to the Visitor’s Center only to be told that the campground was back down the hill, would cost $15 –and had only port-a-pots and pump water (a quarter mile from the campground). I told the attendant that I thought I could make it six miles down the trail to the next hiker/biker campground where I could have the same luxuries for free. . .and I immediately left to find the Fort Frederick camping area, where I pitched my tent and waited for a ranger to come collect my money. Fate must have had pity on me that day, because the fee was never collected.

When I closed myself into my tent the sky was relatively clear. It was a beautiful evening. By the middle of the night, the skies had become angry. Rain pummeled down on my tent and lightening illuminated the night. A few of the thunder claps I endured made the ground beneath me quake. This wasn’t just a shower; it was a raging thunderstorm. As I lay wide awake waiting for the storm to pass, I remembered the words of the thru biker I’d talked to on my first day out and wondered what kind of trail would await me that morning.

DAY THREE

The plan was that I would make it at least as far as Spring Gap and perhaps as far as Evitts Creek just outside of Cumberland on my third day. From there I would make the connection to the Greater Allegheny Passage and eat lunch in Frostburg with my husband before traveling on to Rockwood, PA for night number four. I worried that if I stopped for the night in Frostburg, I might not get back on the trail. I hadn’t accounted for the storm. The trail was even more unwieldy than I could have imagined. All of the potholes had turned to a muddy slush. Dodging them wasn’t an option; the entire towpath had become one long continuous slippery, mud-filled pit. It was all I could do to keep my bicycle upright.

I was miserable and covered in mud from head to toe by the time I stumbled upon a footbridge across the Canal that led to a road that connected with what looked suspiciously like a bike path –a paved bike path! I had unwittingly found the Western Maryland Rail Trail, a beautifully paved trail that parallels the C&O Canal for 22 miles. My dogged determination to remain on the towpath had caused me to dismiss the Rail Trail’s existence. What was I thinking? Frustrated, and cursing myself for not paying closer attention to the map, I made my way into Hancock on the Rail Trail where I discovered that I could take the lovely byway for another eleven miles.

Travelers on the Rail Trail looked askance at my mud clad body and gave me wide berth on the trail. I was so pleased to be back on pavement that I left the day-trippers, even those who looked like serious cyclists, in my wake. Earlier in the day getting up to 9 mph was stunning feat. On this new trail, I could do 15 to 17 mph with a full load--never mind the fact that in the back of my head I wondered if I was cheating.

At lock 56 my speed came to an abrupt end and I was back on the towpath struggling with mud and downed limbs and branches. The Fifteen Mile Creek area from Little Orleans to Paw Paw is a ruggedly beautiful area.  After living in Mountain Maryland for three years, I was surprised to find that our region is home to a thriving river culture. The trail may have been lonely, but it offered a nice vantage point for watching boats cruise down the river. But my spirits were low and I was weary of taking my eyes from the trail for fear of losing control of the bike and cracking my skull against the rocks. For a stretch of twenty miles, I did not see another cyclist.

By the time I arrived at the Paw Paw Tunnel, I knew my bike was in trouble. The back wheel seemed wobbly and I was having some trouble controlling it. Taking those less than ideal conditions into account, I walked through the Paw Paw Tunnel. It was dark—very dark. Had my bike been working perfectly, I still would have wanted to walk. On the opposite side of the tunnel I encountered a number of walkers and riders including one group of Boy Scouts who started out the day before and planned to ride 30 to 40 miles a day to earn their Canal badge. I spared them my horror stories from the day and told them to have a great trip.

Despite the wobbly wheel, my day was looking up. The trail drastically improved on the other side of the Paw Paw Tunnel. I even began smiling at folks I met along the trail. At one point, I stopped to allow a mama duck lead six ducklings across the trail into the canal. Papa duck was waiting for them to pass. It was a picturesque moment—one for which I was woefully unprepared considering how well packed my camera was at the time.

By Oldtown, my wheel had grown much worse. It had become work to keep my bicycle upright and I hadn’t been able to diagnose the problem. I’d stopped to check the air pressure hoping that it would be a simple fix of a flat tire, but that wasn’t the case. My best guess was that I had a broken spoke that would have to be repaired in Cumberland. At mile marker 169, at the Pigman’s Ferry Hiker/Biker Camp, I was forced to face the fact that my bike was in serious need of assistance. Giving up my plan of making it ten more miles down the trail to Evitts Creek, I pitched camp.
           

I’m not a bike mechanic. That’s always been my husband’s job and though he has done his best to teach me maintenance and upkeep, I’m really only comfortable changing my tires, oiling the chain, and making slight adjustments to the brakes. On our bike trip across the country, I witnessed him having his own spoke problems, causing him extreme angst and leading us to the nearest bike shop. I knew that if my problem was a broken spoke, I would be completely out of my league.

That evening, I cleaned my bike, taking special care to clean the wheel’s rims and brakes and I convinced myself that I’d done much to improve the situation. At worst, I thought that I could make it to Cumberland where certified bike-smiths could work their magic. I headed to bed around 8 pm trying my best not to think about the fact that I was entirely alone on the trail with no cell phone service.

DAY FOUR

I woke to the sight of five deer frolicking in the field near my tent and reminded myself that despite the trip’s challenges, I was enjoying immensely my time outdoors. A mile down the trail I realized that making it another thirteen miles to Cumberland wasn’t in the cards. My bike beneath me shook. Cognizant of the fact that I was less than an hour’s drive from home, I called my husband and beseeched his assistance. “I think it’s the spokes,” I told him. “How do you know if you have a broken spoke?”

“It’s generally pretty obvious,” he replied. “One will be far looser than the rest.”

“Ok, but I think that there’s more than one loose one,” I said. “I really think I need your help.”

We planned to meet at Spring Gap Campground four miles down the trail. He promised to bring his spoke wrench, a spare wheel, and my two dogs. An hour later, he looked at my wheel aghast at what he found. It wasn’t just one or two spokes that were loose. It was all of them.

“I can’t believe that you actually rode on this wheel,” he shook his head disbelievingly. “Do you know how dangerous that is?”

By that time, I was beyond caring. I was cuddling my dogs, guzzling down the Gatorade he’d brought me, and feeling thankful that I had a husband who was willing to be my on call bike mechanic.

Two hours later, my bike was fixed and I was headed down the trail into Cumberland at what seemed like record speed. After a brief stop on the trail to enjoy with other cyclists the sight of a Blue Heron resting on a limb across the Canal and a quick bite at the Crabby Pig, I bid farewell to the C&O Canal and linked up with the Greater Allegheny Passage. It was just 16 miles up the mountain to my own comfy bed.

Anyone who has biked from Cumberland up to Frostburg knows the challenges of the ride. Comparatively speaking, the trail is akin to a freeway, but it’s all uphill. My husband is fond of saying, “cycling teaches patience.” That’s true—climbing mountains by bicycle is anything but fast.

I stopped once on to sit on a rock to rest and noticed a vividly colored beetle alighting on my panniers. “No hitchhikers!” I told him firmly as I found a stick to lift him off. I’m sure that I seemed a tad crazed to the family of cyclists who rode by in time to witness our conversation. After nearly four full days by myself it seemed natural to anthropomorphize any living beings I encountered.

A short distance later, I had a nice conversation with a deer I startled on the path. There were three of them initially. One leapt to the right, another to the left, and the third simply froze for a moment, looked at me with surprise, and sprinted strait ahead on the trail. I lost sight of him as he disappeared into the horizon, but I followed his tracks down the trail for more than a mile.

At mile 15, Frostburg beckoned. A shower, pizza, and bed…day four ended in utter bliss!

DAY FIVE 

Getting back on the bicycle was difficult. I puttered around as much as I could, cleaning my bike, oiling the chain, washing my clothes, and restocking my provisions. Camping spots on the Greater Allegheny Passage are less frequent than on the C&O Canal, so that leg of the trip required more planning.  Enjoying my leisure, I decided to stick to my original goal and head for Rockwood that evening. Thirty miles from my front door, I planned for that day to be the shortest of my trip.

While I’m not the kind of rider who heads to the trail everyday, I do ride the GAP to Deal on a semi-regular basis. I know well the awe inspiring views it holds, but I generally take in the scenery on the run. On day five, I decided to be a tourist. Near mile 22, I snapped panoramic photos documenting the view toward Cumberland, capturing in the lens images of Piney Mountain, Wills Mountain, Haystack Mountain, and Dan’s Mountain. And at the Eastern Continental Divide, I dismounted the bike and took a photo of the sign as proof of my achievement.

The remainder of the day progressed without incident. The scenery of the countryside was splendid. The trail offered variation from open fields to dense woodlands.  What most impressed me, though, was the number of families I saw out for late afternoon walks and rides. The kids looked gleeful as they raced down the trail with their parents in chase.  While portions of the C&O Canal Towpath seem most appropriate for experienced cyclists, the GAP provides a playground for all.

I camped for the night outside of Rockwood along the banks of the Casselman River. From there it was just a short ride into town where I found tasty food, drink, and conversation.

My night, however, was fitful. The trains were loud and frequent.

DAY SIX 

By dawn it had begun to rain. When the rain dwindled down to a drizzle, I packed up and hit the trail. Less than three miles down the trail, I caught up with the storm and donned my rain gear. For an hour straight it rained down on me. I reveled in it. It broke up the monotony of the trail, which as beautiful as it is can grow tiring after six days in the saddle.

Overall, the sixth day was my favorite day of riding. The tame Casselman gave way to the wild Youghigheny and from the bridges above I had an eagle’s eye view of the river below. I even stopped for a moment to snap a few photos. On the trail I spied a couple of snakes, a beaver, several deer, and what I’m convinced was an otter—an animal reintroduced to the region in recent years.

Coasting toward Ohiopyle I was surprised to encounter friends of mine on the trail. Seeing familiar faces shattered my reverie, causing me to recognize that while I felt entirely disconnected from my everyday life, home remained waiting for me less than 60 miles away. I lunched in Ohiopyle listening to the sounds of the falls that gave the area its earlier name of “Falls City.”

I took my late afternoon break in Connellsville in its riverside park snacking on Fig Newtons and Gatorade as I watched a large flock of ducks peer at me thoughtfully from across the water. I wondered if there was something wrong with the water, for the ducks didn’t show a single sign of wanting to take a swim. Maybe it was just time for their afternoon nap.

That evening, I made it to Cedar Creek Park where I pitched my tent in a hiker/biker area—the best maintained free area I’d discovered on my trip. When I arrived, Cedar Creek was bustling with day trippers buzzing down the trail and playing in the river. By evening, I may have been the only soul in the Park. By then I was accustomed to the solitude and I enjoyed eating my cold Baked Beans alone.

The nighttime hours led to a restless sleep. Once more the roar of the train engines pierced nature’s silence. I dreamt that I was experiencing seizures and putting the final stretch to McKeesport in jeopardy. More than a week later, I can still feel the visceral remnants of my nightmare. Hours later I had a eureka moment when I realized that the dream had most likely been my body’s reaction to a train which, while it hadn’t awakened me, had certainly disturbed my slumber.

It stormed in the early morning hours, but I was cozy in my tent.

That morning I woke to find that my bicycle had a flat on its front tire. This, I could handle. I loaded everything up, filled my water bottles at the pump, and took out my tire levers and spare innertube. I don’t trust my patch jobs, so I’d brought three spare innertubes for the trip. I changed that tube in record time, feeling completely proud of how self sufficient I could be.

As the Biblical Proverb states, “Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall.” I should have paid closer attention in Sunday School.

My plan was to ride to McKeesport, make it to the official end of the line, turn around, and make the trip home. I’d done 70 miles on the previous day and thought that if I pushed myself I’d camp near Ohiopyle that night and be back home the following evening.

My body was over its aches and pains. On the bicycle, I felt like a well oiled machine. I flew down the trail. And the fog was lifting from my brain. For example, it only took me an hour or so to understand why so many tiny settlements were oriented toward the trail. (Hint, think former railroad and coal).

As of now, the McKeesport marina is the temporary end of the trail. Work moves forward toward the completion of the trail through Pittsburgh, but presently, to make it into the city one has to piece together a series of commuter trails. I’d met enough travelers coming from the other direction with perplexing tales of that system that I was convinced that McKeesport would be my turning point, as I had initially planned. Mile 132 was my goal. Everything else was simply a matter of returning home.

At mile 129, just a stone’s throw past Dead Man’s Hollow, I had another flat—I can now appreciate the irony. It was time for my fall. I walked the bike up the next incline to find a bench. I’d traveled only twenty miles since my last flat and I was not pleased with this turn of events. I took another tube out and made the change, but I couldn’t find the problem and that was disturbing.

At McKeesport, the trail dumped me out onto a road where I was surrounded by large semis. While the drivers were probably accustomed to seeing cyclists, my confidence was shot and I was weary of the roadway. My determination eroded further as I arrived downtown to find a chewed up trail and few directional signs.

I had met my goal. I’d traveled from DC to McKeesport alone and unsupported, (unless one counts the fact that I had my husband on call). I knew that having another flat tire without finding the cause would mark the end of my journey. I didn’t carry a spare tire and there didn’t appear to be a bike shop in McKeesport.

I called my husband. He encouraged me to think it over through lunch, but assured me that if he needed to come pick me up, he would. One cheeseburger and several sweet potato fries later, my courage was buoyed. My tire still held air and it was only early afternoon. Though I’d given up hope of making it to Ohiopyle, I thought I could make it back to Connellsville. I called my husband back to tell him I was planning to return home on the trail.

Six miles later, in the township of Boston, I had another flat. While I’m not an overtly religious person, I honor the sacredness of the number three and I wasn’t about to argue with fate. I took the innertube out, inspected the tire thoroughly, and found a tiny cut which pointed to the end of my journey. I called my husband to break the news.

As I waited for rescue, I spoke to “Ed” whom I suspected to be a trail transient-- one of a subculture of folks who live much of their lives camped out along the trail, similar to the way hobos live on the railroad. He asked me if I believed in God. I told him, “Maybe, sometimes.”

He responded that God was sending me a sign—a force much mightier than me believed that I had accomplished my goal and it was time for my journey to end.

Officially, the literature describes the combined C&O Canal and GAP to be 335 miles long. As I loaded my bike into the Subaru I noted the mileage on my computer; I’d logged 343.89 miles in just a tad over six days. I may have ended up hoisting my bike into the Subaru, but I had taken no Chicken Out Exit.