Chapter 3: Across the Panhandle to Pittsburg

Beautiful old houses. It feels almost like New England.

I woke up early, very cold but dry as I was under a dense thicket trees. It was a big day, for I'd have to leave the trail and head east. There'd been some articles and talk about connecting the gaps as part of the GART, but it was years away still. At least the middle of the day promised a short, ten-mile trail, so that's what I was focused on, chiefly. There was no doubt I'd have to climb. I'd gotten off easy until then. All I had to do was get to the West Virginia Border, where a trail gets you to Pittsburgh.

I was loath to depart the trail, so I stopped at a park right away to make coffee. The park had a plaque about the town's origin, how it was named after Simón Bolívar, the Venezuelan freedom fighter who led much of South America to independence from Spain. I doubted most of the people around there knew, or even cared at all. It'd be 'fake history' to them.

The next town East from Bolivar is Zoar. I liked the name, so it was easy to remember and I mentioned it when asked about my route to Pittsburgh. It seemed like nobody herd of it, however, so I expected a town with nothing. I lived near a town for almost fifteen years without knowing it was there.

Zoar is a masterpiece of historic preservation. How it came to be was a group of German dissidents immigrated to the US in the early 1800s, having faced religious and political persecution. They were poor when they came to Philadelphia, and received help from the Quakers to buy land in SE Ohio. The Society of the Separatists of Zoar worked as a collective. Everyone used whatever skills and gifts they my posses to help the community flourish. Any money anyone earned was for the community.

Opportunity came when the canal was being constructed. The society were contracted to help build the canal, which in of itself was very lucrative. But the canal also would be routed through Zoar, which, in turn, brought considerable wealth to the Zoarites because of trade. They could bring their crafts and agricultural goods to eastern markets, so Zoar become a hub of economic activity for a time.

At least 2500 breaks I've taken on tour all told; this assumes six per day over 57 weeks. The gold standard for me is a pavilion with water and electricity, which I typically find at least once a day. The holy grail is everything I just listed but with a basketball, so I can take some trick shots. In all of those breaks, I only found my grail twice. Then, at the top of a hill came number three. A fenced court and a bucket of balls outside a church. I plugged in my phone and hoisted up a few. I was surprised by how responsive and springy my legs felt. Different muscles.

A couple of minutes later an older man with a jovial disposition made his way towards me. He carried a red and white basketball covered in writing. He assured me how welcome I was and presented me with the ball as a gift. I could see the writing was biblical scripture. I thanked him but kindly refused, citing my inability to carry it. He didn't see my bike, as it was against the shed. When he saw my bike, was absolutely ecstatic, thrilled about my trip. He showed me almost a reverence and said that the whole congregation would pray for my voyage later, and I'd be a part of his sermon. Cool. When you're a lone white dude in his 40s traveling in a Bible belt citadel, people often are extra nice. I sometimes think they are just in case I was sent from upstairs.

With a full belly, full battery, and a whole congregation preying for me, I was ready to tackle those vaunted hills. There were hills, sure, but nothing like what I expected; about the difficulty of central Connecticut. It's rolling hills were full of old farms, some grew alfalfa, others grew vegetables with colorful chickens that foraged for bugs; many had an oil well with some rusted storage tanks. Off in a distant meadow, two horses grazed in a field that looked to be nothing but yellow flowers, as I was so far. Again, I lamented the lack of a camera. No way to get a good photo.

The Cotton Creek Trail is about half way between the O&E and the WV border, where the Panhandle Trail begins. One of the best things about trails, is they tend to have benches and picnic tables. It seems everywhere nowadays, I see bicycle repair stations and places to fill your water bottles. Last year, during the summer of covid, there was no water. Everything was shut off. Bathrooms closed, and stores had their beverage areas sealed like drum gaskets. So last year, in a desperate fit of thirst, I avowed to never take water for granted, and to always top off my supply. Less than a year later, however, I took it for granted and found myself low on water, dirty, and my neck was throbbing.

Right away, a little covered picnic table. Inside, tourers that came before had carved their names and where they were going, no water though. Almost all of them were either going to or coming from DC. I felt reassured about my route and relaxed in the shade. Then I stretched any tried to massage the pain out.

There were a few covered bridges on the Cotton Creek Trail. This one was provided by a coffee shop in a nearby town

The next pavilion up the trail, I saw another tourer. It looked like he was sleeping, and had a wayward look about him. His bike was heavily laden with old, patched up panniers with a message that said "This bike's been to 48 states", and on his handlebars was a big metal basket full of clutter. I rode by somewhat glad he was asleep, because I just had a break and had more than enough social interactions the past few days. Still, I was interested in where he was off to. "Hey", I heard echo behind me. He must not have been asleep after all. I did a U-turn and introduced myself.

"You smoke?" was one of the first things he asked.

I said "Cigarettes? No, but I don't mind if you do." and sat down while he smoked a Bugler. I don't remember his name, but we talked for a while. He'd just come from Pittsburgh and told me his route, which is the way I was going. Turns out it's now federal bike route 50; he showed me on a useful app called Komoot and said there's signs everywhere. I figured if it's a federal bike route, and a cigarette smoker more heavily loaded than me did it, how hard can it possibly be?

My newfound friend was down on his luck. He'd been gifted a Trek 520 in Costa Rica, because he said everything on his bike needed replacement or repair and he was stranded, so someone took pity on him. His bike was edging that direction again--I could see he needed new tires and handlebar tape--and I wondered how he'd make it to the West Coast. I gave him some mixed nuts and a lemon Lara Bar, and rode off.

At the trailhead I Jewett, I saw there was a gas station, so I filled up my water bottles. What I really needed was a spigot so I could wash up and do some laundry. I have an Ortlieb folding bowl I use for such occasions. It seemed like every park had the water still off. It's easy to tell this year when they're off, because all of the fountains accumulated debris and cobwebs from such a long period of disuse. Outside the store, an older guy said "howdy" with a thick southern accent, which made me realize how far I'd come.

I followed the signs the rest of the way, which made my life so much easier. My friend from the trail was right, the route stayed up on the ridgeline all the way to Steubenville, which sits on the Ohio River, which serves as a border between Ohio and West Virginia, offered incredible views of the river valley. After a huge downhill, I found myself at the river and crossed on a quiet, long bridge with a metal grate road. I don't like riding on metal, but I really don't like riding on a busy bridge, so it wasn't too bad.

Less than five miles down the trail, I pitched my tent next to a creek. I watched a family of geese forage on a tiny island I could see from my seat on the picnic table where I ate a peanut butter sandwich and drank more than half my water supply.

I awoke with the sun and packed as fast as I could. I didn't want anyone to know I camped there. Once everything was packed, I relaxed on the picnic table and made some coffee. My stove was acting funny and it took a while to get the water hot enough. That was almost the last of my water.

In no time I was in Pennsylvania and soon was riding with a guy around my age. He rides those trails for his Ironman training. He said he doesn't like the roads, so has ridden thousands of miles on the network around Pittsburgh. We talked a great deal about training. I have infinite respect for anyone who can train that hard in three disciplines. We rode faster than I usually do, and I went much longer without a break than I cared. It was enjoyable to ride with someone, but I began to get thirsty. When the trail finally split, he went a different direction, and I plopped down on the first bench I saw. There was a grocery store close by with a park just outside it. With luck, it would have water

No luck, so I went to the grocery store, bought a small watermelon, some humus and chips, and filled my water in the sink. I went to the park and ate just about all of the food I bought. The watermelon was a bit mushy, so I threw the rest behind a rusted rail car in the back of the park, along with the rinds. I try to never throw organic waste in the trash, as it produces methane.

When I started out that morning, I figured I'd be on the GAP trail that night. My body wouldn't have it. I don't know if it was a bad watermelon, or I got dehydrated, but I because very nauseous and my thoughts were morbid. My neck hurt more than ever. I pulled over and layed down on a bench in the shade. I took out my sleeping bag and pillow to lay on. Anytime I get even remotely ill, I get severe vertigo. It can last for days. What am I going to do? I thought. I couldn't move. An hour or so later, I threw up behind the bench, like a frat boy on St. Patrick's Day.

Puking helped. I wondered if I was really sick with some virus or my body just revolted. I wasn't going to--or even able to--go anywhere, but towards the river next to the trail, I found a great spot to set up my tent. When I finish blowing up my air mattress, I almost puked again from a wave of nausea. When it was finally dark, I slept better than usual.

I awoke symptom free. My only concern at that point was I might not crave watermelon for a while. I packed up quick, just like the morning before, covered up my puke with some dirt and leaves, and was very glad for the porta potty. I was at the trailhead and all I needed to do was ride the last twelve miles on roads to get to downtown. That felt too good to be true, that I wouldn't be on another road all the way to DC. The worst was behind me, and I felt great, like myself again. I'd made it to Pittsburgh, I was healthy, and my bike was running good. I had no regrets, except for my melon selection.

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