Great Allegheny Passage

It was time to cross what would likely prove the toughest terrain of the American leg so far, and probably the hardest single day’s ride we’d face for another five weeks, until Glacier National Park. We slogged up and over a run of Appalachian ridges, climbing and then dropping a couple of thousand feet before the Alleghenies rose in front of us. With twenty miles still to go I ran completely out of water, weak and desperate for both liquid and sugar. Halfway up a climb I stopped and found I couldn’t even lean on the handlebars — sweat and sunscreen were pouring off my arms too fast to grip anything.

An ice cream sandwich and a couple of refills at a soda fountain got me the rest of the way to Rockwood, where we camped for the night. Dani joined us for a chat that evening, heading south toward Washington DC herself. Eal and I made a doomed attempt at a fire with wood too damp to catch, gave it up, and spent an hour swapping touring tips instead. She left us with a list of things to see in Pittsburgh — a nice way to end the day.

I was genuinely excited to get onto the rail trail the next morning — the Great Allegheny Passage, which runs from Pittsburgh all the way to Washington DC, picking up a canal towpath at Cumberland, Maryland. It didn’t disappoint. Every town along it has its own information board with trail maps and leaflets covering the current town, the last one and the next — campgrounds, restaurants, attractions, everything you could want. I can hardly remember being happier on a bike. The trail surface is solid and flat the whole way, following the river as it winds between the Allegheny mountains, with no climbing and no cars to share the road with.

It was heartening to see how thoroughly the towns along the way had embraced being trail towns, local businesses trading under names like Trailside Café and banners on every corner promoting local walks and rides. It brings the tourists, certainly, but it’s obviously done something far more lasting for the people who actually live there. We covered a short thirty-five miles that day to Ohiopyle and set up at the state campground, ramen for dinner and marshmallows over the fire for dessert. We were due to stay with my friend Joe in Pittsburgh, but not until Thursday, so a few more easy thirty-five-mile days lay ahead of us on the trail — smart-casual riding, I called it, and I wasn’t complaining, since it meant more time to enjoy these towns as we passed through them.

Rockwood, a great trail town.

The trail is solid, flat, and dusted with fine limestone.

Back on the trail the next morning we picked up another rider, Tom, from Delaware, who’d arrived late at the campsite the previous night and pitched next to us. He caught us up and told us that in the early hours he’d woken to see a bear outside his tent, walking between our plots. Not long after we’d mentioned how we try to space our days out so as not to arrive at the next campground too early, he got a rear flat. We pulled over to help him fix it, and he swapped his worn tyre for a spare folding one he’d been carrying. Half an hour later, ready to go again, I glanced down at his wheel — flat again, on the brand-new tube and tyre.

We started over with another fresh tube, checking the tyre and rim carefully for grit or a sharp edge. Half an hour after that we finally set off, and hadn’t gone half a mile before it was obvious the tyre wasn’t holding air at all — something was properly wrong with the folding tyre itself. It took several more flats and the better part of three hours before we finally got his rear tyre solid. We rolled into Connellsville at two, just ahead of an enormous storm, and shared a pizza with Tom as the sky went black, the rain set in, and lightning began cracking overhead. It got bad enough that we could barely see down the street, so we ducked into a bar for an hour and waited it out.

Tom had planned an eighty-mile-plus ride that morning, heading north toward Michigan, but scrapped it and joined us instead at a primitive, volunteer-maintained campground further along the trail. It was great talking football with him — unlike most Americans we’d met, it was his sport of choice, one he and his son both played, though unfortunately he supported Arsenal. We covered transfers and the season ahead in reasonable depth.

Wifebeater day — time to work on those tan lines.

Tom, and the first of many flats.

The trail connects seamlessly through the towns.

Tom left early the next morning, though he’d promised to give me a shout on his way out so I could see him off. Eal and I got onto the trail early ourselves, and I was buzzing more than I had been in days — that afternoon we’d finally reach Pittsburgh, where we were staying with Joe. I’d met Joe right at the start of Kentucky two years before, and we’d ridden together all the way to Pueblo, Colorado, reducing each other to tears of laughter most days along the way. We’d stayed close ever since, and I’d been looking forward to this reunion for a long time.

The last time I saw Joe — at the foot of the Rockies, minutes after we’d both narrowly escaped being struck by lightning.

Joe had a lunch meeting, so we’d agreed to arrive around three, but with more afternoon thunderstorms forecast we decided to head in early and find somewhere to wait it out with food instead. We’d barely turned onto Carson Street, where he lives, and crossed at a set of lights, when there he was, walking straight toward us — a little more clean-shaven than when we’d last seen him, but the same old Joe, already picking up the phrases we’d brought over with us and laughing at our word order and pronunciation. Daft as a brush, the pair of us.

Eal getting water from the dog tap.

J C Meyer.

We spent a couple of days watching Workaholics, far funnier than it had any right to be, and working our way through drinking and eating at just about every place along Carson Street. Friday night was a particularly big one — we made Joe bangers and mash to line the stomach before heading out bar hopping. The next morning Eal and I nursed sore heads while Joe, infuriatingly, went out for a five-mile run. Later Joe and I went for dinner at Church Brew Works, a name and a set of photographs that rather give away what the building used to be, then took a drive up Mount Washington, said to have the steepest street in the world, for an incredible view over downtown Pittsburgh. Thanks for the brilliant stopover, Joey — just like the TransAm days. Can’t wait until next time.

Church Brew Works, PA.

Best pizza of 2012.