Lessons from The Long Ride, Part 2
Lighting Out
There were people around me, sure, but in spite of some slight disorientation and an abrupt reacquaintance with riding in urban terrain, I also realized that I was in the midst of a solvable problem in an escapable environment.
My son was watching soccer on TV when I descended the stairs the morning my ride. I could hear the Spanish announcers in the background as I brewed my coffee. Being so focused on heading out I didn’t question why he was up so early. My breakfast was simple and we sat together on the couch quietly watching the game as I sipped my coffee. He had grown used to seeing me hit the road for work and perhaps this prelude to my departure didn’t appear much different to him. For me, my mind was already in the saddle. I had packed, re-packed, and re-re-packed everything the previous night. The panniers of my bike were stuffed with food and kit. I needed only to load it onto the back of my truck and head to the train station.
I arrived at the Franconia-Springfield Metro station at 6:45 am. As I heaved my bike off the back of the truck I noted its incredible imbalance and weight. As I strapped on the remaining gear, I remembered the last time I had ever pedaled such weight. It was back in Florida many years ago. My friend Andrew and I ran out of beer and I pulled him along in the kid’s trailer to the Circle K. He pedaled back and riotous laughter poured from both of us the entire way home. But that was flat, paved, suburbia and probably 1/60th of how far I would travel today. I smirked as I cinched the last of my gear to the rear rack.
It was Sunday which meant that the ride along the Blue Line to Rosslyn would be nearly empty of people. The air was damp and a little chilly for September and the sky was straight out of a black and white movie. Wetness clung to every surface which gave the Burger King-orange pavers of the metro station a subdued glaze. I snapped a couple pics of my rig and texted them to my wife.
Somewhere else on that day people would jump out of airplanes, some would scale high peaks, still more would ride farther than I would just for their daily workout. For me though, I felt like an Apollo 11 astronaut hanging out in the Airstream trailer-turned quarantine facility waiting to head out to the launch pad. In my abundant self-righteousness, I felt a sense of pity as I looked upon my fellow Metro riders. It’s okay, people; I’ll go have this adventure while you go about your ordinary existence. It’s a feeling that I’ll only let myself get away with in the moment, but will reflect upon with pinch of shame afterward.
The train rolled northward and I listened to music. A few more texts from my sleepy wife that I read while keeping my wobbly bike in place with the jostles, starts, and stops of the Metro. Keeping the rear brake lever squeezed with my toe wedged in front of the front tire seemed to do the trick but grew awkward after a while. Just keep the bike upright, bud.
The sprawl of Northern Virginia raced past me as the sun struggled to make gauzy appearance from behind the clouds. The City of Alexandria was coming to life. Anxious travelers bungled their way onto the train with their luggage en route to Reagan National Airport. Hungover twenty-somethings wedged themselves into seats leaning their sore heads on the tops of the chairs. Walk of Shamers. Homeless folks. Elderly people. At the back of the train I caught a few of them glancing at my laden bike. I wonder how many of must’ve thought I was a well-dressed hobo.
The train pulled into the Pentagon station, then Arlington National Cemetery, then made its way to Rosslyn. Excitement began to build and in my head I started to re-play the routing I needed to take from the station to get to the Francis Scott Key bridge. I stood up just prior to the stop, steadying the bike with both hands on the brake levers. The train stopped. The automated voice followed a hazy chime: “Step back; doors opening”.
Being underground, I needed to make my way to the surface and did so by riding up the world’s slowest elevator. I was greeted by the silvery facade of an office building and an active construction site. Disoriented, I checked the compass on my watch. I knew I needed to head north toward the Key bridge but in spite of my route study, the city’s sidewalks and streets suddenly turned into a confused mess of awkwardly merging one-way passages.
For a Sunday, I was impressed with the traffic that filled the city and mild anxiety swept over me. I had never been to Rosslyn before nor had I ridden in a busy metropolitan area since I toured New York City back in 2012. Christ, I’m going to get hit by one of these cars before I reach the bridge. I was two months removed from Florida’s panhandle and I needed to get reacquainted with how to drive a bike in a city quickly. There’s a situational awareness — a heightened sense of defensiveness — that is required when mixing it up with traffic. It’s different from singletrack or the wide mixed-use bike/pedestrian paths found in newer suburban developments. In traffic and among pedestrians the obstacles are moving, some of them much faster than you and they weigh more. In all cases, assume that you’re the last thing on their minds.
It would be first of many times during this trip that I would get a sense of aloneness. There were people around me, sure, but in spite of some slight disorientation and an abrupt reacquaintance with riding in urban terrain, I also realized that I was in the midst of a solvable problem in an escapable environment. The “Long Ride” had become a reality. There was no need to ask directions or even weigh the possibility of half-assing the trip out of concern for what were, in reality, small distractions.
In fact, that was the very point of the trip. It wasn’t supposed to be a convenient spin around the familiar municipal trails of my neighborhood. There were supposed to be challenges. Jimmy Doolittle launched off the deck of an aircraft carrier in a B-25 and bombed Japan without fighter escort. I could figure out this unfamiliar city and its traffic.
At the intersection of what I later learned were the Custis and Mount Vernon Trails I reached the Key Bridge — the gateway to Georgetown and the C&O Trail. I paused to let exiting traffic from the George Washington parkway exit and once clear I heaved my heavy bike forward to pedal across the Potomac.
You’ll get Part 3 after you wash my truck…
