Coffeeneuring in Car Hell

The fourth annual coffeeneuring challenge is upon us. This challenge entails riding your bike to coffee shops on the weekends and meeting rules that only a randonneur would love. I wasn’t going to do it this year but I had a Sunday to burn and a gift certificate to a new coffee shop burning a whole in my saddle bag.

To me rolling out to get a cup of coffee seems kind of silly since I have a perfectly good coffee maker in my kitchen. So I combined today’s coffee trek with some errands. I started with a ride to the hardware store for some bird seed. Little Nellie, my New Wrold Tourist with little wheels, does a terrifc job of carrying the unbalanced load without making me feel like I’m going to tip over.

Once the seeds were off loaded at home, I turned around and rode the Mount Vernon Trail to Old Town to use an ATM. I could have done this at the Safeway near home but I needed some therapy miles. Call it bikescendental meditation. My brain shuts off, I sing songs badly, I look at the egrets and herons. All is calm.

After ATMing, I headed off to the coffee shop on Telegraph Road south of the beltway. I rode over to the Eisenhower Valley (why does this invoke tanks in my mind) and used the nifty newish trail over the beltway at Telegraph. It drops you right smack dab in the middle of a spaghetti bowl of ramps and traffic lanes going every which way. This being Sunday traffic was light. Riding this on a weekday would take nerves of steel. This sort of road pattern is what I call Car Hell. Car Hell is why Fairfax County is a bike hostile community.

After waiting three minutes for a traffic light, I headed south on Telegraph. The shoulder comes and goes so taking the lane is the only option. People were driving their cars responsible though so it was not an entirely unpleasant experience. Telegraph wends through a hilly area. There was one hill I had to climb (right after Climbhill Rd., I kid you not) and I made it without breathing hard.

A fun downhill led to a left hand turn (always fun) into a strip mall (planned American retail blight). There I found the Grounded Coffee Shop.

I locked Little Nellie to a street sign because, this being Car Hell, there was no bike parking to be found.

Inside I found a very pleasant, kid friendly place (toys and games were placed on shelves and a Lego pit was off to one side). A young man was playing guitar and singing songs for tips.The customers ranged in age from 1 to 70. A student did homework on a laptop.

I ordered tomato soup with chicken and orzo, a banana, and a 16-ounce house coffee (dark roast from the Congo). This being the first crisp fall weekend day in these parts, the warmth of the soup and coffee alone would have made me happy, but they were both top notch. (The banana lacked a certain je ne said quoi, but it is an essential bike food.)

The ride home involved South Kings Highway which included one whopper of a hill. The road has a paved shoulder that comes and goes. And when it goes it just drops off in an way that would mean a trip to the ER. Way to go VDOT!

I managed the hill with the forebearance of some drivers. When confronted with the next, steeper hill bailed out and took side streets until I popped out at US 1 and the entrance to the Hybla Valley strip mall farm. That this monstrosity was actually planned by someone is simply astounding. Fearlessly, Little Nellie took on the mass of cars and we made it through somehow. In fact, in about 5 minutes I was turning onto Parkers Lane using the turn lane and ironically not 30 yards from the spot where my wife was mowed down (actually thrown in the air) by an ex-con driving an SUV, when a driver honked at me. I wasn’t in her way. I wasn’t doing anything illegal. My offense was I was not in a car. Some people need remedial driver’s ed.

So I arrived home unscathed from my first coffeeneuring adventure. Here are some stats:

Date: October 5.

Place: Grounded Coffee Shop, 6919 Telegraph Avenue, Alexandria VA. http://www.groundedcoffeeshop.com

Drink: Congo dark roast, most delicious. Also, pretty darn good tomato chicken and orzo soup.

Observation: Grounded Coffee is a real find. I have $6+ left on my gift certificate and look forward to going back. I’l probably drive though because it’s located in Car Hell.

Miles:19.5

September by the Numbers

I made a pretty good show of it in September on my three bikes. Yes, three. The Mule, my now ancient Specialized Sequoia, came out of the shed for an epic bike commute on the last Friday of the month. I finally got around to using the bike valet at Nationals Park. It was my first commute on the Mule since late May. I mostly rode Big Nellie, my Tour Easy recumbent, to work and Little Nellie, my Bike Friday New World Tourist, for events. Here’s how it stacked up.

19 commutes for 573.5 miles. 16 were on Big Nellie.

3 event rides all on Little Nellie including an abbreviated 46-mile ride at Indian Head, Maryland with Ultrarunnergirl. Next came the 50 States Ride with the rookies. The last ride was my first full Backroads Century, again with Ultrarunnergirl.

Total miles for the month was 793.

Many thanks to all those folks who rode with me, or waved as they sped past me on my rides to work or during events. I may be fat but I’m slow. Extra thanks to Ultrarunnergirl who endured my company for nearly 150 miles. And extra, extra thanks to the 50-States rookies and the official rookie support team. And to Mike Ross and Lisa Eaker who make riding to the rest stop at their house the highlight of the ride.

So far this year, I’ve ridden to work 127 times. My total commuting mileage is 3661. Including all other rides, I’ve gone 5,996.5 miles.

Ultracenturygirl Goes Long

I’ve signed up for the Backroads Century three or four times before this year. I have always ended up riding the metric century, 100 kilometers or 62 miles, instead of the 100-mile version. Kirstin, aka Ultrarunnergirl, persuaded me to ride the 100 miles this year. So we did.

Backroads is the annual big event of the Potomac Pedalers riding club. The ride starts and stops in Berryville Virginia in the Shenandoah Valley. To say that this area is pretty is to do it a gross disservice. Numerous times during the ride my jaw dropped open at the beauty of the hills and farms (I am a sucker for a field filled with big rolls of hay). The terrain is also damned near perfect. The hills, at least for most of the ride, are perfect for hill hopping, speeding down one hill and using the momentum to ride up the next. The narrow roads curve around farms and through corn fields and, well words don’t do them justice.

The weather was damned near perfect. I wore arm wamers and a vest for the first 25 miles, then put them away for the rest of the day. Temperatures rose throughout the day. Just as they seemed to get oppressive, the skies opened up for a two-minute cool down at mile 95. The weather gods could not have timed it better.

I’d never ridden most of the first 50 miles which wind their way north from Berryville into Jefferson County West Virginia in the eastern panhandle. The ride was hilly but I had fresh legs so they didn’t bother me in the least. Kirstin wore the teeth off her granny gear spinning like a fiend. Once, much later in the ride, in a burst of insanity she actually got out of the saddle and attacked a hill. For a few brief moments she was flying. Lordy!

For much of the time we rode separately, but I’d soft pedal or wait at a turn on the top of the hill to bring us back together. She had a light on the front of her bike which helped me pick her out among the long line of cyclists.

On the way to the first rest stop at mile 25, we were past by Rudi, a Friday Coffee Clubber. Rudi broke his femur earlier in the year so it was great to see him zipping along. He had a huge smile as he greeted me in passing. Joy. Next came Lawyer Mike, another Friday Coffee Clubber, resplendent in his Dartmouth kit. Lawyer Mike was all business, all sweat and determination. Not messin’ ’round, dude.

We rode back to the start to finish the first half. Kirstin went to her car to get her lunch; I went to mine to get new batteries for my camera. We reconvened at the rest stop across the street where we ran into Elizabeth, fresh off her rookie triumph in the 50 States Ride. She somehow had ridden the same 50 miles as us but we never saw her on the road.

After lunch Kirstin and I went back out for another 50, this time south of Berryville. We had both ridden this course before in previous years. I recalled it as hillier than the first 50 and I was right. The hills and the increasing temperature made for more determined work but we were up to the task at hand. Bigger hills meant less hill hopping and more grinding it out.

Never Be Afraid to Look Silly When You're Going the Distance — Never Be Afraid to Look Silly When You’re Going the Distance

The second half has three rest stops. One had potatos boiled in salty water. Another had tomato and cucumber sammiches. Ride? Do I have to?

We were plodding along, feeling pretty confident of completing the ride despite the now uncomfortable heat. I spotted a sprinkler on the side of the road and then heard a popping sound all along the road. Enormous raindrops were falling from the only cloud in the sky. Big sloppy drops going splat on the road. What a perfect cool down! I was comfortably wet as I rode under a leavy canopy across the road when the road began an upbrupt ride. It was the steepest, hardest hill of the day. Riders up the road struggled. Been here, done this, got this. No problemo. I waited for Kirstin at the top. When you have infinite cardiovascular capacity, you smile as you crest the hilly beast!

Our reward was a fast glide down to the Shenandoah for a brief riverside cruise. Every down has its up and we climbed away headed for the finish. Once clear of the hill a tailwind pushed us home. My guess is that we rode our fastest miles of the day from mile 96 to mile 98.

We finished after 90 percent of the riders had left. Kirstin somehow found some chips and quac. I found my ride t-shirt and all was right with the world.

If you are thinking about doing this ride, I’d recommend it with one reservation. The people of Clark County,Virginia clearly do not welcome this event. They scowl at you. They drive agressively past you well within the legally required three feet. The sheriff all but declared war on cyclists rolling through stop signs. (Yes, it’s illegal but he could just as easily have directed traffic to allow participants’ safe passage.) It’s surprising to me that they don’t raise a banner in town that says “Cyclist go home!” The contrast with the people in Jefferson County, West Virginia was obvious. They waved and seemed genuinely happy to see us out on the road.

Congratulations to Ultrarunnergirl for completing her first century.

Here are some pix I took.

What’s an Extra 20 miles between Friends?

Kirstin, a fellow bike commuter, blogger, and Friday Coffee Clubber, signed up for the Backroads Century next month. She is a little worried that she doesn’t have enough bike miles in her legs so she asked me to go for a ride with her this weekend. I picked out a 43-mile ride that I did on the Great Pumpkin Ride last fall. I wanted to check out the area around Warrenton, Virginia when the air was warm and the winds weren’t howling. Kirstin is usually accompanied by her Hubz but alas he is on the DL and she had to go it alone.

We met up in Old Town Warrenton and headed out, she on her Surly Long Haul Trucker (My Precious) and I on my Bike Friday New World Tourist (Little Nellie). After a mile or so on a rail trail, we found ourselves riding winding country roads at a conversational pace. Split rail fences, fields of soy and corn, and even the sight of a biplane cruising overhead made the first ten miles a breeze.

We were following the yellow route on a map I used during the Great Pumpkin ride. After a while we noticed that yellow arrows were painted on the road at every turn so we decided to use them as our guide. What could go wrong?

Every so often the country roads would penetrate a wooded area. A couple of times, we saw turkey vultures soaring up into the trees waiting for us to pass. They are graceful flyers but butt ugly birds.

Speaking of butt ugly, did you know that longhorn steers think I am a whole mess of ugly? We came upon a small herd of longhorns in a field. Several of the steers were looking over the fence along the side of the road. We stopped for a photo and the steers turned and ran. When they reached the rest of the herd the whole lot of them took off. Well, I got one thing to tell them: those horns look ridiculous.

Kirstin and I have different hill climbing styles. I HATE hills and take every opportunity to hill hop: speed down one side to use the momentum to carry me up the other. She rides hills like a recumbent rider. She gets down into her lowest gears and spins like a crazy person. This makes maximum use of her incredible stamina; she recently completed a very hill 100-mile ultramarathon. They don’t call her Ultrarunnergirl for nothing. As she approached each hill she’d let out a howl and get down to work. At the top, she’d take a couple of breaths and then her breathing would return to normal. Hills? What hills?

As we rode along, a cyclists pulled up along side us. He started chatting and told us how he was training for a century in Fredericksburg in a week. I figured he’d already ridden a long way of he was from Fredericksburg. After a while he sped off.

Not long afterward we passed a sign indicating we were entering leaving Fauquer County and entering Stafford County. Funny. I didn’t recall riding in Stafford County on the Great Pumpkin Ride. We kept riding and following the arrows and enjoying the scenery and quiet country roads. Then we rode past the Spring Hill Farm. This farm went on for what seemed like eternity (It’s actually over 1,900 acres). Funny, I didn’t recall seening such a large farm on the ride last fall.

We rolled along chatting about the Nationals, crops, Whole30 diets, recovery from endurance events, and animal sex. Kirstin says you know you’re on a long ride when animal sex comes up. No, we were not discussing zipless monkey sex. What kind of blog do you think this is, anyway? You see Spring Hill Farm has a sign indicating the road to its foaling stable. Which got me thinking about the mating stable at the Morgan Horse Farm in Vermont. Morgans are big and expensive. So they are brought into a controlled environment for mating to reduce the chance of injury. Really. Would I make this up?

After this discussion, we stopped for a cigarette.

No, just kidding. We stopped when we reached a crossroad and I announced that I was pretty sure we were off course. Out came the smartphones. We were not off course. We were WAAAAYYYY off course. We were closer to Fredericksburg than Warrenton.

Kirstin seemed pleased. More riding for MEEEEE!. After she ate some baby food (Whole30 diets are interesting), we headed north-ish with the hope that the roads would be merciful and kind. We were in luck; they were every bit as lovely as the roads that came before. Up until this point clouds had kept us out of the sun, but now the sun was burning through. We came to ~~Dodds Corner which is~~ an intersection with a country store and nothing much else. The sign on the door said “No public restroom,” but Kirstin thought she could get the old man behind the counter to offer her the use of the facilities. No dice. That’s the last time I buy an iced tea from you, sir!

Back on the bike we now felt confident of our ability to finish the ride comfortably. After another five miles we came upon another country store with a porta potty. Yay! Take that you old codger!

We stopped and did the rest stop thing. As we were about to leave a wide-eyed couple in their late 20s walked up. The woman asked us if it was safe to ride bikes “around here.” I responded, “We rob banks.” I kid. We reassured her that she was in bicycling heaven. She and her man looked at us with amazement, said thanks, got in their car and drove off. Even with a day to think about it, it was a weird conversation.

Back on the bikes, we were now miraculously back on the route. The clouds came back to give us some shelter from the hot sun. The trees along the road added some shade. The cows and horses and corn gave us some bucolic stuff to admire. I turned down a lane that wound through a field of soy, across a stone bridge and up a hill to a stone house. It was a restaurant that served as the last rest stop on the Great Pumpkin Ride. Alas, there was no hot cider and pumpkin soup but Kirstin admired the charm of the place as she munched on a cricket bar. Yes, made from insect flour. In my day we lived by the expression, If you wanna go fasta, you gotta eatta your pasta. So much for the wisdom of the ages. Fartlek anyone?

As we started the ride, I told Kirstin that the ride out of Warrenton was a gradual downhill not unlike the start of the Backroads Century. Now we were on the last miles into town. Hills got hillier. The flats were slightly uphill. No worries. We slowed a bit but kept trucking along.

In short order we rolled into town past the caboose at the finish. Our unplanned tour of Stafford County had added 20 miles to our 43-mile route. A metric century by accident.

We went to a nearby watering hole for food and drink. We toasted our good fortune with club soda (she) and a showerless pint of Harp. Cheers!

And so it came to pass that Kirstin gave notice to the hills of the Berryville countryside that she is indeed ready to take on the Backroads Century. Hell, she could probably run the bloody thing.

Here are some more pix from the ride.

Wicked Nice

During my gap year between college and grad school, I lived in Boston and bought a bike. It was a blue Raleigh Grand Prix. It had ten speeds and side pull breaks. After work I would ride it along the Charles River and on weekends I’d go for bike rides with friends out to the suburban kettle ponds called Walden and Farm. Riding a bike in New England in the summertime is bliss. The weather is so agreeable that I didn’t carry a water bottle on these jaunts. (I learned the benefits of hydration a few years later during my first summer in the DC blast-furnace.)

Today was like one of those New England summer days. Just wicked nice. So, naturally I drove to work. Well, not exactly. I drove to a mechanic in North Arlington and rode Little Nellie the two miles to the office. Down hill. On fresh pavement. Ahhh.

The car need to stay in the hospital overnight. I didn’t mind. I got to ride 15 miles home in this bliss. The Mount Vernon Trail was crowded but somehow the usual population of fair weather asshats stayed away.

Tomorrow I do it in reverse. Even after over 100 bike commutes, I am looking forward to commuting to work. I seriously doubt many car commuters could say the same thing.

Saddles and Rain and Turtles and a PSA

A short while ago I did a ride with my friend Florencia. I had a good time. Most of her had a good time. Her bottom did not. Her saddle is pretty much shot. It offers little support and is fraying all over the place. Ow. While I was messing around in the midwest, Flor and her friend Emilia rode to Harpers Ferry and back along the bumpy C&O canal towpath. Emilia rode a hybrid with wide-ish tires and a decent saddle. She rode the 120-mile ride with a big smile on her face. (If you are reading this Emilia, you are definitely ready for your first 50-States Ride next month.) Flor not so much. She rode her road bike with its skinny tires and the same old saddle. OW! At one point she even wrapped her saddle in what looks like a jacket of some sort to give her some cushion.

Flor’s misery got me to thinking about the saddle on Little Nellie. It’s a Brooks Flyer, a leather IMG_0220[1] saddle. You’re supposed to keep the leather taut by tightening an adjusting bolt on the underside of the saddle’s nose. I didn’t do this on The Mule’s saddle and the bolt bent rendering adjustments impossible. Well, long story short, the same thing happened on Little Nellie. If you look closely you can see the bend in the bolt as it extends from the nut. Today I sent the saddle off to Aaron’s Bicycle Repair in Seattle to get the bolt replaced. They did an excellent job doing the same repair on The Mule’s saddle.

As it turns out, I have two bikes and four Brooks saddles, three Flyers and a B67. So I put my third Flyer saddle on Little Nellie today. The ride in was pretty nice. The saddle being relatively new was firmer but I had no discomfort. I rode to work in my usual trance only to be startled by Chris M. speeding by in the opposite direction. “Rootchopper!” (I am so glad I don’t use an off color Internet name.) I met Chris on last December’s Cider ride. After seeing Chris I climbed up to the Rosslyn Intersection of Doom. It nearly lived up to its name today. I took my usual left across the I-66 ramp. The light facing the ramp traffic was red and had been for a few seconds. The driver of the car in the right lane stopped and made no attempt to take a right turn. The drivers of two cars in the center lane however blew through the light and made right turns. They didn’t come close to hitting me only because I always assume that drivers will ignore the light. One of these days this kind of thing is going to get someone killed.

From the looks of the weather radar I thought I might get wet on the ride home. It seems the radar display is delayed a few minutes. Either that or the storm moved really fast between my last peek at the radar and my leaving the garage at work. I left the garage in a light rain which gave way heavier and heavier rain. It didn’t quite reach full on downpour status but I was soaked to the bone within a mile or so. Riding in the rain is pretty simple because once you get wet, you’re wet. Nothing to it. Cyclists and runners took cover under the 14th Street Bridge and the US1 access bridge at National Airport. Message to these cyclists: if you are wet and you stop, you will be cold and wet. If you are wet and you ride, you at least will generate some body heat. I kept riding.

The rain let up near Old Town which was a good thing since the rainwater had gotten into my eyes making them sting. I was riding blind for a while. I’ve often said that I’ve ridden the Mount Vernon Trail so often I could ride it with my eyes closed. I proved myself right tonight.

About two miles from home, the heavens opened up with roars and flashes and buckets of rain. By the time I got home, I was soaked to the gills. I normally ride across the lawn into my backyard. Because of mud and wet grass I dismounted on the front lawn. As I did, I spotted what looked like a clump of sod near where my foot was about to land. It wasn’t sod; it was a box turtle. My yard is a zoo.

Finally, a note about last night’s commute. I was 1/3rd of a mile from home, slogging along at my usual 12 mile per hour pace when a pack of riders (probably doing the weekly Potomac Pedalers ride in my neighborhood) passed me so closely that they forced me into some damaged pavement on the edge of the road. They gave no warning. A less experienced rider could easily have crashed. To the riders in the pack I have this to say: If you want to ride like a bunch of hyperagressive douche bags, do me a favor. Ride somewhere else. I don’t need the aggravation. Better yet, why don’t you chill out, call your passes, and give other traffic a little room.

Little Nellie Turns 13

Little Nellie reached yet anothe milestone, 13,000 miles. My Bike Friday has been my main ride all summer and seems to be handling the task well. I can’t say as much for the saddle and the chain, however. The chain started to skip the other day, almost surely because it is stretched. By now, my cassette (the gears in back) is lilely ruined so I’ll keep the chain on until I replace the whole works this winter. The saddle, a Brooks Flyer, has the same problem as the Brooks Flyer on The Mule. Somehow I bend the adjustment bolt in the nose of the saddle and I can’t re-tension the leather. So I’ll send it out to Aaron’s Bike Shop in Seattle for a repair.

In a bit of a freak coincidence my odometer turned on the same day. And today was my 99th bike commute of the year. So everybody sing:

99 bike commutes on the year, 99 bike commutes. You change your bags and clean your chain, 100 bike commutes on the year.

It’s Not Illinois but You Can’t See It from Here

The plan was to ride from North Judson IN to Kankakee IL to tour some Frank Lloyd Wright houses with the misses. She preferred visiting with her friend in Valparaiso IN. So it was off to Valpo 17th state be damned.

At least the weather cooperated. It was beyond perfect. And the terrain was a pool table. In fact I’m pretty sure the roads around here are paved with felt.

If you’ve ever ridden in northern Indiana you know that there are two constants. First you’ll be riding among soybeans and corn and little else. Soy. Corn. Soy. Corn. Tofu and popcorn. The second is the grid. Roads are numbered from the centerline of each county. W 100 is a. north/south road 1 mile to the west of the centerline. It’s easy to navigate as long as you pay a attention to county lines. When you cross the county line the numbers go a bit haywire. 1200 W is followed by 1100 E. It’s like going through a wormhole.

I pedaled along oblivious to the map that Google gave me. I even found a marked bike route which seemed silly since every road is ridable.

A wind picked up from the west but my countless was legit northerly. I hid behind the 6-foot corn and rolled effortlessly. I could ride this pool table forever.

I made it into Valpo and rolled around a traffic circle. No worries. Local drivers gave me plenty of room, probably because they’d never see a Bike Friday before.

The center if Valpo has an impressive man drag with boutiques and interesting restaurants. It seems like a city on a roll.

Speaking of rolls, mine was coming to an end. I stopped at my brother-in-law’s house. Mrs Rootchopper’s friend’s house was about a Mike away. I chatted with my sister-in-law who warned me about the hills Campbell Street. I laughed having just ridden most of it. It was barely a false flat, imperceptibly uphill.

I arrived st the destination well before my wife. She showed up and we spent a couple of hours talking to her friends from high school. All during the conversation toe dogs circled round us. By the time we left my eyes were red and sore and my sinuses were a mess.

With Little Nellie in the boot we made our way back to her parents’ place stopping at a Target to get some antihistamines. By this point my eyes were a complete mess. Fortunately they seem to be responding to the medicines we bought.

It was a fun ride. Maybe I’ll do another one someday – on my way to the coast.

Well, the Ride in Was Fun

On the recommendation of Bob “Don’t Call Me Rachel” Cannon, I took my son’s car to Baird Automotive in Clarendon. They are a little pricey but seem to have their act together which is sadly unusual in the world of auto maintenance.

I could have walked to Metro but then why do that when Little Nellie’s around?

Off we went through Clarendon when suddenly the smooth pavement gave way to a milled mess. The milling was deep in spots, tossing LIttle Nellie wee wheels this way and that. Please cars, don’t kill me. The good pavement returned after three or four blocks, just in time for a screaming downhill to my office in Rosslyn. Once past the Clarendon Metro station I caught every green light. I felt like I won a prize. All too soon, I arrived at work, my two mile bike commute was short but invigorating.

The ride home, not so much. Riding back to the mechanic involved grinding back up that monster hill. Fortunately, the ride back had no milled pavement to deal with. Just one long mother of a hill. I crested the hill just shy of Clarendon as rain drops started to fall. Wouldn’t it be nice if I got to the mechanic without getting soaked in a down pour. And it was.

I always think that the people working at shops will take one look at me and my itty bitty bike and bust a gut laughing. I entered the shop and there was a nice Trek road bike on a workstand in the waiting area. Well, gaaawlee.

I do believe I’ll come back in the future.

A Sunday Ride with The Impermanent Resident

Did you know peripatetic is a noun? If you look it up, you’ll see a picture of my friend Florencia right next to it in the dictionary. Would I lie to you?

Flor and I have been doing rides together since we met on the 50 States ride in 2007. It doesn’t seem possible that seven years have passed since we met. We were going to do it again this year, but she has a conflict. Boo. Her friend Emilia is riding for the first time and is a little worried that she won’t be able to handle the 50 States course. So Flor thought it would be a good idea to get us together for a little shakedown ride.

It was a nice Sunday morning so I decided to bypass the Mount Vernon Trail and ride Fort Hunt Road to the streets of Old Town and Potomac Yards in Alexandria, Crystal City in Arlington, and (according to the sign on the side of the road) the Pentagon reservation. (Apparently the Pentagon was one of the little known tribes of the pre-colonial days.) I met up with Flor at the Jefferson Memorial. Emilia was a no show. Sad face. Flor later told me that the two of them are doing a 120-mile two-day ride in the weeks ahead. I do believe Emilia will drop me after about 10 states.

Flor and I soldiered on. We rode the Halfvasa route from DC to Potomac Village and back. We managed to survive the onslaught of tourists on bikes and idiots looking for parking spaces on K Street in Georgetown. The Capital Crescent Trail had little traffic allowing us to settle into a nice groove. At Fletcher’s Boat House we cut over to Resevoir Road managing to avoid several toddlers who seemed determined to die by under our front wheels.

The ride up reservoir was long and slow. For me. Flor didn’t seem to be working with the same gravitational field. We rendevoused at the top and proceeded side by side out MacArthur Boulevard chatting all the way. The hill near the reservoir made us work a bit but we cruised over the top and enjoyed the breezy downhill on the back side.

Flor Is a Way Better Photographer than I

MacArthur has no shoulders making it hard to ride side by side so we took to the side path and chattered away. Yoga, rolfing, vegetarian food, being a proud big sister, DC condo values, riding motorbikes in Thailand, and Montessori education. She has a lot going on. She also gave me an update on our pal Richard who rode the 50 States with us in 2011. It’s good to hear that he’s still the kind of person who never has a down day.

Along the way, Flor yelled, “DEER!” There, dead ahead. was a young deer grazing in the grass next to the road. As we approached the deer bolted, thankfully away from us, and joined two others in the roadside shadows.

We reached the dreaded hill at the end of MacArthur and slowly, ever so slowly, made our way up. The chatter stopped. The work was honest. We made respectable time. After a brief stop to discuss our route, we headed down Falls Road to Potomac Village.

We chilled in the shade, enjoying iced drinks and continued the conversation. Once we were talked out, we headed back to DC via the Avenel neighborhood of massive houses. “They’re just boxes holding stuff. Once you get enough stuff, it owns you.” Life according to Flor.

We made our way back to MacArthur. Since Flor lives in the city uphill from the river and the memorials, I thought it would make sense to cut through Georgetown instead of heading downhill to the river. And so we did.

Once we crossed Rock Creek Park, Flor took over navigation. She knew the best route to her place. Just before we got there she asked if I wanted to go to Meridian Hill Park and hang out. And so we did.

We sat in the sun and talked with Jeff, a friend of Flor whom I met at a happy hour last winter. We talked and listend to the drum circle drummers until the sun wore us down. Flor and I headed to our respective homes. She got the better of the deal by about 15 miles. Or maybe not. Riding down 16th Street to the White House followed by ten miles along the Potomac River is a mighty fine way to go.

Flor and I took some pix.

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