Gassed and Windblown

With the prospect of several days of rain ahead, I decided to drive over to Easton, Maryland to do a ride on level ground. The ride would include cool grave yards, colonial era towns, a ferry, and corn and soy fields. Most importantly there would be no hills.

There being no hills, I opted for The Tank, my Surly Crosscheck. This bike is heavy and, despite a recent modification to its gearing, is best used on this kind of terrain.

I have put about 1,000 miles on my 2009 Honda Accord this year. The last time I bought gas it cost me about $3.70 per gallon. My wife, who drives considerably more, has been telling me about finding gas for under $3.00. With a fuel gauge indicating I had a tad less than 1/8th of a tank, I headed out to the Eastern Shore of Maryland in search of cheap fuel. No problem. My gas tank holds 19 1/2 gallons.

By the time I reached the Bay Bridge, I had gone about 50 miles. My fuel gauge indicated that my tank was empty but, as we all know, the needle on the fuel gauge always goes below empty before the tank is truly empty, right?

I made it over the Bay Bridge and started scouting out a gas bargain. I passed a dozen gas stations, all of which had prices in the high $2.90s. With the needle in the empty, red zone, I continued on. Some basic math indicated that I should have plenty of fuel left. As the highway turned toward Easton, I passed a gas station that was partially obscured by some box trucks. No worries, I’ll just go to the next one.

There wasn’t another station for over 20 miles.

With the station in sight on the opposite side of the divided highway, I was about to change lanes to turn toward it when my car said, “Not today”. The engine sputtered once then cut out. Did you know that cars lose speed remarkably quickly when they run out of fuel. A total car bonk! The traffic behind me not so much.

I looked to the right and saw that there was no shoulder, only a drainage ditch. Eek.

Luckily the turn for the gas station was at a signalized intersection with right and left turn lanes. I guided the car into the right turn lane and rolled to a depressing stop.

With my emergency flashers on, I decide to hoof it to the station. I emptied one of my three water bottles to use as a gas container and started out. Cars were lining up at the red light. A white SUV rolled up and the driver asked me if I was okay. I explained my situation and he asked, “Would you like a gas can?”

Yeah, buddy.

He turned onto the road to the right, stopped, and pulled a small gas can out of the back of his hatchback. I thanked him profusely and told him I’d be back in a few minutes. After a long wait to cross the highway at the light, I made it to the gas station, bought about 2 gallons of fuel and headed back to my car.

On the way back, a passenger in a different car waiting at the red light leaned out the window and said something like “I hope your day gets better.” Despite the hassle of running out of gas, I realized at that moment that I wasn’t the least bit upset. After all, I had been driving for 52 years and this was the first time I had run out of gas.

My car, and my bike on a rack on the rear, thankfully, had not been rear ended. I decanted the gas into the gas tank then drove to the side street to return the can. The SUV was nowhere to be found. I stood around holding the orange/red gas can high so that perhaps my Good Samaritan would see me. No luck. In the end I drove off to Easton with an empty gas can and some heartfelt gratitude.

Once in Easton I saw a sign for $2.85 gas. Yes! When I got to the pump, I saw that it was a special rate for Royal Farms club members. I being a Royal Farms philistine paid $2.97. When karma meets irony, you pay the man, Shirley.

As for the ride, it was a tad shorter than planned. I stitched the ride together from the excellent brochure from Talbot County (of which Easton is the county seat). The brochure shows six rides of between 26 and 38 miles. Color coded maps and cue sheets are included. And one master map shows all six rides. I started on the blue route, switched to the brown route, then planned to finish on the green route.

The first 15 miles on the blue route featured a strong tailwind out of the east. I zoomed from Easton to Saint Michaels with ease. After meandering in Saint Michaels for a while, I headed east into the wind, crossing the Tred Avon River on the Bellevue-Oxford ferry. From Oxford I continued east, switching to the brown route, a tour of interesting old graveyards. Along the way, I watched farmers in their big corn harvesting machines taking in the last crop of the season. The machines look like massive green barber shears on wheels.

At Dover Road I turned to join the green route, a tour of more farms, mostly soy and corn. Somehow I managed to miss a turn and ended up on a highway that would cross the Choptank River. I checked the Google and realized that crossing the river would add about several windy miles to my ride.

Having already ridden about 20 miles into a strong headwind, I decided to pack it in and reversed course back to Easton, going off route in the interest of exploring some backroads. It was a good decision. Forty one windy miles was enough for me on this day.

I highly recommend the brochure. If you are looking to get away from the city and want some easy, low-stress riding, Talbot County is a good choice. The ferry ride is my favorite, but make sure to check the ferry schedule. Also, bring cash for the $7 one-way fare.

When there are no cars waiting, bicyclists and pedestrians can summon the Bellevue-Oxford ferry with this signal

New pavement, pine needles, no traffic. Works for me.

Bridges of Dorchester County

The other day I was cleaning out my shed. In the process I came across an old map of a bike ride called The Bridges of Dorchester County. The map was a photocopy from the book The Washington Area Bicycling Atlas. The book is long gone mostly because I destroyed it making photocopies.

The ride aboard The Mule began at the Cambridge-Dorchester Regional Airport which was just off route. The first six miles were uneventful. Flat. Hot. Humid. Nice breeze. Soon I crossed a short, picture pretty bridge.

Soon I came upon an electronic road sign warning that the road ahead was closed. In my experience most road closures make the way impassible for cars but not bikes so I forged ahead. In short order I encountered a flatbed truck situated in the middle of the road and backing away from me. I pulled along side and asked the driver if I could get through. He said it was okay. A hundred yards later I came upon a motely road crew. Five guys in t-shirts standing around admiring their achievement. This appeared to involve tying off a large black tarp extending from a jersey barrier down an embankment into an overflowing creek. Well done boys.

I passed through with a minimum of chit chat, bewildered by what exactly these five knuckleheads were trying to accomplish.

Not a half mile later I came upon a detour sign. I ignored it, of course. Detours and road closures have the side benefit of keeping car traffic to a level only a tad above nonexistent. Good for me.

Next came a road sign that said “Bridge Closed”. Not having any idea how far away the bridge might be, I soldiered on.

From time to time, I crossed cuts in the road that were filled with hard packed dirt and loose gravel. There were about 20 of these. They spanned the road from one edge to the other and were about ten feet across. From what I gathered new culverts had been placed across the road to act as an outlet for the swollen creeks and drainage ditches that crisscross the area.

After about 15 miles or so the road bed began to deteriorate. The right side of the road was starting to cave in. There were small holes in the pavement that seemed to go down to nothing. In places half the lane I was in was shearing off. This didn’t cause me any trouble because the road was closed; I simply rode on the left hand side of the road.

Along this stretch a corporate jet came overhead. It was headed for a landing at the airport and was coming in hard and steep. I wonder who in this swampland has the money to afford a baby jet. In any case, I was thankful for the momentary diversion from the decrepit state of the pavement I was riding on.

Next up came a small group of goats munching on the grass and wandering in the road in front of a house. It occurred to me that being chased by a bunch of goats might make for a good story or an embarrassing demise. Alas, these goats were far more interested in leafy greens than white meat.

Seeing as how the road was literally falling to pieces, I was starting to get a little concerned about the bridge situation. I came to what appeared to be a low bridge over a narrow creek.There was a pile of concrete rubble on the right side of the road. And a large piece of road construction equipment parked on the left side. Hmmm.

Looking back: these roads could use a little work

Was this is the bridge that was closed?

Nope.

A short while later I spotted a wooden decked bridge that arched up about ten feet from the roadbed. AHA! The games afoot!

Just before the bridge three jersey barriers blocked the road. I walked The Mule around the barriers and approached the span. The asphalt on my side of the bridge ended and some oddly white concrete spanned the gap to the wooden bridge deck. The concrete was about a foot below the end of the deck and looked like it was liquid. Having never seen white concrete like this on a road before, I tested it with my foot. Despite looking like malted milk, it was firm so I stepped on it and hoisted The Mule onto the bridge deck.

I walked The Mule over the deck which spanned 100 yards of water, part of the Chicamacomico River. I watched as two men in a small outboard fishing boat motored toward the span from the right. I figured that if I fell in for some reason at least that could pull me out.

At the far side of the span I encountered a bit of a problem. The decking ended. I could see the wooden support beams that ran perpendicular to the decking. They appeared to be about three to five feet above the river. Hmmm.

I could turn around and retrace my ride, turning a 30-ish mile ride into a 40-ish mile ride, or I could figure out how to get The Mule and me across the gap.

There were some metal guardrails lying on the deck. They had a convenient groove in them that was just the right size for a bike tire. On the side of the bridge was a series of low support pillars for the guardrails and a full length beam.

I placed The Mule’s tires in the guard rail groove and used the tops of the pillars as support for my left hand. Then I walked the ten-foot gap. Where the bridge met land on the far side of the gap was a steep drop off. The roadway was blocked by a loop of yellow police tape. I lifted The Mule’s front wheel over the tape and after a few snags, I had it on the roadway beyond. Then I stepped up and over the tape. Finally, I pulled The Mule’s rear wheel over the tape. Ta da!

No muss. No fuss. I walked The Mule around another set of jersey barriers and made notice of a large black pickup truck parked on the grass along the road. I reasoned that if the truck could get here, then I can get out. This was a good thing because the prospect of trying to cross the gap on the bridge from this direction looked considerably more difficult. (I later figured that I could work my way across the gap backwards. This kind of thinking would probably qualify me to be on a Dorchester County road crew.)

The roadway and one bridge for the last ten miles of the ride were perfectly enjoyable. This was a good thing because the 91 degree heat and oppressive humidity were starting to be a concern. The last few miles were vaguely familiar. I had ridden a short version of this ride about eight or nine years ago after a work meeting in Cambridge. I was on Little Nellie on that ride and had forgotten to bring a head light. I had one little white blinky light. It made for a creepy ride.

Soccer players in the street are a hazard

It’s a bit of a shame that the roads and bridges on this ride are in such poor shape. It’s an interesting place to ride. There are farms (mostly soybeans and sorghum), woods, swamps, and creeks. One home had dozens of purple martin houses in its backyard. I didn’t see any of these birds but there were quite a few vultures cruising in the sky, perhaps looking for a meal of dead cyclist. I hear they are quite tasty when left to rot on the asphalt in the hot sun.

I took a few pix and put them on my Flickr page.

Evening the score

A few weeks ago I drove to Easton, Maryland on the Eastern Shore to do a clockwise ride from Easton to Oxford to Saint Michaels to Easton, using a ferry to get from Oxford to Saint Michaels across the Tred Avon River. As luck would have it the ferry was not operating so I had to back track and take a land route.

The weather forecast for yesterday was promising so I decided to give it a second shot. This time I checked online to make sure the ferry was running. Not wanting to do things exactly the same I decided to ride the loop counterclockwise. This resulted in me riding all kinds of extra miles trying to get out of Easton.

Once on route the way to Saint Michaels was pretty straightforward. Highway 33 is a two-lane, 50-mph affair. The road lacks shade which turned out to be a bit of a problem as the day wore on. The road has huge shoulders with very little debris and the cars kept close to the speed limit.

After checking out St. Michaels, a very cool town with many old residences along narrow lanes, I decided to head further along US 33 to Tilghman Island. After passing a few golf courses there wasn’t much to see. Farms and estates lined the highway. Each had a long straight, tree lined driveway to a posh house. One exception to this style of homestead was a geodesic dome house next to the road.

The only hill of any sort was the ten-foot rise on a drawbridge to get to the island itself. Not exactly Alpe D’Huez.

Waiting for the drawbridge. The woman in front of me was very fast.

Once on the island I kept riding until I reached a gate blocking the road near a U. S. Navy installation. The trip from St. Michaels turned out to be 16 miles. I took a few minutes to check out the Chesapeake Bay and have a snack before heading back the way I came.

After passing back through St Michaels, I turned toward the Bellevue-Oxford Ferry. The ride to the ferry was along a sleepy, windy, mercifully shaded country road. When I arrived at the ferry pier I saw no cars in line, indicating that I had just missed the eastbound ferry. No worries, with no cars in line, bicyclists and pedestrians are supposed to pull a rope to activate a simple signal to tell the ferry that you’re waiting. The signal is a hinged board painted yellow on one side. It opens when you pull the rope. (How they see this signal in fog is beyond me.) As soon as I pulled the rope, a car pulled up. It’s a bit like lighting a cigarette to bring a bus to your stop on a cold winter day.

The ride across the river was pleasant. The breeze off the water felt great. It grew stronger as we went. I looked over my shoulder back west toward the bay and saw why. As late afternoon approached a summer storm was building over the bay. No time to dawdle.

As soon as I disembarked in Oxford, I hopped on the CrossCheck and rode as fast as I could directly toward Easton. This mean I was lopping off some of the route through farmland east of town, but the notion of being out on the road for a fierce summer storm did not float my boat.

Normally, I cruise along at 11 to 12 miles per hour. My ride from Oxford to Easton was more in the 18 to 20 mph range. As luck would have it the road I was on went directly back to where I had parked my car. After getting the bike and my gear configured, I drove a mile to a gas station convenience store. I was inside about five minutes. When I came out the skies opened with cold, hard rain.

The whole ride ended up being 65 miles, considerably longer than my previous ride here. Now that I’ve evened the score with the ferryman, I want to come back and explore some of the side roads in this area.

Rock Hall Ramble

The Washington Area Bicycling Atlas included a ride on the Eastern Shore of Maryland called the Rock Hall Ramble. I lost the book but used the Google to find a cue sheet to the ride online. And off I went.

The ride through Kent County begins in Chestertown, Maryland. Founded in the early 18th century, Chestertown is a quaint place with just over 5,000 residents on the Chester River. The town is filled with lovely eateries and old buildings, as well as Washington College, a small liberal arts college founded in the late 1700s.

The ride makes its way southwest on quiet country roads to the town of Rock Hall on the Chesapeake Bay. Here you can dine like a proper Maryland savage by ripping crabs limb from limb. Ick.

Heading south from Rock Hall, the route enters the Eastern Neck Wildlife Refuge. I saw a deer and a rather humongous vulture, as well as bunches of noisy ospreys. The road dead ended at a rather drab field so I turned around and checked out a historical marker. It was a memorial to the dead son of a colonial landowner. The son it seems died at sea captaining a ship during the Revolutionary War.

On the way back to Rock Hall I stopped at Bogles Wharf for another view of the Chester River.

Once through Rock Hall the route became rather disappointing. The road was flat but the scenery did not inspire. Basically, this is a highway to the town of Fairlee.

Then it’s back to Chestertown. The town closed High Street, the main drag, for a farmers market in the morning. It was re-opened when I arrived after my ride. As I was leaving I noticed it was closed again. Moving traffic barriers is a full time job here.

All in all the ride was not half bad. Low traffic. No hills worth mentioning. Decent views of the Chester River and the bay. A respectable place to pedal 52 miles.

Soy left. Corn right. Clouds up above. Works for me.

I like my cigar…

There’s the old story about Groucho Marx. I heard it as the reason his TV show was taken off the air. The details vary in the telling. While interviewing a man/woman/couple that have been married for 10 (or more) years, they related that they have 12 (or more) children. Hearing this Groucho says to the husband, “I like my cigar but I take it out once in a while.”

It never happened. But it’s a good story.

Well, I’ve ridden my bike for 22 days in a row. I woke up today and decided that I like my cigar, but it’s time to take it out.

Instead of riding I mowed the lawn in suffocating heat and humidity. Then I did about an hour of light yard work. I wore a t-shirt, sun sleeves, and swim trunks in anticipation of a sweat fest. When I was done, I was soaking wet. My sun sleeves were so wet they slid down to my forearms.

After a snack and a rewarding nap, I am ready for another string of bike rides. I am in striking distance if getting on a pace to ride 10,000 miles this year, but I need to bang out a few longer rides. Lately it has been so hot and humid that I haven’t dared to try to ride over 50 miles.

I found a bunch of rides online in Kent County Maryland. The shortest is called the Rock Hall Ramble. It’s about 50 miles but can be easily expanded to 70 miles by riding a spur into the Chesapeake Bay. Two other rides are over 80 miles. All three start and end at Washington College in Chestertown. I’ll probably do the ramble and save the other two rides for another day. All of these rides are ideal for a recumbent but cross winds on the Bay Bridge make me weary of hanging Big Nellie off the back of my car. Getting blown into the Chesapeake can ruin your whole day.

Time to fill some water bottles and make some snacks!

Let’s Make a Deal

One of the limiting factors in my bike riding during the pandemic has been the availability of restrooms. As a male I can get by for number 1 but number 2 is fraught with peril. Today I discovered that Maryland gas stations with convenience stores have opened their restrooms. Ahhh.

Today I drove nearly three hours to Princess Anne, Maryland on the Eastern Shore. It’s a lovely little town with many old brick buildings and many more rather run down frame houses. At one end of town is an old home with a boxwood garden in front. The boxwoods haven’t been trimmed in a while but it’s still a lovely sight. I am biased because the perimeter of my backyard when I was a kid was a boxwood hedge. We had seven kids and a dog. We gave those boxwoods a beating and they held their own.

The ride I did was from Princess Anne to Deal Island on the Chesapeake Bay. It was a straight shot along highway 363. The road has rumble strips about three feet from the edge of the pavement for the first seven miles. I managed to avoid hitting them but they definitely detracted from the riding experience.

After some farms and woods, I rode through salt marsh with plenty of bird life. Red wing black birds and ospreys protested loudly as I passed them. Egrets and herons flew silently way. Turtles seem to be losing the battle with big metal things. I saw one living turtle on the road and three who had been gruesomely crushed by passing cars.

Once through the Deal Island Wildlife Management Area, the road winds through the towns of Dames Quarter and Chance before crossing over to the island and it’s historic district. A mile later the road ends at Wenona. In Winona there are stacks of crab pots and boats to charter for fishing trips on the bay. These towns look like working and middle class towns; there is little sign of the kind of moneyed living you see farther north on the Delmarva Penninsula.

Wenona was nearly deserted and rather underwhelming. I rode half way back to Princess Anne before turning off the highway to take some backroads through farmland. The land here is so flat and the weather so agreeable that the 39-miles I rode was effortless.

Here are some pix.

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