The ride to work was going splendidly on this Monday morning. The wind was at my back. The sun was shining. Puffy white clouds were floating aimlessly above. The sunlight glistened off the river. It was so nice that I even could ignore the Lance Mamilots.
At 12 miles, just past the 14th Street Bridge underpass, the bikes ahead of me started veering this way and that. Then I saw it. A ducking. Alone. In the middle of the trail. Somehow, miraculously, unharmed by the bikes whizzing past.
I pulled over. And, with bikes now whizzing past me, I shooed (literally with my shoes!) the duckling to the grass on side of the path. I took a rather bad picture, then went back to my bike. I looked over my shoulder and the darn bird had waddled back onto the trail. I suppose it was following the path of least resistance, but still it was annoyingly determined to get itself killed.
Back I went to try again. Then a bike commuter pulled up. Her name is Veronica. She grew up on a farm and volunteers at an animal rescue place. Really. Could the Fates be more generous on a Monday morning?
I have a thing about handling animals so Veronica, who is not so disinclined, picked up the duckling. She pointed out that a duckling alone in the wild is pretty much doomed to be road kill or an hors d’oeurve for some larger critter. So off she went, duckling in hand, looking for mama duck.
Mama duck had fled the scene so Veronica started to try to figure out how to transport the duckling. This is not as easy as it seems. Then the Fates returned in the form of Linel. Linel normally comes to work much later but not today. Maybe the Fates whispered in her ears during her slumbers. “Get up, Linel. Go to work early. You are needed.”
Linel had a Rickshaw Backworks Pipsqueak (I kid you not) bag on her handlebars. It is the perfect size for a duckling. So she offered it to Veronica. Veronica attached the bag to the lateral chest strap of her small back pack and the duckling transport problem was solved.
When I woke up it was a perfect summer day. The second in a row. There was just one thing to do.
I rode my bike.
You saw that coming, didn’t you.
After all, I could have spent my day doing something truly exciting like dry toasting some quinoa. (Or driving a funicular railcar. I actually know people who did these things today.)
But I rode my bike.
I chose the Cross Check for my adventure. The first ten miles were unremarkable which is remarkable for a Sunday on the Mount Vernon Trail. Normally, the MVT is a zoo on a nice weekend days but today it was less busy than a weekday evening. I rode it all the way to DC. Unmolested.
I made it to trail along the Potomac on the DC side before disaster almost struck. I was patiently following two tentative riders as they made their way through the narrow underpass of the TR Bridge. There was stream of bikes coming our way then a runner. Just as Tentative Rider number 1 came upon the runner a stream of Lance Mamilots came around the bling corner on the other end of the underpass. Two got past the runner but the third nearly hit her. The tentative riders somehow managed not to find themselves in a big pile up. As did I. The runner was rightfully pissed. I yelled something non-obscene at Lance.
Another mile went by. As I approached K Street, I was following a rider on a very Eurpoean-style city bike. She was riding very slowly and came to a stop a the turn off for K Street. Somehow she fell sideways into a small patch of grass. She was more embarrassed than hurt. So I turned onto K and headed toward the Capital Crescent Trail. The CCT was busy and a few impatient riders nearly caused head on collisions. I just moseyed along and kept a positive attitude. It was just too nice a day to get upset.
Approaching Bethesda, I was passed by another Lance. He was headed straight for an on-coming walker. Oncoming walker was an unassuming looking, thin woman, perhaps in her late 60s, with thinning brown hair. In a vaguely eastern European accident she shouted: “Get on the other side of the trail, ASSHOLE!”
I could not stop laughing. For miles.
In Bethesda Row, I stopped at Bethesda Bagels (I love places with creative names) and bought a bagel sandwich. I rode to the trestle over Rock Creek Park and ate half of it there, looking out from the treetops to the creek far below.
And to think I could have been dry toasting my quinoa.
Dang.
With my tank topped off, I headed outbound on Beach Drive. I had some company, mostly on bikes. At Garret Park I turned around. I had a bit of a head wind and put my head down for a moment. When I looked up, I nearly rode into a fawn. There were two in the road. So cute.
Back to DC, staying in, mostly car free, Rock Creek Park. Lord, was it nice. Warm, breezy. The soothing sound of the creek rushing past only a few yards to the side of the road.
I climbed out of the park on Park Road and made my way to Columbia Heights. Normally this hill is difficult for me. Not today. I rode the bike lane straight up Irving Street, passing a long stream of cars waiting in line for the short light at the top of the hill. Sucks for them, I thought.
Soon I was sitting on a bench in the shade in Meridian Hill Park. The rest of my sandwich didn’t have a chance.
For some reason, riding down 16th Street on the way home has become a favorite of mine. There are so many interesting buildings and people. Unfortunately, it ends with a ride through the touroids near the White House. I managed to get behind a tour group on Segways clogging the 15th Street cycletrack.
Riding a bike behind Segways is only marginally more enjoyable than dry toasting quinoa.
I survived. Nobody killed me as I rode out of DC. The MVT was once again not half bad. The last ten miles were not the easiest. I have to remember to drink more water while I am riding during my tour next week.
I rode all winter, all through a cold, wet spring. Today’s beautiful 63 1/2 miles was payback.
As regular readers of this blog already know, I am gaga for bald eagles and snapping turtles. Last night on the way home, I spotted my first turrle. It was off in the grass between the trail and the river about a mile from my office. Since I was away during the first seven days of June I probably missed the trutles laying eggs along the trail this year. I am still hopeful though.
There are (at least) two active bald eagle nests on my commute route. One is located near the Morningside Drive exit of the George Washington Memorial Highway which runs right next to the Mount Vernon Trail. The other is near the Tulane Drive exit. (For locals, these are between 2 and 3 miles south of the beltway.) They are both very hard to see now that the trees have their full set of leaves.
The trail passes through Dyke Marsh Preseve. The Friends of Dyke Marsh often look for wildlife activity. This week they saw the eaglets being taught to fly. This probably takes place along the river’s edge, away from the trail, but I am going to give it a close look on the way home.
The Friends have a Facebook page (doesn’t everyone?). Here’s a link for those of the nature nuts who read this blog.
I often write about the animals on my bike commute. Bald eagles and snapping turtles get the most “ink.” May is prime time for eagles. June is when the snapping turtles lay their eggs. I look forward to each ride to and from work on the Mount Vernon Trail along the Potomac River.
Occasionally, the reality of nature makes itself known and it’s not pretty. Last year, near a tree holding a bald eagle nest, I saw the skull of a small animal, a dog or a fox, I suppose. A few days earlier I saw the head and spine of a Canada goose in the same area. No feathers. No skin. No meat.
Today I came upon another carcass, similarly stripped of skin and muscle. I initially thought it was a large bird but on closer inspection it appeared to be a beaver. I could only guess this by the small bit of tail fin on the end of the spine. Beaver paddles must not taste very good. The carcass was on the edge of the trail between the trail and the river. I am guessing that the beaver was hit by a car on the nearby parkway and made its way toward the river where some other animal put it out of its misery. The stripping of the carcass was likely done by crows or vultures.
Sometimes we dream of what it would be like to be a beaver gracefully gliding through the water. Sometimes, not often, we see the reality of nature.
As Mark Knopfler said: “Sometimes you’re the windshield. Sometimes you’re the bug.”
On Sunday, two friends from my grad school days came over for brunch. Matt is not athletic. Mike is. Mike was going stir crazy staying with Matt so we agreed that I would take Mike for a bike ride after brunch. Fortunately, Mike is exactly my size so The Mule fit him. I rode my Cross Check.
Mike has a yard sale bike at home in Providence that he rides religiously once or twice a year. So I set a gentle pace. We did a tour of the Mount Vernon Trail bald eagle nests. Along the way Mike told me about how he recently used CitiBikes to ride around New York City. He said he would never have ridden a bike except for the fact that there are separate dedicated bike lanes. He felt totally safe. Mike should be the poster boy for urban bike infrastructure.
We made it to the Belle Haven nest but saw no eagles. As we rode further Mike told me about the East Bay Bike Trail in Rhode Island. He loves it. I ran this once when it was a railroad line back in 1980 or 1981. It really sounds fantastic but Mike was annoyed that it wasn’t wide enough. Soon we entered Jones Point Park Mike was shocked to see a separate walking lane. (I didn’t have the heart to tell him that most walkers ignore it.)
Under the giant bridge and into Old Town. Then we took the Wilkes Street tunnel and Royal Street back to the Mount Vernon Trail. Continuing south we stopped at the Tulane nest. I could barely make it out with binoculars amid the dense foliage. Mike never saw it. Onward to the osprey (or maybe bald eagle nest) at the fishing hole. No birds, nice view.
Our next stop was the Morningside Nest which I couldn’t find at all amid the leaves. My bald eagle nest tour was becoming a bust.
We continued down the trail to Fort Hunt Park, stopping to admire Fort Washington on the opposite side of the Potomac River. We did a lap in the park then headed for Mount Vernon. About a half mile from the park I pulled over for one more bald eagle nest. I just could not find it. As I was giving up, I looked up and there it was, right out in the open. Easily the biggest nest of all. Mike saw it too. And just as he focused on it, an eagle flew down and into it. The nest, or actually the outside structure of the nest, is so big that the bird just vanished. I could occasionally spot the bird’s head bopping up and down, probably feeding an eaglet. As we were watching the nest, a second bald eagle flew in circles overhead. Woot!
We started talking with a couple who were walking their dog. Just as we were about to leave they spotted a bizarre looking naval vessel making good time on the river heading toward DC. It had a sort of dazzle camouflage on its sides. Very cool.
I took Mike up to Mount Vernon. He did not much a
ppreciate the last hill. After a brief rest, we continued beyond the estate for a photo op before heading back home.
23 1/2 miles, 1 strange boat, 2 bald eagles.Not bad for a lazy Sunday.
After he left things got at tad more interesting, but that’s a tale for another post….
With a guest coming over on Sunday, I was hoping to take in a Nationals baseball game on Saturday. The forecasts was for rain in the afternoon during the first of two games. After the rain the forecast predicted a decline in temperatures. Not exactly great weather for watching a baseball games.
I rode Little Nellie to work wearing shorts. It was not raining. Yesm this is worth noting because it has rained here in DC for 15 consecutive days. The incessant gloom has really become annoying.
After keeping an eye of the Saturday forecast, I decided not to chance it and, just after lunch, bought a ticket for Friday night’s game.
I rode the nearly six miles to the ballpark. I left at 5 so that I could eat dinner at the park during batting practice. There were no lines for food and I found a perch in dead center field. Somebody from the Miami Marlins was hitting cannon shots deep into the stands in front of me. Lordy, these guys can hit. I hung around hoping to run into someone I know. That didn’t happen so I took my seat for the second time this year in section 223.
You take your chances when you go to a ball game. Sometimes the people around you are fun; other times you get jerks. This night was a mixed bag. To my left were a young mom and dad with a four year old daughter and under one year old son in tow. The daughter had long curly red hair and freckles. The son was beyond cute, watching everything around him with big, unblinking eyes and clapping rather incompetently with his tiny hands.
The man sitting behind me was explaining the nuances, every single one, of the game to someone sitting next to him. It was like being at a movie with an interpreter for the blind. I appreciated what he was doing but it was way too much information.
The game was quite fun with the Nationals hitting two pinch hit home runs and fielding incompetently. My favorite moment of the game came when Bryce Harper came to bat with Anthony Rendon on first base. The game was tied. The preferred strategy of dealing with Harper is to walk him. In the process, if you are careful, you can try to get him to chase bad pitches, preferably really low ones that are difficult to hit far. After giving signs for each pitch, the catcher positioned his mitt so that it was touching the ground. Rendon saw this and hoped that the pitcher would throw a ball in the dirt allowing Rendon to take second base. This happened once but the catcher controlled the ball and Rendon had to stay at first. The next time they tried this, the pitch wasn’t quite as low as planned. Harper clobbered it into the stands in right field. Erp.
The family left. Soon I noticed that the two men about 55 – 60 years of age sitting in front of me were talking politics. The more man on the right drank the louder he talked. Man on the left seemed like he was trying to listen while actually paying attention to the game. This went on for the last four innings. The more Right Man drank the more he ignored the game. He wasn’t drunk, he just clearly didn’t care about the game. It’s the second time I’ve been to a Nationals game where someone sitting next to me talked business on and on and on. When the batter came up with 2 out in the 9th inning, fans througout the park stood in anticipation of celebrating the last out and a win. Right man sat in his seat. Dude, next time save $35 and stay home. For the rest of us.
On the way out of the park, I was checking out the signs above the food concessions when I found myself falling hard to the concrete floor.I had tripped over a 3 foot black post, the kind that holds the ropes that make the queue for the concessions. They take the ropes off and the posts are remain. In an case, I found myself on the ground with hundreds of people nearby and all I could think of was “What the hell hit me?”
I gathered my wits and stood up. Someone handed me my cell phone. I limped out of the park to the bike valet. The 16 mile ride home was not going to be fun.
During the game I tweeted with my friends Katie and Ursula. They were sitting in different sections of the park above me. I was hoping to run into them on the way out. I didn’t but I did run into Mike, a randonneur, tandem rider, and head of the Rootchopper Fan Club. He thinks the name Rootchopper is hilarious. Actually, he thinks a lot of things are hilarious. We should all bring so much joy to the mundane things in life.
We chatted briefly and agreed to take in a game later in the summer. I can’t wait.
I was expecting the ride home to be painful but once I got to pedaling my banged up left knee felt fine. As I cruised down the I Street bike lane, I came to a light about to turn red. A cab turned right across my path. No wonder so many of my friends get hit riding in the city. The cab wasn’t going fast it was just unpredictable. I managed to avoid hitting it but expressed my displeasure with a few choice four letter words.
In a couple more miles, I was free of the city and ball park traffic. The Mount Vernon Trail is unlit. And it was DARK. I was alone. Just me and my bike and my lights. Just following the big white circle. The temperature was in the mid 60s. I reminded myself to keep my mouth closed to avoid swallowing swarms of tiny flying bugs that I rode through at irregular intervals.
All alone but for the sounds and sights and smells of the spring night. Take it in. Appreciate every second of it. When I smelled a skunk I kept my head pointing forward so as to avoid spotlighting Pepe LePew.
I rolled through Old Town Alexandria with its abundance of bars and restaurants. I assumed each car was piloted by a drunk driver. I made it to through without becoming a hood ornament or a statistic.
The underside of the Woodrow Wilson Bridge is in Jones Point Park. The bridge loomed ominously in the dark as I approached. The path traces an “S” as it passes under the bridge. I ride this nearly every day but it seemed unfamiliar. I recalled the last few times I rode under the bridge that a homeless man camps out on the path as it heads toward Washington Street. Sure enough, there he was covered in a dark blanket and wearing dark clothing. I gave him a wide berth. Why he doesn’t plop himself down in the abundant empty space elsewhere in the park is beyond me.
South of the Beltway the car headlights blinded me off and on. I looked for wild life. Nothing but those pesky swarms of tiny bugs. My arms were covered with them.They don’t bite so I left them alone.
Just south of Dyke Marsh, off to my left in the woods near the river, I heard the hoot of an owl. Welcome to the night, bicycle rider. He hooted again. The perfect aural ending to a long day. I arrived at home 10 minutes after midnight.
Riding at night to the ball game and down the Mount Vernon Trail is a hoot.
In recent years, the Mount Vernon Trail has been a low crime area. In the last year there was a report of a sexual assault (a groping from which the victim escaped) north of Old Town Alexandria. There is the occasional disturbed person who yells at trail users. Local law enforcement and the National Park Service which owns the trail have generally been responsive to reports of crimes, regardless of their nature.
Mostly the trail attracts helpful people like the Trash Walker. He’s a senior citizen who walks in the morning and picks up litter as he goes.
Last night, someone smashed a couple of park benches to bits. This incident occurred between National Airport and Slaters Lane, north of Old Town. Whoever did it exerted some serious energy, probably jumping up and down on the seats. It’s not the end of the world but I hope there isn’t more of this sort of thing.
I love spring around here. This was taken about a mile from work on the Mount Vernon Trail along the Potomac River. This little guy was the only gosling. Yesterday, we saw seven in one gaggle. Mom and Dad were staying very close by. I was surprised that they let me get close enough for a smartphone picture. On the way home one of the adult geese was trying to scare passing bicyclists away by waddling to the edge of the trail and opening its mouth in a threatening manner. No noise came out. It was rather pathetic. A few seconds after I survived this fierce “attack” a young woman rode by and turned to me laughing and said: “That mama goose came after me!!!” Wanna bet she keeps bike commuting?
Earlier this year I rode to work on a day with rain and coastal flooding. The Mount Vernon Trail was under several inches of water in spots. The flooding was so extensive that the only alternatives were to turn around or ride through. I rode through. The water came over the tops of my GoreTex boots and soaked my feet. My wool socks kept my feet warm enough but they started to go numb during the last mile on the ride to work.
It has been raining here for several days. As I rode across the Dyke Marsh bridge, where I often take sunrise pictures, I could see the river had risen to almost even with the bridge decking. On the north side of the bridge I could see water on both sides of the trail. Unlike earlier this year, I was riding Little Nellie, my Bike Friday with little wheels.
No guts, no glory. I rode on. I slowed down to keep my front wheel from kicking up the water but it was fruitless. The water was so deep that it soaked my feet. I couldn’t go around it either. The flooding extended well beyond the trail. There were occasional breaks in the water but the sloshing went on for about a quarter mile. Little Nellie is immersible. Who knew?
In Old Town the base of King Street was underwater. Normally when this happens, police block it off. I assumed the water wasn’t that deep. Wrong.
Ooogah! Ooogah! All dive!
A beer truck pulled out of an alley and entered the depths. Fortunately it was going slowly but its wake came up almost to Little Nellie’s axles.
After a few more feet of this, I dropped some ballast and surfaced.
By now my feet were soaking wet, but at least this day the water was not ice cold.
After riding to the Nationals game on Saturday in the rain, I couldn’t pass up riding to the Sunday game when the forecast called for perfect baseball weather. So I hopped on the Cross Check at around 11 and headed to DC.
The ride in was just a little on the chilly side but the skies were blue and the trees had leaves. Spring rocks.
As I approached Jones Point Park, I noticed a cyclists standing next to a loaded bike. Seriously loaded. It was a cargo bike with six panniers, a handlebar bag, and a solar panel on the rear rack. The cyclist was looking at a map and seemed confused. I stopped and helped him by leading him through the streets of Old Town Alexandria. When we got to the Washington Sailing Marina between Old Town and National Airport we stopped to talk. Charles started this ride in the Pacific Northwest. He rode down the west coast, hung a louie at San Diego and another at Saint Augustine. His tour had taken him over 5,000 miles so far. He spent last year riding coast to coast across the northern part of the US. He was planning on taking a break in DC. To buy a boat. And store it at the marina. Or some such thing. I couldn’t follow the logistics, probably because I couldn’t understand how he could afford to spend his life on a bike. And buy a boat.
I left Charles to his nautical aspirations and rode into DC. I absolutely love riding to the ballpark because I get to ride by the parking lots that get progressively more expensive as I get nearer to the park. The bike valet – really just a secure bike parking facility under the watchful eyes of two attendants – is inside the ballpark itself. It is free (except for the tip which you give to the attendants at check out).
I took my seat out in the stands beyond left field with the warm sun shining down on me. I had forgotten to bring sunscreen but I figured I would be okay for a couple of hours. I ate a sandwich that I brought instead of the expensive junk food at the park. Then I settled in for a nice game against a weak opponent, the Minnesota Twins.
As usually happens the people that I sat among became friends for the day. There was a mom and her ten-ish year old daughter in front of me. Daughter had a small baseball glove. (“You’re going to save me if a baseball comes our way, right?”) There were two dudes to my right manspreading and drinking beers. (I moved over a seat and got into the slouchy vibe.
The guy to my right scoffed at the Nats leadoff hitter, Matt den Dekker. “He can field but the Mets got rid of him because he can’t hit.” I retorted “He’s got some power for a little guy.” And so den Dekker homered to make me look like a baseball genius. Later, he made several brilliant catches in the outfield so my bro was also vindicated.
Our section had plenty of Minnesota fans. So there was good natured teasing going on throughout the game. Our fearless pitcher Stephen Strasburg pitched for seven innings after over 100 pitches he becomes mortal, but the bullpen was tired so the manager left him in. In a flash he gave up a three-run home run which landed about ten seats to my right. Down 4-1 it looked like the game was lost. People started to leave.
It was 4-3 in the bottom of the ninth. More people started to leave.
Our manager, Dusty Baker, had decided to rest the 2015 MVP, a fellow by the name of Bryce Harper, for the day. Baker actually told Harper before the game that he would only use him in a situation that would make him look like a hero. So Harper comes up to pinch hit and powers the second pitch he sees into the stand beyond center field. Tie game! The crowd goes nuts!
And so we went into extra innings. After four innings the Nationals have a comical race among six “presidents” who are men with giant heads. They run around the wa.rning track to a finish line tape near the Nats dugout. It is utterly stupid and funny as hell. Our game was running so long that they ran a second presidents race.
We were getting slap happy in the stands. The game dragged on. 10, 11, 12 innings.
The Nationals ran out of position players. They used a pitcher to pinch hit. He got a single. No lie.
Fans starting joking about being held hostage. All I could think of were the lyrics to “Band on the Run”:
If we ever get out of here
Thought of giving it all away
To registered charity
All I need is a pint a day
If we ever get out of here
If we ever get out of here
I moved down to the front row overlooking the left fielders. I yelled down to Werth, “Hey, Jason. Want some coffee?”
In the middle of the 14th inning we had a second seventh inning stretch. I kid you not.
The Twins left fielder, Eddie Rosario, had littered the grass with pieces of yellow paper. The Nats left fielder, Jason Werth, picked them up and
My View of Werth
methodically arranged them in a neat row. A guy sitting behind me joked that Werth was trying to get enough paper to spell out SOS on the grass. Another guy said, “Hey, we are literally trash talking.”
The Twins went ahead by a run in the top of the 15th. All hope was lost. Rosario made a mess of Werth’s paper pile. The fans in left field started yelling “Pick it up Eddie.” Rosario laughed. I yelled at him: “It’s karma, Eddie. You’ll pay for this.”
The Nationals got a man on first base. The Twins ignored him and he advanced to second. The next batter up was Oliver Perez, a pitcher who hadn’t batted since 2010. The Twins unbelievably brought in another reliever to face him.
All was lost. Until Perez dropped a bunt that the catcher fielded. Perez was out by a mile, except that the catcher threw the ball about six feet over the first baseman’s head. Tie game.
Karma, Eddie. Karma.
We moved to the 16th. Werth came out and repaired his pile of paper. The Twins didn’t score. The Nationals came to bat and their right fielder, Chris Heisey, launched a home run over the Twins bullpen. The place went completely nuts. Delirium.
Dusty Baker later called it a twilight zone game.
By this point, nearly six hours after the game started a chill was in the air. I was an odd combination of warm and cold. Six hours of sun on had given me a sunburn on the right side of my body. I wore a jacket to keep the left side of my body warm.
The by now thin crowd left with ear to ear grins. At the bike valet I ran into a friend I hadn’t seen since December. We celebrated our mini reunion and the exhausting victory with a huge hug.
And then I was off. As I crossed the Potomac into Virginia I stopped to admire an amazing sunset skyscape. Even with swarms of gnats (how appropriate) along the way, the ride home in the cool spring evening was perfect.
and volunteers at an animal rescue place. Really. Could the Fates be more generous on a Monday morning?
ted this ride in the Pacific Northwest. He rode down the west coast, hung a louie at San Diego and another at Saint Augustine. His tour had taken him over 5,000 miles so far. He spent last year riding coast to coast across the northern part of the US. He was planning on taking a break in DC. To buy a boat. And store it at the marina. Or some such thing. I couldn’t follow the logistics, probably because I couldn’t understand how he could afford to spend his life on a bike. And buy a boat.
A Few Spokes Shy of a Wheel 