In October 2021 I joined a few other riders at the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C. for the fall Grand Depart of the Trans-Virginia 550 bikepacking race. The route covers 560 miles along the spine of Western Virginia mountains to the finish in Damascus, with an elevation gain of over 45,000 feet.
The race was, beyond a shadow the doubt this race the hardest physical challenge I have ever undertaken. The climbs were grueling and the descents were often challenging in their own right, semi-technical affairs with ruts, rocks, and potholes galore. I pushed on alone in the dark woods for hours. I screamed and grunted frustrated noises loudly in the in the middle of nowhere. I ate gas station food, crashed on the side of trails, and put on the same stinky, dank clothes every morning. In short, it was a great vacation.
Check it out:
By the way, first bikepacking race = first bikepacking race video. Please excuse the occasional vertical portrait iPhone footage. I know better and will keep it all horizontal next time.
Packed up and out of Hoffman campground by 5 am, I am eager to close this out. Just 90 miles to go. The home stretch to Lake Keuka.
Exiting Pine Creek Gorge
The last 40 miles of the Pine Creek Trail come easy, coasting gently uphill. The valley is empty. Birds chirp. Tufts of low-slung fog nestle between the trees. A white-tailed deer bounds onto the paths, and ambles down the trail a bit before leaping into the forest.
I’ve seen a lot of beautiful things in nature, but this feels like goddamn Brigadoon.
At Wellsboro, the path dumps me back onto road. Leaving the gorge for the first time, I can see dark clouds and a heavy rain line ahead on the horizon. Pulling into the Dandy Mart, I decide it’s a good moment to have a coffee, eat some donuts, and decide whether I want to ride through that dark curtain right now or wait it out. I wouldn’t call what I’m doing “bike touring,” but I’m not racing either. I have all day.
Super soaker
Twenty minutes and several powdered donuts later, the rain hasn’t abated but I’m antsy. The road crests the mountains near the New York State line. Hopefully the weather clears up on the other side. My weather app insists it will, but lately we have some trust issues. Time to get soaked.
To say the next 30 miles aren’t my favorite miles of the trip would be an understatement.
I don’t have the greatest faith in motorists’ awareness of solo cyclists on a normal day, and I do my best not think about their lowered visibility in this downpour. In times like these, some people turn to prayer. I find that cursing helps.
The detour
A few miles past the state border, the rain abates and I get a backroad reprieve from the highway. Then, I hit my first route snag. Huge orange signs signal in no unclear terms that the bridge is under construction two miles ahead. Traffic is detoured fifteen miles in the wrong direction. I decide to ignore it. Clearly these warnings are meant for cars, I think. I forge ahead, expecting to find perhaps a pedestrian path on one side, or maybe a resurfacing project I can talk my way through. I find neither of those things. Actually, I find nothing. This is a zero bridge, Thelma and Louise cliff situation. The downpour starts again, abruptly, mockingly. In literature they call moments like this a “pathetic fallacy.” I can confirm this is how it feels. I slink back the way I came, and map out a more serviceable detour.
Keuka Lake
Around noon, with the sun breaking through, I turn on the dirt and gravel fire roads of Moss Hollow and Birds Eye State Forests. Apart from a few pothole-heavy sections, they aren’t that technical, nor is the total elevation all that bad. I hit a two mile stretch of steep grades that feels like biking straight up a ski jump in spring, with grades pushing 17-20% in places. Otherwise, it’s a peaceful and fitting end to the journey.
The forest gives way to fields and farms, on a paved backroad that eases me over the last hill.
Today was supposed to be a key decision point along the route: stick to a 5-day journey and take the remaining segments 60-70 miles at a time, or hammer through in two roughly 100-mile days. Yesterday I learned that my own personal suffer-fest isn’t a long day on the trail—it’s the boredom of getting to camp too early. Triple-digit days or bust.
I’m up by four am, and off shortly after the day breaks. It’s dry for now, and I hope the grey clouds overhead can cross their legs and hold it for a day.
My destination is Hoffman Campground, halfway up the Pine Creek Trail, a relatively flat path winding north through Pine Creek Gorge. To reach the trailhead I first need to make my way up and down three peaks in Bald Eagle State Park. My morning includes roughly 2,500 feet of elevation over 18 miles on forest service roads. Is that a lot? A little? Can I climb it fully-packed in the mud, dirt, and gravel?
It’s a perfect day to find out.
Bagels and Bald Eagle State Forest
First things first: bagels. Lewisburg sits right in front of Bald Eagle State Forest. I pop into a local bagel joint for an egg and cheese on an everything and an iced coffee as big as my head—hill fuel. I grab a poppy seed with butter to go. You will be my top-of-the-hill celebration bagel.
A few miles out of Lewisburg the road turns to dirt. After a day on tarmac, it’s good to be alone in the woods again. I feel the bike jitter with life along the studded path. On paved roads my mind can wander to other thoughts while my body does the biking. I pay attention to obstacles and surroundings, but for the most part it’s type 1 thinking, instinctual and fast. Gravel roads nudge your brain into second gear. They don’t light it up with adrenaline the way a race or technical single track might. They just ask for a little more presence. I can feel the aperture of my focus tighten slightly. Almost time for the climbs.
Actually, climbs are nothing the rolling meditation I just described. They are plodding, painful, slogs. After living in flat Philadelphia for a while, I don’t know what to expect from this segment. Turns out, I love it. The love is a little masochistic, but the grind is satisfyingly. Philly’s coastal plain be damned, my people were HILL people. Swarthy southern Italians who wouldn’t be caught dead in a valley. My tree legs may struggle to fit into skinny jeans, but they have been bred to claim the higher ground. I put it in low gear and eat up the elevation. All of this is not to say I don’t curse the gods as I do it….
The face of a man who has just earned himself a celebration bagel. Creepy.
I’m through it before noon. That’s it. No boogieman after all. From here to Jersey Shore, PA, where I pick up the Pine Creek Trail, it’s all downhill.
Pine Creek Trail and Thunder
I emerge from tree cover into a goldilocks day. It’s sunny, cool, and I’m feeling fresh with about 50 miles to go. I park myself on a bench overlooking the river, munch on my celebration bagel, and wonder how a town in landlocked north-central Pennsylvania had the huevos to call itself Jersey Shore.
Day-glo cowboy
Not to be mistaken for “The” Jersey Shore.
I pop into a supermarket to pick up a hoagie, some baby carrots, and—in what may be my first unforced error of the trip—a Pay Day bar. How much of Pay Day revenue depends upon calorie-starved bikers mistaking it for Baby Ruth? It’s got to be at least 25%.
As a converted rail trail, Pine Creek is much wider than Day 1’s D&L Canal Trail, but it’s a similar vibe. It’s a relaxing way to close out the day, apart from the occasional game of “rattlesnake or stick” I play along the way. The PCT Facebook group is full of posts of rattlesnakes spotted along route. So far, everything’s coming up “stick.”
With about 10 miles to go, the weather turns. Fluffy white cumulous give way to darker clouds. After a short drizzle the sky just unloads. It’s dumping buckets. I press on. I hear a massive crack of thunder. Sunshine and dark clouds are churning throughout the gorge. It’s tough to tell whether the mountains are protecting me from the worst of it, or trapping it in the valley in front of me. I pause for a bit to collect my bearings. With no shelter behind or in front of me, I decide to just press on.
It pays off. Around 4:30 pm, just as the sun fights back through, I pull into Hoffman Campground. A couple sits under a pavilion riding out the last of the rain. It’s a Friday night on a holiday weekend, but the weather seems to have scared everyone else off. I make polite conversation until it lightens up, and then excuse myself. There’s a hoagie and a fake Baby Ruth calling my name.
Day two bikepacking through Pennsylvania. I know it will be a wet one. Yesterday I managed to dodge storms, but today the downpour is inevitable. The forecast calls for soaked socks and the constant squeegeeing of touchscreens.
Lehigh Gorgeous.
Other than that, this should be a pretty easy day. There aren’t many options for rustic camping (state forests, parks, or campsites) between yesterday’s D&L Trail and tomorrow’s ride through Bald Eagle State Forest, so today will be spent largely on PA backroads. I’m targeting the Indian Head Campground just outside Catawissa, just 70 or so miles away. Feels a little conservative after yesterday, but I stick to the plan. There aren’t great camping options along the route, and while my 1000-lumen headlight is strong enough to get me out of a jam, I haven’t yet invested in a legitimate night-riding system. Pushing distance is part of this trip, but night riding has to remain out of scope.
When I say “out of scope,” it’s because I often think in terms of “layering” new challenges. I’m a lifelong biker, but have only been card-carrying “cyclist” of the lyrca-sporting variety since August 2020. Prior to this trip, I knew what it felt like to bike a century, race gravel, and to bikepack shorter overnighters. I’m far from expert in these things, but they were experiences in my toolbox nonetheless. Yesterday I combined those into a fully-laden long day. I “layered” on the new challenge of a 105 heat index. Each new experience gives me the confidence to layer on one or two unknowns next time, and then calibrate how hard I can push myself in those conditions in terms of distance, speed, and elevation. Today, I’ll find out what it feels like to do some climbing in a downpour.
After a quick grocery store detour in Jim Thorpe, I roll into the Lehigh Gorge. The last miles of the D&L Trail offer a placid start to the morning, from sweeping mountain views to lush rhododendron forest. I pass one early morning hiker, but otherwise am left alone with my thoughts and the white noise under my wheels.
After 15 miles, I hit tarmac. The clouds open up. I push a few wet, category 4 climbs. The rain shell goes on quickly, and I think about my rain pants and poncho. I’m drenched by the time it takes to consider. It’s no big deal, and next time I’ll probably leave those out of my kit altogether.
I grind on, traveling roads with and without shoulders, hoping my rear blinker and the neon bandana hanging on my saddle bag are enough to catch the attention of most all drivers. The miles wash away. Before I know it I’m buying lunch, dinner, and breakfast at the Catawissa grocery store. I arrive at Indian Head Campground by 12:30 pm.
Wait… what the hell am I supposed to do in Catawissa, Pennsylvania until bedtime? The campground is dead. There are a few quiet RVs around the perimeter. The tent area is, unsurprisingly, empty. Clearly, I am the only person around here dumb enough to go damp-camping on a Thursday. I set up my tent on a picnic table under a dry pavilion and move it to the choicest patch of soggy ground.
Then, I hoist myself on the table and settle in for a sit. I shovel food into my face, scroll the news, call my wife, call my parents, make small talk with the lady at the camp store, post on Instagram, do the crossword. I check the time. It’s 2:00 pm. This is going to be a long night.
The rain breaks for a bit, and I bolt up the road to get some more provisions: a small bottle of whiskey, some carrots and hummus, and a lighter. Back at camp, I struggle for an hour with a damp bundle of wood the camp lady sold me. No dice.
Today’s lesson: it’s much more fun to be in the saddle than on a picnic table. I will never do a day this short again. Fortunately, I’ve built options into my itinerary for tomorrow. Option A: bike a distance similar to today and sleep in Ravensburg State Park, sticking to the original five-day journey. Or Option B: put in around 100 miles the next two days, and arrive at the lake house a day early.
I have a few shots of whiskey, throw on my audio book, and drift to sleep by 7:30. I’m resolved to make this a four-day trip.
I’m up before my alarm. I’m always up before my alarm. I don’t know why I even bother to set them anymore. It’s 4:30am, black outside, and I feel like a burglar with very particular taste. I sweep up the shorts, jersey and other gear laid out the night before, and skulk down the steps. Solo bikepacking is by definition a solitary event, and it can feel indulgent and a little selfish. I’m waking up to my own personal Christmas while workaday Wednesday responsibilities await my wife and the rest of the world. The hope for any solo travel is that you learn something about yourself or the world that returns an improved version of you to friends and family. But, no denying, it’s fun.
I make it to the platform for the 6:15 train to Yardley before I realize I’ve left my sunglasses on the dining table. Vacation has officially begun when you forget something important. No issue, there’s a bike shop in Easton at the fifty mile mark. I step out of Yardley Train Station just before 7:30, clip in, and head for the entrance to Delaware and Lehigh Trail just a few miles down the road.
My plan for the day is to make it to a carriage house AirBnB in Lehighton, about 92 miles up the D&L. I had ridden the first 50 miles of the trail back in October as an out-and-back, and knew it would be pretty easy going. The warm shower and bed I booked for this first overnight feels like a bit of a cop out, but I convince myself I’m paying a penance in mileage and heat index.
Toasty.
Days earlier I’d decided to bolt a couple of extra bottle cages to my fork. Water management is no problem. I lather on sunscreen, revel in the shady parts, and enjoy the man-made breeze. I’m watching a storm system ahead on radar, and so far it seems to be clearing out ahead of me. The next few days will be gray and wet, so I am thankful for the sun. Even if it is trying to kill me with heat stroke at the moment.
Near the 60 mile mark I pull out my first aid kit: saddle sores? No, just hot spots, but I’m a bit freaked out. It’s pretty early in the trip to be dealing with saddle sores. I’ve read that what starts as chafing and irritation can quickly shut down a trip if it progresses to a full blown abscess. I’ve done 60+ miles plenty of times before without issue, and haven’t made any adjustments to my bike fit or kit. But it occurs to me that those rides have been mostly in cool fall weather, never in heat and humidity like this. Sweat contains salt of course, and I’ve been sweating buckets all day. Sparing the gory details, I clean and treat the hot spots, look forward to a shower, and hope that cooler days and rain ahead will make a difference.
With about 4 miles left on the day, another surprise from my body: sudden, persistent, stabbing pain in the balls of both feet. It’s bad enough that I decide to pull over rather than push the final miles. I throw my flip flops on, and air out for ten minutes. I’m well aware that feet swell up on longer rides, but this is a special kind of awful. It subsides, and I contemplate riding the last four miles in my flip flops. However, riding a soft shoe on a clipless peddle is like intentionally stepping on Legos over and over and over again. I pull the cycling shoes back on, leave them uncinched, and soldier on.
Why use sunscreen when you can use dirt?
Killing daylight
I get to my AirBnB around 3:30 pm in the afternoon, ahead of schedule. I shower, do some routine bike maintenance, and house a small pizza, large salad, and large curly fries. It’s five o’clock in Lehighton, PA. Too early in the day to go to sleep. Too early in the trip to have a drink at the dive bar up the street. And my mind is too cooked to do much else. If I had my druthers, I realize, I’d keep biking into the night for a few more miles. Maybe 20.
But there’s no good camping option between here and my next destination, Catawissa. So I review my plan for the umpteenth time. I have an awkward chat with the other (vaccinated) house guest. He seems to be staying here for a while and surviving on Powerade based on the stock of nothing but in the fridge. Eventually, I browse through the host’s eclectic DVD collection, and settle for The World’s End. It’s no Shaun of the Dead, but it does what I need it to do: kill time until I crawl into bed around 9:00. I’m eager for the sleep train to transport me to Day 2. I don’t have to wait long for it to arrive.
Disclaimer: This is a bikepacking kit list for this particular trip, to share my thought process. While a lot of equipment will be relevant for many situations, I’ve quickly learned there’s no right way to pack for bikepacking. It’s part personal preference, part puzzling out the needs for a particular trip. How long do you plan to spend at camp, and how comfortable do you want to be while you’re there? Will you need to pack all of your food and water across large segments, or is there ample resupply? How comfortable are you with your own smell after three days, and will you be near others who might answer differently?
In planning this trip I wanted to keep it as light as possible with the gear I have. Take the budget one-man tent. Take the heavy-ish sleeping pad. I also decided eschew the stove, cook kit, mug, and (*sigh*) portable pour-over coffee filter. I was reasonably confident there be hoagies in them thar hills.
HIGHLIGHTS
Bags
Bags were a splurge. Over the past year I’ve accumulated a near-full kit of Apidura’s Expedition line. They are not cheap, but they’re also rated incredibly high in terms of weatherproofing and construction. That paid off for this trip, which included several days of driving rain. As a relatively new bikepacker I may not be able to appreciate the subtle advantage of a superlight tent or a high-end rear hub. On the other hand, I’m pretty sure I can tell the difference between a wet down sleeping bag and a dry one. Highly recommend. While Apidura also offers a 9L and 17L version, I went with the 14.5L saddle pack, on the principle that less is more until it’s too little.
Purple Lizard Maps
This is a really cool company. Their waterproof maps add a level to detail to state forest back roads and trails that Google, RideWithGPS, and other services can’t match. They are certainly several cuts above the forest service’s minimal PDFs. Currently the Purple Lizard repertoire is limited mostly to Pennsylvania state forests, but they have started branching out with maps for Ohio, West Virgina, and… Ricon Puerto Rico? Well done.
Bike
A GT Grade Carbon Pro 2020 with no major upgrades to spec apart from a recently replaced bottom bracket. I could have gone as high as 42mm tires on the 700s for a little more comfort, but I kept my mismatched front 37 (Riddler) and rear 38 (Trigger Pro) because I wanted to see how the trip felt without a new variable in the mix. As Job Bluth once said to Buster, “Now, when you do this without getting punched, you’ll have more fun!”
While it’s true the route and terrain weren’t overly technical, I was impressed with how the bike performed. The 11 speed Shimano Ultegra Di2 worked flawlessly. I wasn’t sure whether my 46/30 had enough of a low-end for the long gravel climbs in Bald Eagle State Forest, especially fully-loaded. It turned out I had plenty to work with, through some combination of training, light packing, and good terrain.
Keep reading for the full kit list, or see how all this planning panned out in my Day 1 recap.
FULL KIT LIST
Weight (g)
Weight (lb)
TOTAL WEIGHT
9339
20.59
SLEEP SYSTEM
Tent – ALPS Lynx 1-person
1074
2.37
Tent stakes
76
0.17
Tent poles
437
0.96
Sleeping pad – Big Agnes Air Core Ultra
532
1.17
Travel pillow – Trekology
83
0.18
Tent floor
186
0.41
Sleeping bag – REI
942
2.08
BAGS
Seat pack – Apidura 14L
350
0.77
Handlebar bag – Apidura 14L
275
0.61
Top tube bag – Topeak
120
0.26
Frame bag – Apidura half
170
0.37
Accessory bag – Apidura 4.5L
115
0.25
ELECTRONICS
Bike light – NiteRider Lumina 1000
141
0.31
Bag lights (front/back)
80
0.18
Head lamp
58
0.13
Garmin Edge 800 GPS
108
0.24
Iphone
230
0.51
Spare AAAs for head lamp
22
0.05
Power bank (Anker)
348
0.77
USB C cord (wireless headphones)
8
0.02
USB micro B cord
12
0.03
USB mini A cord (Garmin)
37
0.08
USB wall plug
25
0.06
iPhone cord
22
0.05
Headphones
13
0.03
FOOD & HYDRATION
Water bottles x4 (empty weight)
400
0.88
Folding knife
46
0.10
Spork
12
0.03
CAMP CLOTHES
Ghost Whisper 2 Down Jacket
221
0.49
Merino shirt
144
0.32
Thermal pants
119
0.26
Flip flops
336
0.74
Thermal hat
25
0.06
Underwear (1x)
67
0.15
CYCLING CLOTHES (PACKED)
Bike shorts (extra)
146
0.32
Arm warmers
63
0.14
Spare socks
38
0.08
Fingerless gloves
42
0.09
FIRST AID KIT
Bandaids
1
0.00
NSAIDs
2
0.00
Moleskin
10
0.02
Antiseptic cream
15
0.03
Tweezers
14
0.03
Emergency blanket
64
0.14
Gauze
1
0.00
TOILETRIES
Toilet paper (4 squares x day)
5
0.01
Toothbrush
14
0.03
Toothpaste
18
0.04
Contact case
7
0.02
Lens solution (go bottle)
76
0.17
Spare contacts
3
0.01
Chamois cream (go bottle)
74
0.16
Bug spray (mini)
29
0.06
Sunscreen (go bottle)
82
0.18
Lip balm
10
0.02
Wash wipes (plastic bag)
94
0.21
BIKE MAINTENANCE
Spare tubes (2x)
328
0.72
Chain lube
240
0.53
Quick links
2
0.00
Tire boots
1
0.00
Valve key
8
0.02
mini pump
59
0.13
CO2 cartridge and chuck
89
0.20
Curved needle
1
0.00
Nylon thread
1
0.00
Zip ties
5
0.01
Stan’s dart
15
0.03
Spare darts
7
0.02
Stan’s sealant
75
0.17
Chain rag
21
0.05
Tire levers
42
0.09
Hex wrench
28
0.06
Superglue
3
0.01
Leatherman Squirt
57
0.13
Crankbrothers M17 multitool
125
0.28
Bike lock
333
0.73
OTHER
Maps
85
0.19
Voile straps
48
0.11
Travel wallet
59
0.13
Poncho
65
0.14
I’ve since moved on to Airtable for my over-planning.
The concept for my first solo, multi-day bikepacking trip was clear from the start: link together as many large gravel sections as possible—ideally over fifty percent of the route—and use roads as connective tissue. There are only so many options coming from Eastern PA, and three major gravel segments quickly emerged: 1. The Delaware and Lehigh (D&L) Trail from Yardley to Jim Thorpe, 2. A system of fire access roads through Bald Eagle State Forest, and 3. the Pine Creek Rail Trail from Jersey Shore to Wellsboro. Later, I would tack on a few miles of dirt in Birdseye Hollow State Forest, in New York.
Moving that concept into a practical GPX file meant bouncing among a few maps and apps. I used RideWithGPS as the core planning tool, and my initial sketch of the route was pretty close to final. I used a physical map from Purple Lizard to finesse my path through Bald Eagle State Forest, and spot-checked the road segments using street view on Google Maps just so I knew what I was getting myself into. The result was a 360-mile trip with an estimated 13,000 ft elevation gain. I don’t know if the gravel came in above the fifty percent mark, but it was damn close:
Gravel/dirt segments outlined in red.
With the route locked in, I still had a few questions to contend with. I wasn’t sure how ambitious I should be with daily mileage. Is 100 miles a day a lot or a little when you have nothing else to do? Would the elevation in Bald Eagle throw me off schedule, especially weighed down with all my kit? Where would I sleep, and would my options match my daily mileage goals?
I knew I wanted to open the trip with a big day on the Delaware and Lehigh Trail, riding roughly 100 miles from Yardley to Jim Thorpe. I briefly dabbled with the notion of riding straight out of my home in South Philly, purely so I could say I made it door-to-door purely on pedal power. But after examining the extra 34 miles between the city and Yardley, largely through industrial corridors, I realized this section would likely be the single most dangerous portion of my ride. I settled on taking the early train from Philly to Yardley.
Not the most romantic start, but it beats getting squashed by a semi.
Accommodations along the route were a little tricky in one regard. Eastern PA is far from remote, so options for camping were somewhat limited. On the positive side, if everything went to hell, I could probably find a cheap motel. In the end, I opted to spend the first night in a modest AirBnB along the D&L, and found a good mix of primitive camping along the way. Here’s the basic itinerary I settled on:
ITINERARY
June 30 – Philadelphia to AirBnB in Lehighton – 92 miles
July 1 – Lehighton to Indian Head Campground in Catawissa/Rupert – 66 Miles
July 2 – Catawissa to Ravensburg State Park OR Hoffman primitive campsite – 58-108 miles
Option A, arrive late and/or feeling rough after the climbs: Ravensburg State Park.
Option B, early and feeling fresh: Press on through Pine Creek Trail to Hoffman (+50 miles)
Option A Day 4 – Ravensburg State Park to Canada Run primitive campsite – 70 miles
Option A Day 5 – Wellsboro to Keuka lake house – 75 miles
Option B Day 4 – Hoffman to Keuka lake house – 99 miles
No spoilers on whether I took A or B (or that other option, DNF). I’m working on a writeup of the journey.
Each summer around the Fourth of July, Melissa’s high school friends get together at a family lake house in the Finger Lakes. It’s adult camp with all the trappings and toys. Water is skied, wakes are foils, waves are runner-ed. Occasional puzzles and light reading are permitted. The kitchen staples send a clear message that this trip is first and foremost about not overthinking it: hot dogs, hamburgers, Twisted Teas, scotch, cigars. Occasionally one of the spouses smuggles in some ruffage in the form of a premade salad kit. For the most part, the week is spent on property, slipping in and out of our own daily detoxifying and retoxifying regimen.
It takes about five hours to drive the 270 miles from Philly to Lake Keuka. I decide it’d be more fun to take the long way and do it by bike. How does one decide they are ready for such a trip? My credentials include two overnight bikepacking excursions, a mid-pack finish in a 60-mile gravel race, and just one 100 mile century ride (ever). Like many others, I hadn’t squeezed into a pair of lycra before the pandemic. I only recently learned how to pronounce “chamois.” But I’ve run marathons. I’ve travelled solo on several continents. I’ve backpacked into and out of the Grand Canyon. I’ve been chased by storms down Rockies and Alps. I know how to take care of myself, and how to listen to my body when I’m pushing the limit.
For the most part, the week is spent on property, slipping in and out of our own daily detoxifying and retoxifying regimen.
I’m also pushing 40, and increasingly conscious of that sweet spot between reckless kids yelling YOLO as they “send it” to an early grave, and those excuses that so often masquerade as “adult responsibility”: self-doubt and over-preparation. It feels more like a mid-life clarity than a crisis. New experiences are new. I want to train to the point I trust myself, and then JFDI. I’m not talking about Philly to New York; I’m ready for that trip. This ride is in many ways about another ride. Before I hit that infamous mid-life milestone, I want to finish one of two single-stage, unsupported bikepacking races developed by adventurer Nelson Trees: the Atlas Mountain Race in Morocco, or the even more harrowing Silk Road Mountain Race through Kyrgyzstan. Taking the long way to vacation will help me answer a few important questions about myself before I take that plunge. Can I do successive long days in the saddle? How does my body respond? Do I enjoy bikepacking in all kinds of weather, or just the idea of it?
Melissa is on board, and so I get to planning my route.
