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.
