Mar 17, 2016 3 min read

Anyone would have had the same idea.

It was my spring break from teaching, and the weather forecast was showing three days of sunshine and almost 70 degrees. With the farmer replacing floors, the house was in chaos from dust and noise.

“I know,” I thought. “I shall escape and go on a bicycle trip!”

But nothing good can come of a plan that ends with an exclamation point. That bit of punctuation means expectations have been elevated to delusional levels. I learned this the hard way.

With sunny high hopes, I put my bike on the rack, tossed my padded cycling pants and some protein bars into a bag and headed east.

I would stay at a bed and breakfast along the Great Allegheny Passage, using it as my home base during what I’d planned would be three 40-mile days.

That first morning, I woke early and had a delicious breakfast. The inn owners assured me the trail was finally free of snow.

Off I went. My helmet felt a bit loose; had I lost weight in my head over the winter? What a nice bonus!

Three miles down the trail, my pedaling became more labored. Did I have a flat?

No, all three tires were fine. (Just kidding. I do not ride a tricycle – yet.) But the sluggish feeling persisted. Another half-mile of pedaling and I understood. The melting snow turned the trail surface to mush. I was pedaling through oatmeal.

I considered turning around; the farther I went west the longer my trip back would be. But I’m no quitter.

Onward I went, jamming my feet onto the pedals to propel myself through the muck. At Mile 6, a lemon-size hole opened on the thigh of my cycling shorts. By Mile 8, I was looking at an orange. If this thing opened any wider it would take out the entire front of my pants.

At Mile 9, a cold mist began to fall. I decided to go another four miles to the next town and then reassess my goals for the day.

At Mile 12, I threw in the towel. And Lordy, did I need a towel.

I headed back east, this time with a lovely headwind. And what the heck – am I pedaling uphill now? Yes, indeed. That grueling slog on my way west was actually the downhill glide part of the trail. I would pedal 13 miles back to my starting point going slightly uphill, mist in my face, tires sinking into the mire, out of drinking water, and with my too-large helmet slid off to the side, now covering my left cheek and ear like a jaunty beret.

If I were a wimp I would call someone to come fetch me. After 16 miles of this I decided that yes, I am that wimp. But where would I say to get me? I was in the forest, in the mountains.

I finally pulled in around 2 p.m., having managed a speed of six miles an hour. I could have jogged it as fast. I was covered in muddy sand, my hair was matted and wet and the hole in my pants was now something in the grapefruit family.

“Great ride!” I said to the innkeeper. “A bit soggy, though.”

“Well, it is the mountains in March!” he said.

Oh, how I hate exclamation points.