We are standing where the Allegheny and Monongahela rivers converge to form the Ohio River near downtown Pittsburgh on a cool late August morning. My son and I straddle rented Diamondback Haanjo gravel bikes while my wife, Jill, takes our picture next to a fountain in Point State Park.
This is the starting point (or ending point) of a 335-mile trail between Pittsburgh and Washington, D.C. Two trails, actually, that connect in Cumberland, Maryland — the 150-mile Great Allegheny Passage and the 185-mile C&O Canal Towpath. Except for a few miles, neither is paved. Marcus and I plan to ride the entire route over the next five days.
We expect sweat, maybe a few tears but certainly no blood.
As we say our goodbyes to Jill (she will drive to meet us for lunch and take us to a hotel at the end of each day) we start pedaling east, the city skyline over our shoulder.
When I taught Marcus to ride a two-wheeler some 30 years ago when he was 4 or 5, I never imagined us riding farther than around the block. We both came to enjoy cycling independently later in life, he mostly on a mountain bike and me mostly on a road bike.
Earlier this year, he told me that for my 60th birthday he wanted us to ride the northern California coast. But things came up. He lives a busy life with a wife and two young daughters in Virginia. I’m in Utah. We talked about other possible multiday rides, including the GAP and C&O, but never settled on anything. I thought the idea was dead for the year.
Then in early August, I got a text from him asking whether he could fit wider tires on his road bike. Suddenly, the ride was on again. We settled on the GAP and C&O over Labor Day weekend, partly because he wouldn’t have to travel far. The route would take us over historic bridges and through dark tunnels. We’d ride past colonial and Civil War sites we read about in history books.
We decided to rent gravel bikes at Riverside Cycling in Richmond, Virginia. We picked them up on the drive to Pittsburgh.
The first 20 miles along the Monongahela River out of the city are paved. We pass the Pittsburgh Steelers practice facility, metal scrapyards and old steel mills. Near McKeesport, the pavement gives way to a crushed limestone path (maintained by volunteers) through the woods next to the Youghiogheny River. The small rocks crackle under our tires as we pedal. An occasional cardinal lands on a tree branch, while what we think are marmots scurry next to the trail.
We chat a little as we ride. Nothing too deep. We’re not here to mend a strained relationship or strengthen our father-son bond. We just want to ride together.
While we pedal, Jill drives off to see Frank Lloyd Wright’s Fallingwater just outside Ohiopyle, Pennsylvania (our first night’s stop), fulfilling a lifelong dream to tour one of the most unique houses in the country.
Other than a saddlebag, another small bag for snacks and a couple of water bottles, we don’t carry much on our bikes like some of the self-supported riders loaded with gear we meet on the trail. Purists might scoff at our cushy accommodations. This is our first multiday ride. We’ll save bikepacking for another day.
After riding an almost imperceptible climb for 130 miles over the first two days, we cross the Eastern Continental Divide, which separates the Atlantic Seaboard watershed from the Gulf of Mexico watershed. It is the highest point on the GAP at 2,392 feet above sea level. As we pass through a short tunnel, we’re greeted by sweeping vistas of the green valley below.
A few miles later, we reach the Mason-Dixon Line. I had always associated it with the Civil War, and it does have significance there. But the king of England commissioned astronomer Charles Mason and surveyor Jeremiah Dixon in 1763 to create the line to settle a long-running land dispute between aristocratic colonial families, the Penns and the Calverts. Landowners along the line feared being taxed by both families because both claimed the same land. The 233-mile line established boundaries between what is now Pennsylvania, Maryland, Delaware and West Virginia.
Before the Civil War, it was regarded as the dividing line between free states and slave states. It still serves figuratively as the political and cultural dividing line between the North and the South.
Marcus and I stop there to take photos and talk with other cyclists doing the same. We cruise the last 20 downhill miles on the Great Allegheny Passage into Cumberland. A James Taylor song plays in my head.
The secret of life is enjoying the passage of time / Any fool can do it / There ain’t nothing to it / Nobody knows how we got to the top of the hill / But since we’re on our way down / We might as well enjoy the ride.
My son and I share an affinity for JT. But our musical tastes diverge sharply from there. I’m a classic rock guy. Try as I might to pound Styx and Boston into his head when he was young, it never took. He drifts toward punk and ska and more eclectic sounds. I do have to thank him for turning me on to The Cat Empire and Bedouin Soundclash. Good stuff.
We plan to ride the 185-mile C&O Canal Towpath over the next three days. But plans change. It’s a little rougher than the GAP and not as well-maintained. It varies from double-track and even single-track dirt to gravel.
The Chesapeake and Ohio Canal was started in 1828 and completed in 1852. The path was built for mules to walk beside the canal as they towed boats through the waterway. The canal contains 74 locks and a long tunnel. For nearly 100 years, it was used to transport goods between Georgetown and Cumberland. It is now a National Historic Site.
The C&O trail seems to suit the mountain bike rider in my son. I hear him describe it to his wife on the phone as “rad.” Most of the route is in shade, thankfully, as the day gets hotter and muggier. Only splotches of sunlight break through the forest canopy. We see deer in the trees and have to watch out for exposed tree roots and the turtle that looks like a rock.
About 30 miles in, we reach the most impressive engineering feat on the canal: the 3,118-foot-long Paw Paw Tunnel. Constructed to bypass six miles of the Potomac River containing five horseshoe bends, it was completed in 1850. Built with nearly 6 million bricks, the tunnel takes its name from the pawpaw trees that grow along the nearby ridges. One of the bricks will leave a mark on me.
The path through the tunnel sits above the canal. It’s about 3 feet wide with the brick wall on one side and a wooden railing on the other. The railing is sturdy. I tested it.
Marcus pedals rapidly into the semidarkness ahead of me. The ledge is unexpectedly uneven. I’m struggling to maintain control of my bike trying to keep up. About halfway through, I’m totally disoriented. I dismount and walk my bike the rest of the way. As I emerge into the light, he tells me a sign advises cyclists to walk. It’s not the first sign I’ll miss.
We ride another mile or so and notice we’re low on water. We’re not worried, though, because hand-cranked pumps for well water are spread along the trail. We stop and fill up. I take a big gulp before seeing a prominently placed sign saying the water isn’t potable, not for drinking or cooking. We empty our bottles. We have to turn around (adding five miles to our trip) to find a convenience store off the trail, which means going back through the tunnel.
This time Marcus turns on his bike headlight. He’s still far ahead of me, but I manage to ride the entire distance. We find a gas station about a mile and a half off the trail. Now we’re headed back for a third pass through the tunnel. I approach it with confidence but about three-quarters of the way through, my right handlebar scrapes the wall. The jolt sends me into the railing and knocks the chain off my bike. I fumble around but can’t get it back on. I walk the rest of the way. My index finger is throbbing and dripping with blood.
Marcus asks me what happened. I explain while I pull a bandana out of my jersey pocket to hold against the missing patch of skin. We ride on. I hold the bandana on my bleeding finger for several miles.
The next 30 miles are uneventful but beautiful as we pedal through the woods. That is, until Marcus gets a flat tire, the only one of the trip. We have a difficult time getting the tire off the rim. Fortunately, a couple we met earlier comes along to give us a hand.
Rolling again, we see Jill riding toward us. She rented a bike to ride with us to our lunch stop in Hancock, Maryland. We’re about 65 miles in on this day and figure we can do another 25 to Williamsport after we eat.
The trail doesn’t really lend itself to much conversation, so Marcus puts in his earbuds to listen to a book on tape to get him through what can be some monotonous miles despite the scenery. He’s a few feet behind me when I hear him say one of his earbuds fell out. We get off our bikes and start looking. Chances that we’ll find it in the dirt and rocks and grass seem slim.
God probably doesn’t care about a lost earbud, but I say a silent prayer as we search. A few minutes later, Marcus sees it under some greenery just off the trail. I still don’t think God cares about earbuds, but he does care about people.
Having covered 90 miles on our third day — and 240 overall — we decide to stop for the night.
The next morning, Marcus suggests we finish the last 100 miles to Washington, D.C., that day. We decide to see how we feel but there’s no quitting after he tells a couple of our trail friends we pass along the way that we’re riding to the end.
The path skirts the Potomac all day. We see people boating and paddle boarding in the placid river, and as the temperature and the humidity rise, the water looks more and more inviting.
We ask Jill to meet us at mile 70 with some ice and Gatorade. Dirt and dust cling to our sweaty skin as we ride into a parking lot at the river’s edge. We strip down to our biking shorts and take a dip. The cool plunge is rejuvenating. It helps get us through those last miles to Georgetown. We finish the entire 340-mile route a day earlier than planned, averaging about 85 miles a day.
A journey, even one you expect to be arduous, doesn’t have to end with some epiphany or life lesson. It's enough to have a shared experience with someone you care about and who cares about you. I’m with James Taylor. The secret of life is enjoying the passage of time.
As we load the bikes onto the car, Marcus and I clasp hands and hug. “Good ride,” he says. And it was.
