The March on Washington

Maryland is classified by the U.S. Census bureau as a South-Atlantic state. It was the seventh state to ratify the Constitution, and is nicknamed the Old Line State and the Free State. Its history as a border state has led it to exhibit characteristics of both the Northern and Southern regions of the United States. For the first time, we start hearing what sounded like Southern accents. It was the third distinctive change in pronunciation we have noted; New England, NY/NJ, and now this. It will be interest to see how it changes even more as we pedal further South. Most of our route took us through Northern Maryland, which is famous as horse country.

In fact, we were riding on part of the designated National Scenic byway known as “Steeplechase Country”. The valleys and vistas of this route create the illusion that this byway has taken you into the English countryside. Fox hunting is still popular here, and the hunt races, as they're called, attract the country's best steeplechasers.

We also found the roadways to be in excellent shape, in fact the best we encountered so far. The terrain continued to become more “biker friendly”, although there were a few climbs on each day that tested our mettle. A curiosity for us was that Maryland's plant life is abundant and healthy. A good dose of annual precipitation help to support many types of plants, including seagrass, bamboo and various reeds at the smaller end of the spectrum to the gigantic Wye Oak, a huge example of White Oak, the state tree, which can grow in excess of 70 ft tall. This part of the state gets ample rain, and we had our share of it.

Curiously, even though we were skirting the city of Baltimore by only 20~30 miles, there were virtually no options available for overnight lodging. The dilemma, which we faced before, was that designated campsites were non-existent. Furthermore, we could not find any B&B’s in the area. The motels that did exist were 10 or more miles off route and would take us into heavily populated and high traffic areas. We opted to stay on the trail and try our luck. Around 5 PM we arrived in the small village of Corbett which is located at the bottom of a ravine along the aptly named Cold Bottom Creek. We went door to door, trying to find someone and ask for permission to camp on their land. No one answered. Finally, we took matters into our own hands and found an old trail that followed the creek. We pushed our bike down the trail until we couldn’t see the road any more, and called it good. Technically, we were trespassing, but our rationale was that we had indeed tried to ask permission, and if perchance the local officials found us, at least we would spend a night under roof at the expense of the county. Thankfully, the evening passed uneventfully (except for rain) and we arose early the next morning to make good on our getaway.

Two days earlier we had located an inn in the village of Brookville, which is about 25 miles north of Washington on the bike route. We toyed with the idea of riding the 80 miles to DC, but decided that it simply wasn’t worth it. Although the inn was full for the evening, the owners were kind enough to let us pitch our tent in their backyard. Once again, the kindness of total strangers saved us from a difficult situation.

After enjoying our breakfast, we set out for what we believed to be an easy ride to DC. The first 5 miles were simple enough, pedaling along a country lane with the occasional car passing by. And then we came to the intersection of Highway 108, and met the DC rush hour traffic head on. We only needed to ride on 108 for a tenth of mile and then turn left onto another country lane. But there was no way we could navigate into the turning lane without risking bike, life and limb. So we dismounted and walked the bike along the roadside up to the traffic signal, and planned to walk across the intersection. We finally got into the left turn lane and while waiting for the turn arrow to appear we witnessed the first vehicular collision of the trip. WHAMMO, CRUNCH. A Toyota RAV4 stopped for the light as it was changing to red, and was rear ended by some monster pick up truck. In the confusion, the light turned green, and with everyone focused on the accident, we seized the opportunity and got the heck out of there…only to discover that a sign was warning that 3 miles ahead, the road was closed to all but local traffic. The map indicated that we had to cross a creek, and we supposed that the bridge was closed for repair. Once again we had to make a choice…we could either go back to the major highway and follow the detour in the height of rush hour traffic, or we could ignore the warning signs and hope that the bridge was closed to vehicular traffic, but maybe we would be able to walk the bike across. We rode the 3 miles in silence, each keeping to our own thoughts, but thinking the same thing…there was no way we were going back to 108. There had to be a way across the bridge. The road was empty (after all, it was supposed to be closed) and the miles went by. Two miles, one mile, 1500 feet, 500 feet to the road closure…and when we rounded the bend we saw a newly repaved bridge with workmen and trucks on it. We approached cautiously and asked if a bike could get by. “No problem” they said. All that angst for nothing! Another bullet dodged, but there was still one more obstacle in our way before joining the Rock Creek Trail and the 14 mile bikeway into the city...we needed to ride on Highway 115 for 1 ½ miles and then down a country lane for ½ mile to the trailhead.

115 appeared to be a feeder route to the city, and as we prepared to turn on to it, we came upon a traffic jam of monumental proportion. Cars were stopped in the middle of the intersection and no one was moving. The light changed from green to red to green, but we were in the midst of complete gridlock. Speaking to a driver in the car next to us, we came to find out that there had been a fatal accident earlier in the morning, and traffic was backed up for miles. So there we were, a mere 2 miles from the bikeway, and stuck in the middle of a traffic jam the likes of which we had never seen. Once again the Bicycling Gods smiled upon us. Matt observed that there was a sidewalk ahead and proposed we ride on that for awhile. The walkway lasted for about ½ mile and then ended nearby an elementary school. The shoulder on 115 was only about 2 feet wide, but it was big enough for us to maneuver on. While it is usually never advisable to pass vehicles on the right (you never know when they plan to turn), we recognized that no one was going anywhere, and that a divine pathway had opened in front of us. It was like the Red Sea parting for the Israelites.

We slowly made our way along the shoulder, avoiding truck and SUV mirrors as they were inching along. We were traveling at about 5 MPH, but it was faster than the vehicles around us. Ironically, the traffic tie up had actually made it safer for us to ride. Cars were creeping along, not whizzing by at 40~50 MPH. After about 45 minutes, we turned into the entrance of Rock Creek Regional Park and with a sigh of relief and big high Fives all around, wheeled ourselves onto the bikeway for the last few miles into DC.

We arrived at Donna and Brian’s house to a royal greeting and warm hugs. We did it! In 26 days we had ridden over 1000 miles, enduring all types of terrain, weather, highs and lows. We were healthy, happy, excited…no, make that elated, and proud of what we had done. With the trip now 40% complete, we dismounted Olga and took a deep breath. At least for the next few days we didn’t have to ponder about where we were going to sleep. We were looking forward to some well earned R & R, and a chance to recharge our internal batteries. If the second half of our journey was to be anywhere as enjoyable as the first, then truly, we were going to have the time of our lives. It’s been grand!