Travel Reference
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and I was lucky enough to be in the woods when it happened, and lucky enough not to
be alone.
Back in Pittsburgh on Sunday, we had a goofy afternoon exploring the mall and slept
well at the Marriott. On Monday we woke up early and found the Great Allegheny Pas-
sage at the far end of the parking lot, at that point an undistinguished-looking bike path
along the Monongahela. Early on, it wasn't much of a ride, passing through industrial
and commercial sites in Homestead and Duquesne, paralleling railroad tracks for a while
and then following the sidewalks and city streets of McKeesport.
But shortly thereafter the passage, the GAP, sidles up alongside the north-flowing
Youghiogheny River (pronounced, I think, yock-uh-GAY-nee) and accompanies it
through a gorgeous, seeming wilderness, crossing over it now and then and yielding,
from bridges that once were railroad trestles, fine views of fast-flowing white water and
the excitement of being suspended above a gorge. After a hundred and twenty miles
or so, the path reaches its apex of elevation, 2,375 feet above sea level, at the Eastern
Continental Divide (separating the Atlantic watershed from the Gulf of Mexico water-
shed), and the last twenty-two miles are a steady cruise downhill.
The towns along the trail—Connellsville, Ohiopyle, Confluence, Meyersdale, and oth-
ers—are slowly yielding their longtime identities as coal and rail towns and embracing
bike travelers. Bike shops are doing business in most of them; bike racks are standard
features in front of stores and restaurants. Bed-and-breakfasts catering to cyclists have
sprung up along the trail. In Connellsville we stayed in one owned by a Czech couple
who had hung a glass vitrine on the wall above our bed. Inside was what looked to be a
mittel -European folk dance outfit but that we learned was actually the husband's grand-
mother's wedding dress.
Quite aside from my delight in Jan's company, it was a marvelous few days, a su-
premely seasonal experience. The weather was mostly overcast when it wasn't wet, but
the air evoked that early fall, glad-to-be-outdoors-as-long-as-I'm-dressed-properly feel-
ing. You could ride all day without overheating. The trail bed—mostly packed, crushed
limestone and built on abandoned rail lines (the grades from one end to the other are
very gentle)—was carpeted in fallen leaves, and the trees were subtly aflame. Now and
then the trail opens onto mountain panoramas, and they were so rich with complement-
ary colors that the hillsides seemed to have been crocheted in velour.
“We could wrap ourselves in this,” I said to Jan.
Since Catherine, there have been a few women I've been hopeful about—or tried to be
hopeful about, I should say—and a few more toward whom I behaved badly in one way
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