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For most of the rest of the day, as the sky clouded, we sped through farm-rich valleys,
followed streams afizz with white water through the woods, and rose and fell along steep,
rolling hills. Horses and cows appeared as ornaments on the landscape as if placed there
by a decorator. At one point on the side of the road, we passed an enclosed pen full of
turkeys, and they crowded to the pen window to watch us, their gobbles and squawks
sounding pleading and panicky. I didn't blame them; it's only a month until Thanksgiv-
ing, after all.
Perhaps it was having company, perhaps the heartening tailwind, perhaps being re-
minded of what riding is like without the burden of saddlebags, but my legs felt spring-
ier than they had in weeks, and I had the longest day of my journey—ninety-two miles.
Bob and Maria both had to be at work in New York City the next day, and they left
me in a cheesy motel here in Mifflintown, astonished, really, to be so close to home that
I could have climbed in the backseat with them and slept in my own bed three hours
later.
The skies opened as they left, and I watched them pull out of the parking lot in a
cloudburst, which cut down on my dinner possibilities. There was a Burger King across
the parking lot, and I bought a fish sandwich, a double cheeseburger, a large fries, and
an enormous lemonade, scarfing the whole thing down on the soft, lumpy mattress in
my room. I felt absolutely great.
Wednesday, October 19, Jonas, Pennsylvania
Rain and a gusty headwind kept me to a half day's riding today, slowing my progress
home, though I'm not entirely bummed about that. It's pretty here. I'm about a hundred
miles from Manhattan, having climbed some roller-coaster hills and wound a woodsy
path through Hickory Run State Park.
The little inn here is inviting but rickety, the kind of place where they keep the keys
to the rooms upstairs behind the bar and you can order fish and chips and a cheesebur-
ger and mushroom soup but not much else. It feels remote, at least for a cyclist pedaling
in a cold rain. The woods are pretty deep and they don't expect too many strangers is
my guess, not in the middle of the week when there aren't likely any hikers or hunters
needing a place to stay.
During my ride this morning, just beyond a crossroads at the foot of a brief but
punishing climb into the state park, I came across the Tannery Depot General Store, a
homespun establishment with a roofed-over porch, a bit of shelter I took advantage of
as the heavens suddenly opened. I was shivering out there and must have looked miser-
able—more miserable than I was, though I've been more comfortable in my life. The
owner of the place, a woman named Bunny, popped her head out and told me not to be
