There is no getting away from the fact that hills make a difference, and big hills make a big difference. When you add in 92 miles of cycling, that’s a full working day on a loaded bicycle. Tough, but just about within range on a cold, cloudy day like today. Critically, it didn’t rain. With bad weather just ahead in the forecast, it was important to get this ride completed.
The journey from Baltimore to Philadelphia was always going to involve time on bigger roads because about half way there you have to cross the very broad Susquahanna River, and there are few bridges. Realistically, there was only one serious option and that was on route 30, which skirts as close as it can to the edge of Chesapeake Bay. The next bridge upstream, on route one, would be making the ride too long. And so my best way to a few days rest with my American family more or less chose itself. Route 30 is always at lest two lanes of fast moving traffic in each direction, but it also has a very wide shoulder to ride on, and it is signed as a bike route. It feels safe enough, but it isn’t much fun. There are huge trucks and constant, noisy traffic. So it was with some relief that I spotted the old Highway to Philadelphia, now Maryland route 7, running parallel to it for about 25 miles. This much smaller road runs through a series of forgettable towns, and while not an ideal cycling option, was the best thing on offer. So I took it as soon as I had threaded my way for an hour out of the clutches of Baltimore.
Baltimore is a gritty story of place. My Airbnb host Tyler, a Baltimore native, had told me that you wanted to be in either the north or south part of the city (his lovely home was to the south), and definitely not in the east or the west. My journey today took me north east, so I saw a mixed bag; but plenty of places that I would not want to live myself. There were several blocks where all the housing seemed to be boarded up as if awaiting demolition. Some other areas were not a great deal better. The high rise downtown area was large and seemed prosperous enough, and the inner harbour was very pleasant, with tall ships, a luxury yacht, and water taxis. A nice area for strolling around in warmer weather, no doubt. But today a chill breeze made it somewhere not to get delayed for too long.
None of the roads I followed today were flat. The hills were not tall, but they were relentlessly rolling and at times quite long and fairly steep. I don’t mind hills, but it inevitably affected my average speed, making today’s already long journey that much longer. Nevertheless, a cyclist needs fuel, and I had to take time out three times to eat, drink and rest. My first two stops were in gas station convenience stores, and my final stop came after about fifty miles in the quaint small town of North East. An hour before that I reached the Susquahanna River, whose crossing turned out to be more of a challenge than I expected.
I reached the approach to the long route 30 bridge from a side road, having detoured briefly to see Havre de Grace, a small town on Chesapeake Bay that claimed to have been named America’s Best Small Town. Obviously I couldn’t miss that. And it was nice enough, despite its Main Street being dug up as part of a facelift. I think I have seen nicer places, though, and was reflecting on this when I pulled up behind two police cars on the bridge ramp, their lights flashing, each blocking one of the two lanes of traffic. A sizeable queue was already starting to form. We seemed to be waiting for a group of construction workers to clear the road of cones and other equipment. While we waited, I noticed a sign saying no bicycles on the bridge Monday to Friday. If that was true, I was trapped here. So much for signed cycle routes! I pretended I hadn’t seen it.
After maybe ten minutes the road was clear and the two police cars pulled away in parallel, leading the convoy of traffic across. I decided this was the best escort over the bridge I could ever wish for, and followed, at a distance. It was a little hairy because there was no shoulder, but the traffic, including a series of big trucks, was respectful and kept to the left lane until it was past me. The bridge was long, perhaps a mile, but I kept moving. Regular signs told the traffic to share the road with bikes. No days of the week were mentioned. And then I was across, the police cars had gone, the wide shoulder was restored, and everything was back to its normal self.
The final forty miles of my journey were a fairly direct diagonal line away from the coast to my final destination of Glen Mills, PA, an old village which now marks the western edge of the Philadelphia urban sprawl. This is the home of my wife Jenni’s family: my bother and sister in law, and – down the road – my mother in law. I was looking forward to three days off cycling there, where I know I am always very welcome. It was approaching 4pm on a grey day, and I was hoping I wouldn’t need my lights. I was wrong. The landscape did not allow rapid progress to be made except on the downhill sections. Despite the dull, cold weather, this whole rural section of the ride was delightful and the small roads passed through some very pretty sections of Maryland, Delaware and Pennsylvania, which were impossible to tell apart. For the first time, I was coming into contact with old rural buildings like stone churches and old mills that seemed to have been here more than 200 years. I even crossed a covered bridge, which is something I have only ever seen in this part of America. My rural roads took me straight across its wooden planks, under the long, red painted wooden arch.
The hills continued right to the end, and it was getting towards the wrong side of dusk when I finally rolled in to my relatives’ driveway a little after 8pm, flashing like a lit up Christmas tree. An hour later the rain began, and I think it lasted a full night and day. But I was able to watch it safely from inside a warm house. Timing is everything.
