Pretty picture, make it all better

Flower in my backyard

Posted by Me at 23:33 link

Where's Ziboy?

But then again, Ziboy lives and blogs in Beijing. The reputation of the Chinese government is that they don't take kindly to folks who don't take kindly to them — or, I should say more accurately, to folks who they feel don't take kindly to them. The impression of Beijing I've gotten from Ziboy's photos is of a surprisingly open and familiar city, where people seem a lot more interested in looking cool and having a good time than in trying to force social change (i.e. pretty much the same as here, and almost everywhere else in the West). His photos improve my opinion of Chinese life and of the Chinese government, and make me curious enough to want to visit Beijing.

If you know where Ziboy is, or better yet, if you are Ziboy, leave me a comment or send me an e-mail.

I hope it's all good, bro....

Better Late Than Never

In the six days since I successfully surmounted my towpath century challenge, I've decided I'd like to do this crazy thing again (probably about a year from now), as a charity event. I've thought long and hard about which charity would be the most appropriate beneficiary, and I've decided on the United Way of Mercer County, NJ.

So....

I'd like for those of you who can afford it NOW to make a donation to United Way of Greater Mercer County. You can donate online, by phone, or by mail. Be sure to mention "Bud Long's Towpath Century Challenge 2003" (if you donate online, put that in the "Employer" section). All donations are welcome, big or small.

Next year, I'll hit you up for pledges in advance. And I'll be looking for some of you to ride with me. Be Ready!!!

When you are deluded, you are used by your body. When you are enlightened, you use your body.

-Bunan

From "The Pocket Zen Reader," edited by Thomas Cleary, 1999. Shambhala Publications, Boston, www.shambhala.com.

Schwarzenegger The Barbarian

Six women who came into contact with Arnold Schwarzenegger on movie sets, in studio offices and in other settings over the last three decades say he touched them in a sexual manner without their consent.

In interviews with The Times, three of the women described their surprise and discomfort when Schwarzenegger grabbed their breasts. A fourth said he reached under her skirt and gripped her buttocks.

A fifth woman said Schwarzenegger groped her and tried to remove her bathing suit in a hotel elevator. A sixth said Schwarzenegger pulled her onto his lap and asked whether a certain sexual act had ever been performed on her.

According to the women's accounts, one of the incidents occurred in the 1970s, two in the 1980s, two in the 1990s and one in 2000.

"Did he rape me? No," said one woman, who described a 1980 encounter in which she said Schwarzenegger touched her breast. "Did he humiliate me? You bet he did."

[full story]

Should a married man who considers non-consensual sexual harassment/humiliation of women to be "playful" be governor of the most populous State in the U.S.?

If you live in California, I urge you to do the following:

1. Vote against the recall on October 7
2. Cast your "insurance" vote for Cruz Bustamante
3. Tell everyone you know to do the same

The Plame Affair — and How You Can Help

According to the Washington Post, "two top White House officials" committed a high crime in the first weeks of July. They handed over the identity of an American secret agent to journalists. They blew her cover, risking the lives of colleagues and contacts and possibly erasing years of intelligence work. Why? "Purely and simply for revenge," an administration official told the Post. The spy's husband was a vocal critic of the Iraq war. (Sources below.)

The White House and the Justice Department have known about this crime for months -- after all, the agent's identity was published in scores of newspapers in early July. But until a few days ago, they did nothing about it. And even now, President Bush has said he has no plans to ask his staff whether they were connected to it.

Republicans contend that an investigation by the Justice Department will reveal any wrongdoing. But Justice Department chief John Ashcroft -- who was appointed by President Bush and who employed key Bush advisor Karl Rove -- is hardly neutral. Already, there are signs that the investigation will give the White House room to cover the crime up.

The simple fact is that the truth will only come out under pressure. If we don't speak up now, the investigation could be left in John Ashcroft's hands, and the perpetrators and the crime could be swept under the rug. Please tell John Ashcroft and Congress that you want a special prosecutor -- someone who isn't tied to the Bush Administration -- to investigate this illegal and vindictive act.

Join us now at:
http://moveon.org/intimigate/

Although almost 7 in 10 Americans believe that Ashcroft should appoint a special prosecutor to handle the investigation, he currently refuses to do so. But he had a point back in 1997, when he said that "A single allegation can be most worthy of a special prosecutor. If you're abusing government property, if you're abusing your status in office, it can be a single fact that makes the difference on that."

It certainly appears that people in the Bush White House abused their status in office.

On July 6th of 2003, Valerie Plame's husband Joe Wilson wrote an editorial in the New York Times. Joe Wilson was a former Ambassador to Iraq, appointed originally by President George H. W. Bush, who had been sent in 2002 to investigate claims that Iraq was trying to buy uranium from Niger. He concluded that "based on my experience with the administration in the months leading up to the war, I have little choice but to conclude that some of the intelligence related to Iraq's nuclear weapons program was twisted to exaggerate the Iraqi threat."

On July 14th, conservative columnist Robert Novak revealed that according to "senior administration officials," Wilson's wife was "an Agency operative on weapons of mass destruction." Up to this point, Valerie Plame's identity was a carefully kept secret, but Novak blew her cover.

Then, last Sunday, the Washington Post printed an article titled "Bush Administration is Focus of Inquiry." The article contained a revelation: "Yesterday, a senior administration official said that before Novak's column ran, two top White House officials called at least six Washington journalists and disclosed the identity and occupation of Wilson's wife. . . . 'Clearly, it was meant purely and simply for revenge,' the senior official said of the alleged leak."

In 1999, President George H. W. Bush said that "I have nothing but contempt and anger for those who betray the trust by exposing the names of our sources. They are, in my view, the most insidious of traitors." Right now, it looks like possible traitors in the White House are being given a free pass. Please call on Attorney General Ashcroft and Congress to appoint a special prosecutor today. We need to get to the bottom of this.

Sign now at:
http://moveon.org/intimigate/

Sincerely,
--Carrie, Eli, Joan, Noah, Peter, Wes, and Zack
  The MoveOn Team
  October 2nd, 2003

Sources:

1. "two top White House officials" and "Purely and simply for revenge":
BUSH ADMINISTRATION IS FOCUS OF INQUIRY
By Mike Allen and Dana Priest, Washington Post, 9/28/03
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/articles/A11208-2003Sep27.html

2. Leak was published in scores of newspapers in early July:
MISSION TO NIGER
By Robert Novak, multiple papers, 9/14/03
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/articles/A30055-2003Oct1.html

3. Bush has no plans to ask his staff:
BUSH AIDES SAY THEY'LL COOPERATE WITH PROBE INTO INTELLIGENCE LEAK
By Mike Allen, Washington Post, 9/29/03
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/articles/A14909-2003Sep28.html

4. Ashcroft employed Karl Rove; signs of room for a cover-up:
ATTORNEY GENERAL IS CLOSELY LINKED TO INQUIRY FIGURES
By Elisabeth Bumiller and Eric Lichtblau, New York Times, 10/2/03
http://www.nytimes.com/2003/10/02/politics/02ASHC.html?hp

5. 7 in 10 Americans want a special prosecutor:
OUTSIDE PROBE OF LEAKS IS FAVORED
By Dana Milbank and Mike Allen, Washington Post, 10/2/03
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/articles/A29560-2003Oct1.html

6. "A single allegation can be most worthy of a special prosecutor":
CNN’s Evans and Novak, 10/4/97

7. Joe Wilson's New York Times editorial:
WHAT I DIDN'T FIND IN AFRICA
By Joseph C. Wilson 4th, New York Times, 7/6/03
http://www.commondreams.org/views03/0706-02.htm

8. "I have nothing but contempt and anger":
REMARKS BY GEORGE BUSH AT THE DEDICATION CEREMONY FOR THE GEORGE BUSH CENTER FOR INTELLIGENCE
26 April 1999
http://www.cia.gov/cia/public_affairs/speeches/1999/bush_speech
_042699.html

Blowing her cover was a serious crime, about as serious in legal terms as murder. Those responsible should face the full extent of legal punishment.

Toyota Increases Hybrid Production

Toyota Motor Corp showed off the production site of its gasoline-electric hybrid cars to journalists for the first time on Thursday with a powerful message: they don't have to be expensive to make.

....

"We used to build the previous Prius on an exclusive assembly line at the Takaoka plant, and later at Motomachi," said Kenji Takahara, head of administration at neighboring Tsusumi plant, which now builds the Prius.

"Now, it shares a line with four other mass-production sedans," he said.

That's a big and necessary step for Japan's top auto maker as it aims to offer the hybrid option on most of its models in the not-too-distant future. Toyota is hoping to sell 300,000 of the fuel-efficient vehicles a year starting mid-decade.

Hybrids use electric motors and battery packs to improve fuel efficiency, adding power during acceleration and reclaiming energy when braking and coasting. Toyota says the Prius gets 35.5 km per liter of gasoline, which is over 80 miles per gallon.

[full story] [emphasis added]

Limbaugh a Little Lower Now

I think Limbaugh is overrated and has been given way too much airtime — because he is a white conservative. Your fifteen minutes are now over....

[UPDATE -- He's Outta There!]

Never one capable of keeping his big mouth shut, I think Limbaugh deserves some credit — for making, as he exited the stage, what may well stand as the dumbest public comment of October 2003:

"All this has become the tempest that it is because I must have been right about something," he said.

"If I wasn't right, there wouldn't be this cacophony of outrage that has sprung up in the sports writer community."

Outrage against you ≠ being right.

Well, October is a long month, and I'm sure Limbaugh will face some stiff competition for dumbest public comment; I'm sure he himself will keep saying dumb things, for one.

Hey Ladies!

What is it with men and cars? Why doesn't he notice how much housework needs to be done? Why does he need to keep a grip on the remote control? And the most bewildering one of all -- why won't he just talk to me?

The answers, says social philosopher and author Michael Gurian, lie not in laziness, sexism or sheer pigheadedness but in profound differences between the male and female brain -- and scientists now have the technology to prove it.

....

The male brain secretes less of the powerful primary bonding chemical oxytocin and less of the calming chemical serotonin than the female brain.

So while women find emotional conversations a good way to chill out at the end of the day, the tired male brain needs to zone out all that touchy-feely chatter in order to relax -- which is why he wants the remote control to zap through "mindless" sport or action movies.

His brain takes in less sensory detail than a woman's, so he doesn't see or even feel the dust and household mess in the same way. Anyhow, the male brain attaches less personal identity to the inside of a home and more to the workplace or the yard -- which is why he doesn't get worked up about housework.

Male hormones such as testosterone and vasopressin set the male brain up to seek competitive, hierarchical groups in its constant quest to prove self-worth and identity. That is why men, paradoxically (from a hormonally altered new mother's point of view), become even more workaholic once they have kids, to whom they must also prove their worth.

[full story]

Now if we men could only figure out the female brain....

I'm still recovering from Saturday's ride. I've regained most of the feeling in the fingers of my left hand — but I still get winded too easily, I've been getting kind of dizzy some, and I crave sleep even more than usual. The worst thing is that I seem to be dividing up everyone I know (and meet) into the two categories of "tough enough" and "not tough enough." Somehow, I feel I can tell this about someone almost instantly. I know it's wrong (both likely inaccurate and morally repulsive), but I keep doing it anyway. Automatically.

My patience seems unusually good, however, and all the problems in my life seem perfectly solvable. The best thing is that I'm taking to heart David Lee Roth's two rules of life:

1. Don't sweat the small [stuff].
2. It's all small [stuff].

The Ride

Morrisville was quiet. The starting point was just a couple of minutes off Route 1. My friend dropped me off and drove away. Just like that. I took a "before" picture, climbed on the bike, and started riding. 7:03 am.

"Boomer," Sentinel of the towpath, New Hope, PA

The first thirty miles, from Morrisville to Uhlerstown, were a breeze. I stopped a couple of times, first to raise my seat another inch, then just to rest, even though I didn't really feel I needed to. Figuring it would help me stay strong, I pulled over for a minute or two every half hour, for 5-10 minutes each hour and for 15-20 minutes every 2-3 hours.

New Hope seemed still to be asleep. No canal boat rides or steam train excursions at 8:30 am. The morning mist was still with me as I saw the famous red covered bridge that marks the only access from the canal towpath to Uhlerstown. I donned my helmet and rode the couple of miles to the Delaware River bridge, then walked the bike across to the lovely little town of Frenchtown, NJ, where a few tourists were checking out the scene.

Delaware & Raritan Canal Towpath, south of Frenchtown, NJ

The path south from Frenchtown was in as good shape as the path in PA, only with a gray gravelled surface instead of red cinder. It quickly occured to me that something was missing — the canal! Didn't see that again for about 10 miles, until Bulls Island Recreational Area, where I stopped to get water (this was the first place to get water since New Hope; the water turned out to be disgustingly rusty! I sucked it down greedily).

I'd ridden 40 miles by this point, and I was feeling it. My butt was a little sore, my back was a bit stiff, but most annoyingly, the fingers of my left hand were going numb. I'd experienced this before and was actually a bit surprised it took so long for them to lose feeling. The numbness would get worse as the day wore on, but three ibuprofen ensured that soreness wouldn't bother me — at least until the next day!

Flooded Delaware River, near Bulls Island

My anxiety about Trenton grew as I got closer to it. I was careful not to push myself, determined to have sufficient reserves to, well, sprint for my life if it came to that (I'm embarrassed to admit to having imagined such a scenario, but there it is).

The miles were starting to crawl. The breaks seemed too far apart. The rusty water grated on my nerves. My fingers were getting more numb. The sky was getting dark. Rain? I didn't care. Hard rain or lightning would have given me a good excuse to take a long break, or even to quit with some dignity.

Delaware & Raritan Canal, Lambertville

Lambertville was the most elegant town along the way, hands down. When I passed a packed café right off the towpath, I could smell the colognes and perfumes of the well-dressed diners, and the delicious food (I'd brought a mix of raisins, peanuts and M&Ms, but I didn't eat much of it). I felt pretty slimy compared to those guys, but then I thought: Could they do what I'm doing?. I decided that almost none of them could. 1:00 pm; 15 miles to Trenton.

I passed a woman jogging; when I took a break, she jogged passed me. I watched her pick up a long slender stick and start banging the ground with it! Then I saw the goose. I'd heard they could be a nuisance. They didn't bother me much. A couple of times they blocked the path, but I yelled "Beep beep!" and they made way. When I passed the jogger a few minutes later, she'd ditched the stick.

It rained a little. I thought it would rain a lot, but it quickly passed. I saw a heron, huge in flight, slightly comical standing still, looking around. The last two fingers of my left hand were now completely numb. I was tired and tempted to call it a day. 50 miles down, 50 to go. 1:45 pm; 10 miles to Trenton.

I bargained with myself: Make it past Trenton, then you can quit. I knew if I made it that far, I'd find it very hard not to finish the whole thing, but I played along. What else was I to do?

At Washington Crossing, I dumped out the rusty water and filled up with better stuff. 8 miles to Trenton. Now there were plenty of others on the path, middle-class folks with nice bikes and gaudy clothes.

I passed Scudders Falls. I decided I'd stow my camera at milestone 5. When I got there, it turned out to be in a country club; I decided I'd stow at milestone 4, which I did. By this time, the yuppies were all gone. Through the trees I could see lower-rent apartment buildings.

City streets soon followed. Discarded appliances and other junk appeared beside the path, which grew increasingly shiny with multicolored bits of broken glass. I passed a few locals, who, though obviously surprised to see someone like me, didn't make a big deal about it. The trees grew sparser and gave way entirely. The sun wasn't too hot. I took off my sunglasses and stowed them in my pocket. Shiny new downtown buildings here, decaying houses there. Lots of kids with freestyle bikes on the path. One of them may have thrown something at me. Many other faces on the path and the nearby sidewalks, all much darker than mine. Nobody looked me in the eye. I didn't feel particularly welcome — or unwelcome. I was tired, but I had energy. I realized my heart rate was over 170.

I recognized the bridge over the end of the feeder canal at Old Rose Street from Friday's scouting expedition. ($500,000 and 2 years from now, the towpath will again be complete through Trenton, making my little urban expedition unnecessary.) Here we go, I thought, and I was on the streets of Trenton. Poor neighborhood. 2:45 pm. I hadn't noticed Friday what a big hill this was! A group of women were coming out of a Pentacostal Holiness church. Good Folks, I thought. One of them looked at me and said to the others, "There goes my boyfriend!" I said, "Hey y'all!", which was returned with a chorus of "Hey"s. (See? Being a Southerner does have some advantages up North!)

I struggled up the hill to Brunswick Ave, took a right. Thank God I'm off that hill. Same young men I'd seen Friday standing around on the street corners. They noticed me, but I was moving fast now and they didn't pay me much attention. I coasted downhill; what luxury! Trenton was turning out to be a breeze. I watched the traffic, no problems. I kept an eye on the parallel-parked cars, no problems. I turned right, the wrong way down one-way Sylvester, no problems, then left onto New York Avenue, a deserted industrial street. Flat again. I felt pretty good. A little hot. A little tired. Exhilarated!

I saw a fat white woman drive out of the parking lot of Fuld Medical Center. She looked miserable. I came to Olden Ave and had to wait a long time to cross. I was glad for the rest. Another half-mile across a depressed industrial landscape. Still deserted. Couple of cars. Not hard to see where the canal would go, in the empty gravel lot off to the right, between me and the Route 1 freeway. I knew the canal was under there, running through a culvert. I reached Mulberry Street. And to think that I saw it on Mulberry Street. Same lame joke as yesterday, same awareness of incongruity. Turned right and almost immediately saw the canal and towpath. Had to wait to cross the street.... I made it! I made it!

I saw a guy walking towards me along the path. We made eye contact. I nodded. He nodded back. He looked pretty out of it, maybe on drugs. The path was in great shape, kind of bleak though, with no trees and surrounded by "urban blight" with ugly factories on the left, freeway on the right. A grid of rusted iron girders covered the canal (had they planned, or did they now plan, to cover over this section of canal, too?). Channels of runoff from the factories crossed the path. After half a mile or so, I got my camera back out.

Fallen Trees, East of Trenton

The canal crossed under the freeway. I came to a mass of downed trees, and had to climb over it carrying the bike. Soon after, I passed a white middle-class fellow. "How ya doin'?", I said. Just another day in the woods.

I crossed a small road. The path surprisingly turned into bumpy singletrack. Soon I realized I'd missed a turn as I saw the wide, smooth towpath on the opposite side of the canal. I suprised a couple of African-American fisherman, older, friendly guys. I kept going on the singletrack for a bit, thinking maybe it would get me to the next road, but it soon petered out in thick brush, so I backtracked. As I passed the fishermen again, I said "And now I know....". They smiled.

The path switched sides again at the next road crossing, but I recognized it as Franklin Corner Rd., the place where I'd leave the towpath for a bit. I knew the lovely path would soon dead-end at Route 1, so I took a left on Franklin Corner, rode about 3/10 of a mile to Route 1, waited for the light (waiting was such a blessing!), then crossed 1 and headed up the wrong way on the southbound shoulder.

I carefully cut through a couple of motel parking lots until the highway shoulder became wide, then rode against the traffic for about half a mile up to the constuction zone just south of I-295. Someday soon, a lovely pedestrian bridge will span Route 1, making my little workaround obsolete. Unfortunately, since the last time I'd been here, a large prefab section of the future bridge had been placed right on the shoulder; to get around it, I realized I'd have to ride the wrong way on the shoulderless I-295 off-ramp — but fortunately only for 50 yards. I rested as I waited for a break in the traffic, then I burst around the orange traffic cones, up the ramp, then quickly off into the construction parking lot. Nobody working today. Maybe the threat of rain? I saw they'd strung yellow caution tape across the path, presumably to keep out people coming the other way, from Princeton. I ducked under without a thought.

70 miles down. 30 to go. 3:30 pm. I felt the worst was behind me, although I knew the next few miles wouldn't be too easy. I'd previously ridden all but the last couple of remaining miles. I felt no pain, only a little soreness in my back. The fingers of my left hand were still numb.

The next 5 miles took an hour. The path was covered with soft sand which made it extremely frustrating to ride. I walked for a while, which felt wrong. I tried riding again; my heart rate shot up to 180. I walked some more. And so on. My thighs seemed to weigh hundreds of pounds each! I hated my heart and lungs for being so weak. It rained again, but again, only briefly.

Many fallen trees and limbs had been cleared from the path; I'd read this area had had 85 mph winds a week before, and it showed. A number of large trees had collapsed into the canal; those hadn't been cleared yet.

I crossed Province Line Rd., and the trail surface became firm again. I crossed Province Line Rd. again (it's a loop), and the puddles started. Big puddles. Often spanning the whole path. If I hadn't felt so tired, I'd have tried harder to avoid the mud. Ultimately, though, it was unavoidable. I found the "cleanest" way through was usually to ride slowly and steadily through the very center of the puddle. When I tried to dodge it on the outside, I flung up the most viscous mud, which sticks to everything. I finally just accepted the puddles and stopped worrying about how I looked.

Muddy Towpath, near Princeton

Despite the mess, the trail was fairly crowded through the Princeton area, mostly college folks, with a sprinkling of older folks and families. I became irritated that many didn't seem to know trail etiquette. They walked on the left, or stood around, blocking my way. I tried to be polite and to maintain my cool. Mostly, I succeeded.

I took a break on the far side of Princeton. 75 miles down, 25 to go. 4:30 pm. I dug out my friend's cellphone and called her. I told her I'd be at Landing Lane Bridge in about 2.5 hours; I'd call again when I was an hour away. The fatigue must have come across in my voice. "Are you all right?" she asked; "I'll make it," I said.

The puddles, and the clueless trail users, persisted. I started taking breaks every 15 minutes. I started walking some. The Millstone River, on my left, was flooded, and very muddy. The canal was nearly overflowing, but still a sedate dark green. The light began a slow fade.

I worried about time. I worried I'd run out of energy. I started thinking that 85 miles was a respectable distance. After all, I'd ridden the rest of it before. I fought those thoughts away. I tried to think of motivating music. The Junkie XL remix of Elvis' "A Little Less Conversation" helped a little. Bina Mistry's "Hot Hot Hot" just wouldn't go away! I didn't really mind; it's an energetic song. But thinking of the part where she sings "How you feeling?" made me a little angry. What did she know about how exhausted someone could feel, how hopeless? Didn't she know such a question was both impolite and counterproductive?

Got to keep moving!

Around 90 miles, the sun began to set in earnest. 6:40 pm. I was dragging. I called my friend, said it would be another hour (I knew it would probably be longer, but wasn't willing to admit that, even to myself). She said that wouldn't be too late for her. If they wouldn't let her into the park, she'd meet me by the bridge. I wanted to hug and kiss her for that!

The Raritan River joined the Millstone on my left. The Raritan's water was clear; Hasn't been raining up that way, I thought. The Millstone was a muddy mess. I wondered why the joined rivers were called Raritan instead of Millstone, when the Millstone seemed clearly to be the dominant stream.

Soon came the little "rollercoaster" dip of the last spillway before South Bound Brook, the place where my friend and I had first discovered the canal. Then came the I-287 underpass, and then I was surprised to find myself at South Bound Brook at 7:00 pm, much earlier than I'd expected.

The co-worker who'd told my friend about the canal had said it was 2 miles long! We realized right away, of course, it was a bit longer, but we'd continued assuming it was 2 miles from South Bound Brook to New Brunswick. I figured I had 40 minutes to go 2 miles, so I walked again. It felt so good to stop riding! The sun had set, the twilight was fading, but the ambient light from the surrounding urban streets gave just enough light for me to see. I didn't bother to dig out my little flashlight, and I didn't need it. I climbed back on and rode a bit, then walked some more. Then rode again. What a long two miles! I was actually a little sad, because I was fairly sure my ride would be less than 100 miles, which felt like a terrible shame.

I saw a huge light coming towards me on the path ahead. I realized it belonged to a fellow cyclist. They whizzed by me soundlessly. I idly speculated about muggers or other urban dangers, but I was too tired to actually worry. I came to I-287 again, and saw a cobblestoned construction zone in front of me. I had to carry the bike for a bit; I had to walk very carefully around the contruction machines to avoid falling into the canal!

Then the path ducked back into the woods. Okay, so be it, I thought. A few minutes later, I thought How much more of this can I take? I "replied" As much as there is! I struggled to ride instead of walking. My thoughts turned to God some; every time I started to pray to God for strength, I remembered two things: God is inside me, and Heaven helps those who helps themselves. I was determined not to appeal to the Almighty for help when, by God, I could do this with my own strength! My legs! My courage! I kept thinking Courage is taking one more step, translating each time to Courage is one more pedal stroke. I thought of my friend at the end of the ride, that she must be worried.

I kept thinking I must almost be there. I came to another construction zone. This time I had to climb up onto the tracks of a big construction vehicle (shovel?) while carrying the bike. Cobblestones again, scattered everywhere, stacked haphazardly. I thought how easy it would be to slip and screw up my ankle, or otherwise to injure myself in the dark. Raindrops sprinkled down again, then stopped. This too shall pass, I thought, and felt more strength. I wondered if I'd feel a little sad when the ride was over. I decided I probably wouldn't. I drank the last of my water.

Back in the woods, I was surprised how fast I was able to ride, how much faith it took to barrel down the towpath in the dark. I kept looking down the river for the lights of the bridge. I kept not seeing anything! Something loomed ahead of me on the towpath; I slammed on brakes! Another fallen tree. I scrambled over it. Soon I came to another. I saw the lights of civilization through the trees on the other side of the canal: a gas station, an office building, an apartment complex (someone was playing classical music rather loudly). I thought I must surely be close.

Finally, I saw lights in the river, but a long, long way ahead (at least two miles, I figured). I heard the unmistakable sounds of a college football game across the river on my left. I surmounted yet another tree, then I saw high-rise buildings just ahead on the right. The lights on the left were hidden by trees. I came to a cobblestone spillway. I saw a car cross the path ahead of me! I knew I'd made it!

Landing Lane Bridge, 8:01 pm

I crossed the bridge. I saw lights down in the park. Buses, it turned out, waiting for the football game to end. I rode down the service road anyway, just to be sure. Nope, just buses. I rode back to the road. A car flashed their lights at me — my friend! I was so glad to see her. She pulled over. I crossed the road and pulled up behind her. Only then did I glance at my cycle computer: 101.39 miles. Wow! I'd really done it!

A hundred thousand elephants,
A hundred thousand horses,
A hundred thousand mule-drawn chariots,
Are not worth a sixteenth part
Of a single step forward.

-Buddha, "The Connected Discourses of the Buddha"

• Dixie Cups — "Iko Iko"
• Led Zeppelin — "Immigrant Song"
• Beastie Boys — "Shake Your Rump"
• Velvet Underground — "Temptation Inside Your Heart"
• Bruce Springsteen — "Open All Night"
• Afro-Celt Sound System (featuring Peter Gabriel) — "When You're Falling"
• Wicked Lestor — "Chocolate"

Facts, Figures & Photos

The route was as follows: Morrisville, PA north on the Delaware Canal towpath to Uhlerstown, across the Delaware from there to Frenchtown, NJ; then south on the Delaware & Raritan Feeder Canal towpath to Trenton; across the streets of Trenton for 1.5 miles; then finally, east on the main D & R Canal towpath to Landing Lane Bridge in New Brunswick (and across the bridge to Johnson Park in Piscataway for you sticklers).

Contrary to my previous post, I'm already thinking of doing this again — but this time as a charity event. It occured to me many times as I was riding that I could have gotten pledges from folks — even a few people pledging 10¢/mile each would have raised a respectable amount. Obviously, if I do it as a charity event, I won't want to do it alone. I'll also have to decide which charity, of course (Friends of the Delaware Canal comes to mind)....

In any event, it will be a while before I do this again!

Here are a couple of pictures (more later):

New Hope, PA

Near Somerset, NJ

Posted by Me at 23:27 link