Route-finding in Pennsylvania was a real challenge. Previously, in the plains states, roads were laid in perfect grids running north-south and east-west. Ohio had seen this organization deteriorate slowly as we progressed east, and by Pennsylvania the demands of the landscape had made such imposed order impossible. Roads had been built opportunistically, wherever river valleys and mountain ridges allowed. Progressing directly towards the center was no longer an option, and the best route was not often self-evident.

It was under such circumstances that we ended up spending an hour eating lunch and chatting with a man named Chuck Gary. Chuck was a bicycle touring enthusiast himself and had been alerted to our presence by his friend (a fellow cyclist) who’d seen us riding away from the Marriott. Chuck had no other pressing engagements, so he hopped into his car in hopes of tracking us down. He found us eating lunch at the convenience store near the hotel (we’d used every minute of our noon checkout), and promptly introduced himself.

Chuck was, in many ways, an embodiment of the eccentric tendencies of the bicycle travel community. His wispy white hair stood out straight from his head and his eyes were magnified unnaturally through his thick, googly-eyed glasses. Chuck wore tennis shoes, white tube socks pulled up to his knees, navy blue shorts (fly unzipped), and a white t-shirt. His temperament was a mix of curiosity, enthusiasm, and social obliviousness; we liked him immediately.

As Laura and I lunched on our sub sandwiches, we all traded tales of life on the road and talked shop on bike touring equipment. Chuck produced a set of bicycle touring maps from his car and gave us detailed accounts of the terrain on particular roads that only a cyclist could possess or appreciate. After an hour, our bellies were full and our route was set. We parted ways and pedaled off into the humid afternoon.

Our first leg that day took us along the wide, fast and charmless Benjamin Franklin Highway, a.k.a. US 422. Although not an interstate, it displayed many of the place-erasing tendencies of those superhighways: hills leveled and valleys filled, no homes or businesses along the roadside, placeless chain restaurants and hotels at every exit. We tolerated it as the flattest and fastest way to get to and across the Allegheny River. True to form, 422 shot across the Allegheny valley 100+ feet above the river, flying over the tiny river-side town of Kittaning. Meanwhile, we spotted another small road that wound down the hillside, across the river, through the town, and back up the opposite hillside. We found our minds and our legs at cross purposes: in our head, we knew that these superhighways are the surest way to pass across a state without experiencing it, but our legs reminded us of what it would feel like to “experience” the climb back out of the river valley on the small road. Our legs won the debate easily. We took the 422 bridge, only seeing Kittaning and the Allegheny from 100 feet above by peering over the concrete wall that lined the bridge.

Once across the river, we exited the superhighway with joy, now heading east on state road 85 through Green Acres. After a few miles, the road fell alongside Cowanshannock Creek and followed it through a broad, flat valley filled with corn fields. The day was hazy but cool, and in the flats we discovered that we actually had a tailwind. We passed through Rose Valley and then Rural Valley, tiny towns stretched out along the road, never measuring more than a few blocks wide. Here the houses were modest in size but well kept, and Rural Valley boasted an extensive and clean park that gave us hope of finding a hospitable town in rural Pennsylvania to camp in. After NuMine, the road made a broad right bend and climbed out of the valley, affording us a beautiful view of the terraced corn fields and setting sun behind us.

As we stopped for a picture, a man with a “PUNXY PA” license plate pulled over to chat. As his plates proudly proclaimed, he was from Punxsutawney (or “Punxy”, to the locals), the famed home to a weather-predicting groundhog named Phil and the setting for what the American Philosophical Association has dubbed “the most philosophically profound movie of all time”, Groundhog Day. This Punxy man had ridden cross-country on his bicycle in his 20’s and was excited to hear about our journey. He offered his home to stay in, but unfortunately our route didn’t pass through Punxsutawney. However, his enthusiasm and hospitality rubbed off on us, and we finished our climb with lifted spirits.

Over the hill, we then descended into Plumville, population 300. We stopped at a church where numerous cars were parked, but discovered that the crowds were there for a men’s softball game on the fields behind the church. The fields looked prime for camping (after the game, of course), so we began chatting with one of the Plumville players. He told us that there was no police department in town to ask permission of, but he gave us his unofficial “I don’t see why not” okay to the idea of camping at the ballfields after the game.

It was already past seven in the evening, so we were starved for dinner. The idea of breaking out our cookstove on the bleachers with the other spectators seemed a bit too conspicuous (plus it was a hot evening, and a cold dinner sounded better), so we dropped off all our bags at the ballfield and pedaled down the road in search of alternate grub.

At the convenience store we saw an Amish buggy pulling an aluminum bass boat on a trailer. Smicksburg, a tiny Amish enclave, sat in the mountains just north of Plumville. We longed for another night with an Amish family like we’d enjoyed in Goshen, Indiana, but our legs lacked the energy to climb the hill to Smicksburg. Instead, we stayed down in the valley of the secular modernists, and headed to the Silver Dollar Tavern for dinner.

A few steps inside the door, we discovered that Pennsylvania has yet to enact a ban on smoking in all public spaces as have such liberal and progressive states like Oklahoma. We probably would have gone elsewhere had elsewhere existed, but as our only option, we made our way to a table and sat down awkwardly, unsure of how to order.

“Do you serve food here?” we asked. The barmaid handed us a menu, but our decision was swayed by the hearty and unanimous recommendation of three locals at the bar: “get the cheeseburger.” We followed their advice and settled in to enjoy the air conditioning and the product of the oldest continuing brew house in the country: a Yuengling lager. The man furthest to the left of the trio swivelled around to strike up a conversation. When he learned of our journey, he elbowed his two friends with an exclamatory “They came all the way from Oklahoma on their bicycles!” They had a few questions, but Lefty was the most gregarious. His speech and mind slurred a little from the effects of alcohol, he repeated the same advice to us about roads and towns we should stop in, and asked the same questions numerous times. He even bought us another Yuengling.

Our cheeseburgers arrived after awhile, and we were astounded. The massive patty stuck out a half-inch on all sides of the Kaiser bun and was piled with fresh tomatoes, cheese and onions. We never knew bar food could be so good. After inquiring about where we were staying in the heat, the guy on the right nudged the guy in the middle, helpfully volunteering, “You ought to invite them to your place for showers.”

Middle-man, who we came to know as George Yaeger, spun around and invited us home with him for showers and a yard to camp in. “I’ll call the wife, but she won’t care. Now our little place isn’t much, so don’t get too excited.” We soon learned that the man on the right was George’s brother-in-law, and throughout the meal the two exchanged playful jabs at each other, but in the end George expressed a genuine appreciation for his friendship. “I was in a bad accident last year, and this guy was by my side the whole time.”

After picking up our stuff at the park, we followed George down the street to his lovely, newly-remodeled home, where we met his wife Susie. George and Susie had met while working at Wal-Mart. “I hated him at first. I thought he was arrogant and full of it. But I soon found out that he’s just a big bear,” Susie remembered.

“One time we were at a parade and this old man fell down. No one else moved to help him, but George didn’t miss a beat. He went to help him up, and I found out he was the kindest most gentlest man I’d ever met.”

George listened and playfully inserted, “She just liked me ‘cause I was a good dancer,” as he swivelled his hips around. He expounded by telling us that they went dancing on their first date.

Neither George nor Susie worked at Wal-Mart any more. After eleven years of service and moving up in the ranks, Susie was fired for no apparent reason. George had been in a serious car accident nearly a year ago that threatened his life and had found the company to be unsympathetic. In the end, Susie found something much better at a bank that offered good benefits and was understanding when she had to take time off for George’s accident. Neither of them shop at Wal-Mart anymore.

After visiting for several hours, they offered us showers and a bed inside, which we were grateful for on the stifling evening. George doted upon us all night and the following morning when he prepared biscuits and gravy for our breakfast. As we left Plumville that morning, we wondered whether we should step into tiny taverns more often.

We awoke tired and sore in desperate need of a rest day. All night long we’d heard strange thundering and announcements over a PA system; in the morning we discovered that it was the annual steam tractor show and competiton. It sounded interesting (literally), but our tired legs and poor first impression of the town compelled us to move on in search of a hospitable town for a rest day. Butler, whose claim to fame was “birthplace of the Jeep”, was the first town of mentionable size along our road. Skies were gray and heavy, and soon the rains began.

Butler lies in a bowl of mountains along Connoquenessing Creek, and we were able to coast all the way into downtown. The town had the most New England-ish feel of any town we’d yet encountered: brick streets, a Lincoln-era log cabin turned law office, towering stone churches with pealing bell towers, and a courthouse clocktower looming above the civic square. Riding around the veterans park, we heard organs and voices wafting out the open windows of the Lutheran church, whose limestone structure had been darkened by the decades.

We had a certificate for a free night at a Mariott hotel, but to our dismay we discovered that it, along with the grocery store, lay north of town and outside the bowl of Butler. The climb up North Main Street in Butler was among the longest and steepest we’d yet encountered. We succombed to the convenience of fast food and ate nearly the entire dollar menu at Wendy’s.

At the nearby grocery store, we called Mariott to make a reservation, only to find that the rewards line was closed weekends. We called the actual hotel, only to be told that the reservation could not be made any other way. The rain picked up. We set off, unsure of what to do. We had a flat tire. Aired it back up, rode on, only to have the chain derail right in front of the Mariott. We took it as a sign, and went inside, inquiring about a “drowned rat discount”.

“Oh, I saw yous out riding in the rain,” the front desk clerk said. She’d just begun her shift, replacing the woman who’d assured me that our certificate wouldnt’ work. We explained the situation again, and the new clerk said, “Well, let’s see what we can do.” In a few moments, she informed us that a deluxe room with king-sized bed and couch awaited us down the hall, free of charge. Our hearts melted with relief and gratefulness at her willingness to help.

The rest of the day was seemingly unremarkable: we showered, lazed about in a dry, climate-controlled room, watched TV, and talked on the phone with friends and family. Yet to these road-weary travelers, each experience was imbued with a joy beyond what these humble acts seemed capable of containing. As we snuggled on the luxuriously comfortable bed, I wondered whether the clerk had truly made the certificate number work, or if she had simply had pity on us and used her authority to give us the room outright. Either way, we fell asleep giddy and awestruck with gratefulness, keenly aware that our Father fully understands our needs and delights in providing perfect and timely gifts.

Pennsylvania clobbered us. There, we said it. We virtually strutted out of Ohio, eight states under our belt, in the best cycling shape of our lives, and having found warm showers for ten consecutive nights. We had this bicycle travel thing down.

Then we crossed into the Keystone State, which would to us be more of a stumbling block. Our first experience: heading out of East Palestine, Ohio, we passed a bar where at least fifty Harley riders were revving up. “Hope they’re not heading our way,” I said to Laura. But alas, soon were were overcome by a deafening horde of bikers. As we crossed the state line, our ears still ringing, we met a climb that slowed us to a grinding crawl. The hot afternoon sun seemed to mock us as we were forced to dismount and push our barge up the steep slope. At the top, we remounted, screamed down the other side at the speed of fear, only to meet another seemingly insurmountable climb at the bottom. Repeat dozens of times, and you have a fair representation of our first few days in PA. The mountains and forests were lovely, but our chosen mode of transit made it very difficult for us to appreciate it. As the days rolled on (and boy, did they roll!), we began to think that our motorized cousins might have discovered the best way to enjoy this state.

Hour after hour, our legs burned as we propelled ourselves along this asphalt roller-coaster. Summiting a particularly brutal climb, we collapsed in the shade of a small church in “Pleasant Hill”. Apparently a motorist was in charge of nomenclature. Lying on the grass, Laura released her weariness in sobs, wondering how we would ever make it across this giant of the east. Soon her angst was projected upon the whole of the trip, and a total breakdown ensued. Equally exhausted, I struggled to summon words of encouragement, and instead focused my energy on coaxing her back onto our bike to find a place of rest for the night.

We pushed ourselves a few more miles into tiny Portersville, hoping to find a suitable place to pitch our tent. We were greatly encouraged to see a volunteer fire department with a couple of men near their trucks out front. Fire departments have been a reliably welcoming institution on our trip, so we rode up confidently and asked, “So, who’s in charge here?”

“We are, I guess,” one of them said, looking us up and down. We explained our situation and asked permission to pitch our tent on the vast lawn behind the firehouse. Hesitantly he answered, “I don’t see why that would be a problem.” His words emerged slowly, as though he were actively trying to come up with a reason that it would be a problem. He looked over at his friend who wore sunglasses, a shaved head, and a sneer, hoping for some help, but received none. Laura attempted to fill the awkward silence by telling him a little more about our trip and how many other firehouses had welcomed us in other states.

“All we need is a spot of grass, permission, and a spigot to fill up our water bag,” Laura offered.

“Well we don’t have a spigot,” he quickly responded, seizing an opportunity to discourage us. They were clearly communicating that they wanted to say no, but our day had been too long, and our legs too tired to be easily deterred. It was going take an outright refusal to make us pedal on. The man looked back to his silent friend, looking for the courage to say no. “You’re on your own,” said his half-amused expression. In the end, his awkwardness at refusing outweighed his awkwardness at accepting. We set up camp in the shade of a tall line of trees, feeling palpably unwelcomed yet relieved to have permission, however hesitantly it was granted.