What We Found at the Centers (Part II)

Maryland

The journey from D.C. to the center of Maryland took us through some of the most heavily populated areas we’d seen to date, and we simply couldn’t manage to find any good roads for cycling. Coupled with the worst day ever for flats (four, all caused by one hard-to-locate sliver of glass), we were much relieved to finally escape the megalopolis to discover that the center of Maryland was inside a national wildlife refuge.

The Patuxent Wildlife Refuge is huge by east-coast standards: 12,300 acres. After stopping to chat and get maps at the visitors station, it took several hours of riding on gravel roads, walking across grassy fields, around swamps, and through forest to reach our destination. Laura was none too enthused about walking in “snaky” areas like tall grass and bogs, but she bravely pushed on (and allowed me to piggy-back her once) until at last we located the heart of Maryland along the banks of the braided and muddy Patuxent River.

After our expedition into Patuxent, we headed east and made it across Chesapeake Bay via 4.9 mile long Chesapeake Bay Bridge. The crossing was a true fiasco and the magnum opus of the Maryland DOT’s bike-unfriendliness. We were pulled over and chastised by a belligerent cop for riding on the only road (on the shoulder!) that took us to the toll gate where the DOT website told us we could summon a shuttle vehicle to take us across the bridge. The toll for a 4 ton SUV to cross the bridge: $2.50. The toll for a bicycle: $35! And when the “shuttle” arrived (45 minutes later), it was a Chevy Tahoe bearing a sign for “Such-and-So’s Auto Repair” without a bike rack. The driver (Such-and-So himself, apparently) said that he couldn’t fit our bike and would have to go across the bridge to get a trailer then come back for us (an hour plus round trip). We insisted he attempt to fit our bike, and by folding down a seat, we succeeded. Upon reaching Maryland’s eastern shore, we disembarked from our “shuttle”, begrudgingly paid our fee, and pedaled off. Thankfully, that night we ran into Paul and Amy Lippencott, who welcomed us into their home and regaled us with stories of sailing adventures from the high seas. Their hospitality helped to redeem our picture of Maryland from the traffic, the flats, and the DOT.

Delaware

Our experience of Delaware was like a habeñero pepper: small and hot. Now if someone with a bicyclist’s perspective calls a place small, you know that it’s really small. For instance, while many states have a week-long “Ride Across Nebraska” tour, in Delaware they have the Double-Cross. Which is to say, there is a ride that goes across Delaware and back twice in one day! And it’s only 62 miles! For us, this smallness meant a chance to slow down, which was opportune, since the area was experiencing devastating heat and drought.

But the weather in Delaware had wilted not only the resolve of cyclists, but also had decimated the area’s corn crops. As a result of the heat and drought, all across the state we saw thousands upon thousands of acres of brown, dead corn. Laura and I were surprised at the rural and agricultural feel of Delaware; we’d expected the entire mid-Atlantic to be urban and developed. Instead, the area reminded us strongly of western Missouri (except for the fact that the corn here was dry and scorched, while western Missouri’s corn had been under six feet of flood water when we visited in July.)

We took several rest days in Dover during the worst of the weather (heat index of 106) with Bob & Joan Brown, the parents of our friends, mentors, and marriage counselors from home, David & Jill Brown. Their ease in hospitality was perfect: they truly made you feel at home and not like an intruder in someone else’s house. From Dover, we made our way south to the center, which was near the town of Felton. This time, our GPS led us to the home of Wayne & Loretta Wooten on Carpenter Bridge Road. We met Wayne as he was cleaning his pool on Sunday morning, preparing for a huge family crab feast that afternoon. After we explained our quest, he eagerly invited us inside for breakfast (even though we’d just eaten). While Wayne whipped up toast, bacon, eggs, and coffee, we chatted with Loretta in the back sunroom. She recounted her and Wayne’s childhoods in Delaware and told of her unique job experiences while conducting weddings as clerk of the peace, such as the wedding that included a dressed-up horse as best man.

As Wayne entered with breakfast, Loretta scooted back to the kitchen to continue preparations for the get-together. Behind the house a crop duster swooped back and forth across a sea of soybeans. As he closed the windows, Wayne told us that he had once worked for the 70-year-old pilot; the farmer of the dusted soybeans was dating his daughter Brenda. This was obviously a tight-knit community. After breakfast, we took our leave to trek out into the field, where the exact geographic center lay. Past the soybeans stood an expanse of wheat stubble, where roads and house plots had been staked. A sign on the road announced the coming of a subdivision bringing hundreds of new houses–this geographic center is one that will certainly look very different a year from now.

Returning to the Wootens’, we were invited to stay for the crab feast. Before the sun had set, we’d taken a farm tour of most of central Delaware with Brenda and her farmer boyfriend Stanley, learned to eat crabs, met and chatted with most of the Wooten clan, and consumed enough home cooking to fuel us to the next state. And all that wasn’t enough to prove that traveling by bicycle brings people together, both Loretta and Brenda offered us a place to stay that night. (Since Loretta had already made up a bed, we ended up sleeping at the same house that we’d pedaled up to twelve hours before.)

New Jersey

Riding a ferry across Delaware Bay to Cape May, we weren’t sure what to expect of New Jersey. A mental picture emerged: a stocky, faintly Mafia-esque man, surrounded by dense urbanization, being brusquely unhelpful to us and our plight. But just as New York state is so much more than stock brokers, advertising firms, and Manhattan, New Jersey was so much more than mobsters, chemical plants, and Newark. We spent a full day pedaling up the sunny, breezy, South Jersey shore from Cape May to Atlantic City. The atmosphere was surprisingly delightful: old-fashioned boardwalks, amusement parks whose fanciest thrills were rickety wooden roller coasters and Ferris wheels, and little towns that felt more like beach house communities than beach resort developments.

We spent that night in the spectacular waterfront home of Tony and Isabel Pullella in Brigantine. Tony and Isabel were second generation Americans (his parents immigrated from Italy, hers from Scotland), and they now run a highly successful restaurant that Tony had started. Their family’s story made me proud of America’s historic reputation as a welcoming melting pot and a land of opportunity. Upon arrival, we enjoyed cold drinks poolside with their daughter Christina, while Atlantic City’s lights glimmered across the sea. Christina’s love of surfing had led her to Hawaii for college, but after graduation she had decided to ride her bicycle across the country. After finishing her trip, she joined the Warm Showers List, an online organization of people dedicated to providing hospitality to touring cyclists, and it was through this organization that we met the Pullellas.

Because of New Jersey’s dog leg shape, the geographic center comes close to falling outside of the state; instead, the center lies just inside the border from Pennsylvania in Trenton. Our ride from the Atlantic shore to Trenton took us through the Pine Barrens. This 1.1 million acre swath of woodlands in southern and central New Jersey dealt a heavy blow to our concept of the state as an endless expanse of concrete, buildings, and people. The sandy, acidic and nutrient-poor soil here had made the land unattractive to agricultural settlers of centuries past—hence the term “barrens”. Industries of extraction made brief forays into the area: bog ore mined here produced much of the iron for the revolutionary war, while loggers felled the extensive forests of pine, oak, and cedar to the point of exhaustion by the 1860’s. Since then, the woods have regrown, and the few people who have chosen to inhabit them (“Pineys”) have been left largely to themselves. We pedaled mile after mile through the woods, crossing languid creeks stained to the color of tea by tannins from the trees, without seeing a soul. As we emerged from the woods, we discovered that the acidic soil was suitable for at least one comparably tart crop: cranberries. The earthen dikes partitioned the land into boggy polygons, with little pump houses scattered here and there, ready to flood the fields come harvest time.

Entering Trenton, we were anxious to discover where the center lay. We had been warned about Trenton’s rough reputation by our friend Mike, who lives in Princeton and teaches high school English in Trenton. Mike has traveled extensively in Israel and Palestine, so if he warns us that a place is dicey, we listen. With GPS in hand, we homed in on the exact spot. From the street, a small paved lane led under a wrought-iron arch supported by square pillars bearing the initials “I.A.S.C.” and past a small cottage. The landscaping surrounding the cottage as overgrown, but among the chaotic foliage stood a small statue. A plaque at the base deciphered the acronym: The Italian-American Sportsmen’s Club, founded 1921. We proceeded up the lane.

Around a corner, we found a large windowless, concrete building with a parking lot out front. A smattering of cars heightened our hopes of learning what this club was all about. To the side of the building was an tree-shaded area with picnic tables underneath; beyond stood a pool surrounded by chain-link fencing. A stocky man emerged from the building, newspaper in hand and a cigar clenched in his teeth. He plopped down on a chair by the door; we walked over and attempted to spark a conversation. Here’s a good summary of our interactions: 1) We ask a friendly question 2) He gives a curt, declarative answer, never looking up from his paper 3) Awkward silence 4) Repeat. Here in the flesh was my mental image of the Jersey man.

One thing we did learn for certain during our “conversation”: whenever we asked about the I.A.S.C., we were reminded, “It’s a private club.” When I assured him that I had no desire to join or go inside the building (a fitness facility), he did concede that they went hunting and fishing together. When we told him that the geographic center of New Jersey was on the club’s grounds, he simply asked, “Are you sure it’s not next door?” I guess that was a hint. We did get a semi-animated reaction when we told him that we’d spent the day cycling through the Pine Barrens. “That’s where Jimmy Hoffa is buried,” he chuckled with a smirk that seemed more knowing than amused. I began to wonder if ducks and deer were all that these men pointed guns at. We thanked him for his time. He grunted. We went over to the picnic tables for a minute to snap our center photo. When we returned, he had gone inside. We decided to push on before we gave anyone else here a reason to be annoyed with us.

Our reception that night in Princeton by Mike and his wife Deanna (both Missouri natives) was markedly warmer, and we thoroughly enjoyed a few rest days full of friends and good conversation in that quintessential Ivy League town.