Marine Corps Half Marathon

I was running again.  This time I participated in the Marine Corps Historic Half Marathon, held in “historic” Fredericksburg, Virginia.  Truth be told, there isn’t very much about Fredericksburg that is historic, except that on one December day in 1862 several tens of thousands of Union soldiers proved that assaulting prepared defensive works on high ground is extremely unwise.

Despite all of that, the Marines always put on a good event and Sunday was no exception.  About 7,000 runners gathered at a convention center on the outskirts of town on a drizzly but warm morning.  There were an additional 3,000 runners participating in 5K and 10K races that were being run simultaneously.  There was plenty of excitement at the start, what with a Marine band, color guard, town crier, one of the Washington Nationals’ famous Racing Presidents – George Washington, and actor Sean Aniston.

I can now say I’ve run a race with a hobbit.  Incidentally, the hobbit beat me by about two minutes.

There was much pre-race drama for me on a personal level.  Heavier than expected traffic pushed our arrival back to almost the very last-minute.  This made things exciting for a co-worker, who was waiting patiently for me to arrive with the race bib I picked up for him the day prior.  I managed to arrive shortly after the invocation and just as the national anthem was beginning.  My buddy had about five minutes to spare.  I then set about turning on my GPS and grew increasingly frustrated at its refusal to synch with the satellites.  After varying amounts of cursing and pleas to an unseen GPS God, the necessary signals were acquired literally as the firing of a cannon signified the start of the race.

I then began to execute my rather unconventional race strategy.

The big (literal and figurative) feature of the race is a large, mile-long hill known as Hospital Hill.  It is very appropriate that there is a hospital on the top of this hill – there are plenty of potential patients struggling up it.  Most people budget some energy so they can take on this hill.  Not me.  I decided my only hope of reaching my ambitious goal of two hours was to run as fast as I could on the downhill portions early in the course, build up a reserve of minutes which I would then cash in when it came time to climb.

So off I went at a sub-8:00 min/mile pace, shockingly fast for me.  I even left The Diesel in my wake.  After three miles of downhill running, I had two minutes “in the bank” and was feeling good.

After four miles, I was beginning to tire.  I amused myself while running on Sunken Road by thinking of the thousands of Confederates who once used it as a bulwark against the Federal assault.  This did not amuse me for long.

After five miles, I was definitely tired.  I tried to eat some energy jelly beans I had stowed in my shorts pocket.  This was a mistake and I quickly learned my stomach has a MUCH different reaction to eating while running than while cycling.  This added to my distress.

At Mile 6, The Diesel reeled me in.  We were in downtown Fredericksburg in a quaint shopping district.  She asked me if I was injured and I said no.  Then I said goodbye.  Then she was gone.  She was nursing a strained hamstring but still had a shot at breaking the 2 hour barrier.

By Mile 9, I had used up all the time I had put in my bank and was now running at an even 9:00/mile pace.  Hospital Hill was still a mile away and I knew there was no hope for me to meet my race goal.  I trudged along the Rappahannock River, enjoyed the view the best that I could, and braced myself for the hill.

Hospital Hill was precisely as advertised.    After making the long climb at a 12:00 minute pace, I found the remaining two miles to be a drizzly test of will.  I eventually found my way to the finish line at 2:14.  Once there, a Marine Lieutenant presented me with my Finisher’s Medal and I made full use of the free water, fruit, pretzels, some tasty banana desert that was served cold, and a cup of beer.  The beer was especially nice.

My “middle of the pack” finish for my age group was a little deflating and The Diesel came three minutes short of breaking the 2 hour barrier, her leg injury keeping her short of her goal.  Still, she finished in the Top 20% of her age division – a fact that seemed to impress me much more than it did her.

Exciting action photo at the finish.

I continue to be impressed with the spectacle of running events.  This “small” event of 10,000 runners dwarfs anything I’ve seen around here in the cycling world.  Huge sponsorships, mascots, famous actors, great staffing, music at the start/finish and along the course – you name it and it is first class.  There’s a lot of fun to be had being part of such an event and it’s also quite nice to complete a significant challenge in a little over two hours.  It frees up plenty of time for other worthwhile weekend activities, like napping.

Still, I looked with dismay at my monthly riding totals and see I have actually run more miles than I have ridden.  Rest assured, I’ll be fixing that this week.

I Once Again Learn That I Am Not A Big Deal

So there I was, basking in the glow of my after-brevet glory with co-workers fascinated by my stories of heroism and epic triumph, when I was brought back to earth like the Hindenburg.

I met Gino.

Actually, I already knew Gino.  He’s a fellow from another office downtown that I collaborate with occasionally.  I know he’s into cycling and often races in the area.  He’s a very nice fellow in his mid-50s.  As Gino walked up on one of my “Guess What I Did Last Weekend” talks with coworkers, one of them mentioned that Gino would be racing across the country this summer.

Racing?  Across the country?  There’s only one cross-country race that I am aware of – Race Across America.  It is a brutal test of endurance from Oceanside, California to Annapolis, Maryland.  It is the stuff of myth and legend.

• - 3,000 miles
• - 170,000 feet of climbing
• - One continuous stage.  Once the starting gun goes off the race doesn’t end until you cross the continent.

The ride is 30% longer than the Tour de France and the racers finish in roughly half the time set aside for the TdF.

RAAM Route

“Are you riding RAAM?”  I asked with incredulity.

“Yes,” said Gino, “but it’s not solo or anything.  I’m on a four person team.”

As if being on a relay somehow makes you less of a stud on RAAM.

No F’ing Way

I turned to the group of non-cyclists and said, “Do you have any idea how tough RAAM is?  How incredibly cool it is that we know someone who is going to participate?”  Of course, they did not.  So I immediately monopolized the conversation and peppered Gino with questions about race strategy, sponsorship, training, and anything else I could think of.  It was great to chat with someone about to embark on such a major undertaking.

Gino’s team is called Team Green Beret Foundation.  You can learn more about them here.  He hopes to win the Masters’ (Age 50+) category.

RAAM starts June 15th.  You can follow each racer from their website.  I’ll be sure to check in on Gino.  Unlike a 300 kilometer brevet, he’s trying something really hard.

Unfinished Brevet Business

I’ve been battling a nasty cold this week (probably bronchitis but I’m too dumb to see the doctor) so there hasn’t been much riding.  This gives me a chance to provide a brief update to last weekend’s brevet, including two pictures taken by DC Randonneurs’ George Moore as I reached the crest of the final ascent on Etlan Road (about Mile 62).

At least the trees looked good.

In this photo I am wearing my new helmet cover, which I purchased for this ride.  There was a chance of rain and the morning temps were supposed to be cool.  As it turned out, there was no rain but the cover still kept my head warm without needing to wear a skull cap.

I am also proudly wearing my clear lenses, which I swapped out later in the day for darker ones.  I kept the lenses in my saddle bag and it was much nicer than bringing another set of glasses or doing without during the night portions.

Historical Marker Segment!

I had a bumper crop of historical markers.  Truth be told, I pedaled past several others but I simply couldn’t stop at every single one.  I was moving slowly enough as it was.

I came across the first marker in the early morning light (Lord knows what I passed in the darkness before this).  It details the story of a one-room schoolhouse that once stood in this location.  The sign reads as if the school still stands, but I could find no evidence of it.  Perhaps in better light it would be obvious to me where it is.

About a mile away from the previous sign was this one, describing the relief of Union General George McClellan at a site four miles from the sign.  Why they couldn’t be bothered to put the sign closer to the actual location is curious.  I sense the hidden hand of the local chamber of commerce.

Also in Marshal is this sign, describing an event six miles away.  Very curious.  One can only imagine what different course the war would have taken if the 9th NY Cavalry actually captured General Lee.

Right next to the above sign is a classic, erected in 1928.  It’s interesting (to me, anyway) to see the basic design for these signs has been unchanged for 85 years.  It must be said that the authors were a little less wordy in the earlier versions of these signs, which must have been far more difficult to produce than today’s versions.

Below is another classic, also erected in 1928 near Boswell’s Tavern (Mile 110).  Nobody refers to Marquis de Lafayette very much these days, but once upon a time he was a superstar, worthy of remembrance on things as mundane as when he opened a road.

Our final sign is much newer, thus it has more words.  It is an homage to FDR’s Civilian Conservation Corps, which gave jobs to unemployed workers.  The fellows in this particular company came from Pennsylvania, where they did all manner of odd jobs in the local forests.  Why the CCC couldn’t find forests to clear for these men in Pennsylvania is not addressed in the marker.

Warrenton 300k Brevet

Let me just say that waking up at 3:00 AM for a bicycle ride is not the sort of thing I normally do, but that is precisely what was required in order to be at the Hampton Inn in Warrenton for the registration and bicycle inspection in the DC Randonneurs 300K Brevet.

Instructions at the start

There was no sign of the morning sun when we shoved off at 5:00 AM.  There were 31 riders (including those riding on tandems).  It was a chilly 48 degrees and a brisk breeze blew into our faces as we headed north toward I-66.  After a few miles, we strung out over several hundred yards.  The tail lights on the bikes in front of  me made for a pleasant sight as the cyclists pedaled off into the dark.

The group broke up quickly.  There was a small band of us still together when I noticed everyone stopping on the side of the road.  It turns out it was a secret control.  Randonneurs carry a brevet card with them and log their arrival at “controls” which show they actually were on the course and on schedule.  Just to keep things super honest, the ride organizers will occasionally throw in a control that is not announced beforehand.  I was the last person to line up to get my card signed and by the time I put it away so I wouldn’t lose it, I looked up and I was alone.  Off I went in the faintly growing light of the new day.

A rare scene on I-66 – almost no traffic

After pedalling through the sleeping town of Marshal and crossing over a nearly deserted I-66 I settled into my rhythm on Cresthill Drive, which would feature a series of rollers gradually leading me uphill toward the Appalachian Mountains.  The scenery was fantastic and I was happy to be handling the climbing chores early in the ride.  I came across a fellow named Dave, who became my companion off and on for the next forty miles.  It’s always nice to strike up a conversation with a fellow cyclist and Dave has been at this for many years.  It was good to pick his brain.

Dave is the fellow in blue

I tried to pace myself as we went through small towns with names like Flint Hill, Washington, Hawlin and Peola Mills.  Taking it easy and eating/drinking properly would be the key to getting through this day, I thought.  The last of the major (well, major to me anyway) climbing would finish just before our first official control in the town of Syria, around Mile 63.

I trudged up three miles of the final climb to be met by the ride organizer, George, who was happily snapping pictures of each cyclist as the reached the crest.  I was not at my most radiant moods but I gathered myself as best I could and posed for a picture.

A windy mile long descent into Syria was fun.  I then pulled into Control #1 – a convenience store of the type that one can only find in the country, preferably in a place with no cell service like Syria.  It had no bathroom but the old “store” across the street – which was open and appeared to be drying hundreds of beets from the ceiling – had one.  It reminded me of restroom facilities I have seen in places like Haiti and other war-torn parts of the world.  It was not hygienic, is what I am saying, and I shall leave it at that.

It was starting to warm up a bit and it was time to shed a layer of clothing.  I removed the helmet cover which I had bought specifically for this ride.  I swapped out my full finger gloves for half finger versions and I very cleverly popped the clear lenses out of my glasses and put some darker ones in.  In short, I felt like I knew what I was doing and I belonged out here.  It’s nice to feel prepared.

The next fifteen miles were a hoot.  The road was downhill, away from the mountains, and it ran along a stream which was quite pretty to ride beside.  My apologies for not taking any shots of that.  I was too busy horsing around  with self portraits and gimmicky photos like the one below.  I did manage to take a shot of the road, sans stream.

Lunch

All good things come to an end and this pleasant portion was no exception.  Eventually, some climbing was involved.  I was up to 80 miles now, making this the second longest ride of the year for me.  Knowing that I had another 108 miles to go was sobering.  It was approaching noon and I had been at this for seven hours now.  I planned a lunch in the town of Gordonsville at Mile 101 and it couldn’t have come soon enough.  I was knackered.  I pulled into a Subway sandwich shop that had several Randonneurs finishing up their meals.  I texted a pic of myself to my wife, who wrote back, “You look tired.”  She’s a very observant person.

It was good to see some of the gang and we chatted a bit over our food.  It turns out two of the other four people there were named Steve, in addition to myself.  I held a quick vote and agreed it would be easier for everyone if all club members just went by the name Steve.  Remembering names is too difficult when you’re tired.

Even fewer layers

Lunch had precisely the effect I hoped for.  The rest and the meal did wonders for my energy levels.  I shortly came upon Louisa Road, a delightful gradual downhill with the wind at my back.  For seven miles, I flew along at speeds over 20 mph.  Let  me say this about the my Madone.  It is absolutely the wrong bike for long distance rides.  The tires are too thin.  The geometry is too aggressive.  The carbon frame makes attaching anything such as lights, fenders, or bags problematic.  The gearing is all wrong (most of the Randonneurs I talk to favor triple cranks with their better ability to climb).  But the Madone was built for speed and that is what I was doing now.  I reeled in several riders who simply didn’t have the top end I had due to fatter tires, heavier loads or whatnot.  It was fun going fast, even for just a bit.

Estabished in 1890!

Eventually, the downhill became an uphill and the route turned northward and back into the wind.  At Mile 120, we stopped at yet another lonely country store near the town of Oakland for a control.  Inside I found three local men holding court near the front.  They were sitting in chairs, passing the time of day amongst themselves and moving the conversation quickly to whatever passing thing occurred.  They were a slice of Americana is what they were.  They had just finished interrogating a local lady who regaled them with the story of the 5K run she completed earlier that day when they turned their attention to us.  When they learned we would be riding almost 200 miles today, their reaction was as predictable as it was complimentary.  Most people, even fellow cyclists, have a hard time imagining cycling such a distance.  It’s always a pleasant moment to bask in their admiration.  I then stepped back outside and stared at my bike.  We had another 68 miles to travel together and it was time to get after it.

Northward we went until we hit our final control in the town of Orange (Mile 133).  The cue sheet was a little confusing to me with several quick turns in the small town.  Fortunately, I chose wisely each time and made it out of there with no navigational challenges.  Shortly outside of town, I turned on to a road named Clarks Mountain Road.  As a rule, I try to avoid roads with the word “mountain” in their name.  This was a somewhat tame affair and it afforded some nice pictures in the late afternoon.

I should mention I was once again alone at this point.  After Orange, I was pretty much by myself for the last 55 miles.  I wanted to move as fast as possible while the sun was still in the sky and everyone else seemed more comfortable with riding at night.  At Mile 153, I stopped briefly to say goodbye to BOB (“Bright Orange Ball” – an Army nickname for the sun).

By this time I was back in my cold weather gear, clear lenses in my glasses, reflective vest/ankle bracelets on, and lights on.  I sailed downhill toward the Rappahannock River in the gathering gloom and could maintain a good pace since I knew these roads well enough from previous brevets and my own excursions.  At the Rappahannock, I paused for a final picture at dusk.

This was Mile 164.  I had long since past my personal best for distance on a single ride but was feeling rather good considering the circumstances.  That would shortly change as I was about to experience night cycling while extremely fatigued.

Remember those pretty country roads in the pictures above?  If not, please take a moment to refresh your memory.  See how they have no markings or even a shoulder?  See how there are no buildings to give you any ambient light?  Now imagine roads like this cloaked in darkness.  That was what I was cycling through, trying to find my way home.  I fully expected to be struck dead by a passing drunk driver (or inattentive teen) at any moment.  If I was somehow able to survive that, it would almost be guaranteed that I would become completely lost and not realize my mistake until I turned up in West Virginia or some such place.

Compounding my anxiety was the fact my cue sheet warned me three turnings were easy to miss.  What joy.  I crawled at speeds well under 10 mph, desperately searching for hidden roads while trying to make sure every passing car – most of whom blinded me with their brights turned on – did not kill me.  Compounding matters was my increasing exhaustion.  I had managed my pace and nutrition well, but the fact remains I had been cycling for about sixteen hours after getting up at 3:00 AM.  I had difficulty remembering the cue sheet instructions, which caused me to pause at each turning and triple check them with a flashlight to ensure I was still on track.  It was slow, tedious, and stressful work.

Since I am typing these words, it is obvious that I survived the ordeal, although I can’t say I am excited to repeat it.  I was so nervous at one point I pulled off to the side to wait for other cyclists.  After ten minutes, nobody arrived so I shoved off again on my own.  I was even treated to a .3 mile stretch of gravel at almost the very end.  Loyal readers will know that I detest gravel roads and my skinny tires gave me plenty of excitement as I slowly made my way over the ruts and stones.

I checked in with a finishing time of 17:40.  After sharing some pizza and some stories with the Randonneurs who were still there, I made my way home, driving on roads similar to ones I had just cycled and wondered what my reaction would be if I stumbled across a cyclist clinging to the edge of the road.  Shock and exasperation, most likely.  I made it home around midnight and quickly found my bed, 21 hours after the whole affair began that morning.  I had traveled 188.8 miles, climbed 10,600 feet, and burned 7,750 calories. It was certainly a day to remember!

Two Bridges

I had a really good idea yesterday.  I was able to leave work a little early and take advantage of the great weather and go on a long ride.  This would be helpful as I need to get some miles in before this weekend’s 300 km ride with the DC Randonneurs.  I decided to reward you, gentle reader, with a stunning depiction of the bridges of Prince William County.  I mapped out a 60 mile ride that would cover nine different bridges.  It would be epic and you would have been thoroughly entertained.

Let me now explain how this didn’t happen.

My first challenge occurred in my garage.  When putting on my shoes I noticed one of my straps had broken.  Once again, duct tape saved the day.  I now must decide whether to ride this weekend with these shoes or get new ones.  Riding that long on new shoes seems to be a horrible idea, so I’ll just stick with my current pair and ease into a new set later this summer.

After fixing my shoes I shoved off into the maelstrom of rush hour traffic.  Minnieville Road was a madhouse and I opted to move to the sidewalk.  This meant riding much slower and waiting at crosswalks.  I quickly fell behind schedule and this was made only worse when I stopped at the Glascow family cemetery, one of those small plots of land that dot the landscape and remind me of how rural this place once was.  Only 100 feet off a major artery lies evidence of a family that was once one of the leading families of the area.  Usually, these family names live on in local streets or towns but I cannot think of a single thing named after the Glascows.

Having spent a few minutes stomping about the cemetery, I was now officially way behind schedule.  I continued up Minnieville road, pausing at many traffic lights, and eventually made my way into the town of Occoquan and my first bridge – the mighty span over the Occoquan River.

My apologies for the tacky “For Sale” sign.  Hopefully, the nearby bird life offsets that.  I drive over this bridge every day on my way to work.  Tens of thousands of car travel it each day.  On this day, there was also at least one bicycle.  Here is a view of Occoquan from the bridge.  You can see some new townhouses are under construction near the river bank.

My next bridge was upstream in the direction you are looking in the above photo.  I made my way on the much nicer pathway on Rte 123 until I came upon Hampton Road, named after Confederate General Wade Hampton who made Occoquan his headquarters during the Civil War.  There is no shoulder on this road and traffic was moderate.  I then turned onto Henderson Road (named after some guy called “Henderson,” I suspect) where again there was no shoulder and traffic was very heavy.

It’s not much fun cycling in heavy traffic on a narrow two lane road.  Everyone seemed to be cooperating, however, and there were no unpleasant comments hurled my way.  Still, it’s quite stressful, especially at the intersection of Henderson and Yates Ford roads where I was obliged to inched my bike up a 15% grade to match the snail’s pace of traffic.  It was too fast to walk it (especially in my shoes) and too slow to stay clipped in.  Good times.

Having made it onto Yates Ford road, I rode downhill toward the road’s namesake.  Yates Ford is one of a precious few crossing points of the Occoquan River/Bull Run  system and at rush hour the crush of traffic is impressive.  The road is downhill, windy, with no shoulders.  Even though I was zipping along at 25-30 mph, I could almost feel the weight of a line of cars well over a mile in length behind me.  It was a little nerve-racking.  I eventually reached the Bull Marina and pulled in to take this pic of the bridge over the ford.

A high school girls crew team was readying their boats for the afternoon practice session.  I thought it would be poor form for a middle-aged man to be seen taking pictures of random high school girls, so I will leave the scene to your imagination.

I chewed on some shot blocks and pondered my situation:  It had taken me two hours to travel 20 miles.  It was looking like my 60 mile ride would take me about 5-6 hours, much of it in heavy traffic.  Suddenly, the seven remaining bridges seemed less enticing.  I decided to stop my project and simply head home via Rte 234.  That route would give me about 40 miles and that would be “good enough” on this day.

I pedaled up a short but steep hill to get back to Yates Ford Road, where I waited ten minutes for a break in traffic to get going again (and I am not making that up).  The way home was uneventful, except for the lone expletive that was thrown my way at Signal Hill.  Ironically, this was on a very open stretch of road with an ample shoulder and two lanes of traffic each way.  I’ve been thinking about mapping each insult inflicted upon me to see if any sort of pattern emerges.  So far, it seems pretty random with no correlation between road type or traffic density.  The only connection I’ve seen so far is that if there is a pathway nearby, the automobile drivers expect you to use it.

This is my final ride before Saturday’s big day, which I fear I am woefully unprepared for.  I’ll spend the rest of the week tapering (which I am very good at) and getting things ready to go.  I’ll see you on Sunday or possibly early next week.  If you’re following me on Facebook, I’ll be sure to post something there late Saturday or early Sunday.

Historical Marker Segment!

I bagged two more markers, the first being on Minnieville Road at the Glascow Cemetery.  I took a poor quality photo with the sun in the shot because it gives a sense of how close the busy traffic on Minnieville Road is to the cemetery.

The second sign is on the eastern end of Occoquan and I came across it while looking for a good angle to shoot a bridge pic.

Karma?

I had everything planned out.

It’s getting time to change my tires and I had prudently ordered new ones several weeks ago.  With the great weather this week, I decided to forego the precious minutes required to change the tires and use them to ride.  It was supposed to rain on Friday and I would swap them out then.

So last night after work I hopped on my bike for one last ride with my old tires.  It would be a pleasant farewell after months of faithful work.

Six miles from home, I flatted.  Oh, the irony.

Although annoyed and slightly amused at the irony of having a tire flat on its final voyage, I was not concerned.  I am, after all, an exceptionally experienced cyclist, especially in the field of flat tires.  I calmly walked my bike to a grassy area and began to change the tube.  It was peaceful.  Birds were chirping and the weather was nice.  I even found a large log to sit on while I did my work.  I was in no hurry.  It is never good to flat but rarely are circumstances better than this.  I looked up to the sky and thanked Madonna del Ghisallo (patron saint of cycling) for my good fortune.

I found the source of the flat, a nasty piece of metal about half an inch long.  It was encouraging to know that my Continental Grand Prix Four Seasons only failed me after being impaled by such an impressive thing.  I put my new tube in place and began to screw my CO2 canister into the cartridge which I would use to dispense the gas.

At this point, I learned several things in rapid succession:

1.  Before screwing a CO2 canister onto its cartridge, you really ought to ensure the cartridge remains in the “closed” position where you put it 14 months ago.  Otherwise, it may have jiggled open and all the gas will escape as soon as you screw on the cartridge.

2.  It’s probably a good idea to have more than one CO2 cartridge with you in case something unfortunate happens to the first one you tried to use.  Otherwise, you won’t have any way to inflate your tire.

3.  If you don’t have another CO2 cartridge, it wouldn’t hurt to carry a small tire pump with you, just in case.

4.  Life gets hard when you’re six miles from home with a flat you can’t repair.

5.  Rather than thanking Madonna del Ghisallo, I should spend more time getting acquainted with Saint Simeon (patron saint of fools).

It is raining today as forecasted.  I think I’ll swap out my tires tonight.

Spring Has Sprung

You’ll never guess what I did yesterday.  Go ahead – try.

Nope.

You’re way off.

Wrong again.

Ok, I’ll tell you.  For the first time in 2013, I put ice cubes in my water bottle!

I’m thinking this should be an event I commemorate each year.  It’s worthy of blog reports, music, speeches, and all manner of fanfare.  It really is not possible to overdo the significance of having the temperature reach a point where ice cubes are necessary.  It was wonderful.

(By the way, my apologies to the people of Wyoming, whom are now under about a foot of freshly fallen snow.  Someday, Spring will come your way as well.  I promise.)

I’ve been getting in quite a few local rides as of late and hopefully will get enough miles into my legs to make my upcoming 300K ride at least possible for me, if not comfortable.  The trees are beginning to blossom and I noted with interest that DC’s famous cherry blossom trees are now in full bloom, three weeks later than last year.

I passed by some trees on my way to Neabsco Creek last night.  I’m not sure if they are precisely the same species as the famous ones in DC, but they’re close enough in my opinion to warrant a photo.  Imagine trees like this surrounded by thousands of people and you have the annual DC Cherry Blossom Festival.  I think this was nicer.

Monday night’s ride was my first of the year in summer kit (shorts, half-fingered gloves, etc…).  It was fantastic and it is always a pleasant sensation to see how much faster I can go in decent weather.  My 18.4mph pace was by far the fastest of the year.  Tuesday night’s ride was much slower due to the need to stop and take photos for your viewing pleasure (and for my recovery as well).

After the cherry trees, I made my way to a couple of marinas at the mouth of Neabsco Creek.  The marinas were largely deserted at the late hour and I hoped the setting sun would make for some nice pictures.  I shall let others be the judge of that.

My first stop was at the Pilot House boat shop which also serves as a business which sells used boats.  You can see Neabsco Creek in the background.

And here is a view of the marina from the deck of the Pilot House.

A few hundred yards up the road I found an inviting plank and pedaled to the end of it.  I was perilously close to the edge of the deck as I took this photo and briefly wondered what I would look like if I accidentally backed off the edge of it in my cycling kit.  Comical, I suspect.

The view looking east.  You can see the Virginia Railway Express bridge in the distance.

On my way home, I rode next to the creek, looking for signs of wildlife.  Although I could hear all manner of creatures, a photographic moment didn’t present itself to me.  I took this picture of the wetlands instead.  It’s hard to believe this is less than two miles from the heavily trafficked Route 1 and I-95.

Historical Marker Segment!

You gotta stay on your toes in the historical marker business.  The people who put these signs up are never done with their work.  You think you’ve covered a stretch of road and have seen all there is to see, only to discover that a new sign has been erected.  Such is the case here, where a new sign now stands at the entrance to a series of walking trails at Julie Metz Park.  Travelers can now learn the story of the Lee family (including Light Horse Harry Lee, father of Robert E. Lee) and the plantation they built in this area in the in the 1700s.