ECG Day 7: Little Rhody

Note: This post is for Monday, September 13.

I woke early this morning to a pair of long-eared owls arguing back and forth about “who-who-who cooks-for-you.“  Spent some time writing in the tent, waiting for sun up, and trying to figure out how far we’ve come, and what’s left. Six days in, and I think we’re closing in around 400 miles.  The wear is showing.  Our bikes are covered in mud and sand; every nut and bolt seems loose, jarred free by the constant pounding. Our hands are  numb, we can barely sit on the seats, and we make just getting on the bikes sound like Olympic wrestling. I’m beginning to see the attraction of cruise-ship vacationing, let’s put it that way.

Bill and I broke camp quickly, considering neither one of us can remember what bag holds what gear.  After that,  just  another 65 mile day.  They’re starting to blend together. The first 30 miles found us grinding across the punishing hills of the Appalachian Piedmont, where the locals seem to have forgotten what side of the civil war they fought on. Our crossing into Rhode Island was met with whoops of joy, not just because it was our sixth state, but it marked the start of a glorious descent down to the coastal plain, on a wonderfully long and smooth rail trail. We hardly spun the pedals for the next 20 miles or so.

Somewhere along the trail Bill spotted a sign pointing to a breakfast and ice cream cafe, which is like having Christmas and New Years all in one day.  We bushwhacked through the brush and spilled out into the backside of a small collection of dilapidated buildings that served all the local needs beyond breakfast: pizza, alcohol, tattoos, and a convenient lot to have a motorcycle-gang melee.  I noticed that every sign advertising our cafe had a different name on it, but we took a chance and ducked inside.  “What’s good here?” I asked the waitress as we took a seat beneath a wall festooned with water skiing memorabilia and a small shrine to Tom Brady. “We’re known for our hash,” she offered cheerily.  “Sounds good. I’ll take it,” I said, “eggs over easy.”  “I’ll have the hash too,” Bill chimed in. “And how would you like your eggs?” she asked. Bill contemplated this momentarily, like it was a trick question.  “Fried,” he says.  “Over easy?” she shot back. More contemplation.  “Uh, over… hard?”, he said.  “No yolk?” she fired back again, quick on the trigger.  A blank look of uncertainty crossed his face. “Well, how about this… we’ll do medium. That okay?” she offered, helpfully. “Yah, that would be good,” he exhaled, visibly relieved.

No joke, that was the best hash I’ve ever had. It was fabulous, and I told the waitress so. “I know, right? Takes two days for him to make it.  It’s an entire Irish meal - carrots, cabbage, beets, beef - all hand pulled together,” she replied. 

The rail trail dumped us out on the west side Providence, which at first bore a surprising resemblance to Central America, then in a matter of mere blocks morphed into hipsterville. Just the other side of downtown we picked up a gorgeous bike trail that skirted the bay and brought us to our seventh and final state, Massachusetts. Along the way stopped to chat with a man and his wife who were riding the ECG from Maine to Florida; gave them a heads up about the trail damage in Jersey and the new route across Staten Island.

Dinner tonight was pizza delivery, right to the hotel door.  Not that we're exhausted, mind you - too tired to venture out - but hey, it's Monday night football.