A 9am wake-up aiming for a 10:30 start is just ludicrous in the ultra-community–though I’m not sure why. If you’re going to be on a bike for most of the next 24-48 hours, who cares if you start at the ass crack of dawn or closer to lunchtime? So, I opted to break from tradition and sleep in on Sunday. Fresh legs. Fresh mind. Fresh restart. Time to head back to the fountain to take a run at Crush the Commonwealth.
Crush the Commonwealth is an unsanctioned, self-supported, ultra-cycling race that happens in early summer each year. It spans the “Commonwealth” of Pennsylvania - from Pointe State Park in downtown Pittsburgh to the Liberty Bell in Philadelphia. It’s about 380 miles long and contains roughly 18,000 feet of climbing (damn you, Western PA).
When it’s ridden as a race versus a solo endeavor, they alternate directions each year. This year was Pittsburgh to Philly; last year was the opposite. I’d thought about racing it at one point (though racing in cycling doesn’t appeal to me at all), and if I did, I’d want to go from west to east. Why, you ask? Because that’s the way the wind usually blows—and by the least scientific math imaginable, a tailwind can make a ride feel up to 50% easier than a headwind. So, I was happy to see that was the case as Chrissy and I drove west from NJ.
But things changed in dramatic fashion during the 12 hours between when I was supposed to drop Chrissy at the hotel and keep riding, versus taking a late start the next morning. “Mother of God” escaped my throat as I took off my CPAP and crawled out of bed. The Epic Weather app broke the bad news: I had 384 miles of mostly headwinds ahead of me.
But good, bad, happy, sad, rejuvenated or exhausted: we plod on.
We hit up Mickey D’s down the street for an elite athlete’s breakfast–two Egg McMuffins, hash browns, and coffee.
When we got back, Chrissy realized she’d forgotten the room key and went to the lobby to have another made. While she was gone, I was kneeling in the hallway, fiddling with my bag, when an old lady walked past and said, “goooood morrrrrning” in a sing-songy hushed voice. I looked up and boisterously bellowed a friendly “OH! GOOD MORNING!” to which she immediately recoiled. Disapproving, she was clearly affected on a visceral level. She scolded me by saying “Sunday mornings are for whisssspering” before walking away.
People are weird.
We drove back to the fountain, said our goodbyes and our loveyoumores, and I was turning the cranks by 10:45am.
Now I know what you’re thinking: Derek, we are almost 500 words into Part 2 and just at the starting line. How long is this Part going to be? Well, the funny thing about endurance sports is that the beginning is expansive - rich with feelings details and experiences, the end is rewarding and relieving, and the middle - well - is sort of a haze in both the experience and the retelling. Large blocks of time disappear or maybe better said merge twist and distort in the mind - the living form of a Picasso. So, don’t worry, I’ll get briefer as I progress.
As I twisted and turned through Pittsburgh pathways, side streets, and bridges, I couldn’t help but think how supportive Chrissy is. This hobby just being one manifestation of a whole-life support she provides. She’s my biggest champion; my only wing-(wo?)man. And I know she worries. Anxiety is in her nature, and I do dangerous things. Bad combo. But she supports me nonetheless.
CtC isn’t what one would consider a safe route. Sure, the 90 miles of the gravel-pathed Great Allegheny Passage (”GAP” trail) are objectively safe, but the next 300 are mostly roads - many rural - where locals whiz past unsuspecting of a lone cyclist hugging the white line at 3am. I know it’s a lot for her to know that reality and still be so encouraging, and I’m very grateful.
Yuck. Get to the ride buddy.
So - pathways, streets, and bridges. The last one gave me the chance to photobomb a middle-aged couple getting pictures taken on the Hot Metal bridge. I thought better of it, doubled back, and said “Hey, I think I got in one of your photos - mind sending it to me?” The man took my email address, but I never got a message. Maybe the shutter speed was off. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe when he saw me in the background, tongue out with a raised Shaka, he immediately recoiled. Disapproving. Clearly affected on a visceral level.
I seemed to be having that effect on people that day.
After McKeesport came the rumble of gravel. It would continue through the Laurel Highlands (home to Frank Lloyd Wright’s Falling Water), past Ohiopyle, and ultimately spit me out near Somerset, PA where the GAP trail veered south toward D.C.
I knew this stretch was my only chance for some socialization, so I chatted with a few folks as I passed. One guy was doing a test ride for a future 150 mile GAP attempt. Another pair were riding to DC - a similar length journey, split over a week.
I stopped at the Blue Mountain RV park’s general store outside Connellsville for the usual - sports drink and carbs - this time in the form of Brown Sugar Pop-Tarts: 400 calories in two (really) big bites. Outside, a cyclist headed back to Pittsburgh looked at me like I had two heads when I said I was going to Philly. ;-)
Passed through Ohiopyle - a lovely outdoorsy town. ‘I need to come back here with Chrissy for a long-weekend’, I thought.
Miles became monotonous. Lonely. Hard-earned. Force a drink down. Force some food. Time to eat something real again. Quick pitstop or push on a bit further? This becomes the rhythm of the mid-ride.
Music is my refuge.
My iPhone storage shortage tells the tale. Largest offender? Amazon Music: 13.4 GB. My long rides are one long, running playlist.
Eventually, I was back on roads near Somerset, after a “closed” five-mile section blocked with barbed wire and chain-link. But there’s always a little path around the side—well-worn proof of earlier trespassers.
The signs warned of dangerous rockslides, but I saw nothing. Probably cleared long ago. Bureaucratic inertia at its finest. Still—when you’re in forbidden territory, you’re on your own. Don’t get hurt out there. Watch out for bears.
I hit a Sheetz in Somerset. It was dark—I had no clue the time. More calories. It was going to be a long night.
“I’m playing it by ear,” I told Chrissy when she asked my sleep plan. I wanted to clear the forest—too big a risk of a mid-snooze bear encounter—but beyond that, I’d nap if needed. The PBP taught me that even a 15-minute snooze can reset the mind and body. But being alone in the hills of Western PA isn’t exactly like being surrounded by 6,000 compatriots in France.
I planned to hunker under a roof if possible. Post office vestibules first - all are open 24/7 and some are climate controlled. Anytime Fitness locations second - since I’m a member, I’d envisioned a quick badge-in, clean-up, and yoga-mat-nap before getting back on the road. But as a last resort, I would stay in a hotel. It felt wrong - inauthentic - like the easy way out.
But by Breezewood at 2 a.m., I was groggy. I thought about Chrissy and how she gently encouraged me to get a room—and I took her advice.
The Days Inn stay was brief. I was behind on time for the CtC cutoff, so to make my brevet count (state 19 of 50), I couldn’t stay long. Showered, refilled bottles, laid out clean clothes, set my timer for 4 hours, and hit the pillow. Unfortunately, “4 hours” was wishful thinking for someone who can only sleep with a machine blowing air down his throat to keep it open.
9 months ago I was diagnosed with sleep apnea. Chrissy insisted I get tested. She felt for me. She felt for her. Sleeping next to me must have been like cuddling up to a freight train. My parents removed my tonsils and adenoids when I was a kid. The snoring never stopped. Not until 42 did I learn I woke up, on average, 60 times an hour. For it to count as a “wake-up,” your brain has to hit panic mode—“YOU’RE DYING!”—and jolt you awake. It’s not a weight issue. It’s just how my throat is built. So, I’ve lived my life without a real night’s sleep—until recently. Living under-slept is a weird kind of superpower.
I left before sunrise, starting the long haul through the nothingness of Central PA—first crossing eight miles of an abandoned PA Turnpike section. Two tunnels, each half a mile long, walls covered in graffiti, glowing under my dynamo light.
Central PA is lovely, rolling countryside. I’m unsure if it was the scenery or fatigue, but the next 150 miles blur together. I remember being surprised at how seedy York seemed. There was a Subway sub, a grumpy store manager, and a Mountain Dew in there somewhere. Then Lancaster.
It was dark, and I was weaving through an endless grid of Amish cornfields. I felt like Hunter S. Thompson tripping on acid in a Vegas casino—but instead of slot machines and flashing lights, there were silhouettes of men with beards and women in bonnets, barn lanterns glowing against the night. Vestiges of a work ethic generations deep.
At one point, I hauled ass to pass a horse and buggy, only to realize I had to keep the pace—couldn’t let them pass me back after that flex. So I burned a few matches until their headlight disappeared, then eased up again.
That’s the thing about randonneuring—it isn’t a race. I did enough racing in my youth. It defined me. I was worth a 2:35 200-meter breaststroke at 13–2nd in the country. I was worth a4.4 GPA, a 1440 SAT (sadly, only 300 points better than my 7th grade attempt–don’t do drugs, kids). I was high when I took them. But it got me into Wharton–#1 for business. High for that too.
I defined my worth by those stats: 2:35. #2. 4.4. 1440. #1.
And frankly, I’m done with all that now. I love the randonée because it isn’t about winning. Finish first or last–as long as you finish within the cutoff–you’re equal. Complete.
But then again, this ride was to become 19 of 50 states in my American Explorer pursuit. So, perhaps I’m not as reformed as I’d like to think. Perhaps the striver within is like The Hydra - a many headed beast that regenerates two heads for every one that’s cut off.
Lancaster went, then came New Holland. I stopped into a fire station for water–I’d grossly miscalculated how many stores would be open in the Pennsylvania Dutch country at midnight. The guys there were Mennonite—kind of like Amish, but edgier. Donnie Wahlberg to their Joey McIntyre if you will.
There’s an interesting “changing of the guard” as you move from west to east across PA: Sheetz rules the west, then fades into Turkey Hill territory, before Wawa claims the east.
The long stretch into Valley Forge and King of Prussia was hard. My body panicked—my core temp was off. It was 60°F, but I was freezing. I’d throw on warmers and a windbreaker, sweat, strip, chill, repeat. 1 a.m. came, and I knew I needed rest—but only four hours remained to reach the Liberty Bell. I could sleep after that.
A detour appeared, and again, I forged through. It involved carrying my bike in one hand while walking carefully across a plank on a bridge that was under construction. There was rebar and a couple of jumps from one concrete piling to the next. Not going to lie, it was one of the more dangerous moments from my travels, but I lived to tell the tale.
The rest was a blur of twisting, cobbled-together paths forming the Schuylkill River Trail—from Plymouth Meeting through Manayunk into downtown Philly. I rode past the Art Museum blasting the Rocky theme at 4 a.m., down toward City Hall—no one else in sight. Twelve blocks down Market Street, I reached my destination. Celebratory selfies were had outside the Liberty Bell while a homeless man fought invisible enemies a hundred feet away.
It was time to get some shut-eye, seven past residences remained for the final leg.
To Be Continued...
By the Numbers