Biking Solo Down the East Coast
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Stealthy Camping in Someone's Backyard A frenzied scan of my map showed me a patch of green, north of the city, a park of some sort. That would have to be the place. Like a teenager racing to get home before curfew, I sped desperately through the drizzle, trying to reach the wooded area before nightfall. It appeared to me out of the misty gloom, a massive, tree-covered hill, rising from behind a row of old homes. Relieved, I pedaled up and down the wet street until I found what appeared to be a trail leading between two houses and toward the woods. As I walked my bike onto it, I glanced nervously at the gray, wooden house on my left, partially hidden behind overgrown pines. A shaggy mongrel dog bolted toward me from the shadows, hit the end of its chain and began barking furiously at me. The noise drew a young boy to one of the upstairs windows where he pressed his face to the glass and peered out at me. I didn't wait for him to get a good look. Ducking my head, I sprinted for the woods. Reaching the tree line, I plunged in, pulling my bike over roots and broken bottles that I could barely see. It was quite dark now, with only a faint glow permeating the clouds. The boy had surely seen me and was probably alerting his family by now, but I didn't care. I planned to go so deep into the woods that no one would find me. I had walked perhaps 100 feet when the trail abruptly came to a halt at the flooded bank of a swift, deep river. On the other side, taunting me, sat the unbroken forest that I had been trying to reach. I was screwed. Briefly, I contemplated wading across the 30-foot-wide river with my bike on my shoulders, and I walked downstream to see if perhaps I could find a narrow spot or a rock bridge, but common sense soon prevailed, and I decided not to risk slipping in and drowning. That left me with two options. I could either abandon this place and keep riding or set up my tent and hope no one discovered me. Uncertain, I continued following the river, tearing aside branches and vines and using my bike as a battering ram to get through the thick foliage. Water dripped constantly onto me from the wet leaves, quickly soaking me. At one point, I had to lift my bike over my head to get past a fallen tree. That was when I noticed that my new water bottle was missing--the same damn velcro-attached bottle that had been falling off since Maine. I was furious. Why now? Leaving my bike, I stomped off through the woods, examining every inch of land I had traversed, all the way back to the tree line. The dog, upon seeing me again, flew into a renewed rage of violent snarling, which immediately brought the house's backyard light on. Quickly, I ducked back into the woods, terrified of being discovered, but unwilling give up my new water bottle before I had the opportunity to ram it down the bike store owner's throat. Hastily, I rooted around in a pile of broken bottles and lawnmower parts, forced by the darkness to bend so low that my nose almost touched the muddy ground. The sound of voices behind me sent a shiver down my spine. I started to run, and my foot squashed down on something hollow and cylindrical--the bottle! Scooping it up, I dashed toward my bike, grabbed the handlebars and lunged into the thicket. Coming upon a path, I hustled along until I was about six houses down from the one where the search party was commencing operations. There, at last, I stopped to rest. I had come upon a tiny clearing in the woods, thick with rotting leaves and empty beer bottles. Unable to see more than a few feet in front of me, I was forced to recognize the futility of going any farther. I had reached the end of the line. It was here or nothing.
Two or three shots went off somewhere down the street, echoing through the woods and along the river valley. I stared wide-eyed at the thin canvas separating me from this horrible outside world where I was intending to lie unconscious all night. What had I gotten myself into? I tried to console myself: It was probably just a run-of-the-mill mugging. Or maybe someone was merely knocking off his spouse. Nothing to concern me. Deep inside, though, I knew the truth about the shooting. It was the boy who had seen me from his window. He was firing into the woods at random, trying to pick me off. I passed a few minutes in tense silence, and then more shots rang out. After another silence, they came again. When the pattern continued, I lay back down and shut my eyes. He wouldn't get this far for a while. In all of my nights on the road, I had never felt so uneasy about going to sleep, not even in the elementary school in Dale, South Carolina. The janitor there hadn't been packing a 45. I spent a good hour listening to the nightmarish nighttime world of New Haven before gradually fading into a restless, troubled sleep. This was a chapter from my new
book.
Want to read the full story of my Maine to Pennsylvania ride? How about some links to other bike touring tales? Cycling: East Coast | Maine to Pennsylvania | The Edge of New Jersey Canada: Skiing Whistler Mountain | Canoeing Wilderness Lakes Europe: Touring Heidelberg, Germany | Trolley Adventure in Milan U.S. North: Remote Alaska Roads | Exploring the 1,000 Islands U.S. West: California Redwoods | Lake Tahoe | High in Albuquerque | Omaha Surprises |
Unloading
my bike, I rolled out my tent on the soggy, uneven ground,
fully aware that I was about to set up camp in somebody's
back yard, right in the middle of the city. Striving not to
make any noise, I groped around for poles and pegs, stopping
constantly to listen for voices. When the tent was up I
chucked all my gear inside and then dove in after it.
Rainwater continued to drip from the trees and splatter on
the roof--but that wasn't the only sound the night brought
to my ears. From somewhere quite nearby, dogs began to bark
and wouldn't let up. Then I heard voices, and soon someone
started bouncing a basketball. Uneasy, I tried to convince
myself that I was safe and that no one knew I was here, but
I found it almost impossible to relax. When the gunshots
started, I almost went through the roof.