Grantsville, Maryland. 329 miles.
For the last few days, I've been following the route of the National Road, America's first tarmac road. It's now part of US highway 40, which stretches almost from coast to coast and used to be the main east-to-west highway.
It's hard to imagine this meandering two-lane country road teeming with settlers and soldiers, as it did during the 19th century; some of the bits I've walked along have a desolate feel, lined with abandoned farmhouses so decrepit a single kick would probably bring them crashing around my ears. While some sections have been busy, most have been almost completely devoid of traffic.
The landscapes of western Maryland have been stunning: rolling, forested hills, the occasional 3,000-foot mountain (I just switch into low gear, put my head down and try not to think about the road ahead) and more sparsely populated than I've been used to.
This has meant that water has sometimes been a problem, especially as the temperature climbs; it was phenomenally hot yesterday, and the two one-litre bottles that used to last me all day are enough for a couple of hours. I started off by asking people in their front gardens for water, and when I couldn't find enough of these I took to knocking on doors.
On two occasions, the road suddenly and unexpectedly merged with the interstate. This wasn't shown on the map, and I had no other way of getting to my destination, so I just crossed my fingers and kept going, illegally, with hundreds of cars whizzing past at 65 miles an hour. I hope this isn't going to happen too often, especially as I once got pulled over by the police.
Today has been what I call a Tooting Day - nothing to do with the south London suburb, but a response to coverage of my story in the local media. Drivers often toot their horns when they see the "Coast to Coast" banner on my backpack, but on Tooting Days (there have been about ten so far) it happens much more frequently. They're also more likely to stop for a conversation, hand me a bottle of water and/or give me a donation, all of which really lifts my spirits.
The walking is going well at the moment. The blisters that slowed me down to a crawl shortly after I started have now almost gone, and when the straps on my pack are properly adjusted I hardly notice it's there.
This has to be America's most grandiloquently named rural dirt track: click twice to view full-size
It's hard to imagine this meandering two-lane country road teeming with settlers and soldiers, as it did during the 19th century; some of the bits I've walked along have a desolate feel, lined with abandoned farmhouses so decrepit a single kick would probably bring them crashing around my ears. While some sections have been busy, most have been almost completely devoid of traffic.
The landscapes of western Maryland have been stunning: rolling, forested hills, the occasional 3,000-foot mountain (I just switch into low gear, put my head down and try not to think about the road ahead) and more sparsely populated than I've been used to.
This has meant that water has sometimes been a problem, especially as the temperature climbs; it was phenomenally hot yesterday, and the two one-litre bottles that used to last me all day are enough for a couple of hours. I started off by asking people in their front gardens for water, and when I couldn't find enough of these I took to knocking on doors.
On two occasions, the road suddenly and unexpectedly merged with the interstate. This wasn't shown on the map, and I had no other way of getting to my destination, so I just crossed my fingers and kept going, illegally, with hundreds of cars whizzing past at 65 miles an hour. I hope this isn't going to happen too often, especially as I once got pulled over by the police.
Today has been what I call a Tooting Day - nothing to do with the south London suburb, but a response to coverage of my story in the local media. Drivers often toot their horns when they see the "Coast to Coast" banner on my backpack, but on Tooting Days (there have been about ten so far) it happens much more frequently. They're also more likely to stop for a conversation, hand me a bottle of water and/or give me a donation, all of which really lifts my spirits.
The walking is going well at the moment. The blisters that slowed me down to a crawl shortly after I started have now almost gone, and when the straps on my pack are properly adjusted I hardly notice it's there.
This has to be America's most grandiloquently named rural dirt track: click twice to view full-size
posted by Phil at 9:20 pm
2 Comments:
I say briefly: Best! Useful information. Good job guys.
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