PEDALING UP another hill on a lonely road through the Poconos, I had the feeling I'd taken a wrong turn. My fellow cyclists were nowhere in sight, my water bottles were empty, and the roadkill was turning ugly.
What was I thinking?
Riding a bike 300-plus miles over six days from Philly to a beer festival in Cooperstown, N.Y., sure sounded like a great idea back in March. We'd cycle hard all day and drink and eat as much as we liked all night!
Out of shape? Yo, I could still squeeze my butt into Spandex shorts.
Creaky knees? That's why they make Aleve.
Hills? We'd follow the Delaware all the way to New York and probably coast half the way.
Six of us - led by Jeff Appletans and Lara Marek of Philadelphia's GoCycling LLC - pushed off from the Art Museum steps two weekends ago for our ride to the annual Belgium Comes to Cooperstown fest.
Held on the sunny meadows surrounding the Ommegang farmhouse brewery, the festival is two days of nonstop music, food, camping and beer, beer, beer. A lavish, bottle-emptying, opening-night dinner is followed by an afternoon with ales from more than 75 American and Belgian breweries, then hours of gleeful debauchery around scattered campfires.
More than one beer freak has called it the Woodstock of Beer.
Yeah, we could've driven (gas is back under 4 bucks, isn't it?), but as any cyclist will tell you, the destination is only half the story. The slower pace of a bicycle lets you see, smell and, perhaps most importantly, hear the journey.
A gurgle of clear spring water along the road . . . the easy chatter among friends . . . the whoosh of an eagle's wings . . . the cheers from kids in front of a double-wide . . . the high-pitch ping of a chain racing through the derailleur.
And, sometimes, just the beautiful, majestic silence of the river.
Enough poetry - what about the beer?
Our ride took us through Milford, N.J., home of the Ship Inn, a funky, British-style brewpub where the waitress didn't even blink when the riders - sweaty and soaked by a violent thunderstorm - piled in for pints of bitter.
In Easton, Pa., we rambled around the Weyerbacher brewery, then loaded up our bags with bottles of dark, rich Slam Dunkel.
