You Are My Sunshine: a Story of Love, Promises, and a Really Long Bike Ride by Sean Dietrich

Author:Sean Dietrich
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Zondervan
Published: 2022-08-03T00:00:00+00:00

12

The human butt can only take so much. You cannot imagine how bruised the rear feels after being viciously smashed, squished, bounced upon, and repeatedly abused for days at a time. If you think I’m exaggerating, then you have never mistreated your fundaments as I have. Traditional cycling saddles were apparently designed by masochists who were missing their reproductive organs and had tiny derrieres. The pain is worse than you think. Some cyclists on the trail are unable to tough it out. One of the most common causes for people quitting the trail is pain in the buttocks and in the crotch. There is no such thing as a comfortable saddle. Mankind’s (and womankind’s) haunches were not meant to ride any kind of cycle—let alone a trike. Every man has his breaking point. I had reached mine.

“My butt hurts,” I said.

“You complain more than anyone I know.”

I shifted in my seat. “Well, it does.”

“That’s because you’re riding a toy.”

“Which you bought for me.”

“Because you’re afraid of bikes.”

We were approaching a wooden sign announcing the turnoff for the nearby community of Confluence.

“Let’s stop here,” I said.

“You seriously wanna stop? We can still fit in a few more miles before it gets dark.”

“Who are we trying to impress? Plus, they have a grocery store here.”

She braked and faced me. “Do you ever think about anything but Swiss Rolls?”

“Sometimes Chick-fil-A.”

The borough of Confluence looks like Mayberry. It is located at the southern end of the Lower Turkeyfoot Township. The community hugs the bottom of Pennsylvania like a flea hanging from a dog’s belly, about ten miles from the Maryland border. Here, the Casselman River, Laurel Hill Creek, and the Youghiogheny River join each other in a convergence, thus the name.

You can see the rivers meeting beneath you while riding across a deck plate and girder bridge that leads you off the GAP and into the town. You will find random cyclists stopped on this bridge, impeding the flow of trail traffic, taking in the view, without regard for others. You will be one of these annoying people. Because it’s a killer view.

Pennsylvania’s highest point, Mount Davis, is nearby. And just down the road from Confluence is the immense Youghiogheny River Lake, a flood control reservoir where bass boats and anglers gather each weekend to partake in a wide variety of Anheuser-Busch products.

Confluence’s constant backdrop is mountains. The blue-tinged hillsides of the Appalachians rim the river town in a way that will make you start looking around for the Norman Rockwell signature.

“I definitely want to stay here tonight,” said my wife.

“I thought you wanted to keep riding.”

“Well, I changed my mind. Now we’re staying.”

Heavy is the head that wears the crown.

We eased into town on fumes. I was thirsty and I needed to get off my seat. Confluence is a functioning town, but you see very little evidence of modern life here. There are no billboards, no heavy traffic, no Olive Gardens, no guys on street corners dressed in togas, waving cardboard signs advertising five-dollar pizza.

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