Sunrise, Smith Station Road, Hanover, PA
30 August 2025
Tom had been trying to get the Insane Bike Posse to return to Gettysburg on and off for two years. Bad weather and life got in the way. Finally, we had a weekend that promised blue skies, and five of us could go.
Heddy picked me up early last Friday morning. We met Tom, Our Jeff, and Martin in a park near the Gettysburg battlefield. Heddy and I got there what we thought was early and wondered where everyone else was. When I texted Tom, I found out we'd pulled into the wrong entrance. We drove a quarter mile to meet up with everyone else. We ate an early lunch at picnic tables under a wooden roof, and then set off for the battlefield.
Last time I was here, it was the fall of 2021, for the Philadelphia Bike Club's Fall Gettysburg Weekend. I was weirded out by the maskless hordes in the hotel, and spent a lot of time in my room or apart from the crowds. While I was there, I scheduled my next Covid booster.
This time, Tom found us a Vrbo rental in the greater Hanover metroplex. There were five of us and five bedrooms in an old farmhouse at the end of a dirt road. After reading the description, I was certain a murder was going to happen.
But first, the ride.
As Heddy was unloading her bike, she noticed a bulge on the side wall of her rear tire. Tom took a look and deemed it safe enough for the short ride. We'd find a bike shop after.
The plan was to cover every part of the park, which involved a dizzying amount of turns. (If you use the Google Map view, you can see all the monument names.)
The battlefield is a mix of flat and rolling terrain, with a few hills on one side. We started with the flat bits, stopping to look at statues along the way. They were mostly to commemorate regiments who had fought, with a list of the number dead, wounded, and missing engraved on one side.
I was using my new iPhone on a ride for the first time. I didn't zoom in enough to capture the Eternal Light Peace Memorial.
The view opposite the flame was worthy.
We passed the Gettysburg train station because the route took us outside of the park for a bit.
The statues were all very clean, and when we came across one being cleaned, it wouldn't be the last one we saw with a crane next to it.
There were cannons everywhere.
The cicadas in the park sounded different from the ones we get at home. We get Northern Dog Day cicadas. These weren't those. While everyone else was looking at a statue, I made a recording, which I sent up to iNaturalist after the ride. (This was my second recording, the first being one I made one evening at home of an unusual cicada, an Eastern Scissors Grinder, which is worth listening to.)
Next, we climbed the hills of Big Round Top and Little Round Top. At the summit of Little Round Top was a parking lot with a bike rack. We parked the bikes and walked up the short trail.
Tom pointed out the rock outcrop, called the Devil's Den. Confederate soldiers were trapped in there.
Leaning against a cannon was a park ranger. I had to ask if the autocrats had begun to whitewash the Civil War, but, being where we were, I had to ask in a roundabout way.
"I'm a child of the 60s," he replied, putting me at ease. I was wearing my tie-dye pattern jersey, so he must have figured out what I was hinting around. The answer was yes, a little, on some of the informational signs. Then he said, "See that house on the left over there?"
It had belonged to a well-respected black blacksmith who had to flee during the battle. "I think it's important to know about the people," he said.
He also said, "That pond wasn't there during the war. Beavers."
I don't remember who this is, and none of my photos show the name. Warren, maybe?
Next, we descended, rode around Devil's Den, and then stopped for a "witness tree," one that has apparently been standing since the battle.
It was still alive, sort of, and there was a castle-like monument behind it.
Tom wanted pictures of the Pennsylvania Monument, because it's on the cover of his book (along with Cheryl and Al). The book is why Tom knows the area so well.
I was curious about the Tammany Regiment because of its indigenous reference, but when I looke it up later, it had nothing to do with them, except for the stolen land, of course.
And then there was this perplexing sign.
We turned right.
I was getting hungry, my small lunch not enough and too early. We climbed a hill in the woods, passed another statue being cleaned, descended, and then Heddy said, "Weren't we here already?" We were passing the same statue being cleaned. We went up a small hill to another monument, then wound up a the same perplexing double one-way intersection. This time we went left and exited the park.
Next up was the park museum. We rode our bikes past the building to a statue of a seated Abraham Lincoln. A ranger told us we weren't supposed to have our bikes there. Oops.
Our Jeff posed first.
Tom asked a pair of tourists to take our group photo. No, I'm not posting it. I took a picture of Janice instead.
I took a picture of Martin as we were heading out.
We went back to the park where our cars were. Heddy called the nearest bike shop (Gettysburg Bicycles). I ate a cucumber.
We all drove over. While the mechanic changed the tire, we wandered the store and I took a picture of the aging dog, who, upon seeing us, moved away and took a nap.
Then it was a 40-minute drive to the farmhouse.
I chose the bedroom with two twin beds, because it reminded me of Exile House.
There were four upstairs bedrooms and one bathroom, which I quickly claimed for me and Heddy.
She took the front room, which, if the windows hadn't been fogged over with age, would have given her a clear view of Lake Marburg.
Tom and Martin took the other two bedrooms. Jeff claimed the one downstairs, which was next to the bathroom all the guys would be using.
The narrow upstaris hallway overlooked the open living room. There was another large room across from it, where we stashed our bikes. The kitchen and dining room were under the bedrooms.
I took some pictures of the view from the front of the house.
We cleaned up, and someone put something in the microwave. It shook the wooden cabinets. It sounded like a jet taking off.
Tom found us a diner in Hanover, where we ate all the things. Note to Martin: Dipping fries in mayonnaise is wrong, and I don't care if they do it in Canada!
We stopped at a supermarket after dinner so that we'd have provisions for breakfast. And snacks.
The sun was setting when we got back to the house. Unfortunately, the view was obscured by a hill in the distance and trees in the back yard. I took a picture of the southern sky instead.
We gathered on the porch, where there were four rocking chairs and a bench. I took the farthest chair, brought out the SpiderCam, put my feet up, and waited for darkness.
Everyone had seen the webs spun from the eaves of the porch. As soon as it got dark, the owners jumped in: Larinioides cornutus, furrow orbweavers:
If you want detail, click on the photos and zoom in. I'm deliberately not editing them here, for those of you who are still grossed out by spiders (get over it already!).
There was a house spider, Parasteatoda tepidariorum, with two egg sacs, one of which had hatchlings.
I walked over to the side of the yard, where a line of shrubs met the lawn. There, I found a spined micrathena, Micrathena gracilis, a species which had come and gone weeks ago at home.
I found a Neoscona arabesca, an arabesque orb weaver, who had valiantly captured a spotted lanternfly.
When I returned later for a better photo, she was munching on something else instead.
I found a little Eustala anastera, a humbpack orb weaver.
And then a larger one, with a pattern I'd only ever seen in photos, not like the ones at home. Color and pattern vary widely in this species.
There was a tetragnathid of some sort.
And then, spinning a giant web from a low tree branch, was a plump Neoscona crucifera, a spotted orb weaver.
I found a tiny caterpillar dangling from its silk, but iNaturalist always thinks these are fungi, so I didnt bother to try to identify it.
Orchard orb weavers, Leucauge venusta, are the first orb weavers of the season, and their babies are the last orb weavers of the season.
By the front door, in a long line of debris, a trashline orbweaver, Cyclosa turbinata, was hiding.
Inside, Jeff had found a broadcast of the Eagles pre-season game. I was the only one in the room who wasn't even remotely into the football scene. It was fun watching them watch the game, though. It was a clincher. We were all, except Jeff, about to go to sleep when the game finally ended, the Eagles having barely won
I set my alarm to catch the sunrise over Lake Marburg with my newest Canon PowerShot (which will now be used only for non-biking scenic photos).
Zooming in on horses in low light turned out to be sort of filmy:
"Maybe I'm dreaming all of this," I suggested, because the whole thing was surreal.
We turned around and climbed back up the hill. Tom had checked his map and knew where to go to get around the missing dam. "It's going to add about four miles and some hills," he said
I stepped out onto the porch in my bare feet and captured what I could of the sunrise from there.
The folded leaves of the mimosa tree next to the house were unfolding for the day.
Bar Harbor does it better than this, but still...
I think this is my favorite photo from the entire trip:
When the rest of the house woke up, I made coffee. That was my job. I'd brought beans, a grinder, a press, and an electric kettle from home.
We weren't in a rush to get going. We'd be starting from the house. I took a few pictures while we waited for Martin to emerge.
Tom had warned us that the route would be hilly, and the rest stop early, at 18 miles. There was little else around.
We climbed some hills, then wound up at Hanover Junction, through which Lincoln had passed on the way to his inauguration.
It's now a stop along a rail-trail, which looked like a lot more fun than what we knew was coming.
Everywhere around Gettysburg, there's someone ready to get his war on.
While this guy was setting up whatever it was, a pastor dressed as a Union pastor filled us in on what it was like to be a Union pastor (training required) as opposed to a Confederate pastor (no training required). Insert metaphor for the current administration here.
We'd been riding in a valley towards a town called Seven Valleys. Then Tom warned us that the valley part was over. We turned right and began to climb.
I don't remember how many hills Our Jeff's Garmin said we had on the route. Heddy's said 12, and it seemed that the farther we got, the more were left.
At mile 18, we stopped at Brown's Farm Market in Loginville. It overlooked a valley we'd just climbed out of.
I wasn't particularly hungry, but I ate something and downed some caffeine anyway. Heddy and Jeff shared a pack of shark muffins.
photo by Heddy
"I'm not sure I've earned this cupcake," she said.
"You will," Tom replied.
He wasn't kidding.
We set back off down the hill we'd just come up, climbed out of the valley again on the other side, then turned down a road that was closed to cars.
Did we go around? Of course we did!
I stopped when I saw the lake.
Tom said, "We're going to cross the dam. There'll be better pictures."
We went on, down the hill, to the dam.
Um, what dam? What crossing?
While the rest of us meandered about, Tom made his way up a stone path. "There might be a way across," he called out.
I followed him up. At first, I saw what he thought he saw: a brand new cement walkway along the bank of the lake, leading to the dam. The problem was, this walkway was on the other side. Between it and us was a narrow spillway with water rushing over it.
The bridges out that defeat us are few and far between.
"Maybe I'm dreaming all of this," I suggested, because the whole thing was surreal.
We turned around and climbed back up the hill. Tom had checked his map and knew where to go to get around the missing dam. "It's going to add about four miles and some hills," he said
Great.
"I think you've blown through your cupcake," I told Heddy at one intersection while Tom consulted his GPS.
"Baby shark, do do do-do-do do do!"
4.9 miles, a few moments of which-way-now, and 550 feet of elevation gain later, we were back on course.
I hadn't remembered to top off my water bottles at the rest stop. If we were just now getting back on track, I'd need more. Another quick break wouldn't hurt either. When, at the top of a hill, we passed a farm market, Heddy stopped and I doubled back.
A 75-cent bottle of water (this ain't the Northeast Corridor!) did the trick. The farm looked out over a valley.
Heddy took pictures of Janice too, but this one is mine.
We were only at 30 miles. It felt like more, and, according to Heddy's Garmin, we hadn't even reached the halfway point in the number of hills.
Five miles later, at the top of yet another hill, I announced that I was done. It was more in my head than in my legs. Each mile was feeling slower than the last. I was using my lowest gear a lot.
When I whined, Tom suggested he could shorten the ride. Jeff agreed. "Sorry," I told Heddy. "We'll get the same number of miles we would have had originally anyway."
Tom told us to look for Hoff Road. We missed it, and wound up in Porters Sideling, on the original route. where we crossed four sets of railroad tracks in four tenths of a mile.
Still looking for an escape hatch, Tom took us through a residential neighborhood, where we stopped a couple of times to get our bearings.
We finally got to Smith Station Road, far north of where the long driveway to the house would be. Along the way, we passed the intersection with Hoff Road. At least from this direction we got a running start up the steepest section of the driveway, the paved part, before it turned to gravel.
"Can I get the first shower?" I asked Heddy.
"Yeah. I need a minute to sit down."
While I was in the shower, with the water running, and my hearing aids obviously out, somebody turned on the microwave. I felt the floor shake and heard a 30-second low rumble.
I came back downstairs with two thoughts: Today's ride would be called the Honest Bastard Ride (use terrain view for the full effect); and "shark cupcake" would have to become a metaphor for something.
After we were all cleaned off, we took two cars to drive to the marina on Lake Marburg. Tom got turned around a couple of times. He's at that stage of road knowledge where he knows where he is and where he wants to be, but the connection between the two is still sometimes fuzzy. I didn't hold it against him. That's me leading a bike ride anywhere north of Sergeantsville or east of Route 1.
Eventually, we all found the marina.
I was hoping for dragonflies, but there was no sign of insect life at all.
I was thirsty. I needed to sit down. I straddled a kayak on the shore.
We didn't stay long. The Utz factory store would be closing soon. We drove to Hanover and found ourselves in a sea of puffy bags of chips, each flavor more outlandish than the last. Crab? Avocado oil? Yeah, no. Dill pickle? Sure, why not? For a buck, I'll get a bag.
The restaurant we went to was one of those tavern sorts of places. We were seated in the basement. That meant we had to go down a flight of stairs.
We ordered and ate all the things. Then we went back up the stairs, five of us saying, "Ow!"
Then we went for ice cream at Bruster's.
Then we went back to the house, where we sat around the dining room table with our laptops and tablets and phones and ate most of the bag of pickle-flavored chips.
We were of the opinion that tomorrow's ride needed to be shorter than planned and please pleasse please less hilly. There was early morning rain in the forecast too, so we'd be better off shortening the route anyway.
Tom edited the route and we all downloaded it. There was a heated debate over the best way to do this. Some folks rely on a combination of Garmin Connect and a phone. Some of us are old school, downloading to a PC and transferring the file by USB. I ended up doing that for three of the five of us.
We all went to bed early again. I had trouble sleeping. I felt nauseated. Fried brussels sprouts, heavy ice cream, and potato chips are not things I eat regularly, and definitley not in rapid succession. Eventually I did fall asleep without barfing.
In the morning, I packed my bags before going downstairs. While I was at it, I checked the radar. With memories of the first morning on Cape Breton, I texted Heddy:
"My bags are packed," I announced as I entered the kitchen.
Martin said, "That's fine, but it does not help with the morning coffee."
By the time I brewed one pot and made my breakfast, the pot was empty and I had to make another. I used up the entire jar of beans in two days. I was the last to finish breakfast.
We weren't going anywhere anyway.
Tom said, "It's not raining."
It was raining.
We sat on the rocking chairs and watched the sky over the lake.
The rain was more than a drizzle now.
Martin told a story. Martin is always telling stories.
Heddy took a picture of the blackeyed Susans by the sidewalk. I liked the idea, but aimed for the lake view instead. I lay down on the deck. Instantly, I felt dizzy.
I thought I was over that. "What's wrong with me?" I griped.
Tom replied, "What isn't wrong with you?"
When the line of rain had passed, we loaded our bags, loaded the bikes, took out the trash, and locked the cabin door.
Tom had decided, quite ingeniously, to start the route from the rest stop, Deja Brew, which, last time we were here, was so good that Tom and I stopped back to load up on pastries before the drive home. Now we could start from there and load up at the end of the ride.
I didn't wait until the end to load up.
The ride was much flatter. The roads were mostly dry, and even when we passed through spots that had seen rain, there weren't any puddles to ride through.
We stopped for the elephant. We don't know why there is an elephant in this field.
There were sunflowers across the road.
We did have to climb one long hill, but, after yesterday, it didn't really feel like much.
Back at Deja Brew, there was a whole new selection of scones, so I had to buy a couple more to bring home.
We got back to New Jersey in the late afternoon. This trip was much more fun than the last one.
*****
This week, I was back to my old self. I rode my bike to work twice, lifted weights three times, and joined Our Jeff's Wednesday ride. That got cut short when a rider got cut off by a turning car. The rider was scraped up, cops were called, and we ended the ride early to get home before sunset.
Today, Tom and Jim led a combined B-/C+ ride from Cranbury. The destination was the Clarksburg General Store, or, as Cheryl called it, Le Chateau de Ptomaine. I hadn't been there in probably a decade, having told Winter Larry that if he planned to stop there, I wouldn't sign up for his ride.
Not wanting to drive all the way to Cranbury, I met Tom's group en route. From my house to the bottom of Cedarville Road is about 13 miles. I arrived early, so I rode to the other end and waited there.
Tom's group came barelling through so quickly that, by the time I clipped in, I was so far behind I had to sprint to catch up.
I'm not used to riding in the big ring on Janice, but that's where I was much of the time. Dropping to the small ring meant dropping off the back.
Somewhere on Burlington Path Road, I collided with a bee. It stung me as it bounced off my sternum at the zipper line of my jersey. As locations for stings at speed go, this was as benign as it gets.
A little farther on, I reached out to pull a foxtail grass stem, riding with it in my right hand against the handlebars from Red Valley to Clarksburg. It's an August tradition that I thread the grass behind whichever Muppet I'm with. I'd already given Janice one, but it fell out. This was a replacement.
When we got to the deli, the "open" sign wasn't lit. Tom tried the door. The store was open. I'd brought a bar and a collapsible flask of coffee with me, so I didn't need to search the meager (and, once upon a time, expired) packaged food inside. I did need to use the bathroom, which, to their credit, has been re-tiled, and was at least clean, but there was no soap nor paper towels.
Jim's group pulled in as we were leaving. Tom elected not to hang around.
Five miles after the rest stop, the group turned onto Disbrow Hill Road. I continued straight, with something like 17 miles to go. With the extra up-and-back on Cedarville, I'd added a few miles. Now, if I took a long way home, I might be able to squeeze out a metric.
So that's what I did, circling my neighborhood at the end to Griff it up past 62 miles.
I felt fine when I got home. I wasn't sore or dizzy. But I've learned my lesson. I'm going to be a good little Slug and stay off the bike tomorrow.
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