End

End of the Delaware Canal

31 December 2018

Jack H knew the way. Tom and I followed. 

We started from Jack's house in Yardley and wound through some high-price neighborhoods to get down to the canal, crossing onto the towpath on a little red bridge in Morrisville.

The tunnel under NJ Transit's Morrisville Yard was still an active construction site.

We took a path through the woods, emerging on the side of the Northeast Corridor tracks, where I stopped to take pictures of the graffiti.

Yes, that's a swastika on the pillar. Welcome to America.

The guys were waiting for me on the other side. I emerged as Jack was explaining the finer points of embankment reinforcement.

If you're looking for canal scenery you're better off north of Morrisville. The canal was a murky, stagnant, shallow green. We were never far from the traffic on I-95, buffered from it and trailer parks by leafless bramble.

We were following the highway and the Northeast Corridor. I could tell where we were by the landmarks I remembered from my SEPTA commuting days. We crossed busy roads in Levittown; I could see the landfill across from Burlington. I was looking for the old factory in Bristol, across a pond from the train station.

There it was, but first, a great blue heron, the third we'd seen today, this one with a leaf in its mouth.

The factory has been converted to offices; next to it another old building has become apartments.

Jack led us past that to a path that led to the Delaware River, where the Delaware Canal ended.

We found the dock and rode up it as far as we could.

We were trying to get our bearings. Across from us was Burlington Island. The docks pointed west. A factory billowed something on the New Jersey side to the northeast.

Bristol's main drag looked like a fun place to walk around.

Jack led us back to the towpath. Somewhere north of there I had to stop and laugh at the state park sign at the edge of a large big-box shopping center. Can you say "easement?" The park was the towpath, two ruts of red clay chips between the parking lot and Route 13.

I finally found a spot worthy of a scenic photo. This was as good as it got.

Back along the tracks I stopped again for pictures.

As I was putting my muddy bike away I noticed, for the second ride in a row, that my 11-year-old Camelbak was leaking. This time I was well soaked; even my shorts, under thick leggings, were soggy.

It was warm enough to give Grover a good hosing off when I got home.

So that's that for 2018. I rode about 500 fewer miles this year than last. I put more miles on Grover, my mountain bike, than I did on Rowlf, my 1986 Colnago. That'll have to change next year. I took Gonzo, the Le Mond I'm trying to destroy via fluid trainer, out on the road only once. Miss Piggy, in the hills, barely edged out Beaker on my commute; adding in the few times she got to run free of lights, Beaker beat Piggy by about 50 miles. Kermit, of course, beat everyone else, because I like Kermit the best.