Conowingo Dam with 20 flood gates open July 26, 2018

Conowingo Dam Flood Gates are Open

When The Rain Comes

The Mid-Atlantic saw record rainfall in July 2018. Most of that rain came down over a 5-day period as a result of tropical moisture moving up from the Bahamas. As the storms left Maryland, they continued north into Pennsylvania, where they continued their deluge.

The Susquehanna River, the longest river on the east coast, is formed from two branches – one in western PA, the other near Cooperstown, NY. The watershed drains 27,500 square miles, eventually emptying into the north end of the Chesapeake Bay. On its way into Maryland, all that water passes through the Conowingo Dam and Hydroelectric Plant.

Ask any Maryland motorcycle rider, and they will probably tell you that they have ridden on Rt. 1, crossing the river along the top of the dam from Darlington in Harford County to Conowingo in Cecil County. It’s a scenic ride, and chances are you’ll see eagles flying around the dam. On any given Sunday during riding season, you can find bikers gathering at the Union Hotel not far from the dam. The lot is usually packed and the overflow often winds up a few miles south at a dock bar in Port Deposit.

Port Deposit July 26, 2018

Port Deposit is a small town nestled on the eastern bank of the Susquehanna – a mere five miles downstream from the dam. The dam has flood gates that can be opened and closed as necessary to manage the water level behind the dam. Obviously, more open gates mean more water coming down the river.

In 2011, Tropical Storm Lee left behind enough water that 44 of the 53 flood gates had to be opened. This led to flooding and a mandatory evacuation of Port Deposit.

As of this writing, at least 20 flood gates were open. The town was under a voluntary evacuation. Officials were estimating that another 4 to 7 gates would have to be opened within the next 24 hours. We will update this post as this story develops.

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Wheels of Freedom today

Wheels of Freedom Back in My Day…

Kenny and me back in the day

Freedom for me has always come with wheels.

My first vehicle was a blue pedal car that looked a lot like my Dad’s 1965 Ford Mustang. That car was made out of steel, and it would go as fast as my little legs could push the pedals. I loved that pedal car and, though I got it when I was 5, I kept it until I was about 11. It ultimately became the primary obstacle for our Evel Knievel jumps on bicycles from the sidewalk in front of our next house.

Sure, I was cool in that pedal car as a toddler. I’d meet my dad in the afternoon in front of our house in Idaho Falls, Idaho. We would ride to the neighbor’s driveway, where we would both make a perfect 3-point turn to park – him along the curb, me on the sidewalk. I was just like Dad.

But my older brother, Kenny, was just like the big kids on the street. He was riding on 2 wheels, and going places my little blue toy car could never go. I was alone in that toy, while Kenny was out exploring a world I could only imagine… with the big kids.

Remembering Wheels of Freedom

When I finally got my first bicycle, I briefly felt that wheeled freedom again. But, I was still on four wheels, not two. The training wheels were a necessary source of embarrassment. I still wasn’t like the big kids. I remember adjusting the training wheels up a little higher, inch by inch, to diminish their effectiveness. I knew what I was doing; I was teaching myself to ride without them. And at night I dreamed about being on two wheels.

I don’t have a strong memory of my first solo ride without training wheels. It’s very likely that, by the time I got to that point, I had elevated the outrigger tires so high that they weren’t doing much at all. I sort of remember Dad running beside me with a hand on the seat of the bike, eventually letting me loose. Once I left those embarrassing supports behind, I knew freedom like never before. I could go further, I could ride faster, and I could taste the acceleration of an open ride down what we called the “dirt hills.” I was free.

When I was about 9, we moved exactly 3.3 miles away to a new neighborhood. It seemed like 20 miles at the time. But, we were now less than a mile from our school. This meant we no longer had to take the bus. We could ride our bikes. Wheels of Freedom.

My bike looked a lot like this

My Wheels of Freedom are getting bigger

I had a different bike by then. Bigger, obviously. This one was yellow and had a banana seat. I don’t even know if they even make those anymore. I lived on that bike. I rode to school and back, explored the neighborhood and the surrounding area on that bike. I knew freedom on that bike. At one point, I lowered the front part of the seat, and raised the rear. This didn’t give me any place to sit when I rode, so I stood. But I could lean back against that seat and pop a wheelie like nobody’s business. That just magnified my freedom. I also learned to ride without touching the handlebars. I was one with the bike.

We did our best to emulate our hero, Evel Knievel, jumping from homemade plywood ramps over my beloved pedal car… and each other. The yellow bike with the banana seat proved to be a perfect daredevil ride for me.

A few years later, we left Idaho, crossed the country, and settled into a new home in Pennsylvania. I started riding a 10-speed with drop bars, but I spent much of my time on the four wheels of a skateboard. That was usually on my belly or my back, striving for insane speeds down steep inclines.

Accidents Happen

Then, Kenny bought a Harley. It was an AMF-Harley SX-125 enduro. After some time, I was invited to learn how to ride it. The first ride went something like this: Kenny showed me how to  throttle, clutch and shift. I managed to do all three, right into a pine tree.

I don’t think I rode the bike much from that day until the day he joined the Marines and headed off to bootcamp. Then I tasted those wheels of freedom again. Kenny, if you are reading this, I hope you can forgive me for taking over the bike while you were gone. But, know this: I never crashed into a pine tree again. Key words: pine tree.

I would ride with friends on their Suzuki DR-400’s or Yamaha YZ-350’s. I was the kid with the training wheels again… until we stopped at one of their houses; at which point their fathers would inevitably come out and admire the Harley.

It was many years after that before I was in a position to buy my own bike, a Harley-Davidson 883 Sportster. I kept it for about a thousand miles, traded it in for a couple 4-wheel ATV’s, which I sold for cash. In 2006, I bought a brand new Sportster 1200 Custom. Our current ride is a 2005 Softail Deluxe.

It is true: freedom comes with wheels. But, through all of this, I have learned that it’s not about the vehicle you are on. It’s about your state of mind. Therein lies the freedom. The bike is only a tool to to help you get there.

And this is another reason why I ride.

What were your wheels of freedom growing up verses what they are now?

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What happens when one flies up your sleeve while cruising? Bees will be bees.

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Jeff’s Bee Story

An apiologist would probably take me to task for lumping all stinger-laden flying insects into the same category. And I mean no disrespect to honey bees, which serve a vital purpose in our ecosystem. But, for the sake of sharing my “bee” story along with Louise’s bee story (note the lack of finger quotes on hers), the title of this short tale shall remain “Jeff’s Bee Story.”

There we were, on the bike, southbound out of Maryland. We had the kickstand up before the sun finished its first cup of coffee. Today would kick off a 10-day, 10-state ride – our first motorcycle vacation together, and we would do it on a 2006 Harley-Davidson 1200 Custom. Yep, a Sportster. Loaded down with only the things we thought we would need, we entered our second state, Virginia. The sun had finally joined us on our adventure, I had switched the lenses in my goggles from yellow to black, and we were enjoying the ride. All was good with the world, and I relished in the thought that this would be our lives for the next week-and-a-half.

Then it happened. Something stabbed into my right forearm, underneath the leather sleeve of my jacket. I knew this feeling from somewhere: I was being electrocuted – no that wasn’t it; a hypodermic needle was no doubt sticking out of my arm – well, maybe not; it had to be a wasp (or the like). I immediately reverted to my extensive training and experience with insect attacks and… okay, I don’t really have extensive training – but I do have some personal experience with stinging insects from bees and wasps to hornets and yellow jackets. I didn’t have time to identify the culprit by name, order or suborder; I had to act… now. So, I did what made the most sense at the time: I lowered my arm and begin to shake it violently. Great idea. This would certainly coax the invader out of my sleeve. Or not.

Louise was not comforted by my sudden arm shaking (most likely, because removing my right hand from the throttle caused the bike to slow down – and we weren’t even close to our breakfast stop in the southern part of the DelMarVa peninsula), so she asked me, “What are you doing?” Well, that was the gist of it, anyway.

I replied, “I’m being stung.”

“Pull over,” was the response from the back seat. There was probably an exclamation point on the end of that sentence. And maybe the word “idiot.” Can’t remember.

So I pulled over, put down the kickstand, and jumped off the bike. As I ripped off my jacket, I briefly saw something small and dark fall to the ground. It disappeared, so I assumed it had been swallowed back into the depths of hell from whence it came. Now it was time to deal with the aftermath of the attack, and here’s the takeaway from this story: if you have a choice, marry a nurse. Apparently, Louise had heard (or read) that toothpaste is suitable first aid for an insect sting. She was right. Within minutes, the pain and swelling had subsided and my arm smelled minty-fresh.

Thank you, my dear wife and riding partner. You saved my life. Now let’s ride on to Cape Charles, VA for breakfast.

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Freedom’s Just Another Word for Why We Ride

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I believe that the best distance between two points is never a straight line. There’s a peace to be found in the twists and turns; the scenery and the surprises; the here and now. 

This is why we ride.

The road beneath you slips by. You lean to the right, feeling the rubber of the tires grab hold and pull you through the curve. The bike straightens out as the road does; and then you are leaning left – a rock face to one side of the bend, a river far below through the trees on the other. You ride on.

The blue sky peeks through the canopy. You feel a moment of the sun’s warmth on your face and arms. And just like that, the shadows take over, bringing with them a comfortable coolness. A quick whiff of cedar rises from the forest and greets you.

The rumble of the engine speaks up, but fails to completely drown out the whisper of the wind. And you ride on.

The edges of your periphery blur… the leaves, the asphalt and the yellow lines, all part of this tunnel through nature, forged and defined by man’s desire to go places. 

It is here that we find freedom.

So, we travel. From point A to point B. 

When you are somewhere between points A and B, you are no place. And no place is a good place to be. So, you ride on.

Heads or Tails

Louise and I will sometimes pick a general direction and head out on the bike. When we are faced with a decision to turn left or right or continue straight ahead, we will flip a coin. Heads left, tails right. No schedule, no plan, no worries, no specific destination.

Sometimes, Louise will give me the choice: left, right or straight ahead. With no guidance other than my gut, I’ll choose, and we’ll head in that direction. And we are always amazed by the things we discover that we may have missed had we simply followed the recommendations from the mapping app or GPS. Often I wonder: what would we have found if I had made another choice? We may never know… or we may have to go back one day and find out.

And that’s why we ride.

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