Forget New York, Wilmington is where it's at!

October 10

Our view outside the window when we woke at the hostel.

We left Chamonix Mansion and headed southwest with optimistic hopes of reaching Baltimore. We rode through Philadelphia and into the suburbs when Nicole encountered another problem with her bike, courtesy of yesterday's "mechanic."

It doesn't shift right," she says. "I can't get into the small ring."

This isn't good. That's her hill-climbing ring. I try adjusting the tension on the front derailleur cable, but no matter which way I turn it doesn't seem to have any impact on the bike's ability to shift into the smallest ring. I loosen the pinch bolt by the actual derailleur and recoil in horror: It's frayed beyond belief. I loosen the pinch bolt and the cable looses all tension. That's not good. I tighten it as much as I can, but the cable is completely shot. I have no idea what this guy did to "fix" this derailleur. Nicole can see I'm frustrated.

"Don't worry about it," she says. "I'll just ride until we get to a bike shop--a real one this time."

I sigh. It makes sense, and I calm down a little bit. I physical move the chain onto the smallest ring in front. It's a band-aid solution, but it will work, and we need to take it easy on the bike to make sure that Nicole doesn't over-exert as she did in Maine.

Not far from the city limits of Philadelphia we see a sign that says Virginia to Baltimore bike route. Not bad. We start following them. The signs take us to a nice restaurant near Swarthmore where we decide to eat lunch. Then we resume riding. Then, for whatever reason, the signs disappear.

We find ourselves north of Chester, Pennsylvania, unsure of the best route to go. A good Samaritan tells us to head almost due west to get into Delaware. "It'll be much better for biking once you reach Delaware," he says. We follow his advice, and it takes us away from the previous scenery of slum row houses to giant, mile-and-a-half-long oil refineries on either side of the road.

I wonder if people could somehow harness the energy that is blowing this flag.

There's something disconcerting about an oil refinery, and the whole is more than the sum of its parts. Partly the odd chemical smells from the refining process, partly the way you can feel the temperature rise as you ride by and can see the flames burning. Add that to the utter barrenness of the landscape: All covered with pavement or gravel, no sign of trees or even grass. No visible signs of people either. It seems less earthly and more like what one would except to see should humans ever attempt to colonize the moon or Mars.

After about a mile and half, we see two (comparably) small vats of petroleum. We laugh. We're in Delaware! The small industrial substation is literally on the other side of the Pennsylvania state line.

We ride for another hour or so before we find the great city of Wilmington. And by great city, I mean a town that looks one step above a leftover Hollywood set from cheesy movie westerns. Downtown in almost complete desolate of human activity, save for a rollarblading teenage daredevil and his friends who are recording his activity for posting on youtube. I'm not sure if it's the nature of the stunts that is amusing or the mere fact that there are humans in Wilmington. As we keep pedaling, I expect to see tumbleweeds roll through town.

The one interesting street in Willmington.

That doesn't happen, but we do ride through some more row houses. We see what looks like a fight about to break out between some of Wilmington's youth. A crowd has assembled to watch and see. Thankfully, cooler heads prevail, one of the two arguing parties walks away, too much relief for all involved.

We keep riding. The sign of the city limits is almost tragically ironic.

"WILMINGTON" it reads in large print. "A place to be somebody."

Wow. Forget New York or L.A. Wilmington is where it's at. I mean, it worked for Joe Biden, right? I'll remain skeptical until that rollerblading kid has reached international stardom.

We keep riding until dusk where we see two hotels in the same parking lot. We debate over which one to go to.

"Well I want to go to this one," I say, pointing to the Holiday Inn. "This other one is scary."

The Holiday Inn has customers. The lights are brightly lit. In the back of the parking lot is another hotel that doesn't seem to have as many customers or even a name.

"Let's at least call," said Nicole. "Maybe the other one is cheaper.

Sure enough. I call the Holiday Inn and they charge $110 a night. The unnamed hotel in the back of the parking lot is $65. Not bad.

We retire for the night. Tomorrow, Maryland.