Runing Dry

I logged somewhere in the neighborhood of 150 miles on Friday—two mountain passes, a ridge road, and some straight lines through farm country. Redbuds and cherry trees were in bloom. Farm fields were freshly plowed. It was perfect. I ran the tank dry.

I didn’t think much about it at first. I was more concerned about finding a gas station than marveling at my mileage. After filling up, my total was $16.00. In 2000, that same $16.00 filled my Golf. In 1984, it filled an old F-Series flatbed that I drove.

When I first thought about driving around Pennsylvania’s back roads, I had dreams of an old Ford truck similar to those I grew up driving. In fact, the one I learned to drive on sits outside what used to be the Big Trout Inn in Bellefonte, Pa.

With gas at $3.65 per gallon, I’m glad I got the bike.