September 29

I'm in the French Creek State Park, in PA. It's a nice place, and the campers are quiet. It's getting cooler: I'm wearing jeans, t shirt, sweatshirt and jacket - all the layers that I have. It was a day of killer hills and headwinds. Thirty miles in six hours.
I met a guy in a diner, where I had breakfast before I left Norristown this morning. He was in his late fifties, and he took a seat at the counter across the aisle from my booth. He asked if I owned the bike outside, and said that I should be careful in this neighborhood, it could get stolen. I said that it would be hard to steal with all the gear on it. He wanted to know about the trip, and especially about how the bike and trailer were working out for me. He rides a bike himself, he said, but he doesn't much like the one he has now. The one he had before was much better, but it was stolen. It had been lent to him by a friend, who was in the hospital at the time, and who wanted the bike back when he got out. He didn't get out; he died in the hospital.

When I paid my tab he came outside with me, and looked the bike over, admiring the suspension and the comfort seat. He said he might get one. He gave me a clap on the shoulder, wished me well, and went back in to finish his breakfast. I wish him well.