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Day 9: {now south and a bit west of point "J"}
TUESDAY, JUNE 10:
“No Room at the Hut.” That’s how we’ll always remember today. The episode, to be detailed shortly, left us with a bitter taste even though most of the day was a very enjoyable ride.
We started early, riding with longtime friend Russell Frank from his home in downtown State College (home of Penn State University, where Russell, a former Democrat reporter, teaches journalism). The temperature was mercifully cooler and a series of green Amish farming valleys replaced the hill we had been dealing with in pedaling from Milford to State College.
Russell had planned to ride with us only to Spruce Creek (about 25 miles from State College), but it was all so easy that he continued with us to the old Pennsylvania Railroad town of Altoona. Despite some grades leading into town, we polished off 50 miles before having lunch at a supposed famous diner called Tom and Joe’s. Then we paid a visit to the town’s Railroad Museum, which was fascinating – but a big mistake.
We resumed riding at 3, just as the skies above Altoona darkened. Within 45 minutes on Route 36, we were ditching the bikes and running for cover as a thunderstorm hit. About an hour later, with the skies beginning to clear, we resumed climbing the endless grade toward the Allegheny summit.
But before we crested came the Burger Hut, a drive-in and soft-serve ice cream place where I would score my daily milk shake. But just after one of the two women manning the frosty stand shoved the shake out the window, a crack of thunder sounded and the heavens opened. A major eastern gully washer ensued and a few tented tables outside the drive-in provided no relief. Winds were intense, rain was sideways and we were drenched.
When a lightning strike hit just a quarter mile from us, we had had enough. We knocked on the frosty’s glass window and asked the women if we could come in – just until the storm blew over.
“We’re not allowed to do that,” said the younger one.
Three minutes later lightning lit the sky and a deafening crack of thunder sounded simultaneously. Truly scared, we raced to the window and again asked for shelter.
“We’re not authorized,” said the older woman, whom I had expected better of.
I mean, who did she think we were? Muggers in cycling Spandex? Their lack of compassion was colder than the storm itself.
But in 45 minutes, the skies cleared and we moved on, bound for Gallitzin, only four miles away. We had planned to go further, but a “severe thunderstorm warning” through 10 p.m. had us looking for shelter in the nearest town.
“That will be $110 a night,” said Mike, proprietor of a railroad-themed bed-and-breakfast hard by a major tunnel on the Norfolk and Southern line. Since it was way beyond our budget, we said no thanks. But just after Ben and I began planning our route to Ebensburg – the next town up --he came out of the office with an offer -- $80 – we couldn’t refuse.
After drying our gear, we slept soundly as freight trains rumbled in and out of the nearby tunnel. Not even those heartless ladies at the Burger Hut could keep us from sleep.