Day 5 - MossflowerAbbey Farm

Day 5 – “Ever lose your wallet?”
So, the day started like any other epic journey—I was up at the crack of dawn, 6 A.M., fueled by optimism and scrambled eggs. I ate, packed, and was ready to conquer the world, or at least the first few miles of it. After checking out of the hotel with all the grace of a man on a mission (and, let’s be honest, too much coffee), I pedaled back to the ECG route. The sun was shining, the temperature was a perfect 73 degrees, and I thought, “Today’s gonna be a good day.”Then, I spotted it: The Bridge.Now, let me explain something—bridges come in four distinct species:

Baby Bridge: You barely break a sweat.
Mama Bridge: You feel it, but your pride remains intact.
Papa Bridge: You’re breathing so hard, anyone within a 3-mile radius can hear you.
Grand Puba Bridge: You don’t just breathe—you wheeze, cry, and have an existential crisis halfway up.

This was a Grand Puba Bridge.I made it about 75% up before my legs were like, “Nope, we’re unionizing.” I wanted to keep going, but my legs were in full-on strike mode. So, there I was, taking a forced break, looking around like I meant to stop, like it was a scenic lookout. After convincing my legs to get back to work, I reached the top and whooshed down the other side like I was auditioning for a bike commercial. Life was good again. Then, about 8 miles in, I decided to take a water break and reach for my wallet. And this, my friend, is where the real adventure began. The Wallet was Gone.My heart stopped. Blood pressure? Through the roof. Sweat? Immediate. Panic mode? Engaged. I tore through my paniers like a wild raccoon looking for a snack. Nothing. Then, with the wisdom of a detective in a thriller movie, I thought, “Maybe it’s in the hard case on the back.” But wait—I locked that case. Where’s the key? Oh, right. WITH THE WALLET. Brilliant.Cue emotional breakdown.First call? Wife. (Because, obviously.) She talked me off the ledge, telling me to backtrack. I, of course, would’ve figured this out on my own… eventually. Maybe. But by now, reinforcements had arrived—Jonathan, Kylie, Ben, and Lauren. This had turned into a full-blown emergency rescue mission. I half-expected someone to show up with a search dog.So, back I went—right across that Grand Puba Bridge again. But this time, adrenaline had kicked in. I flew up that bridge like a Tour de France champion (well, not quite, but close enough). As I neared the hotel, there it was: my wallet, chilling in the gutter, in a plastic bag, right where I’d left it. You know, just sitting there like, “Miss me?”Crisis averted. Wallet recovered. And I thought, “Well, time to get back on the trail and actually start my ride.”But wait, remember the bridge? Yep, had to cross it again. Third time’s a charm, I guess.By the end of the day, I had pedaled 32 miles, but officially logged only 16. Pretty sure I’m starting a new sport: extreme wallet retrieval cycling. So, after a long day outside, looking like I’d just auditioned for Survivor: Ragged Edition, I shuffle up to the front desk, and with the best “I’m tired and don’t want to move” voice, I ask, “Do you have any rooms on the first floor?”The guy looks at me and says, “No rooms on the first floor… but we do have an indoor pool!” I mean, thanks? Not exactly what I was looking for, but great news for someone craving a dip.He continues, “We do have a room on the fourth floor though.” Alright, not ideal, but okay. Then I ask the million-dollar question, “Do you have a place to lock up my bike?” He casually replies, “Nah, just take it up in the elevator if it fits.” Challenge accepted. So, I measure the elevator. It’s 6 1/2 feet wide. Cool. Then I measure the bike—7 1/2 feet. Hmm. A little over the limit.But hey, where there’s a will, there’s a way. So, after performing an impromptu weightlifting session (lifting one end of the bike chest-high while balancing the other), I somehow manage to wedge it in there. So, yeah, tonight’s gonna be real comfortable—with my bike cozied up in the room like an oversized, two-wheeled roommate.