Observer photo by Mark Maathuis
Getting lost on the 18-mile trip from Key Bridge in Georgetown to Mount Vernon is possible, even though these signs are placed along the bike trail.

Blue sky and 18 miles of wide open trail

by MARK MAATHUIS

His frame says “Crosstown Fuji,” but I call him George, my bike. Together, we plan to explore the Mount Vernon Trail, which starts at the Francis Scott Key Bridge in Arlington and goes all the way along the Potomac River to George Washington’s house on Mount Vernon. The 18-mile trip will take us past scenic views of the Arlington National Cemetery, Ronald Reagan airport, Washington Sailing Marina and Old Town Alexandria.

To travel to Mount Vernon and back would mean biking 36 miles. Just getting from my home to the trail’s start is another four miles. I could stop short of that destination, but would it still be worth the journey?

George and I compromise. We’ll start at the bridge and go to Arlington National Cemetery and the Iwo Jima Memorial because we have never visited it. That would only be 10 miles, not 36.

I couldn’t have picked a better day for my trip. It is warm, and the sky is blue. But I have no time to enjoy it; I am on a mission.

On the National Mall, I meander between cars on the street and pedestrians on the sidewalk. Stop at red lights? Not a chance. Ride against traffic? As long as it’s a shortcut. Speed on the sidewalk? Just don’t bump into people.

The sight of Arlington Memorial Bridge on the horizon tells me I am almost there. The wind against my back gives me extra speed. I cross the George Washington Memorial Parkway and turn uphill, with white gravestones on my left and the Iwo Jima Memorial in the distance. I park George and walk the last part. From where I stand, the six Marines propping up the American flag are a mirror image of the well-known photo. I go to the other side so the view of the statue matches my memory of it. Mission accomplished. I can go home.

But why? I’m not hurrying. The silence surrounding me makes me aware of the noises of the cars and the city in the distance. I retrieve George and find a sunny spot to sit and relax. I sniff scents of fresh grass mixed with the smells of resin from the conifers. In the distance lies downtown D.C. and along the river, the Mount Vernon Trail.

“Why not explore some more?” I ask George, who is leaning casually against a tree. I interpret his silence as consent, and we set off again. But this time, we don’t have a destination in mind.

The Potomac to my left flows slowly but faster than me. The river must have somewhere to go. I feel far away from the city, but the Washington Monument across the river reminds me of my whereabouts. A bridge above my head blocks the sunlight. Bushes to my left make the river invisible. I pass three other bridges that together form a sort of tunnel. As I leave the passage behind me, the growth on the riverbank becomes less dense. Then it disappears.

The tunnel transports me to another world. An open field lies in front of me; the river expands; the city is gone. Nature surrounds me, and I am reminded of America’s size. If I think I know this country after six months, the enormous space of the hinterland makes me to think again. For someone who has lived most of his life in Holland, a country that can be traversed in less than a day, it is hard to grasp.

The view is of a labyrinth as I reach the Ronald Reagan airport. Planes fly overhead. The trail directs George and me around the airport, away from the river. I continue on an elevated slope with the airport on my left and the highway on my right. Concrete viaducts, cars and planes: This is not what I had in mind. Still, the sun is shining, and I have time. Who knows what lies beyond this urban jungle?

After three miles, the airport is left behind as I near the Washington Sailing Marina. It lives up to its name: 20 sailboats float on the water, competing with each other. I hear the sails flapping when they change tack. One of the boats catches so much wind that it nearly capsizes, but the sailor keeps her steady. I, on the other hand, am no longer in control. George leads the way. I just move my legs, follow the road and enjoy the view.

I enter a residential area, and the street widens. The houses indicate that I am in Old Town Alexandria. The row houses are two-, sometimes three-stories high and so well-kempt that they look new. Their colors–white, pale red, blue and yellow–glow in the afternoon sun. In a country with so many artificially antique things, I enjoy seeing something genuinely old.

Cars pass while I wait for the traffic light to change. By coincidence, I see a green bike-trail sign standing 100 feet from the corner. It seems like a strange place to put a sign. If I hadn’t stopped, I would have missed it. It wouldn’t be the end of the world–after all, I have no goal but staying on track would be nice.

I bike through the street, regretting my decision as I enter a construction area. Wooden fences lie on both sides of the street, and behind them, there are drilling noises and rising buildings. Trucks kick up dust clouds. Avoiding potholes is useless: The whole street seems to be made of them. At the end of this assault course is a T-junction and a green bike-trail sign that points to the street I just left.

Normally, this drives me mad. I hate getting lost, but having no destination means I cannot get lost. The journey is the destination. After biking for almost three hours, I decide I have reached my goal. I follow the sign’s arrow, turn George around and head home.

On the way back, I speed up and soon I see the Washington Monument again. It takes me almost two hours to get home. Once home, I look at the map: I biked almost 25 miles in five hours. “Not bad for a Saturday afternoon, George.”

Silently, he agrees.