no yellow jersey for me

Averaging a whopping 6 miles per hour the last three days, it is doubtful I'll be wearing the Tour de France yellow jersey. But imagine all I would have missed flying around at 20 miles per hour? A dead warthog being hollowed out by flies as if it were a jack 'o lantern. A dollar bill dropped on the side of the road, perhaps lost by a kid who had a lemonade stand, but was soon hit by the same truck that got the warthog. An old man, John Rawlings of Dalton, PA who met the Duke, John Wayne, three times in his life and proceeded to tell me about each encounter in his best John Wayne impression while I stood, nodding politely in the sweltering noon heat. Can't enjoy that at 20 miles per hour. Or even 10 miles per hour. No, for the slice of Americana I'm savoring, your average speed should top out at about 5 or 6 miles per hour. I've gone so slowly uphill, that at times, my odometer reads 0 miles per hour because it thinks I've stopped peddling.

In Towanda, PA, one time home of Stephen Foster. You can't help but whistle "Camptown Races" down these roads. This area of PA is known as the Endless Mountains. Not very encouraging to see when you're biking. They should have more encouraging welcome signs that say something like

"Welcome to the Endless Mountains (mountains end a few feet from here)"

or

"Welcome to the Endless Mountains (But you're already at the top, so it's all down hill from here, baby!)

Write to PA Tourism Department with your suggestions of Endless Mountain slogans and maybe it'll increase the cycling around here.