The riding day had not gone as I'd hoped - specifically, as long as I'd hoped. Bogged down by traffic, I'd made less than half of the distance I was hoping in the half-day. Right around sunset I realized I was about to make it to the first bail-out point (this motel) on my route, and probably wouldn't make it to the second for several hours. The inviting lit-up sign by the side of the road and the wood-panelled rooms I'd seen online convinced me, after going a mile past it, to turn around and call it a night. As it turned out, I'd stopped right before a long sequence of switchbacks that were fun in the morning but would have been miserable in the dark.

There's no food at the motel itself, but in Romney proper there's several options. I picked the best one I saw that was open - a pizza restaurant - and enjoyed solid-enough pizza and a beer.

Maybe there's some really good breakfasts around, but I wouldn't know: I had ordered a giant fuck-off pie the night before and finished it off cold for breakfast, paired with coffee from the in-room machine, on the outdoor second-floor hallway. It held up.

It's less than a mile to Romney, but the only way to walk is on the shoulder of the highway. It was alright on the way there in the dying sun, but pretty sketchy on the way back. The motel itself was surrounded by wooded hills I might have hiked in if it weren't dark and I weren't beat.

Full wood panelling - deep, deep carpeting - long low brown wood furniture - mirrors on the ceiling - usually I find mid-century cosplaying like this a deeply embarrassing form of Mad Men worship, but that's because they so rarely commit to the bit as properly as this place does. I loved how it all looked. Leaving aside the interior design, staying in a cliffside building tucked away from the road made it feel like a proper start to an important journey.

The beds were comfy, the A/C beautifully frigid, the pre-slumber shower hot, the room silent, the covers thick, and the pillows fluffy. And yet I had trouble sleeping. The room I stayed in - with two beds - was just too long. Something about the distance from the front door to the bathroom at the back wall made me uneasy; like I was too exposed to attack. The long mirror along the wall only worsened things, extending the virtual space in which my impossible assailant could hide and catching glints of light that became imagined peripheral motion as I got more and more into my head. I did manage to get to sleep at a reasonable hour... but not as early as I would have liked.

Usually when I push myself too far, it's because I'm stubborn and refuse to turn around. In this case, however, I'd already pushed myself too far when night began to fall and I realized I wouldn't make Buckhannon. At a gas station I found myself equidistant from the last town with lodging and the next town with lodging - Glenville. The 30 miles to the turn off 119 was the most scared I've ever been on a bike. Despite not actually being fatigued in any real way, the introspect terror of monitoring myself for any signs of drifting off to half-sleep kept ice in my veins. There was relief when I saw the turnoff, then a dropping stomach as I got further and further up the road without seeing a light, trying to remember how many miles I should travel before giving up, and then a rush of euphoria when I saw the sign.

I had eaten earlier, nor would have dared to get back on the bike to venture for food even if I hadn't.

After coaxing the 450 to life, letting it warm up for what felt like a reasonable amount of time, it refusing to shift out of first, pulling over to let the poor engine warm its half-frozen sump for another few minutes, and then finally getting on the road, I stopped at the Tudors Biscuit World in Glenville proper. It was alright; I mainly remember the coffee, the biscuits' most defining feature being that they were present and several. The guy behind the counter seemed aggressively earnest about me not having to clean up my tray after I was done.

Don't. The only access is the county highway -- and I do mean only access, not just road access; the inn is at the bottom of a valley, flanked by a steep slope to the northeast and a creek to the southeast. The alleged town of "Truebada" is two staging yards for industrial vehicles, not a town. If you really wanted to, you could ford the creek and climb up the other side of the valley to visit the federal prison.

A violently normal hotel. It looks like a Holiday Inn that either got debranded by corporate or the franchisees debranded it themselves. Acceptably neutral building. My room looked out onto the woods and I woke up to fog on the hill, which was pretty sick.

Comfy beds with the right number of pillows; the heating/cooling was sufficient, but I remember it being slow to bring the room to the right temperature (whether that was hotter or colder than ambient, I can't remember). Nothing to complain about, not much to highlight. Any bed would have looked like a nest made by god by the time I got in.

Despite a flattened tire (that I continiously pumped up rather than patch), a lost clutch-level bolt (that I replaced with a bolt from Advance Auto Parts and some electrical tape), and a handful of unexpected detours, I approached the edge of Cumberland only slightly later than I expected to, with plenty of daylight and energy left. This rare occurrence -- approximate punctuality -- didn't mean I wasn't happy to see the white-painted brick facade of the inn; I just wasn't deliriously happy to.

There were several promising places open for breakfast, but I foolishly decided to only drink coffee in town proper (at a nice shop just down the street) and save my appetite for a well-reviewed place just a few dozen miles homeward along the canal trail. Of course, when I pulled off the back road thirty minutes after leaving, my growling stomach having propelled me at inadvisable speeds towards my destination, I found that they had decided to keep closed this morning despite their usual schedule - I suspect a product of it being the day after St. Patrick's. I nursed my hunger long enough to make it to Berkeley Springs, where I feasted.

The rooms themselves were large and the beds comfortable. The major downside was the lack of private restrooms; my floor (consisting of three or four rooms) shared a bathroom, which locked and unlocked with a room key.