Jul 5, 2024 4 min read

As if I have fewer than two working brain cells, I decided to go for a bike ride on Western Pennsylvania’s hottest day in years – a humid 95 degrees. The plan was to get on the trail before 9, but that didn’t happen; figuring the temperatures would still be bearable if I got the ride in before noon, I set out at 10.

Forecasters called for a humid high of 95. I put my bike on the car and filled my bottle and, knowing I would lose electrolytes, added a bit of Gatorade. Pulling into the trailhead, I saw heat swirls rising from the parking lot – empty but for one car, driven there by the county’s other cyclist who didn’t have the good sense to stay home.

Although my bike has cages for two water bottles, I took only one; workers had installed a drinking fountain about two miles down the trail – a place to refill on my way out and my way back. I pushed through the heat for those first two miles, gulping my water until the bottle was four-fifths empty.

Pedaling the path I’d done dozens of times before, I tried to remember where the shady parts were. Would the tree cover come around this bend? It never did, and as the sun pounded my shoulders and cooked my head inside my helmet, I drank the last of my water. I was within a tenth of a mile of the water fountain.

Finally, there it was, its chrome torso sparkling in the sun. As I dismounted, I wiped my sweaty hands on my bike shorts and grabbed the empty water bottle from its cage and walked to the fountain to refill.

The on button was hot as I pressed it. Nothing came out. Tried again. Nothing. The fountain was new but not turned on. It was dry and so was my bottle, and I was miles from my car, or home, or water.

My thoughts turned to college summers when I worked long and hot hours at a farm, hoeing corn and picking tomatoes. We didn’t carry water bottles. I do recall a “community” jug but not drinking from it.

In fact, I don’t remember anybody drinking much water back then. There was milk and occasionally pop, and that plastic pitcher of Kool-Aid in the fridge, well-diluted so we didn’t get too much sugar. But I don’t remember drinking water, and certainly not from the kitchen faucet. Were we all desiccated and parched all the time? Or have we evolved to be thirstier?

As I climbed back on my bike, panic set in. Would I keel over with heat stroke? Would that other dumb cyclist happen by and rescue me (and share her water)? And what are the signs of heat stroke, anyway?

Oh, right: if you stop sweating, you’re in trouble. I ran my hand across my face. So far so good. I slowed my pace, hoping to preserve what little hydration I still had in my veins. Up ahead was the bridge underpass that had offered the only bit of shade I’d encountered. I jumped off my bike and attached the side of my body, cheek to knees, against the cool concrete covered in graffiti. I felt my heart rate slow.

The last mile-and-a-half were brutal. I decided that if I stopped sweating I could climb down the rocky bank and jump into the creek – a choice between heat stroke and water snakes.

It never came to that. I staggered to my car, soaked through and exhausted and depleted. The other car was still there. I hope she brought enough water.