New Jersey is the last state.
Uno más.
We are still trying to understand a roadside sign about solar and farms, but the important part is clear: New York is next.
The last several days have been a strange eastern blur.
Day 24 got us into Ohio and the final time zone. That felt significant. We had crossed enough of the country that the clocks were finally back on New York time, even though the bikes were not home yet.
Day 25 in St. Clairsville was “it happens.” Another short report for a day that did not need to become a speech. At this point, something goes wrong, we deal with it, and the road continues.
Day 26 climbed through the Alleghenies. Autumn had arrived. So had Sheetz, which is a respectable subject for an entire post when you are eating all day and moving through Pennsylvania by bicycle.
Day 27 reached Carlisle and somehow included one day without Denny's. The slamburger survived in the hashtags.
This is what the final stretch looks like in the actual record: Ohio, a problem, a tunnel, cold mornings, Sheetz, no Denny's, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and a guy lying in the grass near a soccer goal.
It is not a clean heroic narrative. It is much better than that.
The east looks familiar again. Trees, old towns, rail bridges, narrow roads, autumn light. After the desert and plains, the density is back. More intersections. More cars. More things happening around the route.
The hills are back too.
One New Jersey photo shows two riders coming out from under a railroad bridge. The clearance sign says 13 feet 8 inches. The road immediately tilts up behind it because apparently New Jersey wanted one last contribution.
Another photo is somebody flat on the grass. Also fair.
We have ridden every day. The bikes have had flats and mechanical issues. We have been hot, wet, cold, hungry, tired, and occasionally chased by dogs. The support car has carried an impossible amount of stuff. We have eaten a lot of peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches and an amount of gas-station food that does not need to become public accounting.
Now the distance left is small enough to feel real.
That does not make tomorrow automatic. We still have to check the bikes, charge the lights, figure out the route into the city, eat, sleep, and get everybody across the final miles. A short ride can still go sideways. We have collected enough evidence on that point.
But this is the first night where home feels less like the end of a spreadsheet and more like a place we are actually about to reach.
The Pacific was 28 riding days ago. We started with clean bikes under a lifeguard tower in Santa Monica and a ridiculous number in front of us.
Now there is one state left between us and New York.
Technically, it is the state we are already in.
New Jersey, bring us home.