June 05, 2006

Wherever you go, there you are. It's been said by better and more fictional men than I, and it explains the unaccountable sadness I experienced when pedaling into vistas like the one above (click for bigger panoramic goodness). Someday I will master the way of color balancing so that my panoramas are seamless and bold.

I feel much better, more content, now that I've reached the campsite and set up my tent, in a way that I never felt while huddled inside the pseudo-Tudor box that was the Red Carpet Inn. It wasn't a bad motel at all...in fact, they gave me the weekday rate for all four (four!) nights there, instead of the much higher weekend rate for Friday through Sunday. But, in addition to rendering most of the weight I'm carrying superfluous, staying in a motel is a mundane experience. You can do that anywhere. Getting to a campsite under your own power and unpacking shelter and sustenance from your rig...now that's something altogether different. It's more what I had in mind when I started thinking about this wacky journey six years ago.

I was on the road by 6:30 this morning, and it was an altogether different experience. I escaped Charlottesville without difficulty, sneaking along the sidewalk bordering Route 29 until I reached the University of Virginia campus, where I darted through No Through Traffic roads with 15 mph speed limits. The ride along Route 250 wasn't my favorite...traffic increased as it got closer to 8 AM, but after a few miles I turned off it, stopped off at a hospitable-looking Episcopal church to use the restroom, and continued on back roads. They were still well-populated with SUVs and school buses, but still preferable to the higher speeds of the larger road.

I passed by some genuine manors - mansions in brick with steeply sloped raised-seam metal roofs, with gates and small but ornately arranged and be-shrubbed gardens. I also met Elizabeth Cantrell, who hailed me from her driveway after I passed by. She's a photographer who's originally from Boulder, so she's seen her fair share of cross-country cyclists. She was quite impressed with my rig. Her son, Luke, hidden in the back of the Volvo with the family dog, wasn't quite so sure...he definitely didn't want to get out of the car to come see, despite his mother's encouragement. And it's a good thing he was wearing what looked to be a riding helmet of some sort, because in her haste to keep the dog in the car and start taking pictures, Elizabeth closed the car door and conked him in the head a bit with the window. He didn't seem to mind much, peering out at me through the glass while his mother took photos of me, the rig, various bits of the rig, all the while exclaiming when she noticed a new gadget or flag. At that moment, she was more enthusiastic about my trip than I was.

And she was certainly more enthusastic than the sour old man who came out of the General Store in Woodridge this past Thursday to peer at my trike and drawl, "You ah nevah gonna make it." To which I replied, "Give me your address, I'll send you a postcard from Astoria."

"You got some hills comin', boy," he insisted.

"You mean the Rockies?" I shot back.

"I'd like to have the percentage," he continued, "All the ones who come through here, the ones that make it..."

At which point I dumped my Gatorade on him.

Actually, I mumbled something about being pretty sure I was going to make it, and made up a much-improved version of my half of the conversation later on in the ride. Thursday, you'll recall, was the day I crash-landed in Charlottesville, which already seems like an age ago even though I left just this morning.

The old man's words stuck with me all that day, though, and they echoed in the motel room where I stewed and fretted and yakked up bits of Waffle House hash browns. Elizabeth's excitement and parting blessings were certainly a counter to that, and the sight of verdant mountains broke through my cloudy mood a little...but I still had to force myself to turn around and pick up a quart of sweet cherries from the roadside stand at Chile's Peach Orchard, knowing I'd feel like a dreary fool if I didn't. I wouldn't have even known that the cherries were the thing to get if I hadn't met a local cyclist, who pulled up next to me to chat, sweating, with road-snot on his upper lip. I didn't mind the goo...just meant the man was working hard, that's all. Originally from Germany, Christian told me tales of the bike paths along the Danube and other major rivers, and had the familiar complaints about local scenery being chewed up and spat out by developers. He also told me about the orchard, so know I've got yummy rubies of cherry goodness to snack on, and life is good.

Still: it didn't seem good until I got here. It might be because my campsite overlooks a stream...I've always had an affinity for water, and the more it moves the better I feel. There are fretful thoughts that remain...namely, the Blue Ridge Parkway, which promises some wicked climbs over the next couple of days. I'm concerned about my endurance, my right knee, my trailer. But that's tomorrow, and the next day.

Right now, the wind is kicking up a bit, which may mean that the clouds that have been passing overhead are thinking about dumping some water on me.

Tomorrow morning, I'll have to finalize my route for the day, which will be either very short with free lodging at the end, slightly longer with a motel at the end, or long, with an expensive cabin at the end. I'm hoping for the first choice, but it depends on whether the Cookie Lady has room.

All three will involve what's been described as "the worst climb on the entire transcontinental route."

I think I'll have another cherry...