June 10, 2006

[Note: many of the photos in posts are now clickable, and open biggified versions of themselves.]

Soon, hopefully, I will shake the big fear that haunts my mornings, as I gain more knowledge of what it is I can do in a day.

Natural Bridge is a rock formation etched by the action of water, and was purchased by Thomas Jefferson from King George for 20 shillings. These days, it's a touristy place that I was briefly tempted to visit, along with the accompanying wax museum (rock formation, wax museum...a perfect match, yes?). But there was a longish hill to climb. And besides: if I stopped to see the rock with the hole in it, I wouldn't have time to visit Foamhenge. That's right: a henge made of giant foam blocks. Feast your eyes.

I finally got to ride what I consider to be "rolling hills": steep hills that are spaced so that you can fly down one and most of the way up the other without pedaling. Once you get up the first hill, it's like a little roller coaster. There were four or five of them in a row (swoop!) and then a steep descent into a valley where I spent most of the day enjoying the first truly flat terrain of the entire trip, riding along a narrow, low-traffic road that ran between a stream and railroad tracks. The temperature was a breezy 77 degrees, and there were just enough high clouds in the sky to keep the worst of the sun at bay.

But what truly made the day was the iPod. By picking carefully and choosing music that wasn't terribly fraught with memory, I was able to create a sweet soundtrack for the ride. When I came out of the valley on the approach to Troutville, Jamie Cullum's Catching Tales made the climbs fly by. Despite the work, the sweat, and my twingy knee, I was positively bouyant. Music has always had a tremendous capacity to transport me, which is one of the reasons why I've been reluctant to use the iPod until now: I needed to focus on the trike and the trailer, to feel how they worked together, through my hands on the steering bars, my feet on the pedals, and my butt in the seat mesh. That way, if something mechanical gets out of whack, I don't necessarily have to hear it to know about it. Plus, I needed to attain a general comfort level with being on unfamiliar roads before I began to rely more on my mirrors and less on my ears. Now, though...the music just adds so much to the ride.

I reached the town park in Troutville by 1:30, where I saw: lots of kids on playground equipment; a chain link fence surrounding the park with a gate too narrow to easily admit the trike; a loud, long train passing by about thirty feet from where I'd have my tent; and a sign saying No Bicycles, Roller Blades, Skateboards, blah blah blah. Not feeling the love, I busted out the paper map and discovered four or five motel choices not three miles away. And I am now sitting on a bed in the Daleville Econo Lodge. I left a message on the Troutville Town Hall's answering machine, explaining that I had pressed on.

I know, I know: motels bad, can do that anywhere, and so on. I really do like my tent, you know. But I must confess that the shower with its scrubby washcloth and free soap was most welcome. And I feel good, here, unlike the motel in Charlottesville, where I was tired, fried, huddled in bed watching cartoons, and feeling nauseated. Yeah, I'm on a bed now, and there are cartoons, but I'm writing to you fine folks and actually looking forward to tomorrow's ride, instead of steeling myself for it. That's a first.