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This morning was, I hope, the absolute emotional nadir of this journey. I slept fitfully, and when the cell phone alarm rang at 6:30 I switched it off and snoozed until 7:30, a familiar knot of dread in my gut. I only had 25 miles to go today, but I felt the siren song of the Motel Room: stay here, it tempted, where there is a bed and a television, and you don’t have to pedal or dodge traffic or risk anything. Stay here.
It was all I could do to start gathering up my scattered gear and pack the trailer. I was like a zombie, going through these motions, unsure about whether I’d actually manhandle the trike through the doorway and set off...ever. I was overwhelmed by a feeling of abject despair…nothing made sense, there was no reason for any of this, it was all pointless. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I broke down. After a few minutes of doing that, I resumed packing. I knew that things would only get worse if I stayed in that room.
When it was time to roll the trike out, I saw that the right front tire was flat. I’ve been fortunate so far: I discovered the two flats I’ve had while in a motel room. I feared that this was the same deteriorating valve problem that caused the rear tire to spontaneously deflate back in Charlottesville, but it wasn’t. A small corkscrew of wire, which had probably been there for days, had worked its way through the Kevlar fibers and pricked a tiny hole in the tube, which I identified by inflating the tube and sticking it in a sinkful of water until I found bubbles. I patched the tube, removed the piece of wire from the tire, and reinflated it…after pausing for a minute or two to curl up in a ball by the door. Very pathetic. I felt absolutely wretched.
Last night I had a dream that I was listening to George Harrison. The previous night I dreamed that I made a fruit smoothie, which prompted me to buy some fruit at the Wal-Mart. That worked out pretty well for me, so after I finally checked out of the motel and pedaled up Route 80 to the exit for Route 15, I put on All Things Must Pass. And: everything transformed. The dreaded ride became The Ride. I didn’t think about the fact that I hadn’t left until 10:20, and would surely get hammered by the sun. I rode along Route 15, playing tag with the rumble strips. When it was time to climb, I climbed…a lot. Two or three climbs, actually, one up to 1,500 feet, in the afternoon sun with no shade. I ate energy, drank fluids, and did what I had to do, encouraged by a spray-painted message on the road and a newly-buoyant heart.
When I finally got to Buckhorn Lake, I stopped at Spark’s General Store and picked up three bottles of Gatorade, a Coke, and two cans of pasta. Sparks (I presume) told me about the church in Booneville, where there was a free place to camp. But I had done my 25 miles, and so I rode another mile up the road to the site...where I couldn't find the attendant. What few open campsites there were all had yellow RESERVED cards on them. I knocked on the attendant's RV, to no avail. Annoyed, I did one circuit around the campground road, and finally decided to replenish my water supply at one of the unoccupied sites and get out of there. It was after three, and If I was going to press on for another 19 miles to Booneville, I didn't have time to hang around and see if the attendant deigned to show up and fit me into some miserable patch in the woods.
Back at Spark's store, I confirmed the Booneville setup: place to camp, free, even (yes!) a shower. When I asked if they had a bathroom I could use, he said they didn't...and gave me the key to the church up the road. There was a bathroom there I could use, he said.
When I unlocked the unassuming, brown-painted wooden door and stepped into the sanctuary, I was stunned: hand-planed, tongue-and-groove fitted beams soared in the vault overhead. The chandeliers were fitted with glass lanterns, and the ranks of a small pipe organ gleamed behind the altar, satin in the afternoon windowlight.
Completed in 1928, "The Log Cathedral" was constructed entirely of logs by the people of Buckhorn, and is considered the largest structure of its type in the world. (You can read more about the church here.) I spent as much time as I could spare ogling the woodwork and taking blurry flashless photos, then returned the key to Sparks. We talked about the church awhile. Obviously proud of his town's history and of the church, he told me that they still held services there as long as the weather was warm enough, usually May through October. I finally pedaled out of Buckhorn at 4:15.
There were more climbs, as I knew there would be. Led Zeppelin provided the impetus for those, as did the sun, sinking ever lower above the hills. With a dead headlight and only one tail light, I didn't want to be on the road when the sun finally dipped below the trees.
There was one other thing that kept me going: faith. I knew that I had those 19 extra miles in me, and doing them today meant that I'd have a reasonable 40 miles to ride tomorrow instead of a daunting sixty. When I finally reached Booneville, a couple of guys lounging on the steps behind the municipal building directed me up the road to the Presbyterian church. There, I found a small pavilion, designated for cyclists' use only, with a sink, a shower, a portajohn...and a message:
The styrofoam plate was tacked onto the wall next to the cyclist log book. I think these guys left it for me...and it was an affirmative, uplifting end to a day that started out so terribly.
I'm wondering if, like physical muscle, the psyche can be strengthened by the sort of emotional workout I've been experiencing lately.
As with a lot of things I'm wondering about these days...I suppose I'll find out.
