Tuesday,
March 29, Day 0
Less
than 24 hours to Go Time! One more little test of the posting
system via this cool little handheld Pocket PC from Dell (Axim
X30 w/ a Bluetooth collapsible full size keyboard). My entire computer
system, when folded up, is smaller than my copy of The Grapes of Wrath.
Must continue errands to get ready to say farewell at Community Meeting (school
assembly) tomorrow at 10.00 a.m. Whoo-Hoo!
--
PJClements
Wednesday,
March 30, Day 1
43 miles, Peddie to Cinnaminson, NJ.
Well,
this journey has begun. What a great beginning to the trip, and a good start to
the spring term at Peddie, to leave from Community Meeting (our all school
assembly) after addressing the kids and saying goodbye, and having them respond
with a rousing sendoff from the steps of the theatre. Really cool too was a
package of letters from the kids of Western Civ
Studies class ("Read just one each night, Mr. Clements."), and a
special cache of chocolate for the road. All of the kids' gestures were moving,
the work of a rich community.
Special
too was riding from Peddie to Crosswicks with Neal
Hammer, a good friend and the father of two Peddie women, both Principio
students. Neal and Lois Hammer making the time to participate in this little
adventure and affirm again their special character, is humbling. However, what
was most powerful of all was Melanie Clements, just her own self, being lovely,
smiling, and free. Leaving her for all this time is daunting, and will probably
crush me some depressed day down the road. But today her total gracious
coolness felt like enough power for a couple thousand miles.
I
had a terrific experience in the Burlington County Bike Center on Charleston Road in Willingboro. I pulled in because my headset was
a bit loose (and my butt a bit sore), and owner Susan Nece
and John, wrench extraordinaire, fixed me up in a flash with good bike repair,
a nifty bike map of the Philly region, and some good conversation. I'll post
their photo for sure!
Tomorrow
I cross over into Philly and head toward Lancaster, following as much as I can the old
Lancaster
Road /Philadelphia Pike as traffic permits. I'll not post this
first report until Thursday, maybe from some coffee joint near U. Penn.
Peddie
people: thank you. You inspire me. Melanie: thanks beyond words. Friends and
other family: everything's looking good. More later,
folks, from further on down the road.
--PJClements
Thursday,
March 31, Day 2
68 miles from Cinnaminson, NJ to Kinser, PA.
Easy
up and out from the nameless motel smack up against busy Route 130, a beneath
brow joint where I had to ask for hot water for the shower but the porno was
furnished on Channel 2 unbidden. Pedaled down the old River Road through industrial riverside NJ,
further on into Camden, down State Street far enough to ask directions and be
glad it was morning. Pushed the bike up to the pedestrian crossing on the Ben Franklin Bridge, and enjoyed Philadelphia unfolding itself from high in the
air at walking speed. Down into town, chatting with George Washington for a bit
at Independence Hall, then across Walnut Street through town and on to UPenn.
I
passed West Philadelphia High School on Walnut, and Overbrook High on Lancaster Avenue, spectacular statements both.
Lancaster Avenue took me past Villanova University, Haverford School, where
baseball and lacrosse team were warming up, and on past old wealth, some newer
victories, commerce always, slowly out of the city and on to towns further on
down the old road, Paoli, Malvern, Downington,
Coatesville, Sadsbury.
Stayed the night at the Roamers' Retreat Campground,
hurrying to beat dropping temperatures and the threat of rain. $27 for the tent
site (steep but worth it) and $4.59 for dinner. Can't
beat that. Off in the morning to Lancaster, York, Gettysburg, and wherever else I manage.
--
PJClements
Friday,
April 1, Day 3
Kinser -> Gettysburg PA (77 miles / 188 total)
A
sweet day, especially since I feared rain in the night. Woke up to 42 degrees,
toasty in the tent, and got ready to roll. Pedaled through Paradise on the way to Lancaster along Highway 30. Lancaster is a handsome town, and quaint, yet
a hub of explosive trucking activity. I stopped to watch police halt traffic to
allow a wave of women to cross the highway for a quilters
convention, 53 footers rumbling patiently, waiting to resume their missions.
Highway
30 gave way to 462 through York, then finally to a smaller road,
116 to Hanover and Gettysburg. The land has been rolling,
sometimes quilted up by Amish, frequently smoothed by dairy farming. The land
always seems hustled in some way: "Buy Here, Pay Here" used car places;
old 18th c. Stone houses and milking barns along the road; farms and paper
factories; row houses in towns. As I slide along, the scenes unfold at
contemplative speed, appearing long enough to focus on and wonder, but then
being replaced by something intriguing enough to change my focus. When I get
off the old main roads, or when the density of "stuff" relaxes and
the population declines, I'll wonder differently, and longer. Nonetheless, today included a bright morning redolent of both Amish
farms and diesel power, and it ended in the gray rain of the battlegrounds at Gettysburg.
I
looked up Grant Acker '01 at Gettysburg College, knowing that it was Friday evening
of a senior's spring term. We met outside a fraternity house on the college
main street, and caught up with our lives, families and friends. He's still
Grant Acker, but older, bigger, stubbled, and with
things to do before a May 15 graduation.
The
campground where I had planned to stay refused me admission, saying I'd be
flooded out by morning. I'm thus staying at a budget motel (killing my budget
but much nicer than that place in Cinnaminson), and will figure out how far I can
manage Saturday, and how. The weatherheads are
talking about 2" of rain, temperatures in the 40s, and a slow storm. Maybe Blue Ridge Summit?
--
PJClements
Saturday,
April 2, Day 4
Gettysburg -> Blue Ridge Summit (23 miles /
211 total)
Woke up in a hotel to rain, heavy rain, continued minute to
minute worry about the Pope, and Weather Channel images of terrible, awful,
flooding rain. I
sat and wondered whether I should stay in G'burg, or
head out. After the second round of weather channel reports, I realized that
only disaster lurks on TV. Between radar images of regional rain, the weatherhead showed clips of flooding in Wayne, NJ and then a 1963 film of a Dallas tornado, F3, as a lead to a report
that Tornado Alley is quiet. Forty year old black and white film
("Terrific film quality," he said.) of unspeakable destruction to
inform us that everything is OK. With that, I checked out.
Rain
was sluicing down the gutters up into Gettysburg town, and it didn't let up. In just
a few minutes I was very wet, in a half hour I was soaked. The creeks were
flooded and in low sections of 116 I had to move to the middle of the road to avoid
rising water. Two cherubs in an empty fruit stand promised a place to eat ahead
in Fairfield. Mid day meal at the "Book and
Table" diner, where I had a long gabble with proprietor Shelly Kellogg,
and he 20 year old son Matt Fletcher and 25 daughter
Sara Fletcher, both helping out Mom on Saturday in the diner. Good stories;
more later.
Onward into Carroll Valley, and then up
Route 16 to Blue Ridge Summit, a memorable climb. Lee led a retreating army up this
road, and years later Chavon Sutton flopped on the
ground at the top and exploded into tears, having pedaled to the top, the
hardest things she'd ever done. I smiled at the memory. We ate whole pies with
our fingers there. And Fernando got a haircut there too.
Warmed
up and dried out at the laundromat while washing all
I had. Talked with Rich De Luna across the street about his
history in the area. Called Susie Miller Lloyd and
secured permission to ride up to the "Mountain House." I
camped on the porch of the lovely old retreat house, my tent stakes duct-taped
to the porch deck, the wind howling up from the valley, snow swirling in the
morning. Not a lot of miles today, but it was a full day nonetheless.
I
carved a message to the Lloyd girls, leaving it inside the shutters of the
porch window. Their gift of "Monster Dude," a snarling green plastic
dinosaur toy, rides on my rear rack, facing backwards, guarding my rear. He's
been doing a great job.
Sunday
should be Waynesboro, Hagerstown, and then on down old Route 11 as
far into Virginia as I can go. The wind and the cold may be influential
today.
--
PJClements
Sunday,
April 3, Day 5
Blue
Ridge Summit -> Martinsburg WV (42 miles / 253 total)
Woke up on the porch, glad not to have been blown away by
the gale howling up from Waynesboro. 35 degrees and snow squalls as I
packed and headed down the mountain to Rousersville
and the valley. The wind was so strong I pedaled the downhills.
Grrrr.
Had a bite to eat out of the wind in a motel dining room, sharing it with a
stream of wedding guests saying goodbye and heading off on a compass of trips
home. The bride and groom took their time visiting once again with aunts and
cousins and friends from the past.
Headed south towards Hagerstown trying to hide
from the south wind, cold and grey. Maryland appeared and the winds didn't
change. Just outside Hagerstown I hooked up with Route 11, my road
for the next several hundred miles. I stopped for some celebratory coffee, and
was chatted up by an old lady at the next table. "If you're headed west,
don't go to Frostburg. It's much colder there." Thanks, I'll follow 11 south and avoid Frostburg. "I was born in Frostburg and
not until I went to work in Baltimore, during the war, did I realize how
cold it is in Frostburg. Where are you from." New Jersey. "It's much warmer there. Where you headed." I'm heading south down 11.
"Well don't go to Frostburg. It's much colder there."
I headed
south and crossed into West Virginia. The wind was just too brutal, so
my goal of hitting Virginia and riding in four states in one
day disappeared. A cheapo motel appeared outside Martinsburg, and I dived in
out of the cold and wind, far away from Frostburg.
--
PJClements
Monday
April 4, Day 6
Martinsburg WV -> Edinburg VA (60 miles / 313 total)
42 and windy, but clearing and sunny.
Rolling
down 11 it was clear I was still on a road of commerce, but the land was
softening up and some of the farms were larger and had been once more
substantial and prosperous. The road also sprouted Civil War battle signs,
markers just too wordy to read while pedaling, but neatly placed just often
enough to let me unsaddle myself for a moment. Winchester appeared,
a town that switched hands some dozen times during the War, and breakfast
beckoned. A county town, Winchester had several diners surrounding the
courthouse and lawyers' row. I joined the conversation at the Piccadilly Grill
(corner of Piccadilly and Cameron), a fifteen stool storefront breakfast joint.
Taking a seat out of the banter, I watched "Chuck," Phyllis Pyne (waitress), and Gary Reedy (short order cook, owner,
and Phyllis's brother) sass back and forth, first about Chuck's order and why
he couldn't make up his mind, or speak up, and why Gary's hearing was not what
it once was. After these stylized preliminaries, Gary asked whether Chuck's church had
done anything Sunday in honor of the Pope. There followed a half hour of back
and forth about priests who smoke cigarettes and drink beer, what a holy man
the Pope was no matter what religion, points on Catholics' worship Mary, the
cost of the Pentecostal church we just bought, wonder that the Pope was Polish,
a couple of theological clarifications, and then more religious argument. Had I
not known what old friends these folks were, and how comfortable they were
letting a stranger into the fray, I'd have thought they were at odds. "But
that's your right to believe that!" "It sure is, thank God."
Chuck, a pentecostal
"holy roller" was rightfully proud of his church community, growing
from 60 members a few years ago to 176 this week. Gary, both a Baptist and Catholic (try
that in NYC), was a terrific gentle needler, and a
kind man. "Chuck" declined to have his picture taken (I later learned
he's in the security business) with his partner in argument, but picked up my
check quietly on his way out. More on this exchange later.
South
of Strasburg, Route 11, The Valley Pike, turned great. Rolling through rich
farmland, the Blue Ridge knifes along on my left, the next ridge further to the
west on my right, both clearly focusing me and the road up the valley.
The
wind picked up again in the afternoon, and I was tuckered out as the sun fell.
In Edinburg, far short of any campgrounds I had
on my maps, there appeared a "Creekside
Camping" sign. I was saved. Hilda Arnaud welcomed me to a lovely campsite,
just upstream from "The Hatch, a B & B for Fly Fishermen." This 77 year old
woman with an explosion of curly grey hair has her own story. More on her later. I'm off on Tuesday, aiming through New
Markey, Harrisonburg, and Staunton, a good ride up the "Valley of
the Shadow."
--
PJClements
Tuesday
April 5, Day 7
Edinburg VA -> Mint Springs VA (71 miles / 385 total)
Today
was a day of riding. The sun came out and the air was still in the morning, and
the riding was sometimes sublime. Through New Market the Massanutten
mountains were a steady ridge edge on my left. Soon
the valley opened up wider and the quiet special road was lost to greater
commerce. Harrisonburg and later Staunton were important regional towns full
of people and manufacture. In some ways they were much like Lancaster and Chambersburg, important valley towns. No
surprise that Ted Ayers at U.Va. matched
Chambersburg and Staunton for his Valley of the Shadow
project on 1850s America.
But back to Hilda Arnaud from the Creekside
Campground in the lovely town of Edinburg. What follows is a reconstruction,
but I think it's fair. After first conversations and pleasantries and questions
about her family, I asked her about her dream of America. In a steady stream she said,
"My husband Joe, he has diabetes but moves around well, getting the
exercise he needs -- he'll be up early turning off the lights if you want to
talk to him in the morning -- he and I are the camp hosts here. He's from an
island off Normandy (?--PJC), and his people there go
way back. We married, both second timers. I'm 77, but
six months older. Before he and I married I'd only ever been to other counties
here in Virginia, Maryland, and Pennsylvania, but now we've traveled in that RV
and I've been in all 50 states now, Hawaii and Alaska on a cruise. Wherever we went we
always visited the historicals. We have two sons.
John is a cheft over in Luray. He's doing real well.
Has a bakery, only bakery in Luray, and he's doing just fine. Was a lighting
designer before that, worked for Marie Osmond and (PJC forgets name), you know,
traveling and making them look beautiful on stage. But he was tired of the road
and always loved to cook, so he became a cheft. Our
other son, Chuck, he got the calling to be a minister, and he's doing just fine
too, has a church over in ????? Kentucky, and also another smaller one in ????? too. We sold the big farm
and bought a smaller place, and this RV, Joe and I, and we said, "Here's
your inheritance!" So John went to cooking school, Chuck took to
ministering and started his church, and we traveled to all the states. So there
you are. That's our story and my answer to your question about America."
--PJClements
Wednesday
April 6, Day 8
Mint Springs VA -> Natural Bridge Station (52 miles / 437 total)
The
valley started to narrow up again, the rich Virginia land rolled by. The big highway
over the Blue Ridge from Charlottesville joined the valley, and I smiled as I
saw the turnoff Peter Clements and I made five years ago coming north on 11 as
we went over the mountain at Stuart's Draft. Greenville and Steeles
Tavern and Fairfield and Bustleburg
rolled by, towns named by hope or function. Lexington soon arose, and I poked around the
juxtaposition of the VMI fortress and the classically columned W&L campus.
The Valley Pike (Route 11) is know here as Lee-Jackson highway, two heroes
joined yet again, but how odd that Jackson's name resonates at VMI with one
look, and Lee in the chapel at W&L, a couple hundred yards apart.
At
the Black Dog Café in Lexington I met and chatted with Greg and
Ginny, new proprietors of this terrific new enterprise (great gumbo,
comfortable conversation, free wireless). Married 27
years, they lived for the past couple of decades in Dallas, working as a telecom engineer and
schoolteacher. With both children out of the house and onto college and lives
beyond, "our responsibilities for the children were over and it was time
to move on to our dreams. We started to look about for what else to do in life.
We had always talked of having our own business, and we wanted to live in a
small city... So here we are. Our dream of America? It's happening right here. We worry
about if we have enough money to pay the bills. That's all. Not whether we have
enough for a fancy new car. And we are able to take time and have these
interactions, to speak with people who come in off the street. Just yesterday
there was a family from England here, visiting the college, and we
talked with them. And this (pointing to me, suggesting
today's new story that walked in off the street). Making a living is
important, but we've done our bit for our family. My personal dream isn't
national in scope, but I would wish that everyone had the time to be able
to meet and know other people, even if they don't see them again."
--
PJClements
Thursday
April 7, Day 9
Natural
Bridge Station -> Salem (57 miles / 493 total)
Yesterday
was supposed to be my rest day, but the weather was too fine to lie about. This
morning broke nice too, and I still have hopes of making it all the way down
the valley to get to Hiltons VA by Saturday night, and listen to the music at
the A.P. Carter Family.
A
three mile climb loomed from the campground back up to US 11 at Natural Bridge. Halfway up from my James River campsite I stopped at the
Rockbridge General Store to rest and find some coffee. There was no coffee for
sale, but owner Larry Herndon greeted me and then swept me back into his office
for a cup from his own pot. We sat and talked about his life while sitting in
easy chairs, next to a winter stove, Larry's big easy chair before a wall of
carefully collected baseball caps. A baseball and football player in high
school, he left northern Virginia to head to Blacksburg, foregoing a call from the Orioles
to go to college, playing football instead at Virginia Tech. After work in the
family cattle business, and some government work near Washington, Larry and his wife left the
suburban life before their kids hit school to head to where they were more in
control of their lives. "My wife went back to school and now teaches. I've
worked in both the cattle and construction business, and then jumped at the
opportunity to buy this place. We have a good community here that supports the store,
and we're part of the community. There is a difference between making a living
and making a life."
Rain
began to fall in the afternoon, and what started as a lovely day turned into
work. The valley kept climbing, and the Lee Highway rolled on and up into Buchanan and
on to Roanoke. Just before the Hollins College campus Tinker Creek crosses the
highway, and I enjoyed remembering Annie Dillard's book and some of the Principiates' fine experience with it. Just three days
before Megan James alluded to it in a weblog message.
By Roanoke the rain was getting nasty and
dangerous, so I jumped into a $40 motel, and watched film from the Vatican on the Pope's funeral. Lovely
though the coverage is, you'd thought we lived in a
Catholic country with cultural ministry running the networks. Steroids one week; Shiavo the next; now
the Pope. Next week something else new for the moment.
Tomorrow, a rest day for sure.
--PJClements
Friday
April 8, Day 10
Salem -> Dublin VA (41.05 miles / 540 total)
My goal
today was rest, and I got some, but now how I planned.
I
dawdled and stretched in the morning, feeling worn a bit but evenly fatigued
all over my body, a good sign. If one part was more sore
than another, or if there were hotspots in my hands, or left foot, or on my
butt, I'd be in big trouble. But not so. The morning
was grim, and my first goal was to get out, spin myself loose and fined the
first campsite to spend the day and rest.
Christiansburg
looked like a good goal, ten miles or so, and a place for food, rest, and maybe
a wireless zone. I had forgotten Christiansburg lies atop a rise in the whole
valley, a "big climb" that cross country riders on the Transamerica
Trail all discuss. I'd been down that hill five years ago with Peter Clements,
but it's easy to forget downhills. This was a three
mile climb and I was halfway up before I realized that this was
"that" hill. So up I spun, slowly moving but pedaling fast and loose.
I exploded in sweat but felt great at the top. I was loose and warm, and happy
too, climbing a challenge that wasn't the challenge I feared, for I was just
smoothing along in the moment.
Found
a café in Radnor and talked with a MFA student in poetry at Hollins,
discussing the missing Tinker Creek signs. She had named her dog for Annie
Dillard's husband.
I
got some bad directions to the Claytor Lake State Park, directions that added some ten
miles to my day but introduced me to the "The Wilderness Road" a day
early, a great delight. Getting a taste of the oldest of the old roads was
terrific. No traffic, built for muscle powered traffic and thus swervy and rolling amongst these hills, a guarded by some
proud dogs.
Long
downhill and detour to the Claytor Lake State Park
Campsite, but a fine site. A family setting up a full tilt camper site, complete with monster campfire, comfy dog, and ten
year old boy, asked me over the share the fire's heat. After the usual
explanation of my journey, the boy's first response was "You'll meet some
fine people on your trip. The nicest will be in Kansas." I disappointed him for a
moment with the news that I'd probably not hit Kansas. "Then Oklahoma. If you ride through Oklahoman,
you'll meet the nicest people there." I thanked him for his prediction,
not sure how it could be.
--
PJClements
Saturday
April 9, Day 11
Dublin VA -> Marion VA (70.80 miles / 611 total)
A crisp, clear and terrific morning. I broke camp, found some truckstop coffee at an I-81 interchange, and spun off on
the "New Bern Road," the local name for the
Wilderness Trail. In New Bern I stopped at the Wilderness Road Regional Museum, but they weren't open that early.
I'd been there before, so it was nice to wander the old houses on this old
section of road. The whole village is 18th and 19th c. Log and frame houses,
and it's just there along the road, left alone by the Wilderness Road being replaced by the Lee Highway, Route 11, and recently I-81. An
ancient red-haired dog wandered across the road to say hello, three legs
working fine, the fourth a bit iffy. His delight in visitors was not iffy, for
after an obligatory circle and smell, he flopped down next to the road for a
belly rub and nap. He was still there snoozing in the morning sun when I later
rolled out of his town.
A
few more miles on the Wilderness Road and on Adventure Cycling's original
"Transamerica Trail," laid out and first ridden in 1976 as part of
the "Bikecentennial," and I was headed for
Marion, Virginia, home of the "Hungry Mother State Park" and
campground, a memory for Peter Clements and me, and for everyone on 2004's
"Trail of Tears" bicycle trip. Joe Clark's flip flop is still lost on
the creek bottom there. Camping there was a treat. Virginia's State Parks are said to be the nation's best, and I can't disagree, and this is the best of
the four or five I've visited. Built in 1936 as part of FDR's CCC works
program, it is set in a spectacular creek valley, with a knife edge of
mountains at its back. It was quiet and just right cold on the top of a ridge
there, the night quiet except for the long distant and echoing midnight train whistles from a couple
valleys over.
However,
the evening was powered by a long visit with the Condra
family, of Marion, who had come out to camp for the weekend. David and Lisa had
the car camping operation down, unloading all the gear they needed for
themselves and their two daughters, Elisabeth (3rd grade) and Hayley (four years old). They love the outdoor life, and
escape even the four miles from home to the park every chance they get.
Elisabeth has been camping "since I can remember," even doing
primitive camping along the trail with her folks when she was much smaller.
Outdoorsmen all, Elisabeth has even helped skin deer, spending some time
explaining anatomy to me, focusing on the esophagus. I was very impressed. David
and Lisa left Virginia Beach to move to Marion, where David's mother, recently
widowed and ill, lives, when Elisabeth came home one day "talking about
what 9 year olds shouldn't know about." David left a higher paying job to
come to Marion, but wouldn't trade it for the world. They head out on
weekends, see the kids' grandma, and pick off pieces of the Appalachian Trail when they can. Their gear was
grizzled and worn with good use, and David's hospitality included a cold drink.
"You got a cooler with you on that bike, or can I offer you something
cold?" was his opening. Mmmmm. The girls ran off to play with the dogs of another
campers, a couple who'd come to hike and tire out their hounds, and I accepted
the Condras' hospitality and sat a while and talked our of our lives and families. Lovely
people and a lovely evening.
As I
left I left early Sunday morning, David had a fire going and a pot of camp
coffee steaming. As the sun broke into the trees and began to warm the frost,
and as his girls slept on, David poured me some strong coffee, flavored with
grounds and smoke and all the fires that had boiled that pot before, a solid
morning.
--PJClements
Sunday
April 10 , Day 12
Marion
VA -> Bristol TN (57.88 m / 669 total)
Old
11 from Marion to Chilhowie was a quiet treat on
a Sunday morning, though there was a flurry of traffic just before 10 a.m. and services down the road. I
stopped to eat and do laundry in Chilhowie (laundromats
do the trick, Harry Holcombe, and keep me clothed just fine.) One woman doing chores
in the laundromat: "I came here from Cincinnati, divorced. My brothers said it was
much better place for kids than Ohio. When they were little it was true.
But now I don't know. It's hard for kids everywhere, not just here, what with
all the troubles. Round here the meth labs are real
trouble. Not much to do, 'cept sit and try to make a
few dollars, or whatever, with meth or drugs. Not
much for young people to do. More jobs going out than coming in,
and not much work anyway. Want to read some of this newspaper? Not much news,
not that's good anyway."
The
road south took me through my favorite town so far, Abingdon, Virginia. The old part of town has kept its
strength steadily. Early settlement evidence remains (let's not forget pioneer
settlement, the French and Indian Wars, folks. The Civil War was not the first
fighting down most of this valley), and all the early 19th c. buildings remain
in good repair, and some later good luck still works, like Mary Washington
College, now an Inn, and the Barter Theatre.
Outside
of town I broke down and pulled in for a DQ malt and met a couple of veteran
teachers from Marion, sneaking down the highway for a DQ
and a TCBY frozen yogurt. These two lovely women, one retired from 4th grade
and the other with two years left before she retired from teaching 2nd grade,
and I chatted for a while about teaching, the often insuperable challenges,
environmental and parental, some kids face, and their desire to travel more. Australia beckons for one, as soon as her
next two years conclude, and dreams of more travel lingers for the other,
though recently widowed, she struggled to imagine big trips alone. "Wait
two years, and we'll go to Australia together,
and maybe New Zealand too!" Sounds like a plan.
A
few miles left to Bristol and a cheap room (no camping
anywhere near). From Bristol I leave the arterial Valley Pike / Wilderness Road / Lee Highway / Route 11 / I-81 overlay and head
straight west, just above the Tennessee border, heading to Gate City (The A.P. Carter Museum) and then
the Cumberland
Gap. One hundred miles across the ridges now. I'll be out of
wireless range for a while I suspect. Ciao!
--
PJClements
Monday
April 11 , Day 13
Bristol
VA/TN -> Duffield VA (48 mi / 717 total)
What
was I thinking? Rip off plenty of 50 plus mile days, usually 75 or so when the
weather was good and conditions fine, and schmooze around America chatting?
These mountains just kicked my butt. I have no brains. What was I thinking?
Today started off as lovely as can be. For the past couple of hundred
miles I've been following the major artery down Virginia. Today, I changed course, heading
due west, knowing I'd need to cross some of the ridges I'd been paralleling
since Blue Ridge Summit, PA. Crossing I-81 and leaving behind all the interchange
commerce and cell phone towers of the highway, I headed west on Route 58 toward
Gate City. The road was hilly, and every half
hour or so I'd struggle up and over a ridge, but in lovely sunlight, exploding
spring, and every lovely country delight a cyclist enjoys: only the local
traffic of farm pickups, one hand greetings from the top of the steering wheel,
periodic sweeping downhills on the backsides of
ridges, nonchalant cows to chat with. From Bristol to Gate City on 58 was a cyclist's dream, challenging,
but terrific.
After
passing through the Moccasin Gap in Gate City, all hell broke loose. Joining 58
from the south, squeezed through the gap to join me, was heavy duty industrial
traffic headed north on Route 23 out of Kingsport. The ridges had focused all motion
onto one highway, and the land tightened the focus into a four lane road
without shoulders. The old wilderness road had not
been paralleled with a new highway. There was no room. There was one road, a
modern artery. With 53 footers ripping by, I road the next 25 miles toward Duffield on the three inch edge of the road, listening and
watching for the pulses of vehicles clusters coming up behind. The highway
climbed and then descended (scarier!) three major ridges between Weber City and Duffield,
and on the climbs I spent
most of my time in the gravel shoulder, doing 7 or 8 milers and
hour. The drivers were all great, but there's no arguing physics with loaded
trucks, either as they fly to carry momentum into the rising climb, or as they
try and manage their mass on the twisting descents. The sign for Natural Tunnel State Park could not have appeared fast
enough. I busted it all day, and made just 45 miles down the road.
For
all the load, dangerous, and fretful work of the afternoon, the evening, like
the morning, was idyllic. My campsite was atop a peak in a convoluted maze of
limestone capped hilltops and severe creek chasms. I pushed my bike a couple of
hundred feet above the Natural Tunnel of this region, a tunnel that still
carried coal train traffic. and camped alone at the
top of the State Park. Distant dogs echoed up a valley on one side, and twice
in the night the train whistles worked their way down a valley on the other
side. In the morning I could see in the distance the long ridge of the Cumberlands.
--
PJClements
Wednesday
April 13, Day 15
Jonesville VA -> Cumberland Cap TN (41 mi / 786 total)
Again,
the day had no single character, but two distinct parts. The morning ride was stunning
and lovely. The Daniel Boone Wilderness Trail was no longer buried beneath
heavy truck traffic, and the next 30 miles were old road lovely. The sun
eventually took the wet sharpness out of the air, and the quiet country road
was terrific. From Jonesville I traveled County roads 662, 661, 885, and 667,
the original Wilderness Trail in this long final valley, and enjoyed the rich
farmland along the Powell River. On one smaller ridge climb, just
beyond the remains of the 1775 "Priest's Fort," an outpost on the
edge of the wilderness, I met a woman walking along the road, a Norwegian lady
who lived in the valley with her long retired husband. She asked me if I'd
talked to any of "the originals," aiming me to the Sunoco station in
the next town of Rose Hill. "That's where the originals
sit and drink coffee and talk about whatever they talk about. They're sometimes
hard to understand." Originals.
The
old Road and the new highway again converged and then melted together, but in
this final valley there was room for a nice shoulder, and little traffic. For
ten more miles the cliffs of the Cumberland Mountain escarpment rose on my right, a six
hundred miles long wall topped with gathering rain clouds in the afternoon. The
valley floor I was riding began a long, steady climb, as did the Cumberland
Mountain wall, but it felt as though the ridges, walls, and valleys were all
tightening, focusing together.
Three
miles before the Gap itself, The Cumberland Gap National Historic Park
campground entrance appeared, and as I pulled in, the rains began again. I
pulled hard up the long hill to an empty campground, found a site with good
drainage, and set up camp fast. At four in the afternoon, I finally scrambled
into my tiny tent, soaked in the heavy rain, and did not emerge until the
morning. I eventually dried myself warm, and fell asleep excited that tomorrow
I would somehow cross the Cumberland Gap into Kentucky.
However,
I'd learned that the only road to the other side is modern Highway 25E, which
follows a tunnel beneath the Gap. No wonder I'd not read about other cyclists
crossing this Gap. But I'd come all this way, the entire path
settlers came, all under my own power. No way I
would cross the Gap through a tunnel, or in a pickup truck.
--
PJClements
Thursday
April 14 , Day 16
Cumberland Gap TN -> Middlesboro KY (15 mi / 800 total)
Today
turned out to be an extraordinary day, ridiculously full of happy and
unexpected turns, all improbable because it began so lousy.
I
pulled myself from a warm and dry cocoon into the wet chill of 40 degrees on
the mountaintop campsite, stowed a soaked tent, put on soggy shoes, and began
the day to cross the Cumberland Gap. After a chilling downhill to the highway, and then
a busting climb out of the fog into the sun of a warming mountain day, I headed
vaguely toward the tunnel. However, I veered back down and into the village of Cumberland Gap to dry out, find a place to do
laundry, and see if there was some way to pedal over the gap and avoid the
tunnel. And I was hungry.
In
Sue Webb's Country Kitchen I found more than what I sought. I had a long talk
about the region, town, and hopes with Joe Webb (long time resident of Cumberland Gap) and waitresses Patsy Johnson
(originally from Kentucky) and Lorraine Nieto (14 years here
since California). They filled orders, wrote up tickets, and talked with
everyone on the run while I sat at the counter resuming the conversations when
they returned. Fearful of a growing police state ("Did you know that right
here in Tennessee, Kentucky, and Virginia, the police can run roadblocks and
searches, for no reason? Six dollar an hou