Sur La Plaque!

Miles: 72
Total: 956

Right over the Nelson County line I witnessed something that filled me with deep, visceral sadness. Promise lost. Opportunity wasted. Unrealized potential, posed parallel the solid yellow line. A king-size Reese’s cup package, crushed. Its insides, outside. Time of death: unknown. Time of discovery: quarter to eight. Its cups arrayed like a traffic light, peanut butter oozing out the rays of a grade-school sun.

Luckily, much happier things waited in Nelson County’s Bardstown. I picked up a sandwich for later and rolled past Heaven Hill’s collection of bonded barrelhouses. They must have at least a dozen within view of the road, and product seemed to be moving steadily on HH-branded semis.

My destination, a little up the road. Willet Distillery’s right on SR 49, up the hill. I missed the 10 a.m. tour by a few minutes, but had my lunch in the shade and waited till 11 a.m. when Donna gave me a one-on-one tour (low demand on a Wednesday morning, I guess.). Founded in 1936, and still family owned, Willet makes much less by volume than the big guys in the area, and bills itself a craft distillery. They’ve got two mash cookers, one that holds 3,000 lbs of grain, the other 6,000 lbs. Sounds big to me. Fermentation happens in open-topped 10,000 gallon vats, and lasts four or five days, depending on ambient temperature. Willet’s got a column still for its beer-stripping runs and an ancient copper pot still for final distillations.

Outside the distillery we ventured into the barreling room, where white spirits are cut to cask strength and rolled out into aging warehouses to sit for the next four years or so. Simply tin wrapped around a wooden skeleton, each five-level barrelhouse holds 6,000 53-gallon casks. There’re plumb bobs hung from the ceiling to ensure stability through even loading. The barrelhouses exude the smell of whiskey, and walking inside’s overpowering, in a Very Good Way.

Donna tells me all the corn comes from Nelson County, which helps explain why I’ve been seeing so much of it the past few days. A lot of corn and horses west of Berea. Surprisingly, not a ton of tobacco, and the plants I have seen are very small. We try a pair of samples, including a remarkably citrusy two-year old rye.

I’m back on the road in the heat of the day, headed to President Lincoln’s birthplace in LaRue County. It’s a national historic site, and I enjoy a 15-minute film in an ice-cold theater before climbing 56 steps (one for each year of his life) up the monument and paying a visit to what was once thought to be Lincoln’s birth cabin. It’s known now to be much too recent, dating from the 1840s, but neat to visit regardless. The Lincolns, including Abraham, spend two years at Sinking Spring before a land-ownership dispute pushes them a few miles away.

Sinking Spring’s just a short ride from tonight’s home, Hodgenville’s LaRue County Park. I stop at Dollar General for supplies, and we have a new champion in our kcal/dollar race: 21 oz. of generic fig bars for a buck. 2200 Calories. It might be tough to unseat this King Fig.

There’s a pavilion toward the back I have my eye on, but when I ask the folks at the pool about a shower, they say sure, we’ve got a cold one here, but if you’d rather, there’s a hot shower in our community building, just across the field. Needless to say, I rathered and set up inside the somewhat air-conditioned building. Heaven. Thank you, LaRue County.

Oh … goatly.

The tallest part of the building houses a column still, used for beer-stripping runs (first distillation).

Each building holds about 6,000 53-gallon barrels.

Complete with 56 steps, one for each year of the president’s life.

Inside the memorial is this cabin, at one time thought to be Abraham Lincoln’s birthplace. In reality, it takes from the 1840s.

1/2 gallon challenge.

LaRue County Community Building, inside the city park. Hot shower and some air-conditioned rooms make this one a winner.

Miles: 78
Total: 884

You know, that neither-nor kind of light, the light that’s not really, the light that interchangeably means incipient dawn or incipient darkness.

That kind of light that means you’re getting a wicked early start, that or you slept through the entire day and are up just in time for a fresh goodnight.

I was out of the tent about 5:30 a.m., ready to get down the road while it’s cool. The more miles in before a midday break, the happier I am. Today, it turned out to be about 50 miles before I pulled off in Harrodsburg for lunch and to use the library.

I love libraries. Entirely possible I’m biased by the A/C, but every experience has been great. Friendly staff — the librarian in Berea had (and I assume still possesses) a British accent, which really classed up the joint — and a chance to contact home (you can only do so much computing on an iPhone, especially away from major cities and fat data coverage.) Damascus, Virginia, has a gorgeous facility that caters to AT hikers and bicycle tourists. They even have a register to share who you are, and where you’re from.

ANYWAY. Bicycle route signs disappeared a few days ago, but this wasn’t an issue because all the intersections were labeled. Not the case today, where I had three unlabeled streets within 15 miles of Berea. I missed an anonymous right to stay on SR 595 and ended up in Paint Lick (what a name, eh?) where my unfolded map flagged Steve down. He lives in town, does a little touring and hopes to have a B&B&B open in a couple years (bed, breakfast, brewpub) and asked what would draw cyclists. I told him a beer and place to put a tent up would do it for me. He said Garrard County’s wet (and made a little sign of the cross), and that there’s a park where you could camp, except there’s a tent revival currently in progress (yeah!). I backtracked about two miles, made my turn and then carefully watched my map and odometer for a right onto the unmarked and aptly-named Ninja Bridge Road. Nailed it. A little later, on Jess Ray road, a pickup passed me and the driver said, “I think you missed your turn” with the dignified amusement you save for Lycra-clad weirdos who pass through town every summer. Sure enough, back about 100 yards was my unmarked intersection. Some Good Samaritan cyclist had attached a safety triangle to a telephone pole. Thank you, kind people of Kentucky.

As the sun rose higher, the wind picked up. Without all those huge hills (the little peaks in Western Kentucky are called knobs, as some Berea-folk informed me) around to stop gusts, you trade one demon for another. A fresh hell. Variety is the spice of life. It wasn’t too bad, actually, except for the stiff crosswinds that occasionally pushed me sideways. I tacked accordingly to avoid grazing passenger compartments.

In addition to a fab library, Harrodsburg is home to Fort Harrod, Kentucky’s first permanent settlement (built by James Harrod in 1774) and probably just as important as Boone’s Wilderness road in westward expansion. Near the fort is the chapel where President Lincoln’s parents married and a gargantuan Osage orange tree, dating from the late 18th century, 88′ tall, 76′ around and the unofficial national champion (split trunk).

More pastoral landscape through Rose Hill — pleasant riding and views with a fair number of ups and downs.

Cruising in to the home stretch, I stopped for a photo of a farm sign advertising BueLingo, a double-stuff Oreo cookie of beef. The owner came out and we talked for a little bit. He told me that while he’d never been to Pittsburgh, Kentucky had it all. In fact, he bet a Texas army buddy that Kentucky has more lakes than the longhorn state. You’ll have to do your own fact checking on that one.

I’m stopped tonight Lincoln Homestead Park’s picnic pavilion, where I’m resisting my tent despite a highly motivated mosquito population. Cyclists can camp overnight for free. There’s no shower, but I’ve got running water, flush toilets and electricity. Just down the road from the pavilion is the park proper. It’s home to the cabin Nancy Lincoln (née Hanks) called home while Thomas Lincoln courted her. In addition, there’s a replica of the cabin Thomas grew up in while raised by his mother, Bathsheba, after Abraham Sr.’s death. I’m too late for a tour, but a sign says some of the furniture was made by Thomas Lincoln. An accomplished woodworker and important father, he wasn’t a great farmer. Next to the cabins is an 18-hole golf course, and part of the park. Nothing like teeing off that par five just a few dozen yards from history.

Thanks to the driver who let me know, and thanks to the folks who put up the safety triangle. How about a road sign, Kentucky?

Local soda.

Kentucky’s first permanent settlement, it played a role equal to Daniel Boone’s’ Wilderness Road in opening the west.

The largest in the nation, its split trunk denies it grand champion status.

Kentucky folk call hills, “knobs.”

Replica of the cabin Thomas Lincoln was raised in following his father’s death. The site is a short distance away. The cabin contains original Thomas Lincoln furniture.

Where Thomas Lincoln proposed to her.

A golf course attached to your historical monument.

Lincoln Homestead Park’s pavillion.

Miles: 5

Total: 811

Today was the my first day off since leaving Yorktown, and it felt nice to ride around town on an unloaded bicycle, no longer a dowsing rod for grades. Oh! Kentucky charges $15 for two nights’ camping, and the cashier offered the wifi password on the back of a Marlboro carton. After breakfast, I rode into town for a cup of fantastic coffee at Berea Coffee and Tea, where I planned Map 10’s overnight stops. It’s looking like I’ll be Murphysboro, Illinois, Monday, June 23. Berea College is a liberal arts work college, founded by John Fee in 1885, and special in that (a) it charges no tuition — you pay your way through work-study programs, (b) it was the first coeducational and racially integrated southern college (a colossal accomplishment considering the time and location), (c) that you’re basically ineligible for admission if your parents make more $90,000. I took a 45-minute walking tour with Andy, a current student, who really showed me around. He’s studying English and Music, and grew up in town. While it’s not common for students to live that close, the college gives hearty preference to Appalachia residents, so if you’re not from the mountains, it’s 50:50 you’re from another part of the country/another part of the world. With just 1,600 undergraduates, and no graduate programs, it’s a small school, but I’m really glad Andy took the time to show me around.

On his recommendation, I found Main Street Cafe for lunch, which was a mammoth Greek salad, followed by a burger and fries. I’d worked up a powerful craving for crunchy green stuff, and the salad satisfied. After lunch, I picked up strawberries, bananas, apples and grapes at the grocery store and visited the library to spend some time on this site and take care of other electronic odds and ends. I spent the rest of the afternoon consuming fruit, getting deeper into Infinite Jest, and working on my bike a little bit. I’m having trouble coaxing the front derailleur into serving up my big ring. An intermittent issue that needs more attention. I’d hoped to find a beer in Berea, but Madison County’s dry. Apparently you’ve got to head to Richmond County, about 10 miles away for a suds run. Sigh. Well, with coffee and fruit secured, today’s far from a failure. An early start tomorrow to Lincoln Homestead Park, just west of Maud. Should be an easy haul on fresh legs.

Berea College’s Draper Hall’s modeled after Independence Hall in Philadelphia.

Main Street Cafe’s Greek salad. It was great.

Doing my best to be as cool as Paul Cain.

The campground’s wifi details are on the back. Yep, I’m in Kentucky.

And the previous night, too.

Miles: 70

Total: 806

I really slept in this morning and wasn’t on the road till just after 11 a.m., right as the sun was ramped to full strength. A mistake, but I was shot after a long day to Buckhorn and the lingering effects of Lookout’s hantavirus. Walter must’ve been off early, because I didn’t cross paths with him all day. We’ll have to swap contact info next time we meet up.

Lunch was in Booneville, named in honor of Daniel Boone, and seat of Owsley County. I resupplied at a Dollar General (that and Family Dollar are all over the place — the distinction escapes me) and took the cashier’s recommendation for Spencer’s Dairy Bar, just up the road. Not much is open on Sunday in a town of 81. There are tons of dairy bars and roadside ice cream stands — great fuel for a road-weary cyclist!

Near McKee I had to dismount my bike for the first time to deal with dogs. Two black labs and a few smaller terriers who were more curious than territorial, but still annoying. I don’t understand how people can (a) have that many dogs and (b) fail to train them. The homeowner had to yell for a couple of minutes before all but one retreated. The second lab kept me company for the better part of a mile down the road. I’m looking forward to Western Kentucky, reputed to have fewer dogs and gentler hills.

More elevation rounded out the day, including an impressive three-tier climb to Big Hill, not creatively named, but definitely an example of truth in advertising, where a welcome two-mile, 6-percent descent ushered me into Berea.

Home tonight is Oh! Kentucky Campground and RV park, which seems A-Oh!-K. I got in after the office closed, so I’ll settle up tomorrow. I’m taking tomorrow (Monday) off to see Berea, a college town of about 15,000, and give my legs a break before starting Map 10, which will take me 405 miles to Murphysboro, Illinois.

Well, I stopped.

The cross street is Pink House Road. Seriously.

No shame, I started and finished this entire package of cookies today.

Nice sign on a cycling-friendly home.

And a 2-mile, 6-percent downhill into Berea. Yeah!

Miles: 97

Total: 736

Herbert Dean Hall for Knott Country Judge Executive. Vote Hall for All Knott County.

If I learned one thing thing today, it’s that Eastern Kentucky’s due for an election. That, and vote Hall. It was an early start after a crummy night’s sleep. As nice as Freeda Harris is, there’s lots of mouse activity, and I woke up with a headache and plenty of mucus. Last night, we pored over our maps for lodging options, and came up with just two: ride 50 miles to Hindman, where there’s a hostel, or push to Buckhorn, and an Army Corp of Engineers campground, about 95 miles away. Walter and I decided to make for Buckhorn, and the rest of the group was going to call it in Hindman. Walter’s got a ticket back to the Netherlands August 19, so he’s making miles early to give himself some cushion later on.

We left Lookout in the cool morning, around 7:30 a.m.,. Almost early enough to avoid detection by dogs. A lot of barking and pacing, but only a couple of chases. I found one dog lying in the middle of the road. I figured maybe roadkill, but his ears perked up as I rolled by. Thankfully, that’s all that rose. Gas’s $3.86 in Kentucky, FYI. We climbed up a few bigger hills today, where I’d work up a lather, then put on a jacket for the chilling descent. And I was reunited with old friend, SR 80, for a couple dozen miles. The shoulder’s wide, but there’s a thick rumble strip almost immediately to the right of the stripe, then a few feet of gravel, glass and grit, before either a steep dropoff or guardrail. It’s tough to find a spot where you (a) won’t be in traffic, (b) won’t have your fillings shaken loose or (c) put a piece of wire in your tire. I much prefer the quiet country roads.

Last-Chance Liquors greeted me at the top of the climb dividing Pike and Floyd counties. There are a lot of dry counties in Kentucky, but people must not be willing to trek up to the top of a mountain for a bottle, because the only customer in view was a yappy dog. I made it to Hindman around 2 p.m., which was bustling — folks out Saturday shopping. I stopped for some groceries (fresh produce is scary difficult to find along the way) at a Save-a-Lot and left my fluorescent vest on my rear rack, where it blew away. Luckily, a woman flagged me over down the road and returned it. Thank you, Toyota Tundra guardian angel. Bad habits. Hindman wouldn’t be a bad place to spend the night. It’s got a Dairy Queen.

Today’s my tenth night on the road. It’s also the first time I’ve had to shell out a non-voluntary donation for lodging. I was happy to pay it, because I had my first dinner invitation of the trip — Melissa and Faye are pedaling cross country West to East. They left San Diego March 29 (!) via the Western Express, and expect to be in Yorktown the first week in July. Their husbands, John and Kevin, are driving support in two RVs with four dogs. They’re on racing bikes with very little gear and a guaranteed soft bed each night. That’s the way to travel! We swapped stories about what’s ahead, and then tucked into an apple pie John’d picked up. Just what you want after a long day in the saddle. Great people!

I saw perhaps 300 instances of this today.

Nary a one.

Plenty of that sweet anthracite littering the shoulders.

SR 80’s to the right, so this is a busy blasting zone.

Harvey Murdoch built this log cathedral in 1907, where he served as pastor till his 1935 death.

Miles: 64
Total: 639

You would have been a god among men this morning, had you known how to service a Braun drip-coffee machine. We had the incorrigible bastard laid out in the O.R., disassembled, cleaned, put back together — no dice. Walter, our Dutch aerospace engineer, was puzzled and/or indifferent. There’s a different vibe in the morning around five others — it’s probably good to keep me from losing all my manners.

I spent the vast majority of today on SR 80, a narrow two-lane ribbon of frequently serpentine pavement, and was glad to leave it behind shortly after crossing into KENTUCKY(!). Lots of coal and logging trucks up and down the mountains all day. Riffling Jake brakes and smell of asbestos kept me company through the turns. I stopped in Haysi, Virginia, population 498, for lunch at the Pizza Factory, which turned out only mediocre pie, but huge cups of ice water, for which I was thankful.

It took a series of three hill climbs to make it into Breaks Interstate Park, operated at the junction between Virginia and Kentucky. It’s billed as the Grand Canyon of the South (by Dickinson County, at least), and the the views made the cast-iron bitch of a mountain worth scaling. Just on the other side, I crossed into Kentucky’s Pike County. It took me 8.5 days to bag my first state, and it’s a good feeling. Already I see more evidence of coal mining, both in truck volume, and their roadside anthracite leavings. The ladies at Haysi’s library say the mines run seven days a week (it’s a huge business here, though fracking’s also on the rise), but that traffic’ll be lighter over the weekends, so I’m planning to cover more miles Saturday and Sunday to take advantage of calmer ground.

My overnight halt is Lookout’s Freeda Harris Baptist Center. We’re in the gym, and everyone except Tika, who had been hoofing the AT through Damascus, and’s just getting his bike legs, trickled in, even Petunia the poodle. This place’s great. Just like last night’s Methodist sanctuary, there’s a full kitchen, stocked pantry, a spot inside to sleep and just a whisper of cell service. But tonight, we also have use of hot showers (shared with a truly ancient arachnid), and an industrial ice machine. Walter and I talked a bit about making beer. He and a few engineer friends earned some money from an airline delay, and are building a brewhouse/fermentation cellar in a garage.

Awaiting the perfect epitaph.

Cruelly, the sign’s halfway up the hill.

According to legend, two lovers jumped from this overlook because their warring tribes wouldn’t permit marriage.

The first sign you see. Go down the hill a little farther and there’s a nice big blue marker.

Big, blue and right next to a mine entrance.

Death and certain death.

Nine to go.

Apparently an elected position…

Thankfully, he never left this sink. That’s your standard-size stopper, for comparison.

Home tonight.

Miles: 96
Total: 575

The eternal optimist, I applied sunscreen this cloudy morning, and it served as an effective talisman, because except for an a.m.-cloudburst, I stayed dry all day. Last night two local (pre)teen boys came by, and after the Conversation, I asked for favorite breakfast spots. One said McDonald’s — the other, Hardee’s, which left me with peanut butter and bananas this morning. Packing up, a Wytheville crew pulled up in pickups to clean up the park for Chautauqua Days — a festival in the park — starting next Saturday. Luckily, they let me clear out before power washing the stage.

I stopped in Rural Retreat for chocolate milk and a few groceries. I hoped to use the library, but it didn’t open till 11 a.m., so I moved on. I apologize for the poor posting lately — Wytheville’s library doesn’t have public computers and my photos/posts are getting backed up, especially on evenings where I have no data service.

I climbed around Mount Rogers toward Troutdale — Rogers is Virginia’s highest peak, clocking in at 5,729′, and while I wasn’t routed to the very top, it was a slow, shady and not unpleasant crawl up. The road is surrounded by National Forest, which warns away motor vehicles, bicycles and hang gliders (!?). At the top, you enter Grayson County, home of the New River’s headwaters. In addition, this area’s full of great fishing — and stocked with trout — which perhaps explains the piscine naming conventions.

Just outside of Konnarock, two small — but serious — dogs gave chase. The Shih Tzu gave up at the property line, but Chihuahua was more tenacious, following me perhaps 1/4 mile down US 58, denying her owner, who yelled, “Candi! No! Come here!” (While I didn’t see the tag, I assume a dog that little has an I in her name.) But, man, she was fleet.

ACA provides two roads to Damascus: you can stay on US 58, or dip down onto the Virginia Creeper, a 35-mile gravel trail that runs between Abington and Whitetop, built on old railroad bed.  I chose 11 miles on the Creeper for a break from traffic, the sun and a change of scenery. In certain spots, I was just a few miles from Tennessee. It’s downhill to Damascus, and I made good time, with 60 miles in by 2 p.m. lunch (pancakes and coffee at MoJoe’s). Damascus is a hoppin’ town of about 1,000 people. It’s at the intersection of the Appalachian Trail and TransAm, which ensures a steady stream of traffic. This is the last time I’ll intersect the AT — I’ve been close to it since Troutville, and crossed it close to a dozen times, but our paths diverge here. I would have been happy to call Damascus home for the night, but I wanted to get up and over Hayter’s Gap, a 1,500′ climb over about four miles, so after lunch and bumming around Damascus’ very nice library for a bit, I hit the road. Out of town was gorgeous farmland and, somehow, even a bit more decline. In Meadowview I stopped by a farm-to-table restaurant/store, where I talked to a few folks who work on the Virginia Creeper. They invited me to stay the night at their house — in fact, they live right on route (on my “uphill” side), and frequently see cyclists slogging up/zipping down Hayter’s. I thanked them, but wanted to make it to Elk Garden tonight, so headed off. Between Meadowview and Hayter’s I looked up and realized I was hemmed in by mountains. I spit my gum out, and started the four-mile climb, carving switchbacks within switchbacks. At the top, I put my rain jacket on before descending. You work up quite a sweat climbing four miles at 5 m.p.h., and the downhill’s chilly.

Home tonight is Elk Garden United Methodist Church. We have quite a crowd. There are six of us, including a couple who are towing a dog (9 pounds, sunny disposition, thanks for asking) across with them. This is a great place to be — sleep inside, stocked kitchen and cold outdoor shower. Pictures to come with a better connection.

Miles: 69

Total: 479

The thing about spending the night outside’s that you’ve really got to work to sleep in. This time of year, it’s twilight by 5:30 a.m. Hard to escape in a tent, but easy to do inside like I was this morning, comfortable with the shades down at Kwabena’s apartment, I slept right till my alarm went off at 7:30 a.m. With little to pack up, I said goodbye and pedaled through campus to Gillie’s, a local vegetarian restaurant, run by industrious hippies, it’s been around for decades and turns out a mean breakfast. I ordered a plate with eggs, potatoes and a biscuit, and tacked on French toast for good measure. The waitstaff was impressed/disgusted that I put it all away.

I finished my first map in the TransAm collection today. It took me six days to go from Yorktown to Christiansburg. The next set’ll take me to Berea, Kentucky. I wandered through a few of my old campus haunts while my breakfast settled, then it was time to get back on track. Rather than retrace my steps (though it would be fun to bomb down Draper, fully loaded), I went out of town on the Huckleberry Trail, a 5.75-mile paved commuter trail that links Blacksburg to Christiansburg. I picked up some groceries, as well as a second hi-viz vest. They’re dorky as all hell, but cars treat you a little better with one on. Plus, you have an easy icebreaker when stopped at roadworks (“Hey, nice vest.”). I left mine in Charlottesville in Keith’s pickup. Probably right after he asked me, “Are you sure you’ve got everything?” to which our hero said, “Yup,” rather fallaciously. Anyway, $11 later and embodying the latest in Day-Glo, I’m on the road.

It takes a little work to get back on route, but about 12 miles from Tech, I’m headed west on County 666. In Radford, I cross the New River (actually, at 320 million years, only the Nile’s older) into Pulaski County. Originally, I’d planned to stop off in Troutdale (what would have been a 100-plus mile day) at a Baptist cyclist/hiker hostel, and land my second fish in three nights, but I didn’t have the hot hand, just the heat. Along with the heat, I noticed the wind working against me for the first time since leaving Pittsburgh May 27. A Snickers bar gave me strength, and the rain (the first rain since leaving Yorktown! A big weather day, no doubt) cooled me off, but I called it a night in Wytheville, where cyclists may camp in Elizabeth Brown Memorial Park. The park’s all mine, so I put my tent (no rainfly — just to keep the bugs out) up under the covered band stage.

A nice addition to campus. Tools for basic bicycle repairs and adjustments.

Devil’s highway.

At 330 million years, only the Nile’s older. I crossed over just outside Radford, Va.

My take on the Windows XP wallpaper.

A pencil fit for a King (Kong).

Home under the stage.

Miles: 48
Total: 410

I can’t get away from trains. Last night a Norfolk-Southern line regularly roared just outside the park, its horn an eerily just-out-of-phase organ bellow. With a big day behind me, a short day ahead and very pleasant surroundings, I dallied around, talking to a volunteer, who warned of Kentucky dogs. Geez, at this rate they’ll be Winterfell Direwolfs when I arrive later this week.

I left around 10 a.m., and that was too late — it was hot. Today was full of rolling hills and road previously traveled. Turning off 311 onto Blacksburg Road I linked up with a route I’d frequent on my road bike when I lived here about three years ago. Knowing what lies ahead is a double-edged sword: it’s nice revisit old stomping grounds and see the oft-contested county line signs, but knowing what’s ahead isn’t great, especially when it’s a climb up Draper Road on an 80-pound touring bike, not an 18-pound racer. Somehow I got spit out at the top and rolled into Blacksburg. I haven’t been in town since 2011, and it’s interesting to see the university and community continue evolving.

I spent an hour or so at Blacksburg’s library before meeting my host for the night, Kwabena (Q). He’s enrolled in med school at VCOM, but we worked together as Vawter Hall resident advisors for the 2010-11 school year. He tells me the dorm’s now co-ed. A shame: there’s something special forged in the cauldron of an all-male (or female) residence among late nights, sexual frustration, fledgling independence, and so on that leads to tremendous growth and lasting friendships.

I met his girlfriend, Michelle, who’s working on a Ph.D. in the area of traumatic brain injury, and a few of Q’s med school classmates for wings. After dinner, they went off to continue studying, and I met a college newspaper friend at the Cellar, a favored watering hole for the tail end of Hammertime (Monday – Thursday between 6 p.m. and 7 p.m. all pitchers are $7.50 — up from $6 when I graduated. Inflation’s taken its toll). We caught up over Two Hearted. It’s really nice to be back in my other ‘Burg, even if only for the evening. Bed tonight is Q’s futon. Hands-down, the most sumptuous sleep thus far.

You, uh, got a tree comin’ out your silo …

A Catawba icon, the Homeplace serves fantastic family-style cuisine. Sadly, not open for lunch today.

I was pleased to enjoy this Enjoy-By Stone IPA at the Rivermill.

VT logo quote met.

Miles: 101
Total: 362

Today started out with a Bodo’s cinnamon raisin bagel and banana so heavily slathered in peanut butter Supreme Court Justice Potter Steward would’ve declared it obscene. I left my jar of reconstitutable Columbian in the kitchen — not worth hauling up and down mountains today. Right out of the Cookie Lady’s door was a steep climb even farther up Afton Mountain, which really woke me up. Past that was a mile or so on US 250, steep, full of traffic and a narrow shoulder. I was glad to hop on the Blue Ridge Parkway, where a 45-mph speed limit and ban on commercial vehicles really lightened the volume.

It took me more than three hours to traverse 27-miles, inching up grades at 6 mph before bombing down them at 30-plus mph. Rinse and repeat. The views, stunning. Joy. Partway through I found Alex, Phil and Elliot, whom I’d met in Mineral. We talked for a few minutes, but separated at different paces. The parkway’s studded with overlooks, a few of which were closed for repair — not a problem on a bicycle where I could pull over and gaze out anywhere, given a wide enough shoulder. I saw Humpback Mountain, Devils Knob, and 20-Minute Cliff, so named because in June and July, the sun drops behind the mountain 20 minutes after sunlight his the cliff — a solar timer!

Exiting the parkway, I faced a steep, brake-burning descent to Vesuvius (marginally more hoppin’ than its Italian twin), where I lost more than 1,000′ in less than four miles. I stopped several times to let my rims cool. Down in the valley, I paralleled the South River toward Lexington, the home of VMI and Washington and Lee University (Robert E. Lee’s buried at W&L). I had lunch at Frank’s Pizza, and figured a plan for the rest of the day. I had scheduled a stop here for the day, but the sun was still high and I had gas in the tank, so I took the second half of my pizza to go and pushed on toward Troutville. Along the way, I went off route in Natural Bridge, to see Foamhenge, a scale replica of Wiltshire’s Stonehenge, but made from beaded Styrofoam. Definitely worth the detour. The next part of the day paralleled I-81 S for a time, which, while noisy, was interesting because I’d traveled to and from Virginia Tech dozens of times, but never explored the secondary roads until now. Past Buchanan, CR 640 ran along creeks, streams and railroad bed — this meant flat, which was good, because I was getting ready to call it a day. Nearly to Troutville, I faced a road closure, but convinced the construction folks to let me through a side yard, over a low barbed-wire fence and back on track. Detours are never welcome, because my maps lack detail of the surrounding area, and you never know how much distance they’ll add. Home tonight’s Troutville’s City Park. Cecil, the park manager, showed me and the seven or eight Appalachian Trail hikers (The AT crosses through town) the pavilions, how to work the lights and water, then sent me across the street to the fire station, where I had my first running-water shower in 215 miles. It felt great.

With a 45-mph speed limit and ban on commercial vehicles, the parkway was an absolute delight. Traffic was light.

Note raptor.

It clouded over, but I stayed dry.

Yep.

Thanks, VDOT.

The major differences between Wiltshire and Natural Bridge installations.

The last leg of my trip was along railroad line and water. Flat = good.

Pavillion B was home for the night.