West Virginia is for Mountains

I should have known better to complain about hills when West Virginia loomed in our immediate future.  Geoff and I, mainly Geoff, decided we would try to coordinate with Geoff's friend from Philadelphia to go climbing in Red River Gorge.  The plan was formed, once again, by Geoff (I am removing myself from any position of responsibility for what had to happen next).  We would need to be at Red River Gorge by Friday morning and at that point we were roughly 300 miles away - it was Monday.  In most circumstances, this would be feasible, but not when your trek takes you through West Virginia, the Mountain state.  There was a certain amount of disagreement about the validity of this plan.  Tempers may have flared and certain words used that shouldn't be repeated.  Eventually there was a Plan B: we would select a rendezvous within a reasonable distance and get a lift to Red River Gorge.

Ok, so we're getting a ride for a hundred miles.  We'll call it two days of riding and if I didn't mention it you wouldn't have known.  Besides, here we have an opportunity to go climb in Red River Gorge with someone bringing all the gear we'll need.  If there is one thing I have learned from this trip so far it is that you do not let a good opportunity pass by.  Charleston, WV by Friday morning.

Our first day's ride was fine.  We made it to Blacksburg and even had great hosts from Warmshowers. Thank you Stephen and Erica.  I wish you the best with your wedding and the upcoming tour!  Of course once we arrived in Blacksburg we had no idea where we were going.  It isn't that we didn't have a planned route.  Rather, when we would tell any local cyclist our planned route they would first look terrified, then, hoping we hadn't noticed, say something along the lines of "well those are pretty rough rodes out there."  Fortunately, Blacksburg, like Roanoke, is a hub for serious cyclists and by parking ourselves in a local cafe for a few hours we managed to get a good grasp of our route for that day.  Unfortunately by then it was too late to go anywhere.

Not for the first time, we were saved by the generosity of a stranger.  Kenny, who is finishing up his PhD at Virginia Tech and who is a passionate bike tourist offered us a place to crash at his place in town only to come back and offer to drive us out to Eggleston, 20 miles into our intended ride to stay with his good friend.  Paul set Geoff straight on the route to get to Charleston that night.  Turns out Paul was an awesome guy and took us out for great food and beer.  He set us up with some great digs (I chose the outdoors) and told us to help ourselves to bacon and eggs in the morning.  The last part makes him a hero who will live on in my heart forever.

A good sleep out in the hammock and we were off to West Virginia.  Somehow I'd forgotten there'd be some hills there.  I hope this photograph gives a vague frame of reference as to how steep some of the climbs were.  Too often when I'd glance back after a long climb, it appeared as though the road disappeared behind me.  If you look close in this photo you can barely make out Geoff climbing up that hill, like the sun coming up over the horizon.  We don't want sympathy, just some well earned respect for riding 150 miles through West Virginia in two days.

Of course it wasn't all suffering, sweat and tears.  West Virginia is beautiful country and the mountains offered us spectacular views.  This pasture was at the end of one of our most difficult climbs, on a mountaintop.  Happy, oblivious cows.

Oh yes.  A word of warning to any cyclist who dares to go into WV.  Look out for the coal trucks!  They have no compassion for cyclists and they will drive you off the road that has no shoulder as they pass at 70 mph through a hairpin turn.  You're in coal country, they're country.  I couldn't leave the state without taking a picture of a coal pile.  So long West Virginia.  Your hills and beauty both exceeded my expectations.  I hope we meet again.

Surprise! Blacksburg is At the Top of a Mountain

At began to rain the moment Geoff and I brought our bikes and panniers outside as we prepared to depart from Fleda's house to Blacksburg, VA.  That sounds like literary exaggeration, but I swear to you, uncanny as it was, the rain began as soon as we found ourselves outside preparing to mount our bikes to leave.  Take that as you will.  After a week and a half in Roanoke I was mentally prepared to head out regardless of what weather was thrown at us.

But before I go any further, I feel it is appropriate to take a moment in recognition of our remarkable hostess, the benevolent Ms. Fleda Ring.  I believe that thanks to the generosity that she showed to me and Geoff, I am forever indebted to the universe.  Since it is unlikely, given the randomness of life, that I will be granted the opportunity to repay Fleda for her kindness, I instead will spend the rest of my days trying to pay forward her generosity.  It is a burden I will gladly bear.

I won't divulge too much about Fleda, because from what little you can learn about a person in a week, I certainly learned that she values her privacy.  But I did find Fleda's artwork and her lifestyle interesting enough to share.

I know nothing about art, so I won't elaborate on style, media, themes, or anything else that will just end up making me look like a poseur.  I can say that Fleda's art reflects her personality.  It is very open and genuine, revealing to its audience an image very easy to grasp and comprehend.  Yet in all her work, even the most cursory look beyond the apparent external image reveals a depth of meaning and experience.  And here I'll stop because art critic I'm not and more words will be fluff and likely miss the true intent of Fleda's art.

Despite all I've said about Fleda - her hosting, introducing us to influential and interesting people in the community and generally entertaining us - I haven't mentioned her better half: Missy. Though Missy seemed to be more fond of Geoff, I was still quite enamored by her feisty personality.

Missy had her own misadventures in our presence. I misgauged both her sense of smell and audacity and the result was her getting into my panniers, digging out my bags of food and devouring a feast of cliff bars, fiber bars and trail mix.  Most intelligent people would learn from this experience, because, after all, what is more embarassing than being outsmarted by an animal.  However, this person underestimated this clever pup and took what in hindsight was clearly inadequate steps to conceal his food.  So there was round two of dog feast, which this time also included a Little Debbie Chocolate Brownie. Even with the embarrassing ravaging of my food supplies, Missy made Fleda's home a more loving space.  I hope she doesn't miss Geoff too much.

You may wonder why I titled this post as I did and then went on to talk about something else entirely.  The title of the post explains why I am forced to type this with the lights off. Geoff passed out as soon as his body hit the mattress at roughly 9:30pm.  Our first ride, after entirely too much time 'resting' wasn't the easy 40 mile trip we had planned for.  It turns out Blacksburg is at the top of a mountain.  Also, taking a 12-mile detour through the hills of southwest Virginia was inadvisable.  Lets hope Geoff gets a better handle on the GPS unit for tomorrow's ride.

Royal Chariot

Roanoke really opened her arms to me with a full embrace into her waiting bosom. At no point was this more evident than this weekend when I became an official pedicab driver in downtown Roanoke. 

At Fleda's insistence, I headed over to a local bike shop to ask about renting a pedicab. I immediately informed the owner of the fact that I was only in town a few days and didn't know where anything was. Yet, to my surprise, he went on to explain the particulars of the pedicab gig and began considering when I could be trained to operate the over-sized tricycle.

It is funny to find yourself in the position to have to eat your words.  I think my words to Geoff were something along the lines of, "how ridiculous would it be if I could drive a pedicab in Roanoke."  I said this with the assumption that no one in their right mind would let this idea become a reality.  Little did I know that I was a welcome volunteer.  

It was with pure disbelief that I mounted the pedicab to head downtown on Friday night.  I was greeted with confused looks, cat calls, and many warm smiles as I paraded around town with the huge bike, which begged to be noticed. Surprisingly, I a few folks turned out to be interested in taking a ride. With careful navigation I pedaled through town trying to explain the story of my trip cross-country and that I had no idea where I was going.  This was greeted with a great level of patience - I recommend this approach to any new pedicab driver.  At around 1am, the night grew too cold and I too tired so I headed home to rest before my next gig on Saturday afternoon.

Princess Juliana was dressed in her best gown for the chariot ride.  She didn't take notice of my being several minutes late.  I think she may have been deeply involved in a treasure hunt. This was a special day for the princess as she was celebrating her fourth birthday today.  I was invited to chauffeur Princess Juliana and her closest friends around the kingdom. What better job could there be for a man from Philadelphia passing through town on his way cross-country. I was eager to accept the assignment.

I must say that of all the random things I have done in my life this one may have topped the charts.  Many thanks to the family for having me work the birthday party.  I had a good time and those 4-year-olds certainly did as well.

Star Bomb

If I told you what Star Bomb is, you wouldn't believe me. 

Roanoke is a strange place.

Sorry for the expletives in the video, but I was truly f***ing scared on that tiny bike.

Bike Porn

During my extended stay in Roanoke, I have been surprised constantly, daily, by what gems are revealed beneath the surface with minimal digging.  


I first heard about Aaron Dykstra early last week. Fleda casually mentioned that she had been to the North American Handmade Bike Show in Richmond, VA and that the winner of best new frame builder award lived in Roanoke.  Based on the strange look Fleda was giving me, I realized that my jaw had dropped to the floor, or perhaps I was drooling. Incidentally, I have a dream of building my own bike frame one day.  It would be a hobby, a casual pursuit, but when I picture the process, it all seems unapproachable.  So, to hear about a man, living in town, only a few miles from where I was standing who not only has built his own frame, but was so skilled as to be acknowledged as one of the best in the field made my brain melt a little.


Oh! But Fleda was quick to add that she didn't actually know the guy or know where his workshop was, but she'd heard his name and knew some folks that knew him.  So I started asking around...


A few days went by, Geoff came to town and the three of us went to pay a visit to some of Fleda's good friends.  The topic of cycling is thick as the pollen in the air here. Geoff will surely attest to the ceaseless discussions involving one of several topics:

1. my first real bike
2. my favorite bike
3. frame material pros and cons
4. mountain vs. road riding
5. look how fast I am and/or how far I can ride
6. guess what I hit or hit me and I still lived

And that is just the stuff I bring up...  Mark, our host, hearing me talk about my passionate devotion to my aged, heavy, steel bike came to learn that the brand is Miyata and quickly disappeared behind a door.  When he returned he had with him a modest looking frame, unpainted with deflated tires. At first glance, it didn't seem worthy of much consideration. Then I saw the bike company name, Miyata, printed along the bike's down tube.  Let me stop myself here.  I have taken some creative license with recounting the above details, but I must admit that after years of checking out bikes streaking by and parked on the street, I tend to see a bike brand name before my mind can even process what I am looking at.  In any case, Mark saw the recognition in my eyes and explained that the unpainted frame was constructed from titanium and its stark, unpainted finish suddenly struck me as refined simplicity. 

After a moment of marveling at Miya's (yes, I named my bike) kin, our conversation moved on to one of the topics above, and the details are lost to me now.  Time passed and a few more glasses of wine were consumed before I broached the topic that had been in the back of my mind: the frame builder.  Looking back, I shouldn't feel so surprised that Mark happened to know Aaron.  After all, I must have mentioned my interest in meeting the guy to every person I met for nearly a week, so it was only a matter of time before someone I talked to would know him. This is Roanoke, not Manhattan.

I was nervous that Aaron, who I had built up in my mind to mythological proportions, would be far too busy to entertain the notion of inviting a simple peon like me into his work space.  After all, a genius of his caliber couldn't be bothered with such trifles.  I got his call the next day telling me he got my voicemail and text and that he'd be glad to show me his shop and I should just come on by.  So much for inaccessible. 

Entering Aaron's work shop was tantamount to Charlie's first glance inside the chocolate factory.  I wouldn't have been more awestruck if all the local fauna started singing Disney tunes.  Aaron helped me gain a little bit of perspective when, having told him that his shop was my dream, he explained that it was the indeed the realization of his own dreams.  In fact, he had just begun to settle into the space.  He mimed the dimensions of his previous shop where the award-winning bike was produced, indicating an area that felt cramped just to envision.  He smiles as he laughs at the notion, and you get the sense of his looking back at these days in the recent past in disbelief and relief.  You know you've heard this story before, it is in essence the fabric of what we hold dear in the US: building up a dream through skilled craft and determination. Aaron is just starting out his career and I don't want to hype his accomplishments, but I respect where he has come so far. Ultimately, I was left the shop with a mixed appreciation for Aaron's story and the beauty of his work.

Traveling without Moving

Circumstance has been an uninvited guest to the cross-country tour and has set out to systematically disrupt our progress towards the West coast.  In this case I'm referring to the situation with Geoff's knee, which is slightly 'tweaked' and has forced us to set up a temporary base camp in Roanoke, VA for a time until said knee heals.  Left with the choice to either wither away in slothful grace or iron our slacks and head forth to conquer our new temporary home, we opted to embrace this pollen-ridden valley and have some fun. music

I believe some background of Roanoke is due.  The area evolved due to its geographic location, which made it a major hub of transportation and travel starting in colonial times.  

When rail shipping picked up, the town was firmly established and took its name from the nearby Roanoke River.  From an outsider's perspective, the railroad history that built this town is not immediately apparent.  There are no monuments of trains, hokey banners, or rail museums that catch the eye.  Instead when you arrive downtown, you are struck by how strangely cosmopolitan Roanoke feels.  Head slightly away from the dense downtown and you will run straight into the rail yard, located on the periphery of the city, just across the river, but quite well out of view from downtown.  However you're just as likely to find yourself in one of a series of old, neighborhoods or - sigh - the usual suburban sprawl you'll encounter in most towns in this country.

Our hostess, Fleda, lives in an old historic neighborhood no more than a mile from downtown.  More importantly, her house is at the foot of Mill Mountain, a mountain so steep that its roads are used for cycling time trials.  Mill Mountain is backed by Roanoke Mountain, which is part of the Blue Ridge Mountain chain, and frankly broke me when I tried to follow Fleda on a casual ride to the top.  This mixture of culture and a geography makes Roanoke unique.  Considering Geoff and I randomly chose to reconnect in Roanoke and that Fleda was randomly contacted through warmshowers.com, I'd say we couldn't have landed ourselves in a better place to spend a week.

Mill Mountain Coffee holds a special place in my heart.  Might be that I am addicted to coffee, or maybe it's that I spent 5 hours here hoping someone I contacted through the web would come and take me into their home... The hours were not spent idly and I had the opportunity to meet several locals, two who invited me to crash at their homes if I couldn't meet up with my intended host.  Virginian hospitality is in no way exaggerated.



The Roanoke Star recalls fond memories of hikes up South Mountain to the Bethlehem Star.  It is not the only aspect of Roanoke that reminds me of Bethlehem, but certainly it is the most vivid.


Geoff, traveling bard, and purveyor of whimsy has been resting his knee, but that only limits his ability to ride. Thanks to our hostess' connections to all that is happening in Roanoke, we have both been able to enjoy events around town. This photo shows Geoff outside the Kirk Ave Music Hall where we saw the Filmed by Bike screening.

The local bike club has a Tuesday night ride, 20 miles of guys vying for first place in a mock race taken as seriously as any real one. Amusingly, I found myself among these athletes on my steel steed equipped with pannier racks, bandanna and two-toned horn.  My "competitors'" bikes looked like the product of a child's overactive imagination, with swooping curves and flashy paint jobs.  Whereas their precision machines aimed to shed ounces, mine stood obstinately proud of its hard lines and obesity.  As the ride progressed, all of the illusion of being a strong cyclist, built up from days riding through the mountains, dissolved like mist.  I recall a moment when a band of cyclists passed me at what must have been double my speed as I struggled up a hill at 7 mph, feeling proud that I wasn't going 6.  I found solace later in the ride. Several descents had allowed me to slow my heart's hammering beat to a manageable rhythm.  The leading group had stopped to regroup and so with the huge ascents behind us, I found that I was now keeping pace with all these folks and their shimmering bikes.  I couldn't help but feel a sense of pride, especially when one of the riders said to me later, "for a steel tank, that bike can really move." I'd like to believe it had something to do with the rider.  In conclusion, as always, there was beer at the local bar...

Unsought Inspiration

Our hostess, in an inspired move brought us to a local venue to view a series of bike related short films this afternoon.  The last film was so well made and inspiring that I felt it deserved to be shared.  Check out the link... the movie is 9 minutes and I highly recommend it.  The film reminded me of a project being done by my friend Taylor who I particularly hope will be inspired.

The Reunion

Geoff was at the Central Square in Roanoke at noon.  I wasn't sure how he knew to be there, but I suppose it was meant to be that way.  The sun shone bright through a cloudless sky and struck the edge of the blade in Geoff's hands.  "So it comes to this," I thought.

Startled, I woke up to find the sun shining clear through the blinds of the old Victorian home in Roanoke where I have found my present lodgings.  I remembered that Geoff was scheduled to arrive here this evening.  He would be unarmed, I hope.

Last Saturday when we separated, Geoff and I agreed that we would somehow reunite in a week's time.  Our separate paths were meant to yield separate adventures and so they have.  In the meantime Geoff has had time to rest his knee, which has been bothering him. He's also had a chance to meet with a specialist about the chronic knee issue and has been assured that he can ride on.

At this juncture we plan to spend a week here in Roanoke so that Geoff's knee can fully recuperate and then we will ride West, into the wind.

Fluffy Clouds Make Cold Shadows

It is safe to say that despite a few minor hitches, this trip has practically been smooth sailing.  However, Tuesday stands as a major hickup in the general positive flow of things.  It is hard to tell whether it was the weather, loneliness, or a combination of both.  What is certain is that there was a lot of collateral damage.

The two specs in the clouds are hawks circling around.  They didn't seem bothered by the weather, or misery I was feeling.






Some days you sense things are going to be off from the moment you stir.  Those are the days we generally would rather not stir or leave our beds.  I peeled myself out of my tent on Tuesday despite that feeling. I figured if I had to climb a mountain, I should get an early start, but I was quite dismayed to find that the weather forecast of partly cloudy had been overly optimistic for the day.  So I threw on all of my clothes, layering up to try to stave off the chill and walked to the YMCA to use the facilities.  I took off my gloves and set them on the toilet tank and ironically recall laughing to myself at how silly it would be to leave them there.


COLLATERAL DAMAGE:


1. pair waterproof gloves.


I ventured out towards the local bike shop at the outskirts of town after unsuccessfully scouring the YMCA restroom in search of the lost gloves when I realized I had left them behind.  After laying down my self-pitying tales of 'wet hands to be' and 'woe be my legs after these mountains' one of the fine gentlemen at the shop opened his heart to my suffering and offered me a ride to the start of the Blue Ridge Parkway, 3 miles uphill from town.  I graciously accepted, thankful for a brief reprieve from this day that seemed intent on crushing my resolve.

The hills leading to the first ridge, 2000' above Waynesboro were an expected challenge and in truth I was thankful for the distraction from the cold, damp weather.  I actually ended up stripping off all my warm layers to shorts and a t-shirt from the effort of the climb.  Things were feeling up until my miscalculation of the terrain to come.  It is important to understand that while you will sweat profusely climbing a mountain when it is 50 degrees and overcast, all travel at speeds over 6 mph will feel like being submerged in an ice bath.  So I foolishly convinced myself that it was toasty warm out and that the coming descents would simply dry my perspiration before the following climbs.

2. one hour of my life fighting hypothermia


And so it was that I found myself hugging my knees to my chest, rocking back and forth, trying to reassure myself that I wasn't meant to die this way.  Thankfully I quickly set about boiling water for some hot chicken bouillon, after which I jumping-jacked until I could feel my extremities again and then put all my warm clothes back on. Thirty minutes of pep-talks later, and I was on the bike once more and bundled up: two pairs wool socks (still can't feel my toes.. not important); wool thermal top and long underwear; cotton shirt; windproof jacket, pants, and gloves; wool balaclava.  I threw my camera and chap stick into my jacket pocket and set off down the next hill.

3. bike tire

Nothing sets the heart to racing better than the feeling of your wheel suddenly skip as you are racing down a hill at 30 mph.  And nothing confounds more than seeing that half of the tread on your wheel is simply gone.  Has anyone ever seen this happen before?!   Thankfully I had an extra tire and set off down-hill again after some handy work.

4. chap stick - yeah I know, who cares?


5. camera sustains a high-speed collision


I challenge Hollywood's best to recreate the drama of the scene.  Wind rushing past in a deafening howl, Alon barely makes out a clatter behind him and simultaneously feels a lightness in his jacket pocket where something was bouncing heavily.  What was there?  OH!  No, not the camera?  Brakes.  screech  Bicycle thrown aside thoughtlessly.  He turns and looks behind and there, as he feared, a silver object lies.  It isn't moving...  He runs. Time is of the essence in these situation, he knows.  "Please replace battery pack."  "NO DAMMIT.  You're going to make it!"  Power reset.  The camera comes to life, mechanical damage sounding the efforts of her lens opening.  The corner of her LCD is a rainbow of colors like an oil streak on a puddle.  And he looks down pityingly, cradling her in his arms, nearly tearful in sweet relief, knowing it is going to be OK.  Everything is going to be OK.

Back to the mountains for round two. This time i'll descend to a rendezvous with Geoff.

Shenandoah (or how learned to conquer mountains)

Despite losing Geoff's companionship, I decided to ride on through Shenandoah National Park, plainly illustrated with this map and elevation profile:

According to the interwebs, I climbed 11,800' over 4 days of riding.  I wouldn't give myself this shameless pat on the back if I didn't have 2 separate cyclists actually salute me while I was riding...and I'm pretty sure they outranked me.

This trip isn't about numbers, maps or boasting, though.  It is about experience that can only be gained by getting out there.  Shenandoah gave me the opportunity to do some Backwoods Camping, and do it on my own.

I tried out some open-air camping after running into a hiker on Saturday night that shared my camp site.  If he was going to camp under the stars, there was no way I was going to set up a tent.

"You're in Bear Country" is what the signs warned.  So I figured out to hang my food.  I'm not too sure that a clever raccoon wouldn't have gotten his paws in there if he had wanted to.

I do believe I outdid myself with breakfast.  (The plastic case contains some leftover pound cake... see below.)

And Skyline Drive is the birthplace of the new cycling dress style: Performance Casual.  It looks something like this...
That is what you get when it is actually 70 degrees, but the wind makes it feel like it is 40.  Come to think of it, this is probably why I was being saluted, the acknowledgement of a cycling revolution.










Realizing I had the opportunity to press on alone, unrestrained by anything but my own endurance and determination, I set off alone on Sunday morning down the drive.  My goal was to make it to within 5 miles of the end of Skyline Drive, 50 miles down the road.  I got to within 25 miles.  Good Enough.

Having gotten an early start, I now found myself with an afternoon completely open.  Cycling any further was completely out of the question, as my muscles complained at the very thought.  I sat at the closed wayside station, cursing the Skyline Drive administration for not yet opening the site so that I couldn't buy a banana and pondering the question of how to spend my free time.  Then it came to me quite clearly that I was in a national park, for God's sake.  People travel from all around (I ran into a bunch of Canadians, for example) to come hike the beautiful trails through the park.

I figured a nice quick hike would be appropriate so I set off to stash my bike in the woods somewhere that I could set up camp that night.  Unfortunately, I didn't bring a map or bother remembering any of the trail or parking lot names nearby so my quick hike, turned into a 4-hour affair.  The sun was already far too low in the sky when I read the Appalachian Trail marker that I had taken the wrong trail and now had 3.5 miles to trek to get back to my camp site.  I was in a raw mood.  I hadn't expected the hike to take this long so I did not pack any food or warm clothing, so now I walked with stomach aching and the bare skin of my arms already feeling the oncoming frost of night.  I decided to take a detour on the walk back to fill up my water bottle, only a momentary diversion.  I noticed, bitterly, a family eating their dinner as I walked to the tap and headed back to the trail.  Then from behind came a kind voice. "Are you hiking the trail?"  Though I hardly felt in the mood for a chat, I explained a bit about my trip to the elderly woman who had addressed me.

What followed is a blur, because of how delirious I had become from over-exercise and hunger.  I suddenly find myself myself seated at the table among these strangers I passed by.  Before me is a plate with a single deviled egg, chicken cutlets and olives, and a man is offering to put whipped cream on the leftover pound cake.  Now I am in a car being driven the remaining distance to my camp site.  You must have noticed that the chill was beginning to sink in.  And in my hand is a bag of leftovers.  My gratitude to you, strangers, is immense.