Tag Archives: bicycle touring

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Rain. Glorious rain is what I woke up to. Looking at the weather report I saw that it was to clear up sometime around noon. With check out time at 11, and my penchant for late starts, I figured the worst of it would pass while I was still at the motel. This conclusion come to, I quickly headed over to the front office to see about breakfast, because most of these joints serve a continental, which, while of middling quality, is at least calories, and also means that I don’t have to cook. Unfortunately for me they only offered the usual foul, pre-dosed bags of coffee, and a miserly selection of the most uninspiring, sorry, pre-packaged pastries I’ve ever seen. It seemed I would be cooking.

Outside it was still drizzling a bit when I left the motel. This lasted a good hour into the ride before a rent in the clouds allowed sunlight to pour through over the earth, deluging everything in air and lightness, and softly shimmering pixie dust; the road like a long, silver tongue that you could slide along forever, it was so pure and without imperfection. The whole world was dazzling—a beautiful woman with whom you might make love, in a negligee so sheer you could hardly tell at all that it was there without its constant glimmering; none but the finest details hidden, every contour visible. And as you keep looking, staring, this woman becomes a kaleidoscope that you are in, and everything is showered with glitter, and then the top is removed and brilliant light shone in, and all you can do is stop and stare and maybe take a picture but hate it afterwards because it’s just a mere postage stamp on the envelope of the world that you were caught in for just a moment…

I waited too long before stopping for a break. Again. There are times (most of the time) when I just get rolling, and I want to keep on rolling, and so I continue to roll, and boy, was I rolling, rolling, rolling. Good energy and super flat roads were helpful assistants in that. About three hours in I began to hit some hills. These slowed me up a bit, and I noticed my energy was flagging so decided to stop and eat what had recently become my standard lunch/snack/whatever—tortillas with banana, peanut butter, and honey. Unfortunately, this provided little aid, or, more likely, came to late. The hills continued to continue and my energy continued to wane. I had wanted to do another ten miles and find a motel somewhere outside of Columbia, but once I arrived in the city, and after eating an actual meal of sorts, I decided to stay in the area. There was still at least an hour or so before it was to get dark and I could use that time to explore a bit.

Lunch (I guess I’ll call it that) wasn’t anything marvelous; just a wrap and a small bowl of fruit from a cafe that served poor shots of Counter Culture coffee. It was located in a bit of an odd area, though something that’s become a bit more of the norm within the specialty coffee scene, anyway, the lobby of an office high rise. The interior space was a bit minuscule, with a small bar at a window and a couple of tables, but they had a very nice patio space outside where a man who looked distinctly like Santa Claus in overalls and plaid was sitting at one of the umbrella’d tables, occasionally glancing up at me from a notebook in front of him. I could only assume he wanted to speak with me after watching me arrive on my bicycle, so, upon leaving I did just that. This man (I forget his name) was a bit hard to understand with the heavy, unidentifiable accent he had, and was perhaps a bit daft, at that. I told him about my trip, and that while in the cafe I had been looking for a cheap motel that had something better than consistent one-star reviews, and comments about roaches, pealing wallpaper, poor or no wi-fi, and unhelpful staff. This immediately stimulated the good samaritan in him because he had to tell me right off the bat that all the hotels in the city would be expensive and out of my budget, as if this wasn’t something blindingly obvious. He then stopped to think and recommend a few places that he knew of off the top of his head that would perhaps fit my criteria, despite my assurances that I had in all actuality already found a suitable place. I got the distinct sense that he had stayed before in these motels he named; he exuded the air of a vagrant or fringe, someone without a proper home, as we would call it; his home being, perhaps, just the city itself (but that accent?!).

He spoke to me of the clouds above, and how, if one looked at them through binoculars they moved in a certain way. I couldn’t make heads or tails of what he meant by that, and simply nodded along with a, “mhmmm, I see, yes, is that so?” to keep things flowing along like those marvelous, fluffy clouds of his. Our conversation of sorts, spiced with pinches of awkward silence, finally ended after I asked him about what he was writing in his notebook. His answer was that he was writing a mystery novel. He then asked to use my name for a character, to which I consented with a nod. I couldn’t understand why he would want to, what possible import it could contain. He said that maybe I would be an attorney’s assistant, and whether this character had been written into the novel already I had no idea. He could have said he wanted to use me, my name, as a janitor or a monkey. What difference would it make? Still, I really couldn’t understand why an attorney’s assistant, but if that’s what he sees in me, that’s fine by me. I can’t imagine how he might fit a touring cyclist into a mystery novel anyway. Who knows. Anyone as crazy as that old bugger could shoehorn one in somehow.

At last I wished him luck on his book, and took off on my bike happy to have escaped. The state house was a mere couple of blocks away, so I decided to pedal that way. I wasn’t the only one with the idea of visiting the state house. Children and a few families were playing on its steps and taking pictures. Couples were walking, hand in hand throughout the grounds. I marveled at my first siting of palm trees on my trip. The sky was the color of explosion along the western horizon, silhouetting those very same palm trees, as well as oaks and maples in tangerine and cantaloupe, crimson and honey, scarlet-red, periwinkle blue. I began cycling towards the motel, which was west, where that ball was burning, melting below the horizon, and above me the blue sky darkening, curling over, and closing in—a great wave to quash the fire that burned.

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I left Charlotte late, as is my standard, but still managed to put in the 50 miles necessary to make it to the town of Chester, SC., though it wasn’t long before my groin was nagging at me again, even after the five days of rest. I stopped at a Food Lion after a couple hours, sat down on the concrete outside the store, and had some lunch in the shade, as it was warm and uncomfortably humid in the sun. I was really feeling irritable about pretty much everything regarding the trip at this point and didn’t really feel like going on, but there wasn’t much else to do, really, so…

There were periods of cycling through some brilliant green, bucolic farm land, and the largest, most open landscapes I’ve seen thus far (well, that would likewise be the farm land). I got my first look at cotton fields, most of which were picked clean, though there were a few that had not been harvested yet, and the roads which were nicely flat made for easy and speedy cycling.

When I arrived in Chester it was already past dark. The town was decorated for Christmas with large, wire-framed, light-wrapped Santas, angels, reindeer and what have you scattered throughout the tiny center of town. Again, at first glance it seemed a charming place, what with the Christmas decorations giving it a sense of merriment, and some of the houses on certain streets being quite grand in appearance, but only so long as I didn’t look too closely at the empty buildings in the town center, which I did of course, and then came to the conclusion that I was in another ghost town. I can only wonder for the reason of the town’s, and the many others like it that I’ve written of before, economic downfall. What was the town’s past source of economy? Where has it gone?

The ground being soaked I didn’t feel like camping. It was also night, as I mentioned already. Actually, at this point of the trip I was quite sick of camping altogether, regardless of the state of the ground. Probably my overall frustrations with everything from my bike not shifting properly, to the crappy saddle I’d been sitting on for nearly a month uncomfortably, and my sore groin (again)… and that probably covers it. Physically sore = mentally sore. Things not working properly = a constant source of agitation.

I stayed at the EXECUTIVE Inn on the edge of town. A nice enough place, as all these “cheap” inns and motels are. The shower was naturally fantastic, as was being able to write in comfort. There was even an awful restaurant right next door where I could, and did, have dinner. I’ve forgotten the name of it already, but it was named after the city: the Chester some such something or other. It was one of those lugubrious places with a wooden fish nailed in place over the entrance denoting that they do indeed serve seafood. Immediately upon entering I was assaulted by the smell of old grease and deep fryers. Whether open or closed I imagine that aroma has permeated every table, brick and seat in the place, and it probably reeks of it morning, noon and night. I was then greeted by the host, standing at her station by the cash register to the left. She seated me in a booth and supplied me with a glass of water. Now, this booth was no ordinary booth. The padded seats were merely busted mattress springs wrapped in dull, red vinyl, and the surface of the table a faux-wood laminate such as one might find in an elementary school. The restaurant was essentially one long feed hall, reminiscent of a low barn. At one end was the kitchen, hidden behind a wall and a door, and the register. The rest of the place was just row upon row of booths or tables, all obviously of the lowest quality. On the far wall opposite the kitchen was a nonsensical juxtaposition of a white board side by side with a flat screen tv. Above these two fixtures was a captain’s wheel framed by two large harpoons. Hanging on a column in the center of the room was a life preserver, and all throughout the restaurant were framed pieces of “modern art” one might find at a Big Lots or similar store. Some photographs of a bunch of nobodies’ faces, and a twenty foot long mirror that probably hadn’t been cleaned since the place opened.

I wasn’t expecting much after sitting down, taking a look around, and then looking over the menu, but even the low expectations that I had were disappointed by the meal, which was probably the worst I’ve ever had. However, for $6 (!!!) and free hush puppies, which, until I got to Charleston, I could only describe as breaded, deep-fried balls of insipid, uninspiring, doughy calories, it’s maybe hard to complain. And the service was friendly enough. Actually, more so than at a lot of other places. It saddens me that this is the type of food that people find to be normal, or good in so many places throughout the country. Nothing fresh. Everything canned or frozen, and trucked in from a warehouse somewhere. No wonder obesity is so rampant here. I didn’t linger for long, despite having brought a book with me to read; I could do that easily enough back at the motel, and so I did.

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My departure from Star was greeted with warmer, less windy weather, and largely trafficless roads which, to begin with at least, wound through a quiet wood, down into a valley, and over a rushing, narrow river, before entering the next town: Troy. This tearing downhill into a valley of course meant that I had to climb back out of it, but I was feeling exceptionally sprite and energetic after the solid breakfast of that morning and the peaceful slumber of the previous night so I was really able to enjoy it, and my groin, surprisingly enough, felt almost normal.

It wasn’t long before I arrived and passed through Troy. Located on the edge of the Uwharrie National Forest, Troy is pretty much like any other 19th century-founded town today; it has an historic and quaint town center bustling with life which, as you move further from, turns into a suburban wasteland peppered with the typical fast-food joints; convenience stores; auto-body shops; decrepit, vacant buildings; shoulders littered with glass and rubbish, or no shoulders at all; sidewalks chipped and gashed, with knee-high weeds growing between the cracks, or no sidewalks at all. In general a sense of poverty impresses itself upon one, and it’s quite a great relief once one makes it through, and past the leaden-eyed stares from the zombies toddling around the parking lots, into and out of these hovels and their automobiles. It’s standard disappointment cycling through these outer rings of rubbish revolving around their more life-affirming nuclei.

I had a relaxing, scenic lunch on a bridge spanning the PeeDee River, not far beyond the western boundary of the Uwharrie Forest. Possibly the first proper, relaxing lunch I’d taken the entire trip. In the near distance was a dam, its reservoir on the other side flowing through at a regular, even rate. Gulls were gliding to and fro over and under the bridge, and a variety of waterfowl bobbed along stoically in the river below. Herons taking flight along the shoreline; wading in the shallows on their elegantly long legs, taking the most punctilious of strides. The sun dazzling on the shallow waters below, every ripple like a shattered piece of glitter reflecting brightly. Or the sun, nature’s own disco ball, and everything twinkling and sparkling to the rhythms of the music of existence. It was a paradise, even with the dam in the background, compared to the couple of towns I had cycled through to that point—though one doesn’t need a great shock of nature when surrounded by the ugliness of man—all we’ve created, all we’ve conquered, the towns we’ve built and let fall to ruin and then rebuilt and circled round with soulless structures born of an architect’s nightmares…

I camped along the boundary of a harvested farm field and a wood, just beyond the town of Oakboro. It was one of my more enjoyable campsites, partly due to the fact that I actually got there before dark and was able to pitch my tent without the need of a flashlight, but also because of the utterly peaceful setting in which I found myself the next morning—the sunrise spectacular, a conflagration beyond the gaunt, leafless trees, following a break along an imaginary horizon between shelves of clouds, before being smothered as it rose higher by those very same clouds; the calls of chickadees and titmice flittering above in some nearby trees; and the abundance of various mosses and lichens scattered along the tree line. I listened to Mozart’s Requiem while cooking and eating dinner, my little tent light dangling above me illuminating the cozy nucleus I encapsulated myself in.

Lying back in my sleeping bag, the light above me now dark, I listened to the dogs howling at the moon glowing faintly through the soft fuzz of clouds, and barking at God only knows what. A bloody cacophony, to be sure. Occasionally a pickup truck would go by on the road thirty or forty yards behind me, with their fat, deeply treaded tires smacking on the asphalt, exhausts roaring disdainfully. I fell asleep eventually, only to wake up a short couple of hours later to a pair of horned owls calling to each other, one of which was quite near to my tent. Entertaining for a few minutes, but after another twenty I soon grew tired of it. There’s little to do though, but lie there and…

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Sanford, NC. I had every reason to believe that this was going to be a great day, a marvelous day! I would put in sixty or seventy miles and stop somewhere near Uwharrie National Forest. Perhaps the following day even spend some hours exploring it. Oh!, but Life and its many vicissitudes…

Not long after clambering from my tent and departing Sanford I began feeling some groin discomfort, like the muscle or other tissue in the area was bunching up on every upstroke. That’s the most lucid explanation of the sensation I had that I can articulate. Like a paper blinds was folding and creasing in the wrong spots. It only got worse as they day wore on. As well, headwinds strengthened and hills increased in frequency and grade. Not by much, but with my steadily increasing groin discomfort even the slightest increase in difficulty required much more effort to overcome.

The day was cool and sunny—quite pleasant in fact—but as the sun fell and darkness neared, cold began to seep in. My right foot was relatively chilly all day because it was in constant shadow as a result of riding south and west, thus maintaining the sun always either directly ahead of me or on my left. It was impossible to keep any of my toes comfortable once the sun dipped below the tree line. Also, my groin was very much nearing a condition of off-the-bike-walking-only. Doubt, the great negator of all things positive, progressive, optimistic and good was making his voice heard. The thought that I might have to end the trip early was tolling in my mind, like silence at a funeral, yet also the determination to at least, come what may, make it to Charlotte…

I stopped for a few minutes at a convenience store in the town of Robbins to fill my water bottles, have a snack, and warm my toes. Talked to a couple of heavyset men in their 40’s and 50’s and a younger guy putting on some weight himself—all dressed in camouflage overalls, all barely able to make themselves understood what with their strong accent, especially the oldest guy—about the area, my trip, and the distance to Star, which, given that I had wanted to cycle farther than that, was the nearest town I thought to allow myself to stop in.

I creeped into Star just as night was beginning to drape itself over the world, unable to determine any kind of sensible place to camp aside from perhaps the lawn of the Star Inn Bed & Breakfast: a large, estate-sized building, painted Robin’s egg blue, on the corner of Spies Road (the road I entered town on) and Main Street; the eaves strung brilliant with Christmas lights; and an historic, albeit filthy Rolls Royce parked in the gravel lot. Still, I thought to investigate the town a bit more thoroughly before knocking on the door of the establishment.

The town of Star, the center of North Carolina (there’s a plaque), is essentially one street bordered by numerous empty, shuttered buildings, the most prominent among them a long, brick piece nearly a city block in length (a good portion of the town); two restaurants and a gas station. I made my way to this lone gas station in order to thaw out my frozen toes and contemplate what I was to do next. I didn’t feel like pedaling much further, most particularly because of the chill outside and being rather sweat-soaked—a bad combination to be sure—but also because of the aforementioned painful groin. Really, what was I to do but go back to the B&B and ask to camp? The property was the largest and greenest by a long shot in the entirety of the town. I would actually go so far as to say it was the only green property in town, and the only inviting one as well.

I entered through what I assumed was the front door into the main foyer. Hanging from the second floor ceiling was a large, brass chandelier. To my right stood an enormous green and white, lacquered Chinese vase, four feet tall or so, and to my left, up a few stairs on a landing in the corner was a black and gold replica of an Egyptian king’s burial casket. From the landing a set of stairs ran up the wall to the second floor. Beneath these stairs was a console piano acting as a shelf for a variety of knick-knacks and photographs. Beside the previously mentioned vase was a large gilt-framed painting, and against the far wall a cabinet, like the piano, acting as a shelf for a number of framed photographs and other paraphernalia related to the history of the building.

I still hadn’t discovered the proprietor or manager of the place, despite my announcements of “hello?”, so proceeded to enter still further into the bizarre, other-land of an inn. Down the hall hung with still more ornately framed paintings, I entered into the dining room which was, if possible, even more ornately decorated than the foyer. Two huge glass chandeliers hung over a long, hardwood dining table capable of seating sixteen or so guests. More paintings; more cabinets; large floor-to-ceiling mirror against one wall; heavy drapes over the windows, tied back with tassled gold rope; a large silver mirror that could have been mistaken for a platter in the not-so-vague shape of a sea turtle hanging on the opposite wall; and two Romanesque columns topped with potted plants—vines hanging down like green ropes, vibrant, life-giving, and natural—something real and living amongst the antiquated embellishment of the room’s decor. It all felt a bit like I had stumbled into someone’s personal art and antiquities collection, but displayed in such a way that didn’t feel as though I was invading his privacy, but that I was welcome here to wander and observe. It was in a way a museum. I imagine if I had wandered into Gertrude and Leo Stein’s Paris apartment during the first two decades of the twentieth century this same sense of curiosity and amazement would have come over me.

It wasn’t until I wandered into, then back out of the kitchen, that the manager, Richard at last materialized from some back room. His was a face I will be unlikely to forget: that of a bulldog, heavy-jowled; sparkling grey eyes, slightly uneven, peering out from beneath a deep brow, upon which were perched white eyebrows, like little hummocks of snow; his hair, also white, and razor sharp was closely cropped to his scalp and meticulously combed, every hair in its right place. He was short in stature, but he had a large heart, a colossal heart, a heart that was bursting, bursting to give, bursting with kindness, generosity, sympathy, love… A heart that could never be confined to the constraints of a physical body, but which existed in every wall; in every window that let in the sun’s noble light; in every bit of decor, great or small; and in the lightbulbs inside that illuminated the ancient floors and every nail that held them down; the carpets; the drapes; the cables and wires visible; and so too every person that walked into and out of the inn. But that magnanimous heart of his was yet confined within himself, and thus he would take it with him wherever he went. He was a beacon on the move, a lighthouse which floated with the currents and tides. He waded through the darkness shining his lantern, illuminating a way for others to follow if they would only open their eyes and their hearts. His first words to me were “Well, could I offer to you a room to stay inside here?”. CAN I. As though he were asking me a favor. Would I please do him the pleasure of staying at the Star B & B? FOR FREE! I knew immediately that I was dealing with no mere mortal here, no standard human being, but an angel or deva. Any chill that I may still have been experiencing from having been outside immediately melted away.

Humbled by this man’s generous spirit I agreed and, after talking a short tour of one wing of the inn I brought in my bags and got myself somewhat situated in a room of my choosing (walls painted burgundy; white baseboards, crown molding and trim; mahogany four poster bed; burgundy comforter with gold embroidery; television set in one corner; old, high-backed chair in another; large, skull-size gemstone on a shelf in another corner near to the bed’s headboard). Shortly thereafter he would drop me off at the one restaurant that was then open—a lugubrious looking, greasy dive where, “everything is good,” according to the uninterested waiter. There was one older gentleman at a table when I walked in and he quickly departed after my arrival. Maybe I smelled; I hadn’t had a shower or changed out of my cycling wear yet. No one there seemed to know what to make of me, best as I could tell. Frankly, they all looked like they wanted to kill themselves, though the woman (owner maybe?) standing at the register brightened up considerably when Richard arrived to pick me up (and pay for my meal!).

Upon returning to the estate Richard bid me bonne nuit and vanished into he and his wife’s living quarters. I crept up the stairs into the shower, and afterwards lay on my bed feeling sorry for myself, but grateful for my savior.

The following morning I was to have breakfast in the dining room with the few other guests who were there. It was a pleasant enough group of people, all, I believe, from the town or, if not, from the surrounding region. One well-traveled gentleman was currently living in Colorado. Richard, being the marvelous host that he is introduced me to the table since I was last to arrive, explained briefly why it was that I was there, and then sidled off into the kitchen to allow us to enjoy our breakfast and conversation.

Eventually breakfast came to an end and all the guests but myself departed. Richard gave me a proper tour of the building, including all the various rooms that I didn’t see the previous night, along with a bit of its history; shared an explanation of the long brick building which lie across the street from the inn; and shared various stories and vignettes of experiences he’d had and people he’d met while running the B & B.

That old brick building, where Richard in fact worked for 37 years before taking management of the B & B, was once a hosiery mill until the children of the previous owner, who had died, decided they didn’t feel like running it anymore, so simply shut it down. Who knows how many people were left jobless. Now the building lies there a bit like a mausoleum. I imagine all the old machines are still in there, cold and lifeless, coated in dust, without the guiding touch of a human hand, like so many other old factories and mills around the country.

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As usual, I rolled into town, Sanford,NC, around sundown, after one of my lesser pleasant days on the saddle, though Jordan Lake and a certain train track presented some very nice photo opportunities. This getting into, or out of, town around sunset is typical for me of course. And then the searching on google maps for a green patch in the vicinity. In this case I didn’t see anything, but did find an interesting little store selling various, local, handcrafted goods, with a small cafe inside where I filled my water bottles and asked about a safe place to camp in town. I received very little useful information in answer to my question, and I don’t think the boy, and his mother?, understood what I was looking for, as he kept referring to a spot north of town (from where I had just come) that had camping facilities, whereas I just wanted an out of the way piece of earth where I wouldn’t be bothered. In the end I left, creeping another few miles south in the dark and the chill towards an area community college and high school where I found a pleasantly secluded spot to camp near some trees, and a sign warning that I was on private property and that all trespassers would be prosecuted.

After setting up camp and having dinner I wrote this in my journal: Lying in a cold tent, on a cold field, on a cold night, at a community college just outside of Sanford, NC I still don’t know what I’m doing—in life in general, on this trip specifically… There is a light shining in my face and I try to block it with this journal. I don’t really like writing on my back—my arms ache, my neck aches. Sometimes the tent smells of the weed Chad gave me as a parting gift. In the tent it just smells like weed—that general cannabis-y scent—but if you dip your nose into the bag there is a very pleasing aroma of pineapple and hops. It smells bright, and alive. Invigorating. I think that means it’s good, but I’m no expert on the subject.

A train in the distance: haunting; beautiful and melancholic. A text up close, tender and warm. This journal—the book itself—smells of roses. Everywhere a rose, if one stops to look and to think (or not think). The squeak of a small animal, outside in the brush somewhere. A bird or a mouse; probably not a bear or a lion. But, perhaps if one shrinks himself down enough that bird would be an eagle, the mouse a lion… The interior of this tent is a silvery white. It is like being shrouded in a cocoon. I am nothing right now, or very nearly nothing. I am pupa. I wonder, if anyone were to be around tomorrow morning when I burst forth from this tent if I would be taken for a butterfly. I wonder how being in this tent has, or will change me.

If there is someone out there who is a spotlight, I would like to be a floodlight.

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North Carolina, at least to start, yielded much of the same landscape and topography that Virginia had. However, I’m not there yet.

The previous day, on my way to Alberta, I was to stop at some point to purchase a lighter as I was out of matches, however, in typical fashion I forgot. This resulted in a cold dinner of granola, peanut butter, pecans, and pecan butter. Breakfast the next morning was actually worse since I ate all the granola; I stopped off at a gas station seeing as that was the only amenity or service anywhere in town. Clif bar (and another for the road), honey bun, and coffee in a delightful styrofoam cup.

Sitting outside with my back against a wall an old man mentioned that he had seen me earlier that morning breaking camp. That was about as far as that conversation went. What the point of the statement was I couldn’t say, but a lot of people out there seem to talk about nothing, or make offhand comments that lead down a blind alley. Talking for talk’s sake. Or sanity’s sake. Makes me wonder if everyone in these backwater places are bored out of their skulls for nothing to do. The soothing sound of one’s own voice must be like a panacea to them. Sweet, sweet ambrosia! One’s cup may overfloweth if only one never stops talking.

Departing the confines of the gas station asylum, I was to experience long stretches of reasonably semi-flat-ish road early on, if I remember correctly (and if that description of road is any indication, I don’t). Later on quite a few hills. Took a detour around the Dick Cross Wildlife Management Area that added some miles (and steep hills), but was quite pretty; an old man waved to me out of the window of his truck (the best gesture); and I got a lovely Instagram photo for my trouble, on the bridge crossing Robbins Creek. At that point the day was maybe half over and I was starting to feel fatigued. No matter! Rain!

As I crested the top of quite a long climb to the dam which I was to cross at John H. Kerr Reservoir it began. As well the wind picked up quite a bit as it was open water on one side and empty space on the other. I stopped for no photos. The following three hours were the most miserable of the trip to that point, though I was near the North Carolina border. However, that thought did little to stir what bit of cheer remained in the depths of my heart—wet misery.

Perhaps thirty minutes after crossing the Carolina border, rather damp, everything in my trailer soaked, peering out on a foreign world, a dead-gloom world, I came upon a small shop with the sign, “If we ain’t got it, you don’t need it” hung over the door. I thought I might ask the proprietor, or whoever might be behind the desk, if I could fill up my bidons at a sink, and, walking inside I did notice that they stocked quite a wide range of supplies, from electrical, to plumbing, to food, to ammunition… what have you. With an appraising eye he directed me towards a sink around a corner. A rather dirty, minuscule sink it turns out; I could’t fit the bidons under the spigot, but as luck would have it there was a coffee pot nestled amongst a pile of rubbish on a small table beside the sink. Coming back around the corner and approaching the front desk the man behind the counter, with a wry smile, asked me how I got water in my bottles, to which I explained about the coffee pot. He laughed, and smiling said “I wondered how yud fill ’em when I told you where it was.” Well, alright…

Two more shit hours to Henderson. I made it into town with the idea to camp on some soaking piece of earth, wherever I could find it, but as I came upon a cheap inn, the Budget Host Inn to be exact, I thought I might check it out. A bit of a luxury for sure, but why not? Why not a bit of luxury every so often? $50 worth of luxury. Perhaps not in the remotest sense luxury to most or many, but in my shoes any place with a shower and bed, no matter the state, would be a step up from a tent and sodden earth. Besides, if it were so bad I did have my tent I could pitch in the room, and a sleeping bag to sleep in. Thankfully this wasn’t necessary; there was even wifi, and included breakfast in the morning.

I attempted haggling with the receptionist behind the counter, but he wouldn’t budge. He was though, quite kind, and showed curiosity in my adventure, asking where I was from, where I was heading to, etc. I think he gave me a nicer room than the cost would indicate as an act of generosity. Fine by me. I had to lug everything up a flight of stairs to get to this fancy room anyhow. And dinner cooked with my camp stove in the bathroom.

The following day was spectacular. Not a bit of wind; the sky a crisp, electric blue, like a great, big, perfect paint chip floating overhead; warm, dry weather; and roads paved in the glossiest of blacks. Thus, despite my late, late start I was able to put in a decent amount of miles, and made it to Durham just before dark. I had to wait for Chad, the raddest dude and best WarmShowers host in all the land, to pick me up to head to Raleigh for a bike polo match, so I popped over to the Pinhook, a divey music venue and bar in the same vein as the Ottobar in Baltimore (or any other divey music venue/bar, because they’re basically all the same, which is to say, FANTASTIC). I was immediately in love; totally my kind of place. PBR on tap, Natty Boh’ in cans (surprised? yes), in addition to a bunch of craft brews, great music playing. And besides the bar there was also an area of couches, chairs and low tables for relaxing. Big owl on one wall. Nearly very overcharged for my PBR but didn’t really care. Bartender was cool. Didn’t really care much to talk to me, but whatevs. Shit, everyone doesn’t want to hear your story, and that’s just life. I’ve found a great appreciation for conversation after spending so much time alone on the bicycle though.

Chad, my fabulous host and wonderful friend, lives in Chapel Hill, very near to Carrboro, thus, after the bike polo shenanigans we drove there. I’ve now skipped about ten miles of cycling. Boohoo.

My stay was great. Chapel Hill seems nice, though aside from my time spent in the house I was mostly in Carrboro. There there is an excellent market/co-op (I love co-ops), a great bike shop, and a nice cafe that I spent a fair bit of time at. Chad and I (mostly Chad) cooked a delicious dinner for ourselves and his roommates, who are also very nice people and, in general, had a lovely time together. But eventually I had to leave, and he had to leave too. For Christmas fun times. Goodbye for now.

Virginia

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Here are the last of the photos from Virginia. I was a bit lost with my camera at this point, though I finally figured out how to bracket for three JPG film simulations. What I didn’t know was that bracketing in this way disabled recording of RAW files, so now all the photos I took that I really like, which are being saved for another project, are sorry JPG files. I was not in the least happy about this when I discovered it. That doesn’t really change anything here, but, you know, just venting about a thing.

As usual these images are not edited. I have too much to do to bother making these extra pretty. I do edit my VSCO/Instagram images though! And often times like them much more than I do these. HA!

Anyway….

Richmond, Virginia. Reflections, and contras and things.
Richmond, Virginia. The James River, and a whole lot of coal.
Demolition Coffee interior.
Church steeple shadow.
Ignore the svelte looking guy on the left who looks pretty ridiculous. I’m only posting this because of Jonathan’s lovely smile. I don’t know why there isn’t a picture of me with Zarasun. Actually, come to think of it, they were supposed to email me pictures of the three of us. Hmm… I’ll be sending a text shortly I suppose.
Adventures. Sort of.
There is a lot of this in Virginia.

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Suuuuuuuper stoked on my friends Stephanie and Chad in Richmond. Stephanie for being an amazing host (along with her patient roommate), Chad for being a great cook of delicious, vegan food, and both for being the raddest of people. Many, many thanks for everything!

I left Richmond after three gloriously fun and relaxing days for what I thought would be Alberta, VA, my planned destination, however, after stopping off at a nice, little cafe in Petersburg called Demolition Coffee, I struck up a conversation with a couple of strangers on the patio, Zarasun and Jonathan Pond. We chatted about my trip, my life, their life, etc. for the better part of three hours, by which time it was nearing that stretch when the sky begins to molt color for color along the horizon, as the sun slowly dips down for the long, cold interlude between days. Realizing that it wasn’t practical for me to be cycling off from the city at this point in time and, I would say, enjoying my company (as I was enjoying theirs), they invited me to stay with them for the evening. Naturally I joyously accepted.

After touring around town in the last few, fading minutes of daylight, seeing what there is to see, which is quite a bit if one bothers to examine, I made my way the short distance to their quaint and quiet home downtown. It was at one point a duplex, but was later converted into a single home with an addition on the back. It made for a house with a whole ton of character and charm, much of which was also contributed to by their own warm, comforting touch. They cooked me dinner, cooked me breakfast the next morning, took a few pictures before I cycled away, and in the in between we talked. A lot. It was one of the more fabulous exchanges I’ve had so far on this trip, and being invited into a “stranger’s” home is always a happy circumstance not to be declined. Many thanks and blessings to them.

Two things stand out to me from my ride from Petersburg to Alberta. One took place as I was cycling along Route 1 and stopped to take a picture of a U.S. Post Office, about the size of a small, one room cabin, that seemed to have sprung up out of nowhere at a ‘T’ intersection. A car was parked in front of it and a there was a girl—a beautiful black girl dressed all in white like some sort of angel, and an angel she was—in the post office mailing a few things. As she came out and hopped into her car she asked me quite curiously, but with apparent awe, if I was one of those cyclists that rides across the country, to which I answered with a laugh, “yes, I suppose you could say so.” She then told me how cool she thought that was, before driving away. Not a minute later she comes back as I’m finishing up shooting this bafflingly mysterious (to me) construction, and, with the statement, “I’m sure you probably know what you’re doing,” she hands me a few packs of crackers she scavenged from a restaurant she had been to earlier, explaining that she’d like to help out in some small way anyway. A touching gesture, particularly when one considers the fact that I really don’t know what the hell I’m doing.

The other memorable moment occurred a little bit earlier in the day when, as I cycled past a rather shabby, single-floor shack, two dogs, one a puppy, came tearing through the yard and down the road after me followed shortly thereafter by a teenage boy chasing after them in dirty, white socks, shouting all the while. I continued on for a bit, but as it seemed the dogs would have followed me all the way to the next town and then some I turned around and rode back towards the boy and his house. He had a very strong southern accent and, as I mentioned earlier, had only a pair of white socks on his feet, both of which of course were filthy on their soles. His too large polo shirt, and pants weren’t in much better shape. His was a rather charming smile though, and he had a very cordial, friendly disposition. According to him the dogs chase after anyone on a bicycle, and sometimes even cars. I didn’t bother to ask why they weren’t tied up so that they couldn’t give chase. I simply thanked him and continued on my way.

This was probably one of the sadder stretches of road that I was on, and creeping into Alberta after dark on a Sunday night I had no idea what to expect. There were some friendly looking homes on the outskirts, some of which were festively decorated for the season, but as I approached the town center, which appeared to be simply a crossroads, with dogs everywhere howling in the dark, the atmosphere took on a bit more of a sinister air, not at all helped by the fact that there were few working streetlights, and no businesses to speak of, closed or otherwise. It was a Sunday evening, yes, and in a sleepy, little town such as it was I didn’t expect much, but I didn’t plan on it being so devoid of life. There was a municipal office though, and while closed, I did notice that there were a couple of people inside, and so knocking on the door I asked the gentleman when he opened it if he might recommend a good spot to pitch a tent. He looked at me a bit strangely, so I explained that I was a bicycle tourer and that I just needed a place to sleep for the night—I’d be gone in the morning. He pointed out a patch of grass along a tree line behind a happy, little gazebo strung with colorful Christmas lights (clearly there is a soul somewhere in the depths of this backwater community, though it be obscured by the corpses of abandoned buildings and the curtain of night) in a small, concrete gathering area where one might hold a community event, and said I could camp out along there, and that was all I heard from him or anyone else the rest of the night and the next day when I broke camp and headed off for Henderson, NC.