Transcontinentalitis, Days 2 - 4 (West of Chancelorsville, VA to Catawba, VA)

Day 2: West of Chancelorsville, VA to Waysnesboro, VA (103.5 miles, 40.8 mph max)

At breakfast at some general store, I asked the guy if he had a hose we could use. He replied, "Do you wish to hang yourself with it?" Southern humor, I guess. 

We're at the Colonial Michie Tavern. Chris and I had a beer. Some guy told us to "be careful of Mizoura." I think he meant Missouri, but we didn't say anything.

Good lord the hills. The two miles to Rockfish Gap took an hour. Steep! We had already gone 96 so it wasn't a picnic. 

We didn't realize that the route we're following took a side trip to Monticello, so we went all the way into Charolettesville for no reason. Tonight we get showers at a KOA campground -- Classy.

I hope we don't do so many miles tomorrow.

Lesson of the day: If you need to adjust your panniers, don't do it while you're riding. I have a swollen hand and four chewed up knuckles that recommend stopping.

Day 3: Waysnesboro, VA to Natural Bridge, VA (71.1 miles, 39.2 mph max)

Today let us know what we are in for. UpDownUpDown. We missed the campground and went 3 miles too far like this (drawing of a steep descent). So we had to go back like this (drawing of a steep ascent).

My knees hurt bad. We're at the Natural Bridge KOA campground. We only planned on 45 miles but ended up doing 71. We may take off tomorrow; we're 104 miles ahead of our planned course.

Lexington, VA is really neat.

I picked up a turtle and helped it across the road. After what happened on Monday I had to (note: I have no idea what this is referring to). I think I'm going to run out of money.

Quote of the day, from the cashier at a Willco gas station in Waynesboro, VA: "Either you done squashed some hard bugs, or you been throwin' your helmet around." Camping on this trip is fun; climbing hills while at wits end is not.

Day 4: Natural Bridge, VA to Catawba, VA (51.7 miles, 38.7 mph max) 

Wow. The hills suck. We stopped in Fincastle for lunch while there were thunderstorms. High winds and hard rain; branches blown off trees. 

Tonight we're in Catawba, VA at a place called "Home." All you can eat. The Appalachain Trail crosses here and we're hanging out with some hikers for the night. Good conversation and a good change from just the two of us. 

I'm on the porch of "Home" and feel like I'm in Vermont. The food just keeps coming at "Home." I think Chris and I ate more than a typical family of four. This place is incredible. They even let us camp out on their lawn

The hikers we met were called Gypsy Bones, Dances with Snakes, and Chico. Each hiker gets a nickname; it's traditional. 

Funny, I like the part when we're not riding the best. It's more fun. It is, however, worth the riding it takes to get there.

Met more hikers; more conversation. They've been out for weeks. I feel like an amateur. I'll get the hang of it.

"Home" is the best part yet.

Reading this now it sounds like I was having a miserable time. I wasn't. I was having the time of my life. Fortunately, that's how I remember it now. I recall beautiful countryside that slowly increased in gradient from rolling to low gear grinders. I don't remember knee pain or exhaustion, though I remember the scent of overexertion (kind of ammonia-esque). I remember the people who welcomed us when they saw us pedaling ridiculously loaded bikes.

Riding through Virgina would prove to be the toughest part of the trip for two reasons. First, we had just started the trip and so we were not used to the mileage on the heavy bikes. In addition, we found that the hills are steeper in the Appalachians than they are in the Rockies. Rather than long ascents, the hills are shorter, steeper and come more frequently. It was unexpected, but perhaps it shouldn't have been; by the time roads were being built in the Rockies engineers were designing them better and explosives were blasting them through. The long gradual hills of the Rockies awaited us as we pushed through the steep ups and downs of the Appalachians. Rt. 250 into Waynesboro was memorably challenging.

I can vividly remember the place I called "Home" in my journal. It's the Homeplace Restaurant in Catawba, VA, a popular stopping point for Appalachain Trail (AT) thru-hikers. They serve course after course of comfort food for one price, and Chris and I had cycled our metabolisms into high gear. I'm sure that the restaurant took a loss on us that night. It was on the lawn of the Homeplace where I met my first AT hikers and have since become fascinated with the vibrant trail culture, perhaps enhanced by cool trail nicknames. What I thought was funny was that they were impressed by our trip though it would take them longer to cross Virginia that it would take us to cross the entire country.

Our routine was becoming solidified. In the morning, after breaking camp and loading bikes, Chris and I would ride to a general or convenience store. Sometimes it was the first store, other times we'd put in a few miles first. We'd tear through at least one box of cereal and a quart of milk and wolf down any additional calories we were craving. Making sure we were stocked up on lunch food we'd then push through to midday. We'd stop literally anywhere for lunch (a town park, a cemetery, a curb, the shoulder of the road, ) and eat 3 or 4 peanut butter and granola sandwiches each. Then, we'd ride into the afternoon and stop wherever we decided would be a good place to camp. If we could find a cheap one-price all-you-can-eat establishment, that was dinner. Pizza Huts became reliable back up plans for their salad bars.

Camping was often done in a proper campground, but at other times it was just in a wooded roadside area, or in the yard or parking lot of somebody's home or business. The latter campsites were the most interesting. Off the top of my head right now I'm remembering camping next to a silver school bus in some storage lot in Tennessee, in somebody's garage in Arkansas that was used for a flea market, in a dusty and desolate sun-baked field on a Reservation in Arizona, and of course on the manicured lawn of the "Home" in Catawba. I'm sure I'll come across more as I continue into the journal.

Based on the max speeds in these segments, it's clear that we were in the mountains. Descending a mountain pass at 40 mph on a 85 pound bike is a rush. Turning and stopping become slow-motion actions that are best left undone. Now that I'm 15 years older I'm sure I'd be on the brakes the entire time.

Git r dun.