Almost Heaven?

Air France delivered my bike to Dulles Airport after two days, but ignored my request to deliver it to the hotel and made me take a taxi back to the airport to pick it up.  Their luggage office doesn't open till 11:00 am, so another half day was wasted before I could finally get on the road.  (Have I mentioned what a wonderful organisation Air France is?)

A couple of additional little frustrations delayed me even further.  The new front pannier rack I'd bought in Manchester didn't fit.  The salesman had given me the wrong model.  Not to be deterred, I adapted it with cable ties and some spare bolts from my tool kit, turned a lowrider model into a distinctive-looking highrider, and loaded up.  A plastic strap inside my helmet had snapped too.  There's no way I'm going to ride without a helmet after a fall in England a couple of years ago in which I sustained no significant injury but had a cleft in the back of the helmet that looked like it had been made with a tomahawk.  I leave the rest to your imagination.  I snipped the protruding stub of plastic off with scissors and patched it up with duct tape.  (I'm a supporter of the theory that there are only two tools you need to fix anything: duct tape and WD40.  If it moves and it shouldn't, use the duct tape.  If it doesn't move and it should, use the WD40.)

Navigating out of the Washington DC area took me most of the day.  The traffic was heavy and the road signs were confusing, but I got a little hint of the enjoyment to come when several drivers leaned out of ther windows at traffic lights, asked where I was going, and wished me well.  This was my introduction to the extraordinary friendliness of many Americans towards strangers.  I was soon to experience much more.

Day One progressed from warm sunshine to drizzle to steady rain.  A disastrous wrong turn at an unsigned intersection took me down the eastern side of the Prince William National Park instead of the western, adding at least 50 or 60 unnecessary miles to my journey.  Putting that into the perspective of a 5,000 mile trip though, it's a small glitch.  I was starting to enjoy myself.  (I've decided to learn to think in miles by the way.  My maps work that way, as do the road signs, so it's a waste of effort to keep converting.)

The rain persisted and there was no sign of a campground anyway, so I checked into a mid-range motel in Dumfries (Dumb Freeze to the locals), Virginia.  Behind the reception desk was a large, friendly  black man whom I originally mistook for a local.  He turned out to be from Ghana, and we had a friendly discussion about our countries' prospects against each other in the first round of the World Cup.

Day Two progressed from misty drizzle to bright sunshine as I headed for the nearest point on the TransAmerica Trail at Mineral, Virginia.  Cruising through rural Spotsylvania, (Who thought of these names?), I passed a huge Civil War battle re-enactment.  Two opposing lines of white canvas ridge tents were arrayed behind replica (I hope) cannon on the edges of a field.  I'm not sure who won the original battle, but the Confederates were sure to win the re-enactment: grey uniforms outnumbered blue by about ten to one.  As I cruised by, a very large man in Confederate grey was preaching to a small congregation seated in camping chairs. I slowed to listen.  He said, "Let's not forget to praise Gaad", then began to sway from side to side, arms spread wide, singing (to the tune of Amazing Grace), "Praise Gaad, Praise Gaad, Praise Gaad," ...etc.  I rode on in awe.

So many houses here display American flags that they become almost invisible after a while.  Every second business logo has some version of the stars and stripes on it too.  At home, I always worry about people who display the national flag in front of their houses.  I remember Pauline Hanson's election posters, showing her wrapped in the flag, and I cringe.

At one point, I stopped to ask directions from a burly policeman in the fetching, chocolate brown uniform of the Virginia State Police. 

"Which road do I take to get to Mineral?"  I asked.

"Mineral?" he said.  "You want to go to Mineral?"

"Er, yes", I said,  "Mineral"

"Weeeeeeeeelll", he said, pushing his hat brim back.  "Now  you want to go to Mineral, is that right?"  All this in a perfect parody of a broad, southern accent.  I was trying really hard not to laugh, because I was fairly sure that laughing at a police officer in these parts is a capital offence.  Judging by the enormous sidearm on his hip, he would be competent to carry out the sentence summarily.

He continued:  "Weeeeell, now, you could go thisaway...." and he proceeded to turn a simple direction into a ten minute conversation, scratching his ear, readjusting his hat, shifting from one foot to the other.  It was an amazing performance.  Once out of his sight, I burst out laughing.  He was just being helpful of course, and I shouldn't laugh at him, but he was such a caricature of the southern country policeman I couldn't help it.

The next two days of riding through the lovely Virginia Piedmont were a joy.  The forest is lush and green, and there's lots of it.  Aside from oak and beech, there's maple, chestnut, birch and ....  Actually, I'm having you on a bit here.  I wouldn't recognise any of these trees.  I know they're there, but I know so little about Northern Hemisphere vegetation, it's shameful.  I did recognise holly though!  Now, show me a decent Eucalyptus Grandis ....

The forest is full of animal life too.  I know that from the roadkill.  I stopped counting after four snakes, one oppossum, six turtles, one deer, lots of birds and a squillion squirrels.  (That's a good number for squirrels.)  I rescued three or four small turtles (or tortoises, or terrapins - you know, crawly things with shells), that were sitting quietly in the middle of the road waiting for cars to squash them. 

From Charlottesville, on day four, I climbed up to the Blue Ridge Parkway at 3000 feet.  The climb was steep and tough, but I felt pretty pleased with myself as this is the biggest altitude gain in one day of the whole tour.  Ha! I thought.  Bring on the Rockies.  Had I studied the contour lines on the map, I would have realised that this section of the Parkway plunges back down to  1500 feet, then back up to 3,500, then down 1500, then up again, for forty miles!  By the end of the day I was wrecked, but what a ride!  The views are breathtaking; the road is wide and smooth; and no commercial traffic is allowed on it.  Each "overlook" as they call them here, was more spectacular than the last.  But wait a minute! These are the Blue Ridge Mountains; down there is the Shenandoah River.  My God! Could this be .... Almost Heaven?  Damn!  Now I'll never get that song out of my head.  And it'll be worse when I hit the Rockies.

After a glorious but punishing day and a half on the Blue Ridge Parkway, I took the exit for Vesuvius, Virginia, plunging over the edge of the ridge on the steepest, scariest switchback road I've ever ridden.  My brakes were smoking - that's no exaggeration. 

In the strange little town with the volcanic name, I came across Gertie's country store, decorated in pure southern kitsch and staffed by the delightful Tammy and Gertie who fed me fresh home-made chicken salad and coleslaw and a huge mug of glorious hot tea.  Paradise!

In closing, I have to relate something remarkable that happened to me a day later in the little town of Buchanan.  I rode up the main street around 9:00 am and stopped outside a cafe.  A local woman (elderly?  have to be careful here - probably five years older than me, so "middle-escent") greeted me at the kerb, and after a pleasant chat during which she asked where I was from and where I was heading, she recommended the cafe for breakfast, took me inside, introduced me to the owner, and left.  After a wonderful breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast and coffee, I asked for the bill, to be told by the owner that the woman who had brought me in had already paid it.  Now, how friendly is that!