Day 7, A week and an apology

I am writing to you from a hostel in Damascus, VA. Today is a day of landmarks: the near-anniversary of the nation's independence, my first week, my first day of rain, my first step into (and quickly out of) Tennessee, and a rare apology.

I believe I was a little unfair to Wytheville yesterday. Today is the 4th and things were probably a little desolate on account of Wytheville's shimmering patriotism. Everyone at the motel was lovely, as was my waitress. It is the center of the Bluegrass Belt.

No, it was probably I who brought that feeling of defeat to the city. Indeed, the worst people at dinner were clearly outsiders, crystal examples of the subpar in moments where they feel the need to talk. An example:

"So I've got this friend with, uh, cancer of something and he died," said the one gentleman from New Jersey.

"Oh I love the way you tell that story," says the wife.

"Not now honey. Any you guys tried a Kobe beef hotdog?"

The 4th of July was a new day. I was rested, up and at 'em at 8ish, and I made a decent bowl of oatmeal in the Mr. Coffee machine. The hills were either straight up or straight down and I loved them all.

When the rains came, as I knew they would, I hid out in an abandoned stretch limo. They cleared up and I cleared out. I was in Damascus by 3.

Damascus is an oasis in the Appalachians. Both my trail and the Appalachian trail meet here and that is why I am sitting here with Blake, a 58-year-old man from Alabama, hiking north and feeling pretty beat up about this whole Virginia/hill thing. I feel deep, deep sympathy. More on Blake later.

My bike and I came into town in some pain. The spindle, the spinning thingybobby that the pedals are attached to, came loose on the bus ride down. It had gotten so wonky that I had to do the breaststroke to get it to cooperate. My right thigh was pretty wonky itself. It has a 2-inch cut along what we can politely call the 'Speedo line'.

So here I am, rolling down the mountain, right foot jiggling the pedals around while left buttock fights with seat to keep right buttock in the air. I see a van pulling what looks like a coat rack. Wait a minute. It's not a coat rack at all. It's a bike rack. Somebody has stolen my idea and is shuttling people to the top of these mountains so they can ride down them.

I stroll into town, litigious. This fades away. What I find is a store that brought health back to both my bicycle and person. Bless you. The hostel I planned on staying at is closed but, no problem, I will bike to Tennessee and stay in a certified United Forest Services campground.

I close my eyes as I cross the state line. Nothing changes. These are the Smokey Mountains and biking through them is like biking through cotton balls.

I pull past Crazy Harry's Fireworks and Manuel's Fireworks (really!) and into the state park. Through the fog I see oil drum fires and RVs being used to broil gibbons, baboons, or some other odd meats. A girl my age walks up to me with a tattoo of what looks like Curly from the Three Stooges.

"Who's that?" I ask.

"That's my child."

I pour myself some water from the tap. It's grey. Curly is throwing fireworks at me, only they're not fireworks and he's not Curly: they're grenades and he's Colonel Kurtz, bald and seven.

Bless my spindle, I bike out of there fast. And back into Damascus, which is even lovelier than I remembered it. I took a room at a hostel and that brings us back to Blake.

We are sitting outside and talking, the sound of rain and a country auction in the background. Somebody just won a mop. Blake is taking a break. He has a hernia. He has been to San Antonio, New Orleans, Wisconsin, everywhere and Marfa, where they filmed Giant.

When he was 13, Blake took a plank down the Alabama river from his home to Mobile; that is, before they put in the flood damns. He had a .22, drank from springs and caught everything he ate. It took him 6 weeks.

Now, significantly older, he wants to trace some of his great-grandfather's journey back South from prison. His great-grandfather was held as a POW in the Brother's War. He was imprisoned on an island in the middle of a river in Maine (?). When the war finished, he had to walk down to Alabama with no gun or map. It's a bit like Cold Mountain, Blake reckons, although I've not seen the film. It took him 6 months.

Blake and I are both of Anglo-French-German ancestry (borders were confusing then; family trees will always be). I am also tracing my ancestors across this country. I told him how a family rumor (since debunked) was that we were descended from Daniel Boone, the frontiersman who paved the trail I crossed earlier this week. He said this makes sense. He guessed my father was his age and that he was victim of the havoc Buddy Ebsen brought to the young boys of '57 in his twin roles as both Davy Crockett and Daniel Boone. He was right. My father made us watch those shows and made sure we enjoyed them. I remember his disappointment when we told him we didn't like them: It was like we said we hated music.

The sounds of the country auction and fireworks are all that's left.

"And a rambl-amba-dambl-un-dollar-one-dollar-boom firework-one dollar fifty..."

I was honestly ready to pack it in yesterday. I even came up with a creative scheme to go out with dignity, like getting gently hit by a Mack truck. Now, a week in, I am more and more in love with this country and this trip. Every setback yields a pleasant surprise and I inch along the map. I have no more call to complain.

Day 6

That was a thoroughly demoralizing day.

At 3 in the morning I came to realize that I had violently poisoned myself with greed in the form of a jalapeno olive cheddar pizza ("Really?" said the man at the counter. "Just do it Mack!")

I was also violently ill at 7 in the morning and at 9 on this my day of rest. I was shivering and cold when I got up at 1030. I opened the front door and noticed everyone -- the bikers, the teens I was convinced were going to jump me -- all gone. And so I lumbered, lumbered to the laundry mat [sic] and washed my tiny load of clothes.

By the time I started, the sun was right above me and the wind was in my face. And it never stopped. I got lost and accidentally biked east -- the wind changed directions! When I turned back on route it changed back, like all it wanted to do today was punch me in the face.

I finally made it to Wytheville, half past dead. So was the town. The plan was to camp out on the community gardens opposite the sheriff's office. I made it to the Sheriff and he didn't know nuthin'. I leave the office and the biggest man I've ever seen is being brought in in cuffs by two police. He's frothing from the mouth. Then I look around: two newly released prisoners are waiting about on the lawns. Up the street are two competing advanced drug testing stores, a twice-used furniture store, a gun shop, and a Long John Silver's. And that's just the historic district.

I made my way to the nearest motel. It is also run by a very nice Indian lady. I don't know if it was a look on my face but she made a point of telling me, unsolicited, that there is no crime whatsoever in Wytheville. Maybe so, but I'm inclined to believe that if people insist something is really, really safe -- without your asking -- it's not really, really safe.

There are, by my count, 8 different churches in this town, and every Protestant denomination seems accounted for. Presbyterian -- check. Baptist -- check check. Holy Church of the Power of the God in The Passion of Mel Gibson -- let's be fair. So how could a town with so much in the way of God seem so down in the mouth? Perhaps there's a war going on, between the churches, for souls and the rights to use "God is Love" in all advertising?

So I took myself out to dinner. Food will keep me company, food and maps and the long stares of everyone around me at the historic Log restaurant. I had my first cheeseball and my first real lemonade of the trip.

The table behind me was two couples RVing together, and with little else in common.

"Let me ask you something," says the man from New Jersey. "You like wine? 'Cause I like wine."

"Yeah I like wine. You like beer? Me not so much."

"Me neither." Smiles all around. The women never talked. Later they bonded over their concern for spinal spinulacra, a disease I swear they made up on the spot, that and high speed internet.

The table directly in front of mine was all seniors and two very un-appreciative grandchildren. You've got cheeseballs for Pete's sake! You have your hair! The family was remembering the film The Bucket List as they saw it -- starring Clint Eastwood. Then the paterfamilias went on a tear through the rest of film history as he saw it -- The French Connection, One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest, Shampoo -- all starring Clint Eastwood.

"He is the greatest actor to have walked."

And that is how I will choose to remember today. Falsely and with joy. I woke up early in good health, my clothes were washed by a service, the wind blew me to Wytheville with one gentle pedal, a ticker tape parade was there for my arrival, and two of the area's blondest, chestiest farmgirls spoonfed me cheeseballs on the park lawn where I slept, gratis.