Day 23, 100 degrees in the wind

Today was another slog through the winds of Kansas. It was horribly hot. But, for a good five hours, the corn gave way to grass.

West of Eureka are the flinthills of Kansas -- the largest natural grassland in the world. It stretches up to the tippy top of Nebraska and down as far as Oklahoma. Much of it, I'm told, is open range. Cattle (It's what's for dinner) get to wonder the wide strip until cowboys on ATVs round 'em up. Cows aside, they also farm oil and wind. The flinthills are hilly by Kansan standards and -- of this I am dead certain -- the winds always bluster westsouthwest.

We got an early start to try and beat the wind. Sadly, the wind got up even earlier. Consider the syllogism: the earl bird catches the worm; the early worm gets eaten and then vomited up and re-eaten; earliness is not all that jazz.

So we pushed on. We pushed on as Kansas went to church and then stayed home. We pushed on through ghost towns, down long straightaways, and right into Jim Davis. Jim had pulled his pickup onto the side of the road because he saw us and wanted to offer us a soda. We talked bikes, ranching, and all sorts of things because the longer we talked the longer we didn't have to bike, and because the longer he talked he didn't have to fix his sister's porch. It was lovely.

It was Kansas. The people are few and far between, but when you see them they're lovely. The ladies at Braum's ice cream were wonderful ("she has boys about your age you know; bless you; good luck"); the boy who turned 14 today and entourage were all sweet as could be when he invited us over for lemonade ("well, you know I'll be driving soon, so cyclists watch out").

I love it here. The sky is so clear it's like a planetarium. There are no sharks. Overcrowding isn't an issue. I've begun putting myself in a trance state so I can sleep through much of the riding. I keep my eyes open just thin enough to keep the yellow dashing by on my left and the gutter on my right. I think about how little time 6 hours ride is, say, to a prairie. I think about how I would have improved The Munsters (improvement number 23: add a living hand).

Oh: I called Pastor John to thank him for everything and to subtly apologize for calling him by the wrong name. He told me,

"Don't worry about it Jack. I've been called worse things."

Jack!

Day 22, yet more Kansas

This was a day of ups and downs on flat land. I had a wonderful breakfast with Pastor John, who I called Bob through the entire meal, after he gave me his card (all I saw was a 16 letter surname), and when we said goodbye. I would hate myself for this for hours, but Johnbob did say that Christ was put here to save us from our sins and to remind us that we were fallible. I'll tell you what is infallible: Johnbob's fresh and strong coffee and his tremendous homemade biscuits with pumpkin jam. Plus, real butter in margarine country.

I left and biked west into the wind. I almost never stopped biking west. The wind almost never stopped blowing at me.

The land here drives you mad. A good working definition of infinity: think of the largest number you can and add 1 to it. And so it goes with Kansas. Think of all the corn you can and add ten miles to that. Ditto hay, yellow dashes in the middle of roads, telephone poles, and grass. There is no stillness in this. You move down a straight road with the worst feeling that you're going in circles.

But, with nothing in between, I made it to Eureka. I paused for milkbreaks and to tape down another popped spoke. I could have gone on for another 100 miles, but the bike shop in Hutchinson is closed on Sundays so I will have to wait them out and only go 77 miles tomorrow.

I am at the new pool. I went swimming earlier. My new friends and I -- Cody, Earl, and Cody's sister, all 11 -- had a couple of handstand contests, underwater races, and biggest splash conversation.

"So you're a biker huh?"
"That's right."
"I have a bike. It's one of those bikes from Wisconsin --"
"I farted, haHa."
"I ride it a lot now. But I crashed once. Schwin, it's a Schwin, but my Uncle Eric has another kind and he's a real biker."
"Canopener!"
"I can make my stomach fat."
"That's nothing," I said, "I saw a woman in Kentucky who couldn't fit in this entire pool."

Closing time at the swimming pool is one of young life's great sadnesses. It can't be explained. The other is dropped ice-cream cones.

I am cooking for myself for the first time in a small while. It's rice fro WalMart. The instructions ask for margarine. I'll try and find some when I hit up the bowling alley.

Cheerio.

Pool closing

Day 21, my third week begins

Tonight I sleep like a king on the floor of Lutheran Pastor Bob's office. Bob welcomed us with fresh vegetables from his garden. After hellos, we walked back into it to grab some fresh sweet cream corn. We ate it, made a puttanesca with the veggies, and ate chocolate cake in a Sunday School classroom. We are in Kansas.

The United States is the Saudi Arabia of food and here are our oilfields. The plains unfold in four directions like an awful perspective drawing of corn, highway, sky, corn, hay, corn, and telephone poles. What you can't quite capture on the canvas is the wind.

I do not believe having enemies is petty. Multiculturalism does not exist if you are so polite as to allow everything to happen (the cannibal's right to dinner does not eclipse my belief in the rights of all mankind). Of course it is a sad day when one makes a new enemy: so welcome headwinds, meet totalitarianism, anti-individualism, fluorescent lights, U2.

The ex-marine I spoke to a while back told me this bit of pseudoshakespeare: every state takes its pound of flesh. I left Missouri five pounds heavier (I had pie for breakfast), potbellied, and in tremendous spirits. Five miles of biking against a 10 mile an hour wind left me miserable in Kansas. My poor bike registered its dissatisfaction by blowing a spoke a little ways down highway 7 our of Pittsburg, KS.

Pittsburg is a neat little town. There is one block of turn-of-the-last-century American vertical architecture and then it quickly descends into two story houses, ranch homes, trailers, plains. The post office is spectacular. I went into a pawn shop and found myself torn between a poster of Buzz Aldrin, a handgun, or a Dolly Parton album. I left with nothing.

A while up the street I stopped a man to ask directions. He knew nothing. He was probably my age but his cheeks were hollowed out and he wore his t-shirt around his shoulders like it was designed to improve his posture. His empty, sunbleached blue eyes could have been ripped from a Walker Evans photo or, as Connor correctly noted, Larry Clark.

And that brings us to now. Or then. Since starting this post I have taken a shower and I have helped Pastor Bob trap a small cat in a cobwebby basement. He returned to his crime procedural and I to you, but not without walking through a field of 100,000 fireflies.

Tomorrow, I am having breakfast with Bob and then hitting the flat road. I hope to ask Bob what, exactly, is Garrison Keillor's role in the Lutheran Church. I have 200 miles to the next bike shop. With luck, Rocinante should hold up until we can get him seen to.

Some parting advice: drink milk.

Day 20, entering the plains

I've injured myself eating. Forgive me if this post is short, but I can't get into my favorite writing position (sun salutation) on account of a distended tummy.

No matter how professionally or hard you exercise*, you cannot eat a beef brisket sandwich, a country ham, a chocolate milk, fried chicken livers, and three pieces of blueberry pie a la mode. You will feel bad in the best possible way. Now, complaints out of the way, I have found America's best restaurant.

Cooky's in Golden City, Missouri has everything. It's a family business. I had a granddaughter serve me her grandfather's cow. There is a warmth and friendliness to everyone and communal conversation that you would never find at a Per Se, per se. You can stay as long as you need or nap in the back. They allow kids. They have sundaes. And nearly every scrap of food is grown on the farm out back. A water sommelier will not stab you with a fork until you relent Pellegrino; you, normal eater, will spend 10 dollars.

The kicker: they actually want you to get full here. There are restaurants in New York City where, say, a lima bean salad is made from just a lima bean. At Cooky's, everything is plural.

A man cycling across country stopped into the restaurant and had a slice of pie. He stayed for 4 days and ate there for breakfast, lunch, and dinner until he had eaten every single freshly made pie. I only had Dutch blueberry because I struck gold the first time. And because I knew I was going there for breakfast.

Earlier, a man woke me from my 35th failed attempt at a nap and told me he was the warm showers man. That's a bit fresh! Warm showers, it turns out, is a collection of people who board cyclists out of no greater utility but pure selflessness and a love of conversation. As we talked, it turns out he was stationed in my home town, worked at the hospital my brother was delivered at, and bought custom made NoSqueak shoes at the military mall I used to buy my comics at.

He met us at the Golden City Idol competition in the park. We just missed a young -- really young -- country singer whose parents farm and take highschool photographs. Do you know how much a Missouran spends on a senior portrait? 1500 dollars for the full treatment, blemishes photoshopped and a gaussian halo added to your pickup.

Like I said, we missed her act but were given a CD. The dad took the photos and made the album art. On the verso, a listing of songs including Stand By Your Man. Her father made her up, stuck her in a windblown canyon and photographed her from a distance. On the front, he stuck his daughter in some black chamber and blurred her hair into infinity. I don't feel good having this thing so I have given it to Connor (who probably doesn't feel good having it either).

Interesting fact of the day: country music was invented the very year the urban population overtook the rural.

*This depends on whether you believe competitive eating is a sport.

Day 19, a feast and the promise of seconds

Diane, remind me to buy a drop tarp from a hardware store so that I don't have to lie on wet nylon without due cause.

Refreshed from my first night's sleep in a real bed, I was not. I stayed awake till something-past-midnight and then made the mistake of thinking 6 was 7 when I set my alarm. Fortunately, I was riding with Connor and we had both agreed the night before that the ride was going to be easy.

Connor is an artist out of Baltimore. He is traveling across the country for research (in part). He takes photographs of dense, dense woods and then painstakingly draws every knobling of bark with a very fine brush. The result is really quite impressive, both technically (think Durer etchings if that helps you) and in the harder, vaguer area of being neat to look at. His book asks you to 'Read Slowly', and I did. Perhaps I am starved for faces, but I saw people in the woods.

The panels (24?) move chronologically through a woods and so do we. The tall, thick trees of Virginia make way for the shorter, denser eastern redwoods of Kentucky, which in turn give way to broad farmland, fertile Mississippi flatlands, rolling, reddish Ozarks, and now the trees of Central Missouri, which have green leaves, trunks, and roots. As a matter of fact, I have a root wedged in my spine as I write these very words.

These trees are plugged right into the ground here, which, blessedly, is nearly flat. Connor and I trudged it today, a cool 80 miles with time for a library break, a failed nap on the skinniest bench I have ever seen, my best biscuit sandwich yet, yet more chocolate milk, and 5 of those magical cups of coffee that leave you more tired than you were before you committed to caffeine. I have little else to report except for that I think I had the best bagel of my life in Fair Grove, Missouri (hint: sourdough).

Can I tell you what I'm excited about? We are headed to Golden City tomorrow to a restaurant called Cookie's that just might give us 6 pies. If nothing else, inching one step nearer to pie has made the day a definite victory. Expect a long rant about the many pleasures of eating across this country.

Day 18

Please, let me gloat just this once. I beat the mighty Ozarks in a day, which, biblical scholars that you are, is about how long He took to put them up.

It wasn't particularly pleasant, and there were far too many logging trucks for my liking, but I had time for a nap at Alley Springs, I found myself a sarsaparilla in Summersville when I needed it most, and I had the large carrot of free soda and a hot tub dangling right in front of me. Tomorrow, I've been promised a brief trip to Dog's Bluff and a cliff jump into a creek (I'm told) to set my day off right.

This is going to get boring for you. I haven't had anything horrible happen to me for a little while. Missouri is pleasant enough. It's nice. So the week's challenge just might be narrative.

I walked into a greasy spoon to get change for my laundry. I noticed the woman running it because she was wearing lipstick just under her mustache. Everyone was smoking and staring at me.

"How do you all do?"
All together now: "Muh."

To the left of the boss was a strange taxidermied animal. It had the head of a rabbit, horns, a pheasant's body, and a fish's tail.

"Say, what do you call one of those?"
"Jackalope."
"I've yet to see one of those on my trip."
"You can't see them you Mo-ron. It's made up."

While I will sleep easier knowing there aren't flying, swimming rabbits, I am a bit concerned that a man decided to glue the ass of one animal to another -- and that another man or woman paid him for it.

Earlier that morning, at a hardware store in Ellington:

The nicest, nicest man charges up to me, all smiles at seven AM. He's in his fifties and has a bluetooth headset. I'm there for tape, but we get to talking.

"Well now where are you from?"
"XX."
"Why gang, get a load of this. This nice young man biked all the way over the ocean from XX."
"I..."
"I'm just joshing you. Hey, speak of it, here's Josh!"
"Oh hiyo. Everyone's always saying you're joshing me -- but I'm just Josh."
"There you go now."

I used all the tape I could, kept some, but returned the bulky roll. They could use it for something.

"Well I can't take this. Let me give you back some money. No? Well you have just made my day."

Well ditto.

Day 17, a musical addend

Cows masticate for no reason. They can have empty mouths and just keep on moving their teeth clockwise against each other.

My mind masticates bovine. I want to share one thing it's been doing lately.

It's making a megamix. It is horrible. It begins with a church hymn, then British military songs, then English vaudeville as I misremember them. Listen:

...power, power, wondermaking power of the lord...

...In th Quartermaster's store -- behind the door -- My eyes are dim I can not see, I have not brought my specs with me, I have no brought my specs with me...me...MEeeeee'll...

...Drink a drink a drink, to Lily the Pink the Pink the Pink, the savior of the human ra-hay-ace, for she invented, a medicinal compound and now we're learning how to fly...

My, that's precocious, even though the sound of it is something quite...

Ixbyalydocious, supercalifragilisticixbyalidocious!

Thank you.

Day 17, the kind of perfect day that will go unremembered

I am in Centerville at the local malt shop/diner. It is opposite the Sheriff's office and the town hall. I will sleep between these two buildings as the people of Centerville have kindly invited me to. Now, how to shower using the Sheriff's sink. I am trying to get as much of my naked body into the shallow bowl. It's not working.

I am in Missouri, the show-me-state.

Missouri completes my brief spell with Mississippi flat land. Fun fact: Mark Twain was born in Hannibal, Missouri. Fun fact: the human head weighs eight pounds.

This was originally a French colony. There are historic French colonial homes and a couple of wineries that probably have very little to do with the early French traders.

I left Chester, hung a right by the statue of Olive Oil, breezed past Bluto or whatever his name was, and took a left past the Popeye statue to get over the river. Once in Missouri I noticed the birds were happier and that everyone drives Mack trucks. It's just the thing to do.

Less than fun event: a young Missouran deliberately veered from his lane to see if he could get as close as possible to me. What the French! I hope his date was impressed and that he gets the handjob of his short life in that little car, before a vehicle larger than his decides to run him over so that its driver can impress its date.

A bit of statistics here. I have seen close to a hundred thousand cars pass my by. Not even factoring in waves, smiles, and warm nods, a hundred-thousand-to-one are strong odds to suggest that we are good to each other here in America. That this event -- because it was an event or anomaly -- is more memorable does not mean it is equal. I believe you can learn more from an individual case any day and, yes, 90% of figures can be made to say whatever you want; but I want to stress the numbers just this once. After all, they say what I want them to.

I have a hard day ahead of me and then it's nearly flat tills the Rockies. As a reward, I have the Horse Creek Inn. I have already been given two wooden pogs redeemable for free beer; sadly, I'm not drinking, but I am buying!

Some words to live by from FBI agent Dale Cooper:

"Every day, give yourself a present. Don't plan it, just let it happen. It could be tickets to a game [?] or two hot cups of coffee."

Day 16

Here's something to add to the old resume: capable of conversing while complete stranger enters bedroom and defecates in corner.

I actually spent a lovely night in the men's room. I used a 3 foot bench and a shower stall to hang myself on like a suspension bridge. My legs were elevated and pressed against the wall and this could be why I felt so great.

After a couple of conversations with cowboys about the rain and cycling and whether the horses got spooked, I packed up and hit the mess hall. Martha runs the place, makes tremendous biscuits and coffee, and did a great job decorating. They've got IQ tests on the table and I scored 110. I talked with the cowboys, listened to good, classic country, and talked across the room to a woman who was itching to ride the River to River trail, but couldn't tell if it was going to be too muddy. I complemented Martha on her restroom and then moseyed on out.

I moseyed into Scoth. I was glad to see him as I was convinced he'd drowned. Obviously he hadn't, but he was really tired. We rode to Goreville together, I got him an introduction to a cute vegetarian waitress --

G: He's a great guy, but he's a vegetarian. Isn't that weird?
A: Why would that be weird. I'm a vegetarian.
G: You'll love him. I'll go find him

-- and then I biked out. I biked to my heart's content, met up with an elder gentleman from Cali on his way East, and then made it to the Wal-Mart Supercenter.

I will allow you your opinions on anything, but you are wrong if say you don't like Wal-Mart. You're not comparing it to the right thing. Think of how much choice and value it offers the country resident whose other alternatives are General Dollar or the canned foods at the gas station. I bought 25 Cliff Bars, organic rice-a-roni, Gatorade powder, too much junk, and a two foot long turkey sandwich for 4 bucks. Think of the time and carbon saved in being able to buy a Hannah Montana lunchbox, worms, your medicine, and watermelons at the same place.

I weighed twice as much heading out to Chester. I couldn't sit upright because the foot long would poke me in the adam's apple. I got lost in the Mississippi levee and saw nothing but one aeroplane for miles

A note on terror. Hitchcock was onto something in North by Northwest. Terror isn't shadows and darkened alleys. You can hide in those. Terror is blinding sunlight in a field so big you can't orient yourself. Now add the whirring sound of a vicious river.

The old Miss is brown and smells brown. It moves at a million miles an hour and would drag you under and eat you without thinking twice. Sometimes it floods.

Not today, which is why I am in friendly Chester -- Home of Popeye. More on that to come tomorrow I'm sure.

Day 15

Charming update. I am sleeping on the floor of the men's room.

Day 15

I know where they've hid the children. VBS -- Vacation Bible School.

Whether you believe the words 'Vacation' and 'School' should be part of the same compound or not, I have discovered why things seem oddly Pied Pipery.

I'm not going to linger on religion, so here's one last bit of strict reportage taken from the whiteboard in the classroom I slept in:

VBS -- Vacation Bible School July 12th-18
[3 feet over]
Characteristics You Want
Kindness
Trustworthy
Loving
Confident
Faithful
Honest
Giving person

Moving on, no wait, one more thing: You should see the size of their coffee machine. They buy coffee in crates, boil one thousand cups in a minute, and everyone must have a cup in hand.

Now, moving on. Lunch left me a little full and swollen. I ended up ordering a stack of 3 pancakes, screwing the florspar museum, drinking 6-or-so cups of sweat tea and getting into jittery conversations with the unfortunate people in my radius.

The fact that people talk to me is a testament to Mid-Western niceness. Here's a description of my appearance at the halfway mark. My face has Frenched up around the middle and I have the kind of suntan that looks more dirt than bronze. I am hopelessly unshaven. My hair is lightly-salted, blown dry, and made by the same person who does Pacino's wigs. My body ate my chest for lunch one day, but to compensate for this I've developed very wide shoulders and a tight face. My little upper body sits on ox legs that don't really work. Topping things off, I smell like Chinatown after an August trash collector's strike.

And still they say hello.

I rolled myself to the ferry and even managed to take a nap while I waited. I crossed the mighty Ohio and have ended up in Illinois.

Illinois, that pointy state of ad men with broad shoulders who come in on little cat feet. "Imagineer ad men, a new way to sell travelers on a barely complete gravel road and they will come." I took that 'scenic byway' from Cave In Rock to Elizabethtown and nearly collapsed from shaking. I went to the nearest liquor store and bought myself a gallon jug of water.

Elizabethtown is not the charming backroad Orlando Bloom charmed in the charmless, eponymous film. I saw a man in that store who extinguished a lit cigarette in his eyelid. I went out, sat on the curb, pounded my gallon jug, felt my stomach give way, and then laid prostrate on the dirty cement for a good hour's nap. I blended right in.

I called around to the nearest B&B to see if I could sleep off my waterover. I decided otherwise.

I would regret this decision with every inch of my shaking body when, after climbing 750 feet to my first plateau I got caught in the mother of all storms. I tried to out race it, but it caught up to me fast. I ran into the woods, found the lowest point, and then sat in the lightning position -- like you're sitting on a Chinese toilet with a tremendous headache. I tried to sit it out, but my small gully became a large river.

In a very Rambo move, I sprinted across the road, down a hill, and straight to someone's front door. I was scared. I kept my helmet on in the hopes of looking like less of a serial killer. Cue man and wife staring at wet man, lightening flashing, in bike gear. After the initial fear, we chatted, yada yada, I biked another 9 miles to a horse riding campground in Edenville, got dry, dried clothes, crap, I've got to go the storm has started again. I am safe, spent a long time getting my gear dry, and it might be getting wet all over again.

Day 15, a quick note

I am eating my first real breakfast of the trip here in Marion, KY (not to be confused with Marion, Il). To come: three pieces of French toast with pecans, two sunny eggs, biscuits and gravy, bacon, and some sweet tea to wash it all down.

I am making such great time that I might go check out the Clement Mineral Museum. "It's so good it should be in Chicago," says our hostess. A gentleman has informed me that Marion was once the florspar capital of the world. In the 50s there were 3 car dealerships in town and they had everything imaginable. Now, it is small but still pleasant.

Anyhow, here's why I've called this meeting. It's to talk about bike talk. I mentioned that I was sick of hearing about it yesterday, but it has occurred to me that I haven't done a good deal of describing it. To aid me in this end, let's use the power of cowboy metaphor.

"That is an amazing horse."

"Thank you. It's a brown one with handprints. Yours is equally amazing too."

"Thank you. Mine's a black beauty that was once wild, but I've tamed her and added some things like lights."

"Clever. I am in love with your horse."

"I love your horse's ass."

"See I prefer your horses ass. Hey now, your horse has a penis."

"You noticed. I find it convenient."

"You weren't concerned with weight? I had my horse's penis removed at a horse shop earlier. We were dragging along."

"What a novel idea. Maybe I'll get mine fixed in Carbondale..."


And on and on. Yes, we are all on bikes; but can we please talk about something else. Sports? Did you ever see the ass on Lance Armstrong? Me, I prefer Tara Lipinski...

Day 14, Have I miscounted?

Today a new tack: a kvetch-less post. Well, somewhat.

I woke up bright and early to the sound of someone waking me up. It would seem that I overslept the first day of the rest of my life, and so I would be riding with Scoth (rhymes with goth). We headed to the much-talked about Baptist church in Seebree. I rewarded myself with coffee.

I don't actually like riding with other people and Scoth is definitely other people. Now, instead of worrying about other cars you have to worry about another bike. Now, instead of replaying Alanis Morisette's Ironic over-and-over again in your brain, you have to talk. Well, we did.

Scoth is actually quite interesting. Quite interesting fact: corn and soy are rotated every year, so the cornfield to my left is next year's soyfield (soyfield? Yes!). Scoth (born Scott I am sure) is a rapid fire drummer from out of Indianapolis. He is vegan -- except for twice a year -- and knows a heck of a lot about golden era punk. Scoth is 37 and so he had to live through Motley Crüe. We can agree that Tommy Lee is a class-A git and a terrible drummer to boot. It is refreshing to talk to somebody from the middle of the country, as some of the types I meet -- yesterday's San Franciscan Free Tibet Atheist being a prime example -- are a bit, erm, coastal.

We made tremendous time as we rolled through the Kentucky bumps. Like the Eskimo before me, I have developed 37 different word for your word hill: dumps, bumps, dulldrumps, rollies, ekg-ers, John Goodman ekg-ers, hilldogs (hills with dogs), coasters, rollers, toupees (hills without concrete on tops), falsies (hills with extra tops), Jayne Mansfields, purples, gummy-dummy-wumdops (try asking an Appalachian thoroughbred about that), moustachios, crumbumplers, and treadhills (hills where the asphalt slowly rolls down against you).

And so dinner at church. I showered, did my laundry, and volunteered to help weed the front lawn. I quickly unvolunteered when I found out that it was nearly 100 out. I had just showered!

So I read the Gospel of John in a hammock with some cats. John is the catchy one that begins, 'In the Beginning there was the word, and, given the letters R S T L N and E, can you guess what that word was for a chance at a set of jetskis and eternal life?'

My favorite line so far goes thusly:

Jesus is at a party and his mom, the virgin, makes this major party foul and blurts that they're out of wine. "4 [son of God] saith unto her, Woman, what have I to do with thee? mine hour is not yet come, 5 His mother saith unto the servants, Whatsoever he saith unto you, do it."

Not very polite, eh? Verily, verily, verily.

I was saddened to find out I missed the monastery that Thomas Merton stayed at. The atheist told me this. I have never taken a vow of silence, but there are moments on this trip when I remember his words on contemplation and on being Christian to others with some fondness.

I was reminded of that today at dinner. The pastor and his wife and their neighbors took four other cyclists and me into their home and fed us aplenty. Chicken wrapped in bacon in cream (!), ice-cream and cake left over from Florence's 92nd birthday, fresh greens with six different kinds of ranch dressing (!!). Heaven is Cool Cucumber. Whatsoever I could have wanted I had.

We prayed before we ate and I am now convinced prayer aids the digestion. Think about what you're eating, the logistical juggle that gets cucumbers and bacon bits and iceberg lettuce and cherry tomatoes together in a rude mouthful. Enzymes will flow. Thank every miracle.

We talked bike stuff -- I don't know about you but I am sick to death of bike stuff -- and we talked trains. I tried to get Pastor Bob to bite on a question of theology ("Who are these Old Regular Baptist lot anyways?") but he did not take. He was more interested in people which is probably why his church is such a hit. They have ping pong!

We prayed at the end. We joined hands, Violet wished us safety, that God would be with us, that more Americans would travel their country (amen), and that we would have good winds. Since half of us were going different directions, I will assume she meant my half. When we finished praying, she hugged me. That was the first hug I've had in a while and it was lovely.

Say what you will about the Bible, the people who try to live by it in these parts understand charity, kindness, and warmth. So thank you Kentucky on my last day.

Disregard this side note. I have it in here because I thought it...

Something I really wanted to say at dinner because it would have made me look really, really smart: "So the Gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John are all four versions of the same story, huh? That's a bit like Kurosawa's Rashomon."

Something Bob should have said but would be too polite to: "No you pretentious sinner. Rashomon is like the Bible. But goodness you must be really, really smart."

"Well..."

Day 13

What a lovely day. How effortlessly central Kentucky rolls by. I left My Old Kentucky Home State Park (phew!) and went on an early morning bourbon tour.

Heavenly Hash Bourbon is mashed and then stacked in new barrels in what look to be abandoned army barracks. I biked by the distillery at sunrise. My eyes are bloodshot from staring at the sun.

Flawed thesis: even ignoring sun worshipers, organized religion is sold easiest in areas with broad, beautiful skies. Consider rates of attendance in KY vs. Swansea. Consider horrible watercolors of sunsets (or firemen at sunset (or firemen with American flags at sunset)) popular with the evangelical crowd. Reconsider Frederick Church.

I talked to everyone today. I talked to a 6 year old who swore that his brother once caught 16 fireflies with one hand. I talked to an atheist from San Francisco about whether religion is just a word and about his odd dinner with the pastor's wife I plan on eating with tomorrow. I talked to an old woman about why the roads are the way they are -- they just are (although some flooding accounts for why roads are split across rivers. I talked to two fisherman about many raccoons that they named Roger. I talked to a turtle I saved from crushing because, if you whisper a secret into a turtle's ear you won't have to carry it anymore. Alright, alright I confess -- I ate catfood once.

Have you ever had an Ale-8-One? If not, can I recommend a trip to central Kentucky for the only ginger ale/fruit drink worth traveling for.

I am camped out at the base of a damn. I bumped into two girls going Eastbound and was joined by a man in an Iroc-Z.

"Any you girls wanna git round real fas? I show you dun dere."

His kids were quite embarrassed. Nobody was wearing. I mention this because, in a day when I have been stopped by or stopped 30 people to talk, this was the only cretin and yet this is what I felt like sharing with you. I am not doing these people justice. Central and Western Kentucky people are great people, gentlemen farmers with polite dogs, lovely fruit stand vendors with fresh peaches, kindly sheriffs who will track you down 2 miles down the road with different, better directions.

I gained an hour today. Tomorrow I will spend it on a ride at sunset. Tomorrow will be 2 weeks and a thousand miles. I am excited to spend it at the Baptist Church in Seebree, KY. Scuttlebut has it, these are special people.

Day 12

Well the straight line worked. It wasn't pretty and it involved hobbling into a repair shop in Danville for the first tuneup my poor bike has gotten in years. It worked.

I woke up early and biked for an hour looking backwards at the rising sun.

Danville is lovely. Small Episcopalian church, small espresso joint, small courthouse where I waited for my bike to be fixed. It would appear that I had been riding with the brake on for the past couple of days, that my chain was past kaput, that my earlier repair was worthless, and that an extra gear ring would have to be added before my knees spring open leaving ligaments and rubberbands all over the asphalt. It was done, reasonably, quickly, friendlily, by a man who has ridden the country on a tandem with son and a musician who plays Appalachian music.

So I feel better. I pedaled into the wind for four more hours, but it was not hard -- just trying on my patience. I am in Bardstown, where Steven Foster wrote My Old Kentucky Home. There's a musical going on. I, for the most part, chatted with two kids touring the Bourbon Belt, and with two fellow Westbound cyclists. Then I showered, got some disease from the tile (I am convinced), and fell asleep.

Day 11

I am in Berea, KY home of Berea, College.

Berea is kind of a neat school: students have to work for their (free) tuition and they do so either in maintenance or by making arts and crafts. It all looks a bit like Pottery Barn. People come from all around the country to buy their handiwork, but I have faith that some enterprising university in Bangladesh could make a run on this market with low-cost alternatives and a couple of years.

I think I only did 50 miles today. My body is in a minor revolt and I suspect my Bolshy mind is behind this. That and the warm Kentucky sun. My mood will go through manic swings depending on the type of terrain; and, while this was officially the end of the Appalachians, I expect other mountain ranges to take their miserable place. I do not feel particularly great today.

Today was a favorite day for natural beauty, however. The area just east of the city is stunning, a hollow valley surrounded by densely veggified cliffs. The sky was so wide that I could see sunlight and rain -- rain like a cow pissing on a flat rock. In time, that cow was standing squarely above me. (Get your hands on a Frederick Church painting for a near approximation.)

At 5 in the morning it began to pour. The next hour of my sleep was ruined by doubts that my limping tent had sprung a leak. My whole day has been plagued with doubts. Did I take a wrong turn? Why is this hill so steep? How am I getting worse at this?

I have decided to take the afternoon off -- it's 91 degrees F out (F!) -- and to seek shelter in the crafts store, Blondie's icecream parlor, and at the Dinner Bell. It is amazing that, after a promising start, I have to baby myself along. My body just won't go sometimes.

I hope to be asleep by 530 and up earlier tomorrow because tomorrow I cheat.

Tomorrow I will ride in a straight flat line from where I am leaving to where I am going. I am not going to ride up a hill just so I can ride down it; I am not going to see the Shaker museum in Harrodsburg (which I'm a little saddened by); I am going to go the logical route for a change. My trip isn't about a trail, distance or speed, it's about seeing as much as I can and getting to that far coast.

Oh. I would have gotten you all gifts here but nothing weighed less than 10 pounds. You'll have to improvise on paperweights and rattan brooms for a little longer.

Day 10

I will pass through Berea at 8:30 in the morning tomorrow and, with that, leave the Appalachians.

An aphorism I heard from Steve, a former soldier, metal worker, Oregonian, and a man who genuinely has a list of things he wants to see and do:

"It was raining like a cow pissing on a flat rock."

Today, alas, was dry. I will be up early to avoid the sleep. I am sorry for the brevity but I have spent most of my evenings chatting to real-live-people. Please take this as an apology and a promise that, when I am undoubtedly abandoned to myself, I will be full of stories.

Also, I will settle the debate over precisely which valley has the prettiest accent (hint: it's not the valley between Forest Hills, Queens and Flushing.

Day 9, I was lifted up the hills

Because this was a long day, this will be a short post.

Kentucky is not flat as I misread it.

The Appalachians are not over.

The heat would not go away but come back with humidity.

It was Sunday and a church I passed -- now almost exclusively Baptist of cosmetic difference -- had this sign: "Heaven is a cool place." If heaven is the free of suffering, then that must be so. Central air, all downhill.

But, following a similar trope of forlornness and redemption, I happened upon the Historical & Genealogical Society Bed and Breakfast in Hindman, KY. After having to push my bike up its mossy entrance, I was greeted by David, proprietor, with a glass of sweet tea a southern vegetarian meal, and four deserts to choose from. On top of that, I have finally gotten to sit down and talk with someone heading east -- Boris.

And so, around a bonfire, it seems somewhat obvious that kindness and other people are what gets you across your country wherever that may be. That and being so far into Kentucky that you could never find your way out.

Day 8, the Breaks

I think I'm hitting my stride. It's easy to feel that way when you are standing at the mouth of the Cumberland Gap. Virginia is to my back and underneath me; downhill is Kentucky.

I biked 80-odd miles today but I don't feel worse for the wear. I've learned to love the long hill because it let's you get into a rhythm and you can always go down its back at top speed. I've learned to love the rain because it really does a good job of cooling you and kicking up the drama (note: rain while hiking is different). And I've even learned to love the constant feeling of swollen my legs are in. It's a bit like the getting out of a jacuzzi feeling.

So, no more whingeing. I am past a physical hump and nearly past a geographical one. With my wet ride up and down the Smokeys and tomorrow's descent, I will say so long to the Appalachians and (soon) hello blue grass and the Knobs of Kentucky. And, sadly, I will say goodbye to Virginia.

Here is the oldest settlement in the country, a founding state, an early frontier, home to many (how many?) Presidents, where a good bulk of the Civil War was fought, and where a great deal of the punishment was dealt. I have never seen so many historical plaques, some of them hidden down roads you'd have to be mad (or from Virginia) to drive down.

The future seems a little less rich. Small town life is hard, and in some of these places it seems doubly so. Further west, many towns were almost completely shuttered. The No Trespassing sign business booms: not much else. The population tends towards the 60s.

Here are some good signs: often, there are five co-operating fraternal organizations in towns of less than a thousand people. Volunteer rescue and fire squads; Freemasons, Rotarians, and Ruritan-dys (though rarely Rosicrucians); historical societies; Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts, and Cub Scouts; and then the church groups. Virginians love to do good, especially if its catered. Perhaps do good by one another? The locally grown cigarettes, the farmer's co-op: I'm not a communist drug pusher, but I see these as two ways around a problem that belies the exact opposite of the clannishness the area is famous for.

Speaking of stereotypes: sometimes I feel people must try to live up to them. The park ranger I spoke to was buck-toothed, unintelligible, and had stickyouty ears. The gentleman with the ATV I met upon entering the forest had a bandanna, no sleeves on a VT t-shirt, and was talking about farting. And then there is this stereotype: everyone I have met has been tremendously friendly. I feel like the Queen my wrist hurts so much from waving hello. Cars honk to say keep going, people say hi from their porches, and the surliest seeming guys all wave with this kind of pointing gesture. I have met many, many more of the latter in my week here.

A final anecdote.

I was dangling my legs over a rock ledge in the Blue Ridge mountains. A lady came over to me and we got to talking. She pointed to the valley below.

"That's the Shenandoah Valley right there."

"Is that so. Well I can't wait to get down there. I've always heard that the way they talk is the most beautiful accent in the country."

"Oh I don't know."

"No it's true. News anchors make an especially big effort to get it right."

"Why well I'm from down there."

"Well you've proved my point right there. You have a beautiful way of speaking."

Her husband and son, who was my age, returned with some blueberries they'd found. I said goodbye and went back uphill. Behind me, I might have made out.

"That young man just said that I have the most beautiful way of talking."

"Well I've always said that."

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.

Day 5

Rosie was showing Martha how to carefully decoupage Snow White onto a uselessly small table. Watching the TV in silence were two local farmers, father and son, flashing me their sizable cracks. To the left of them was the health inspector -- who had a gun -- and the proprietors Jim and Ro (?). Around the wood paneling on the wall were the occasional beer promo and one genuine Vanity Fair print of a foxhunter. Such was the scene at Ollies in Buchanan.

Beauty can not be, dear reader, in the eye of the beholder. First, quickly, what exactly is a beholder? Second, if it is what we think it is, then surely the beholder who works as a podiatrist in a particularly damp and hilly area is not as beholden to beauty as (safe example) Hugh Hefner.

I like to think beauty is 'where' you put your eyes. I thrust my eyes away from Rosie's horrible face and onto my hosts. The madam was gruff, but that could be because a man with a gun was checking her Coke machine against county regulations.

The monsieur, however, was quite interesting to look at. He was 50ish, gray blond, and where his upper lip should have been was his lower. He just folded it right up in there. I know this because when the inspector left he rolled it down and gave us an account of things in his best Ernest P. Whorrel. I think he slapped his thigh. My burger was perfect.

If I wanted to, I could look at the shrub on the side of the road and count empty beer cans or spot roadkill. One dead squirrel looked like a banana with feet. A can of Glory Blend looked, in my sleepy eyes, like a ruby slipper.

I don't look down much. When I look up I see early morning fog clinging to odd trees, whistle plants, late afternoon sun on fields of golden hay, and the cars I need to avoid.

I started out at 630 today and managed to leave camp at 7ish. I beat the two German tourists at the campground, which was a small point of pride for myself and probably shaming for the others.

I made it to Lexington for a farmer's market, bluegrass, and 6 tomatoes for a buck. Lexington is home to Washington and Lee University and it's on my shortlist of places to retire to. Everyone walks about, they were up at 9, I saw a man in a straw hat. They even have a newsie screaming "Extr-e Extr-e!"

I left Lex over the natural bridge, through Buchnan, home to Ollies, and up through more mountains in the valley of Catawba. At one point, I nearly ran out of water and began to look frantically for the next country store.

It turns out that converting old stores into bomb shelters is all the rage. Windows are boarded up, phone lines cut, and the TV is made to work on propane and bean juice. In my dehydration, I began to scan my memory for episodes of Man Versus Wild. Find the nearest dog then track it back to its bowl? Drink from that murky water around where all the cows are congregating? Rub water on your lips or eat chapstick? Squeeze the water from elephant dung? Nonsense.

In the end I breathed through my nose (thank you Dune) and I made it to Ellet where I had my first ever Tyger. For the unitiate, it's a sport beverage designed by Tiger Woods to taste lemonade-y while retaining all the sugar most other lemonades never quite muster. I found it very refreshing and drank 64 oz in less than a minute.

I'm in a budget motel in Christiansburg. After my 106 mile trail of extreme discomfort, I dropped my stuff off and then biked back up the street to a little shack with a long line. It was Custard Corner. I sunk into one custard sundae, one medium chocolate milkshake, and 3 hot dogs. Everything was first rate. I told them this, and I told the people sitting next to me, and the sheriff, and a gentleman with motorcycles on his t-shirt, and anyone else who would listen. On my way home, I ordered a medium pizza with peppers and cheese from Domino's.

So I'm resting. And I'm so spoiled with resting here that I can't actually rest. I keep spreading out and getting up, faffing with the AC, pouring myself water. If you have running water, you're tremendously spoiled too.

Day 4

Today I am so far away from civilization, even the great AT&T has failed me. I am without service. In the background, the loud punctuation of rifle fire. I'm in the Mallard Duck campground, just down the road from the Blue Ridge Gun Club. I can't tell if the shootist is any good. Do you win points for quantity?

I only traveled 45ish miles as the speedometer flies. Vertically, I climbed 3000 feet then went down some, then back up, and finally back down in a thrilling, winding, 40 mile-an-hour descent that should be turned into a some kind of film starring Bruce Willis.

I started today biking on the narrow shoulder of byway 250 but finally got back on piste and up a tremendous climb that I only survived because I was promised cookies on arrival. The backroad winds left and right and then it opens up to a bridge and Ms. Curry's three houses.

Ms. Curry is, if you believe the maps and her doorbell, the Cookie Lady. She had just lost a tooth. I won't bore you with what we talked about -- suffice it to say, this is the 12th person of golden age who has pulled me aside to complain about the failings of medical care in this country -- but we talked a lot and when she finally gave me the keys to the bike house, I felt the need to sprint through it. In its bones, the bike house is a house of its time. There are lino floors, vinyl countertops, and an excess of rooms. Now, attached to every surface is a bit of bike memorabilia: postcards from Japan, a full sized tandem bicycle, jerseys, photos, more. In the middle, a plate of snacks.

I was feeling peckish and the need to get on the road. I made my mark, returned the keys to Ms. Curry and made my way up the hill.

A note on hills. If I could have one wish on this earth it would be for world peace. If I could have two wishes -- forget my second wish. My third wish would be that no hill ever go up. I don't care how They take care of it. Just. Please.

I rode up a the Blue Ridge, with very little pause, for five straight hours. The small descents stopped doing it for me. Wide vistas of the Shenandoah Valley below -- where I now sit -- stopped doing it for me. The lovely conversation I had with a woman about how I can't wait to hear America's most beautiful accent, the Shenandoah Valley regional accent, sort of took my mind off it. People are lovely here. The hills kept on.

Then, as Newton decreed when he invented gravity, all my up going must went downwards. Fast. I'm swerving from side to side, 60 pounds of trailmix strapped to my sides like dynamite, my ears blown out by the wind and the horrible smell of burnt rubber coming up from my untrustworthy brakes. It was horrifying. And it was over so fast.

Mono no aware is a Japanese aesthetic concept that believes the greatest beauty comes in fleetingness. I find no contentment in that. I want to come in and build a chairlift so that everyone I know can barrel down that pass. Although, perhaps, maybe what made it great was the hard slog beforehand.

Day 3, part 2

I have burned all the hair off my hand. It smells edible.

That was going to be the beginning of my evening post. Now, a bowl of crispy lentil-rice-tomato-oil and a freshen up later, I have opted for a different tack.

This is going to be a short one. I am sitting at the base of the Blue Ridge mountains, the sun now behind them, and the glow of the Blackberry is cheapening the experience. The fireflies are especially annoyed.

Well, slight mistakes again. I skipped my planned spot in White Hall without noticing. At that stage, all I could see were my kneecaps pumping up and down, just beneath my eyelids. Instead, I am at Misty Mountain campground by a babbling brook that the folks at the Sharper Image would kill to record. Neat note: when I checked in, a 12 year old girl came bursting through the doors screaming. Her Daddy was going to get her a cellphone! Then, as quickly as she came, she pulled out in a golf cart.

The sun is nearly gone from behind the mountains. Tomorrow, I will have to climb unless they get moved in the evening. Still, at the top of one of them lies The Cookie Lady and that, I promise, will be a tale.

Day 3, part 1

I am sitting at a very civilized lunch in Charlottesville. I was promised burritos but I will have to make do with my sandwich, fries, milkshake, and a side of mashed potatoes and the deafening bickering of two junior faculty members. The woman can't bring herself to swear but she's convinced her coworker is an S-head. The man -- high camp -- is convinced the faculty is too male-centric. I wish them luck in all their endeavors.

I began at 645 today. I was so excited and rested that I might have woken some medics with my thanks. Things were easier today. It was cooler in the morning and I made tour de Frenchish pace until bumping into two eastbound cyclists. They gave me some tips and, using their fancy cycling computer, let me know that Charlottesville was only 30 miles away.

After that idea had poisoned my mind I knew one thing only -- burritos. The burrito is the base of my food pyramid, right under 'fats I find healthy'. And this was to be the rare burrito I've earned. Sadly, market pressures here in Charlottesville (a competing Grateful Dead memorabilia store, a wine bar perhaps) have pushed Atomic Burrito out. I would eat anything with the prefix Atomic.

Burritos got me across Monroe's Ash Lawn farm and up over Jefferson's wretched Montecello hill. I skipped Montecello for burritos and I'll be damned if I'm going to bike back up it. It looked beautiful: the highest hill in the area, subtle clearings and the thick trees they have down here. More on the flora and fauna to come...

Day 2

I am writing to you from the innards of Mineral's volunteer fire company. I was camping out back of the neighboring Rescue Squad when Charlie, volunteer fireman, told me that there was a small rivalry between the two organizations to see who could be nicer. A warm shower, hot meal, and mild stretch later and I'm ready to cast my vote.

Mineral is a religious town with three churches to its three blocks, and this is Sunday.

There wasn't much traffic when I started out of the RV park. I made my way into the backroads and then made sure I got completely lost. I had the Coast Guard on the line when Benny, a near-messiah in biker's spandex, got my attention and offered to lead the way to Coatsville -- "only we're not using your maps."

Onwards at 16 miles an hour. Over rolling hills and a terrible stretch of up-and-up that the local Methodist church had adopted (I think it is past salvation). He told me about the area and pointed out some interesting bits of local agribusiness. It seems the farmers have banded together in co-ops here too, and good, as everyone wins. I told him "ugh" and "wheeze" and "I swear I'm a good cyclist by New York's standards." Two roads diverged in the middle of the road, and as I took the one that was marked Bikecentennial 76, he pound my fist and told me that he hopes I find what I'm looking for and "fucking do this thing!" Just out of sight, I crumpled to the ground, stuffed a Cliff Bar up my nose, ate a gallon of water and had a nap.

My sleep options were thin today. I could either ride 50 miles or 100. 50 was plenty hard.

Some of the area has been hit hard by the building boom and bust. Huge, ugly, optimistic houses live next to others just like them and wait for equally large families to come in. I contemplated tucking into one and spending the night on the wall-to-wall carpet.

What do you call 4 trucks driving in a row on a Sunday? Church traffic. Sundays do seem to have meaning around these parts. Many streets take the name of the family living on them (Ferguson, Jackson, Applewhite) and houses are either swarmed with cars or left abandoned for other relative's homes, perhaps those with wall-to-wall.

Church traffic made way for jet skis on Lake Anna and jet skis -- which I love despite whatever You say, effete liberal and killjoy inside me, because they are impossibly fun -- well jet skis made way for a game of tag between two 12-year-olds on ATVs and another on a John Deere contraption.

A little ways up the road and I made it here. I grabbed some Gatorade at a local grocer and took notes: often I see crab farms on the front porches; food is as cripplingly expensive as it is in NYC despite being stripped of any nutritive qualities; there are brands of local cigarettes that are, however, quite reasonable. I also saw a man empty out some leftover sardine oil from his pickup window.

I am tired. Tomorrow, go to Trader Joe's, buy one of their salamis and tear off a piece so big you can't open your mouth wide enough to chew it. Then slowly squeeze it down with the roof of your mouth. I'm not going to be so hyperbolic as to say that's all a man needs, but in the moment it felt like it would do.

Day 1, ugh

100 miles. My first day and my first century. I would blame human error if I weren't the human.

Things began smoothish. I was up and at 'em early at the Crown Inn. I biked down the road a little bit and made my way to Yorktown and dipped my fingers in the water as if it were holy. Wholly unusual was the woman staring at me, bony knees deep in the Atlantic with a walker and a metal detector. Photos of her to come.

I turned on her and to my first hill. I pushed the bike up it. I began on the Colonial Parkway to
Williamsburg.

The parkway is yellow brick and I followed it to the Burg, which is Colonial and confusing. I was lost and in the middle of a battle of some kind. So I delivered on skirmishes.

"How are ye stranger?"
"I’m completely lost. Where can I get some Gatorade?"
"Why whatever do you mean?”
“Oh. I see. I need some water. Where can I find a drinking fountain?”
"You are an odd sort. I don’t know what you’re speaking of.”
“Come on man.”
"I recommend you try the Gift Shoppe o’er yon on the other side of the battlefield, by the carpark."
"Thanks a lot."

I made it past some fake slaves churning butter and found that water was very expensive in colonial times. I said drank it regardless and wouldn't see any for 38 miles.

Before that reunion, I swang by Jamestown and had a lovely convo with a local on a bike on a bike path on which I was. We talked about the trip, how he prefers to ride at 62, and then he shared his charming collection of anecdotes of friends and acquaintances who snuffed it while biking. Then he tore past me.

He was much on my mind when I started looking frantically for anyplace with water. Gas stations, delis, some of the empty beer cans I was counting on the side of the road. When I found Cheryl's Store and Grill, I began to feel blessed.

Backtrack: remember how I wondered which yes my driver understood. It was the wrong yes. It was 'yes you have a map'. I arrived in Norfolk, over the longest bridge in the world -- although I could have sworn Schwarzenegger blew it up in True Lies -- without, ugh, the faintest clue of how to get back over the bay.

Bless DJ and his extortionately priced taxi. Overheard:

"Norfolk is the site of the largest Naval base in the world."

"It's where the ironclads fought and its the site if Ft. Mason."

"I believe that boy Jimmy's got the bipolar 'cause he's not got no call to be so dermned angre."

The motelier was angry when I woke him. Thankfully we were separated by bullet proof glass and we left things simmering.

Back to the past present: I could have kissed Cheryl. Wimbledon was on too.

Miles down the road I discovered that I can't read maps. My campsite at Vedeecker's store (?) wasn't 48 miles away-- it was 138 miles away. I tried all my bedding options: pastors didn't pick up, there were no hotels; people in Virginia seem serious about their property, so no camping on the sly. I even contemplated getting arrested for a petty crime.

I am at my final option. It is 30+ miles away from where I wanted to sleep. It is prom night in Mechanicsville. It is an RV camp near Ashland. It is a small patch of heaven on earth. Everyone is so friendly. The camp hostess kept the pool open late so I could use it. I didn't. I did shower and I might just shower again. Showers are the wonderful marriage between God's gift of water and plumbing.

I made dinner. Magic: whole wheat pasta with summer sausage, a cup of salt, lovely olive oil in a Fiji bottle, sundried tomatoes, and a handful of pine needles I couldn't quite get off the pasta after dropping it. A man I got to talking with swung by again with two CDs of his music. I don't know when I'll see a CD player next, but thank you Bridson.

I have had the worst Mighty Swallow song stuck in my head. Perhaps you can take it off me for a while.

Bang bang Lulu
Lulu ran away
Lulu had to go bang bang
That's why she ran away.

Lulu had a boyfriend,
Name was Tommy Tucker.
He took her round to his house
To see if he could --

Bang bang Lulu...

You get the picture. And with that, goodnight.

Day 0, Part 2

I'd like to drawn some comparison between my ride down here on the Chinatown bus and my ride across the country on my faithful bike. After stopping off at Won Ton Buffet I asked our driver if we could stop earlier than Norfolk.

"Yes," he said.
"Yes," I said.

Now I am not so sure we said yes to the same things. Mine was supposed to be a sign of mutual understanding. His, I fear, was perhaps 'yes you are talking', 'yes you look crazy', or just 'yes'.

When I travel, I hope to be less frantic about seeing my destination. The Pacific is harder to miss.

Things I have seen: the large Confederate Flag that greets you when crossing the Virginia State line; a hotel that advertised having Pepsi as its top selling point; a chain of highway restaurants aimed at the Harley Davidson crowd. Sadly, I fear I am the wrong kind of biker...

Day 0

I am heading south on a terrifying bus at a terrifying speed.

To the left of me is a man with red feet who cries in his sleep. Further left, from what I can tell, are the wheels of the bus, going round and round on the divider. In back -- I can't look in back. For the first couple of miles I heard a baby screaming. Just seconds ago, when I turned around to stare it down, I noticed it was not a baby but a grown man of considerable size.

I have just made my hotel reservation at Yorktown's Crown Inn Motel. I'm in under Goff Manesfiele. The girl I spoke to had a beautiful Southern accent, but when she went to ask her mother what the damage was, I heard a violent fight in Hindi. The damage was 40 bucks.

For those of you new to my experiment, I am riding my bike across America. I am starting in Virginia.

My bike, or what's left of him, is grinding to pieces in the cargo hold beneath someone's zebra-skinned bag. My bagman, Sanjay, is probably crushed between the two. He’s a city bike, thirty years old (ninety in bike years), rusty in important spots, and completely unused to hauling anything more than groceries. I have much more confidence in Sanjay’s surviving our grand tour. I might put money on this.

We start in Yorktown. Sanjay is making his way down there with our belongings. The things we'll carry: a case of rioja, manchego cheese, my easel, some canvases, a bust of Voltaire, a hibachi, a hammock for afternoons, an aero bed, a table for entertaining, spare parts, and if Sanj has done his job, one of those huge chess sets you find at Club Meds. This grand tour will be grand.

Things I will miss on the road: the giving internet, Artichoke pizza, ice and the civilization built around it, Wall-E, people in excess, SpellCheck.

Things I look forwards to: Blackberry thumb, stars, the Pacific, numbness in my extremities, earned showers, perhaps a game or two of chess.

Yorktown is where Cornwallis signed the surrender and it has been the site of some significant skirmishes over the years. Sadly, I can't promise a skirmish; I can, however, assuage your fears of surrender. I can't stand symmetry and if I do plan on quitting I'll save it for Williamsburg which has comparatively little history of the stuff.

We are nearing the Shenandoah Valley. This is where Ted Koppel found his accent. It is also -- grab tissues -- where I hope to find something enduring. The climbs are greater here than in the Rockies, my pack is at its heaviest, and red foot is chewing as he snores. Jimminy.

Yours,

Goff

Testing, un dos tres

This is a test to see if I can write updates with this thumbcrippling Blackberry I got. Also, on the topic of Blackberries, would anyone know how to change a background? Somebody kindly changed mine to a glamor shot of Ben Affleck in a suit...
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