August, 2020
It’s a smart idea to start writing when the thoughts are fresh in your mind. The good lord knows how many stories have been misplaced inside our heads, only to get covered in dust.
The goal was to leave on Saturday, but a popped tire forced me to wait until the following Tuesday. I was antsy to get on the road, but also nervous, so I might have played it off as disappointment while actually feeling a bit of relief. The weather forecast wasn’t on my side either, which caused a bit of worry. To my surprise, however, I woke up late Tuesday morning to find a beautiful sunny day. I was expecting to postpone another day, so I hadn’t packed at all. I spent a few hours running errands and saying one final goodbye to my friend and previous adventure companion who was moving to the great state of Texas.
I hit the road, feeling good, feeling strong. I rode by the sacred campsite on the Haw river where me and the boys bonded so strongly last fall. I rode by the patch of woods I camped alone last winter. It was there that I camped for the first time all alone and on my bike. I remember it being so cold that I couldn’t hold my hands out of the sleeping bag to read, even with gloves. At this point I was entering new territory, road I had never ridden.
I don’t know where I slept the first night, I couldn’t point it out on a map. All I know is that it was near a lake that I was desperate to jump in after sweating so much. Although after punching through the woods to the water, I came to admit that the lake smelled worse than I did and I couldn’t make myself get any closer. There was no good spot in the woods, but there was an abandoned house with a flat driveway that looked cozy enough. Dead construction equipment, locked up shipping containers and piles of torn up concrete littered the back yard. Vines grew in and out of the windows of the condemned farmhouse. Satellite images from Google maps showed a happy cottage with a big empty back yard. Lucky for me, those days are over. I stood in the driveway looking past the rusted dump truck and tried to imagine whether the house was really abandoned or if there might be some desperate soul trying to bring life back into the little cottage. I concluded that the birds and the neighbor’s ancient bulldog where the only animals left inhabiting the land.
That evening I looked back at the forecast and felt a torn sense of ‘what the fuck am I doing?’ I figured I would be spending the next week as a very wet person, unhappily riding through summer storms until I finally made it to the mountains. That never happened though. It never did rain once. I was out of water though, and I was nowhere near anything drinkable. I happily, but uneventfully kept riding east the next day after stopping by a church to fill up some bottles. This ended up being a good trick for the rest of the ride. On the map I saw a river, a big river. After feeling oh so grimy I knew I would be going out of my way to bathe in the smooth currents of the mighty Yadkin. I was riding through the town of Clemmons and noticed a big park where I figured I could go for a swim. Unfortunately, the only entrance I found had a big sign that said “No Swimming”. But on the other side of the gate I could see a rope swing and a few beer cans. Remnants of some late-night skinny dippers, no doubt. The river felt incredible, even though it was a bit murky. Out of the river I came to a security guard standing outside of a big pickup. “How we doing?” he said. I explained that I would be leaving promptly and he left without a word. Most of the time when you’re somewhere you’re not supposed to be, the people guarding the place only want you to leave.
I kept riding West. The directions I was following were confusing at times, even directing me to make a U-turn in and out of a cul-de-sac at one point. I took a wrong turn, but caught it quickly. This is when I learned that retired men would be my best friend on this trip. A man named Warren stopped and started chatting about how he used to tour around North Carolina many years ago. He noticed that I was probably going the wrong direction and offered to guide me down to another spot on the Yadkin river and show me a place to camp. I followed him for a few miles. We didn’t make it all the way – he was diabetic and his wife was disabled and diabetic. He had to go home, but kindly offered himself as a contact in case I ran into any trouble. Aside from a couple visitors who were there to leave fishing hooks, the bank of the Yadkin river was a nice place to camp. The water felt good and I slept well.
I ran out of water again that night. I made my way up to the road and saw a guy working in his yard. He was very chatty and let me fill up my bottles. He showed me around his brand new home and pointed out some old NC route 2 maps that he had framed on the wall. He also had a portrait of Jesus where it looked like his eyes were closed until seen from a certain angle and would appear open. He thought it was hilarious.
I stopped at a church down the road to make some oats. A cyclist came over and offered me a banana. “fresh produce is hard to find around here,” he said. “I’ll probably see you on the road.” We did pass by each other and he road with me for a few miles. He suggested I make my way to the Shiloh General Store. The store was in Mennonite country, so there were road signs to look out for horse and buggies. The general store was the most popular place for miles. Farmers and retirees would go there for lunch on sunny days. I sat near a table of old couples. One lady kept talking about God. “This land is gorgeous and God made all of it.” she said “yes ma’am, He did,” I said back.
There were still many hours left in the day, so I tried to put down as many miles as I could. The earth was beautiful and overcast with cornfields for miles and miles. Further west, I rode through Windy Gap under the glorious, blazing, Carolina sun. It reminded me of the Inca valleys, although their mountains are much taller than ours and they didn’t trim acres of grass with a lawn mower around their homes. There was a sign on the side of the road that said “If you don’t live here, keep driving.” I thought about that why someone would make a big sign like that and put it outside their home. If I lived there I’d want to share it with everyone.
The road through Windy Gap lead to Wilkesboro which is a straight shot to Boone… if you head down 321, which is a big highway that goes straight up a mountain. No thanks, I’ll stick my thumb out instead. It was a nice day to sit by the on ramp and wait for a ride. I opened up to the page in my book where the main character was picking up a hitchhiker in North Carolina. I’m not much for signs, but it was at least a nice coincidence that Pablo rolled up in a trash filled pickup truck and offered to drive me the whole way. “I wasn’t going to Boone, but eh… fuck it.” He said that a lot. “Eh, fuck it.” We talked about heart break, his legal troubles, the future (he wanted to be a doctor. He was trying to fill out an application at the park right before he picked me up. He gave up when it asked “why do you want to be a doctor?”). We split a pitcher at a sports bar when we got to town. He ate chicken.
My brother, Fritz, and I went to a brewery and sat outside at the furthest table and watched the sunset. The next day Fritz and I went to the river. Then I met some of his friends and lost miserably at the acting game they like to play when they drink. I still liked them.
My next goal was to get to Asheville. I took the Blue Ridge Parkway, which gets very busy on the weekend. The first day was tough, but I tried not to complain because the biggest climb was yet to come. I kept spooking myself out by looking at the topographic map and the thinking about the impending ache of my legs. There was a sign for camping right off the parkway that I followed. I didn’t mind spending a few bucks if it meant I could maybe have a shower and a place to charge a phone. The campground was full. However, it wasn’t much of a campground anyways, it was a camping resort. I don’t think they even had a place to pitch a tent. So I made my way down to the river. I was still on their property, but I took a long downhill in order to get there and I wasn’t going to go back up that night. I found a very small spot on what I thought would be a deserted trail. Unfortunately, I ended up spending the evening hiding from little kids and their parents. I was just far enough into the forest that I would be sure to give someone a fright if they saw me, but far enough away that I could hide if I sat still. I didn’t sleep too well that night.
The hills the next day were mega. Even before I got to the ridge of Mt. Mitchell. I went up and up and up and up. Every time I thought I was close there was so much more to go. I went up and up and up. I cursed God all the way. I don’t believe in God, but someone had to take the blame for my cramping right leg. I filled up my bottle with drops coming off the side of the rock face. Tasted like Mother Earth. The air was crisp at the top. I looked for a campsite, but decided it was best to just bomb the mountain and sleep at Wilson’s house that night instead.
Wilson and I bummed around. He doesn’t do much, but that’s okay. I needed to rest. We drank beer by the Swannanoa river and joked about our days in high school. Fish nibbled on our toes.
I left the next morning. This might be considered the beginning of the end. I would have stayed another day in Asheville, but I don’t know if Wilson wanted to me keep sleeping on his couch. I decided that I would head to Lake James and take another rest day. My plan. However, relied on being able to find a ride up the mountain that pushed me so hard the first time. I was heading back up the Blue Ridge. This ended up being quite easy. I flagged down a black pickup while a talkative retired cyclist told me about all his favorite routes around Asheville. “I’m just putting some miles on my truck,” he said. I hope the driver could see the big smile on my face as we blasted up to the top. Taking some windy roads down from the Parkway, in about an hour I was back in the humid, sweaty piedmont air.
I felt defeated by the end of the day. I thought it was going to be an easy ride to get to Lake James and pitch a tent, but I ended up putting in 7 or 8 hours of pedaling. At least I could jump in the water. I spent a lot of time talking to friends on the phone and tried to figure out what I would do the next day. I thought I might go to Winston Salem (I don’t know why. I follow my gut. Impulsiveness, I suppose). I wanted to take another day of break before I kept going, but there wasn’t a great place to rest and it was looking like my route would be covered in rain come a few days. Riding my bike was the only constant for that week. I was either riding or resting and I’m not good at resting. I had a poor night of sleep and pushed forward knowing full well that I shouldn’t have. I knew that I was going to ruin the fun by riding so hard and that’s exactly what happened.
I really wanted to get to Winston Salem, which was over a hundred miles away, so I hung out on the I-40 ramp and stuck out a thumb. You just have to wait long enough for the right idiot to come and offer a ride. Pablo was the first one to come my way. Someone told me that a lift will always come, you just have to be persistent. I tried a few locations and found one that I thought would work. A guy on a moped gave me a smile and waved. I was looking for someone in a pickup truck, so me and my bike could sit in the back. The guy on the moped rode by again. Nobody came and finally I gave up and decided it wasn’t worth it.
I stopped at a drug store and bought a lot of snacks and Gatorade. Then I stopped at a general store and bought ramen noodles and water. I knew what I needed to do, but I wasn’t enjoying any of it. It was hot and my body was telling me to slow down. I don’t know how to slow down and every moment not riding is wasted. I didn’t have anywhere to be, but I had to go. Movement is the one constant.
I gave up… I really did. Slightly embarrassed and feeling like I let myself down, I called my sweet, sweet mother to see if she could come and carry me home. I was in my bed a few hours later. This is the hardest part of the story to write because I’m not proud of what happened. There’s a bounty of things I should have done differently throughout this whole event. If I had planned things better, rested more, or taken a partner along then maybe I’d still be bumming around the hills right now.