Riding for what seems like an eternity. Consistent hills. Skirting the Jefferson National Forest. Roads with little traffic. Rapid descents on wet roads. Cloudy moisture hangs in the air. I can drink the air as I pant up a hill. Riding across fields of alfalfa on a soppy dirt road. Large rolls of feed dot the recently cut fields. Titan Cement Company. Catawba Road turns into Little Catawba Road. Little Catawba Road has bigger and steeper climbs, feels like it should be Big Catawba Road. No bugs. Water dripping from leaves above the road. Kids in school buses stare at us. Baptist Churches speckle an open valley. Pickled egg from a dinky store. Man tries to enter us in a catfish catching tournament. He gives us free apples after we decline. Camp is found. Only 30 miles. Axle tweaked in dropout. Rubbed heavily the whole time. Felt like 50 miles. Wrestle thorns to hang hammocks. Wes hangs his above the "pig pen". Dirt. Trash. Stump pile. My spot is descent. Buckling down for a storm. Radar says we're in for a good one.
One mile outside of Catawba, Virginia, we definitely aren't at our favorite kind of camp spot. No water access, we're near a road, there's areas of bare dirt, and it's enclosed within an area of thorny bushes. Weather radar shows a storm moving towards us from the west. It stretches from the southern tip of Texas to the open land of Canada. Roughly 200-300 miles wide. It's now evening and the rain will hit us in the morning. I set up my rainfly in a way where I can see out and also store my bike underneath it. Cutting strips of para cord for drip lines, I multitask by doing my evening stretches.
Glancing across the valley, I see a black bear lumbering across the area cleared for a power line. He looks full and content. It's interesting seeing him roam freely in the distance, while the cows between us are fenced in. While stepping on numerous thorn branches, I tie the drip lines to the two lower ends of my rain fly. Laying in the grass underneath, I admire the shelter I've made. Wes and I hope for the ultimate storm to test our silnylon homes.
Laying back, my focus turns to my elegant Surly. She's beautiful, covered in grime, and not shifting or braking as she should be. I've done minor adjustments, but realize I haven't thoroughly looked her over even once on the trip. Through headlamp eyes, I run through her. Front to back. She's a dirty one. Bolts are loosening up and a rear rack bolt is completely gone. Brake pads are adjusted and dérailleur indexing is dialed. She's a new machine. Still grimy, but functioning properly.
Ingesting a steady flow of hot cocoa, I grab my camera and the night once again becomes my darkroom. I mess with the light, it shows me I don't understand it, yet I know the finished product I'm searching for. Many exposures of me running around with a headlamp. Lighting up an area of the shot for three seconds. Nope, it needs five seconds. Five seconds on the hammock, but only three on the bike due to its reflective tires. It becomes an equation in which I'm factoring in light, time, location and angle. Both in my camera and in physical action. I take a ghostly self portrait and call it a night.
I wake up to leaves on my rainfly, but no beads of water or tapping of rain. Without service, I can't check the radar and Hueso is too far away. 20 feet. I prepare my breakfast of grits and slowly watch and listen to the world wake up. The sun brightens, cows begin stirring in the field and cars pass by as their drivers head to work, school or the fishing hole. Hueso walks over, laughing, at around 8:30am. As he hands me his iPhone, I hear the first few drops of rain. The radar shows we're right on the edge of a mass of various bright colors. Colors which tell me nothing more than wetness. Green tells me I'll be riding through some sprinkles. Blue tells me I need to put on a rain shell and Chaco sandals. Red tells me I better tighten down the corners of my rainfly. There's a few hundred miles of every color in our future. My chair, within arms reach of a hefty supply of hot cocoa and tea, is a great place to view the spectacle from.
I don't have service and I'm not interested in the book I have. Hours are spent playing with my camera and writing. Primarily writing. This of which you are reading, along with plenty other topics I've had running around my mind. Writing in the rain seems to take on its own mood and style. I don't fight it and find enjoyment within it. The novelty of it. Like the runner who itches for a long, rainy run.
I make a game out of collecting rain water and begin filling up random containers. Showing them off to Hueso as if I've accomplished a great feat of ingenuity. Eventually containers are filled, writing has found strange tangents, cocoa has replaced my blood, working out has found me exhausted and the environment has turned from alluring to drab.
It's a long day. We notice the rain drops come to an end at 6:30pm. Full day of rain is now behind us, without any movement or fascinating sight. All the makings for two stir-crazy individuals. As 7pm brings the sunset upon us, we realize how badly we need to move. Not for the sense of miles or goals. Simply to not wake up in this same spot the next morning, with nothing to show for it. We're on the road an hour later. Darkness is fully upon us, with the harvest moon poking in and out from behind scattered clouds. Rear lights flashing away and bright front lights illuminating the way, we set off, out of the rainy escape. Riding at night is a wonderful experience. Nothing seems to be as big of a deal. The longest climb is the hundred feet we can see in front of us in which our lights illuminate. We notice the signs more. They're one of the only things within our area of vision and they're extremely reflective. During the day, they zoom past without any acknowledgement by us. The air is crisp after the soaking rain and the night brings on a cooler temp. We see silhouettes of buildings, rather than their fully detailed constructions. Without knowing their exact location, nor their restraints, nor their intentions, we pedal faster every time we hear a dog bark near the road. The road is mostly downhill. We keep up our speed and momentum carries us through most of the hills.
Occasionally we encounter a car on the road. They usually slow down to a near stop before they realize what they've encountered. I'm sure a massive bicycle, fully lit on these country roads, is a rare sight. Eventually they pass us, rubbernecking in the process. One lady stops. "I'm with the sheriffs office. You need a light on the back of that thing." she exclaims. I readjust the backpack on my rear rack. "Woops! It was covered up. You should never start a conversation with that statement. Always start with a greeting. It’ll go a long way." I respond. Our goal for the night is food in Blacksburg, Virginia. Whenever we set a goal, it seems to be at the top of Mount Olympus. It seems as if Google Maps thinks we want to dine among the gods. The grade is ridiculously steep for the last two miles, but anything is possible with warm food in our thoughts.
Turns out Virginia Tech is in Blacksburg, Virginia. On campus, we find a Waffle House. We eat our "happy waffles" with plenty of sides. Eggs, ham, raisin toast, and cheesy jalapeño hashbrowns. Hueso's mother, Colleen, tells us people aren't going to be as caring towards us once we become pudgy. Meals like this make it all worth it though. Hueso's gloves smell so horrible it's hard to sit next to him. Our waitress puts them through the sanitation machine for him. Twice. Not even hundreds of degrees, sanitizer and a high pressure spray can undo the damage he has done to those gloves. Nothing like getting in some miles and feasting on some midnight breakfast.
We ride through the campus and it reminds me a lot of Boise State. Open areas with few trees, late teens scurrying around the dorms and modern-style brick buildings. We both reminisce about college and how it's hard to recognize the greatness of something until it's in the past. Late nights of energy drinks and Kraft mac n' cheese with friends in order to cram for a test the next day, seemed torturous at the time. Working through the week to make sure our weekends were free to be used as college students do. Sometimes even pretending a Tuesday was a Saturday and getting buck wild with Buck Range and Trizz Nation. We ride, reminisce and conclude we'll have to go back and get our masters degrees. Until then, setting up hammocks atop a coal mine at 1am will have to suffice. Good night.
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