Backwoods Paint Chips

The Snails have agreed that each time we set ourselves up to stay in a home or meet somebody, the destination always ends up being atop a large hill. Some climbs whizz by, some are gorgeous, some have dogs, some are mellow and full of conversation, some make our legs quiver and some are worth mentioning. The feeling of Mt. Hebron Rd will forever be engrained in both of our thighs. While only a few miles long, its grade was designed for trucks with winches. No repress is offered, and therefore one is in it for the long/short haul once it has begun. It's perfectly paved, as if its layers realized users would need every advantage available to summit it. Hueso and I picture a single man, laughing in vengeful malice, as he routes where the road will ascend and bend. It's incredibly hot and the day is nearing its end.

We've already charged through Aggressive Dog Domain Road (really called Grey Wolf Road) and narrowly missed a few incidences that attempted to end our day early. Mt. Hebron is merely the icing on the cake. Hueso claims it's the first time he hasn't enjoyed a moment of the trip. "This is pointless!" he exclaims. "Beyond challenge and accomplishment, this isn't enjoyable at all!" he further states. It's too taxing to respond to and therefore all I can do is grin in acknowledgement. While I don't consider myself competitive, I've ridden bikes long enough to learn the steeper the climb, the angrier and more focused I become on a goal, seeing the crest as an accomplishment in which no grade will prevent. I've never driven up a paved road this steep, and that's no exaggeration.

Rolling over the top, we ride on, fueled by anger and pride, or something in between. The mountain sides are gorgeous leading to my uncle's house. Leaves yellow, with streams picking through yards lining the road. Homes of all sorts, as the backwoods of North Carolina seem to possess, everywhere I see. Unlike Virginia, where many backwoods areas were often only trailers or decrepit shelters. Old Fort Road is lined by intermingled new homes, trailers individually and in parks, wealthy and gated communities, and quaint homes well-preserved through generations of a family. Rolling through the valley, I slowly begin to recognize sections of the road from my visit in 2006. My uncle's house is approached to find him and his buddies chatting on the deck. I yell to them from the road, as we pedal up and loop back on the driveway.

I have an incredible family, with each member of it being unique and perfect in their own little way. My Uncle Tom is no different and he'll make sure you know it. Sir Tom, as I've called him since we lived together when I was a little tot, is a Ritter. He comes from that side of the family. Being a Ritter means many things, but there is one golden rule to abide by when dealing with them. It's simple, never believe anything they say, without any exceptions. Whether it be something as simple as when they woke up or more meaningful, such as whether or not they served in a war or how many kids they have. If you make dinner, they'll tell everybody else they cooked it. Regardless of when you wake up, they've supposedly already gone for a jog and washed the truck. If they tell you it's 6pm, check your watch, it's probably 7pm. They never really won the lottery. They will never be as tall as they claim. Their voices are meant for anything but singing, yet they'll belt out horrendous pitches until you agree they deliver the voice of an angel. The milk in your cereal isn't bad, even though they're at the fridge smelling it and claiming it's rancid. None of them have toured with the Rolling Stones or know Mick Jagger personally as "Jaggy". They offer help, support and advice, then make you regret it the whole time. They offer their bed for the week, then every night before bed, look you in the eyes and mention the horrible mattress they're sleeping on in the living room. Ritters tell you to eat everything in the fridge, then exclaim their hungry because you ate all their food. Each one claims to be smarter, funnier, younger and better looking than every other Ritter. Siblings call each other horrible names, yet smile and laugh their way through the words. If you've taken a Ritter seriously, you've already made a horrible mistake, which may be impossible to recover from. They do all this because they're some of the most loving people in the world and this is their backwards way of showing it.

Sir Tom's been renting out his NC home and, unfortunately, he's experienced a recent nightmare. Bob, the man from Massachusetts and Florida but seems like he's a native of North Carolina, has been renting the home for the past few years. Sir Tom has had a lot on his plate, to say the least, over the last couple years and hasn't been able to make the drive from Florida in a while. Upon visiting a few months ago, he walked up the concrete path to his treasured home in the mountains, only to find it had been occupied and neglected by Bob, with his hoarding personality and indoor cat. Piled to the ceiling with random oddities in each room, Bob stopped by occasionally to feed and tend to the cat, although primarily used the house for storage. Windows in rooms had been closed for years. Never vacuumed. Stale air. Cat urine in every imaginable place. Only a path to navigate from one room to the next. Shocked by disbelief, Sir Tom explores the house, finding one upset after the next. The kitchen floor has sunk in, due to stagnant moisture. He finds the roof leaking and draining down a wall in the back room. Bob said it had been doing it for weeks, but didn't think much of it.

We arrive on a Monday, to find the house after Sir Tom has spent three days, from dawn till dawn, cleaning and disinfecting. Some sections seem perfectly clean and livable, then others show the degradation caused by years of neglect. Circling above a spotless kitchen table, the ceiling fan is coated in dust and dirt. Nearly a centimeter thick on top. Carpets are vacuumed, yet window sills are covered in a casing of filth. I take photos as Sir Tom begs me not to. I tell him progressive photos in the future will shine over the clouded mood of the present. He shakes his head, disagrees, and I continue taking photos.

The next few days are spent in a repetitive routine. Meandering through various tasks around the house, far from thoughts of riding a bicycle. The bikes sit on the side of the house, behind a closed gate, out of sight, out of mind, enjoying their cool tires. I wake up in the morning, last, to Sir Tom yelling at me in some ridiculous fashion or blowing the leaf blower, through the cleanly disinfected bedroom window, onto my head. I ignore him each time and rise from the mattress when my eyes feel ready. With each morning, I admire our restoration progress from the night before and ponder what to tackle next. Then with the warm idea of doing something productive, I throw it in the back of my mind and sit out on the deck, wave to the cars driving by as if I know them, Sir Tom yells "Howdy Neighbor!", I make a sandwich of processed orange on enriched white bread, and rattle around the house. Moments of play, relaxation, laughter and conversation are interspersed among days aimed at putting the house in a livable condition. I clean a fan, as Hueso oils a wall and Sir Tom scrubs a tub. Hueso washes windows, as Sir Tom seals the deck and I scrub the stainless steel sink. Hueso attacks cobwebs, as I wipe window sills and Sir Tom bleaches the moldy back room.

One day the wallpaper is partially ripped from the walls and we're in over our head. Projects requiring two weeks are started with only a three day allowance. Abandonment is required after a few hours of work and I find myself focusing elsewhere. Kitchen cabinets. Cupboard doors come off in a late night burst of work, fueled by good conversation and warming nips of apple pie. Taking small sips and swishing it around our mouths, it tastes exactly as if somebody simply smashed an apple pie to the point of liquidity and then allowed it to ferment. Back to work, the impact driver yells as the hinges find themselves in a temporary box. We take another nip. Hueso laughs at our late night pushes and becomes the house cook. Mac n' cheese for all, the greatest way to unite.

Days repeat. I wake up and mosey around for a bit, sticky eyed. After a slow start to a day, we take the quads out on the trails behind Ricky's house. Months have been spent powering ourselves everywhere and it's a blast to now move with the push of a throttle. It's Hueso's first time on an off-highway vehicle and we take it easy. Progressing to some climbs and muddy puddles toward the end of the ride. Puddles smell of death and decaying matter, but we're having far too much fun to care. Whoever rides out front, gets a face full of crab spiders and webs. Webs cover my body and a crab spider bites my hand. Well worth it for all the roots and obstacles involved in North Carolina four-wheeling.

Driving around with Sir Tom, running random errands, we take backseat to the spectacle, while in the front seat, as he talks about "those up yonder" and "Bobby Ray". Driving up to his friends' worksite, we meet up with Ricky and Gill. This triangle of testosterone has been bouncing ridiculous conversation back and forth for far too long. Holding a dynamic matched by nothing else I have seen before. Similar to the dynamic a close group of friends and I have, but further bonded by decades of grit, poor decisions, thrilling adventures, success, interaction and friendship. They give each other hell, hugs and help.

Before leaving town, Gill, his wife Sally and Sir Tom take us out for a night in downtown Asheville. We start out with the most delicious wings and IPAs of the trip. Enjoying the packed tavern, I recognize how different the atmosphere of Asheville is compared to the rest of North Carolina we had pedaled through. All walks of life seem to reside or interact in Asheville. All providing their own funky little addition to the various scenes in the area. Large groups of chatty people huddle around the bar, with a baseball game being shown. Outside, across the street, a free ballet show is being performed at the outdoor amphitheater. Walking up the street, we pass street performers posing as silver princesses and kids miming in morph suits. Live music blares from every entrance and we pause on the street to take in a bit of violin from a restaurant. They show us around, we play darts, people-watch, laugh as Sir Tom continually conveys his undying love for Sally, indulge in some local brews, and get ourselves into loud political discussions with Gill. His direct family is from Cuba and have made a great life and family here in the US. It's hard for us to convey to him how liberal most of our views are. He embraces our arms and shoulders every few minutes to make it clear he's not discounting us, but wants us to know this country is about to lose its glory and foundation. Gill is an awesome guy. Hard-working America and proud of it. He buys us some neat shirts from an Irish pub at the end of the night. The coziest shirt I'm now carrying.

Ron has grown up in the same house he now lives in. "Ron Sales...that's S A L E S" as he spells it out for me. He's in his late sixties/ early seventies, retired and now able to spend his time creating a beautiful home and yard. When not working, he sits on his front porch for hours on end. Watching the cars go by, he's honked at by the people who know him (most everybody), enjoying the distant mountain view and taking some occasional sips of Bob's White. Asking about the name, he exclaimed "I don't know. They gotta call it something!" He calls it "210" though, as in 210-proof. I've always understood 200 as being the highest possible proof, but enjoy the name and don't question it. Upon first meeting him, he asks if I'd like a try, with a chaser to follow. Without hesitation, I accept both. He brings me out a glass of ice water as chaser. Water. He tells me I shouldn't smell it first, but I'm not going to start following directions now. It smells exactly how one would imagine, with a hint of corn. It reminds me of chemistry lab and the usage of pure ethanol in nearly every session.

His accent is the strongest I've ever heard. I have to ask him to repeat a few statements, but he understands. "Haven't heard anybody talk like me huh? Probably won't again." Shine etiquette is discussed. "Don't be calling it moonshine. You'll stand right out. It's corn or shine." He shows us how to determine good shine from bad. He takes a mason jar and shakes it vigorously. We watch closely as the bubbles part from the center. Bad shine parts from the sides. He explains burning of shine as the best way to test how it was made. Heat up a spoon, drop a bit of shine on it, and light it on fire. "It'll all have some orange in it, but if it don't burn ninety-five percent blue, walk away." Significant orange flame is indicative of being produced quickly through the use of a radiator. The copper in the radiators will cause all kinds of ailments. "That's the stuff that'll make ya go blind." Ron is a backwoods guy and he knows it, but understands and accepts how the world works. Discussing the lesbian couple next door, he says "I wasn't brought up that way, but ya learn to accept it." He tells us stories about the feet of snow which blanketed the winters of his childhood, compared to the occasional inches the area now sees. As a child, he never saw any mosquitos, but they've now arrived with the heat and long summers. "Running out of fuels and changing the climate with what remains of it, your generation has a lot to deal with." Considering the short amount of time I spent conversing with him, it's the most rich and authentic interaction of the trip thus far.