Slow Progress and Suffering - June 27, 2007

Slow Progress and Suffering

(June 27, 2007)

 

I suppose my wife was right. She warned me riding cross-country at my age (58) was a dumb idea. Like many husbands before me, and no doubt to come, I ignored my wife’s advice. Now I’m paying the price in sweat and suffering. The first week of my trip has been harder than expected and I have covered only 460 miles.

 

____________________

Linens on Noah’s Ark.

____________________

Hopefully, I’ll be in good enough shape soon to make this work. Yesterday, June 25 (my daughter Sarah’s birthday) I managed 82 miles, about what I need to average.

Most nights, so far, I have run out of light before I can find a camping spot. So I’ve stayed in motels. I can offer one good travel tip. If in Fredericksburg, Virginia never pay for a room at the Twi-Lite Motel (it may fall down before you have a chance anyway).

The first hint is the “NO REFUNDS” sign at the front desk. But it was growing dark the day I arrived, and I had been caught on busy roads for hours. I took a look at the room, swallowed hard, and forked over the cash.

Sometimes something bad rises to the level of an “experience” and such was the case this night. My room had three lights. Two had no on/off switches and one had no bulb. The dresser was Early American Goodwill; but some previous guest had checked out with all the drawers. The ceiling tiles in the bathroom bowed from age and the towel was part of the linens on Noah’s Ark. Ah...the cable worked…even if the remote didn’t.

Only the finest linens for you.

Another night I ran out of time to find a place and found myself deep in the countryside. So I raised my tent in a graveyard, butting up against a large, wooded area. Around 2:00 a.m. I heard a bobcat nearby. I hunkered down deeper in my sleeping bag and checked to see my pepper spray was near at hand.

I’ve been chased by dogs several times, so I reach for the spray (attached to the handlebars) when I think I might not be able to make my getaway. At this point, I’ve pedaled away from trouble every time, but I think some dog will get it in the end.

Actually, the dogs are ahead 1-0. I was on some back road when a dog came snarling across his yard, headed my way. I was coming up a hill, head down, and had time only to look to see where he was. Then I realized he was stopped by a fence, and looked up in time to see I was headed for a ditch. I managed to stand my bike on its nose and tumble gracefully into the middle of the road.

My best camping experience has been at the Small Country Campground near Troy, Virginia. The Small family has owned the place since 1971 and can accommodate hundreds of campers on any given night. I talked to the owners and it turns out they have a daughter with diabetes. She was diagnosed at 11 and is now 17 and a high school senior to be – as Emily Viall is. Miss Small, however, is interested in massage therapy and not likely to go to college.

Her mother worries what will happen when she hits 18 and can’t be covered on the family insurance policy.

Birthplace of Robert E. Lee.

I spent one morning at the birthplace of Robert E. Lee, an impressive southern mansion, built starting in 1748. Lee spent only three years there, partly because his father fell on hard times, financially. A museum attached had many interesting items, including some of Lee’s personal letters. I noticed in 1834, when he was 25, that he wrote to one of his cousins to describe women in the Fortress Monroe area, where he was stationed, as “the most beautiful creatures” the Lord ever created, enough to “make the mouth water and the fingers tingle.” I like details which reveal the human side of history.

The next day I visited the battlefield and museum at Chancellorsville. It was here in May 1863 that Lee won his greatest victory, pulverizing a Union army twice the size of his. The museum also covers the Battle of the Wilderness, which took place in the same area the next year. The National Park Service has a display of dozens of pictures of young men and women who were tied to the fighting in some way. I was struck by one: Samuel Sager, who joined the 96th Pennsylvania Infantry in March 1864. Less than two months later he was killed at the Battle of Spotsylvania (also covered in the museum), when he was only sixteen. Younger than my Emily. A Louisiana soldier was shot in the face and blinded but returned to marry his sweetheart anyway, had seven children (all daughters) and managed to live to 76.

Stonewall Jackson and his men hit Hooker's army on their right flank,
and rolled up their line.

General Hooker never knew what hit him.
It was Robert E. Lee. 

The day after that I pedaled up the mountain to Monticello, the home of Thomas Jefferson. If you have never been there, you should make the trip. The place is an architectural masterpiece, filled with interesting features to make life easy – for Jefferson, that is.

Much as I admire the man and the ideals laid down in Declaration of Independence, I wonder how he missed the obvious. Jefferson was a genius, our most brilliant president ever (and I include the present occupant of the White House), but on the question of slavery he was obtuse.

He loved books and had a library of thousands. He loved fine wines and imported hundreds of bottles yearly. He surrounded himself with fine paintings and busts, one of Voltaire. Yet he never put the ideas in the Declaration to action when it came to slavery. Couldn’t he have sacrificed some wine – some books – some paintings – and set some slaves free?

George Washington, a less brilliant man, but of greater character, freed (I think) 388 slaves in his will. Jefferson freed only five. And this from a man who had a long-time love affair with one of his mixed-race slaves, Sally Hemmings.

In any case, if a brilliant man like Jefferson can miss the obvious, I suppose we all must admit we can too.

Monticello and the rider. 

As I strolled through the gardens I noticed a striking black woman, very dark, perhaps born in Africa, but figured it would be rude to ask. She was standing beside a young white man, clearly her boyfriend. As I passed, he leaned in to kiss her and I heard the sound of lips on lips. I couldn’t help but think this was a state that lost a legal battle in the U.S. Supreme Court (Loving v. Virginia) to uphold its law against interracial marriage.

 

That was 1967. The year I graduated from high school.

I have noticed several interracial couples in Maryland and Virginia, what would once have been strictly taboo. I have also noticed how many Hispanics there are and stores and businesses catering to their needs. America continues to change, as it always has. Three motels where I’ve stayed were run by families originally from India, who I think are willing to put in long hours to keep small motels alive. I think our nation can absorb them all and come out stronger in the end, as millions of Irish were absorbed after 1846, including my ancestors.

As for riding: in the mornings riding cross-country seems like a grand idea. By afternoon I am sunburned, caked in salt-sweat, with lips cracked and leg and shoulder muscles aching.

The hardest miles, so far, have been a steep three-mile ascent at Rockfish Gap, leading into the Shenandoah Valley, then a five-mile uphill push this morning just west of Salem, Virginia.

As I type, I am sitting in the library at Pulaski, Virginia. I have covered fifty miles so far today and the next twenty take me into forested country and over two big mountains. I am procrastinating...should I push it this evening, or should I take the wimp’s route and quit early and find a motel?

REMEMBER: I AM STILL TAKING DONATIONS FOR JDRF. SEND CHECKS, MADE OUT TO JDRF, TO:

JOHN J. VIALL
750 WOODBINE AVENUE
GLENDALE, OHIO 45246

Seen in the Virginia mountains: a pioneer cabin and car. 

*I’m happy to say, interracial couples are no longer noteworthy, which is good, although we’re still howling about immigration. I didn’t write about some of my hairy experiences on my blog since I didn’t want my wife to freak out. Most of the time, I found good roads to use and made my own route. Locals often helped with advice. But coming into Fredericksburg, I got on a way-to-busy road. A guy in a white pickup truck slowed down, his passenger leaned out the window, and said, “Buddy, you’re going to get killed.” 

I had a sneaking suspicion he might be right.

 

As for the suffering, it was worth it to see such beautiful countryside. I did later write, for a writers’ group to which I belong, that the climb up Rockfish Gap left my “thighs burning. Sweat was pouring down my face by the time I reached the top, and on the way up, I thought, ‘If I hadn’t told my students I was going to do this ride, I’d chuck my bike, rent a car, and fly home.’”