Hoping for a Tail Wind

I’m chilling out in Monroe Park, Richmond Virginia. College kids everywhere. I’m the one closest to looking like Santa Claus — it’s nowhere near Christmas and all of I’ve got is my presence. And I’m clean head to toe. Clean body and clean every article of clothing. Feeling a little like John Malkovich when he goes through his own portal. Sort of. “It’s my head!” I dunno. Taking Richmond in. My phone’s facial recognition doesn’t recognize my face. Even without the sun or safety glasses. Thanks a lot Steve Jobs. There is so much history here. Civil War and Revolutionary. Lest we forget, I’ll take this opportunity to point out that mister-two-dollar-ho himself Thomas Jefferson was a devout atheist, way before it was cool, or before it was known as anything other than being reasonable. Turns out that the “God” most of our Founding Padres were into was the god of reason. Look it up. In 1786, when the US&A was only ten years old, the Virginia Statute for Religious Freedom (drafted by Tee Jeff) was enacted, separating church and state and advancing the legal principle for freedom of religion in the United States… or freedom from religion.

If only my timespace machine were a hot tub I’d get in it like Bennett and sendit back to a windy and cold morning in Jamestown. I’m literally chilling. It’s much colder after that storm. Coldest I have seen so far on this ride. Cold chillin. I’ve technically not paid for this site, so the standard operating procedure here is for me to pack up and sneak out. Uh uh. Nope. I get out to drain the main vein and I dive back into my sleeping bag with barely enough energy to suppress the shivers. Me Timbers. Eventually I work up the cajones to venture out and hit the actual restroom. On my way I spot what is clearly another bike camping rider, whipping up something to nosh. I peeped the setup last night and figured as much. No car. Bike. Tent. It adds up. Confirmation now and her name is Trisha. She lives 50 miles up in Richmond, her girlfriend got her into this sorta thing and now shes preparing for a solo ride up the C&O. It’ll be her first. Trish asks if I rode in on the monsoon, I let her know how I do the Neo bullet-dodge on getting soaked. She’s a bike camp newbie and she’s telling me how she’s already failed — she’s forgotten her coffee. This is a big failure indeed. I let her know she’s a failure. No I don’t. I let her know she’s talking to the exact right human; imma brew some up in about 15 and she should stop over at site 2 for a cup. Can’t spell Caferro without the Cafe.

Coffee coffee chat chat poop poop and I’m out. Just before these late-starting campground attendants come looking. Virginia is for lovers… of accessible campgrounds and trails. The Virginia Capital Trail is a dedicated, paved bicycle and pedestrian trail crossing four counties and 51.7 miles between Jamestown and Richmond, Virginia — that is, between the Colony of Virginia’s first capital and Virginia’s current capital, with an alternate end at Williamsburg, the last colonial capital. With that last extension, it’s a total of 62 miles of non-motorized, golden-bricked goodness into Richmond. Ok. So not gold or brick, but non-motorized and into Richmond. Locals love it so much they just call it simply “Cap.” Lots of them on it too, look at this. Everybody is kinda fit and happy. A little like a Sweden. Though not as good looking, and not that happy. Really, not very much like it at all now that I’m typing this. Still, I give and get a lot of trail “hellos”, “mornings”, nods and bells as I’ve gotten all ride. I stop to record all this goodwill and trail fun with words and no less than 6 or 7 riders ask if I need any help. It’s a nice trail community. There’s even trail ambassadors wearing orange.

The sun has come out by noon. Into this headwind I’m just on cruise control. Lots of breaks. Nice cool and sunny. Heating up as I type though. push on. For brief moments, dried up worms register as rusty nails or hooks. Woops. Not it. Only bike and ped traffic. No nails. We don’t need no hooks, Shaq. No navigating turns and no negotiating with traffic. It’s another Sunday so of course Gil Scott heron is rocking, and we’ve come a long way from Easter. Let’s get a holiday for no navigation nor negotiation. Hello Sunday, Hello Road.

With the lack of my usual nuisances of traffic and turns (traffic is more a hazard and turns more attention), I make timespace to do other bike shit. Slow Roll type shit. Biking while I’m biking, I’ll leave the inception references alone for now. The collective is a fascinating thing. I’m wearing my orange squad shirt today in fact. I look like a trail ambassador and I might as well be.

Slow Roll exists as a free Monday ride in Detroit, Cleveland and Buffalo. In the 716 it’s administered by a 501c3 nonprofit I started a few years ago called Wheel B. Herd; I’m currently the Sgt-At-Arms. There’s never much fighting to break up — slow roll is all about community and connection and collective. It is loved and hated in Buffalo almost equally, which is seriously the most steadfast symptom of success. It’s a bike ride in a sea of Kool Aid. While there are struggles, as with any startup, Slow Roll flourishes and is increasing it positive impact on the communities we ride with. Many people on this ride and all of my long rides assume I’m riding for a cause and ask “why?”. In 20 years of doing this never have a charity nor cause to give them, if I were to, though, it would be Wheel B Herd. Support if you want. Or just come ride in a Monday night:

Miles and miles i the future and I roll into Richmond. It’s sunday I think. I can tell by the lower volume of traffic and higher volume of church bells. Richmond has lots of atypical similarities with Buffalo. First being population, both around 200k in the city, 1 mil plus in the metro area. Lots of historic architecture. Both cities were burned down by those British fucks. A dude is moving on the double time and walks by me, the back of his T-shirt reads “Survive to Return Harder”. Yes sir, I think I will. And I needed a title for this day. Thanks.

This apartment that I hook up is a former punk music venue in Shockoe Bottom, just on the east side of downtown. There’s an actual espresso machine, which I’m sure 9 out of 10 guests give up on figuring out. I’m pulling shots straight away. After coffee it’s time for… more coffee. I finally make up it to Lamplighter Coffee. Hear it’s the bomb. Does not disappoint. They have a program where I can buy food or coffee for someone less fortunate. After all the generosity and trail magic I’ve been bestowed, I simply have to pay it forward and buy a breakfast sandwich for someone I will never meet. I hope it’s yummy in their tummy. I like this Roastery. It is mos def in the hipsterest part of town. Known as The Fan. Sitting here in the sunshine, folks are playing chess or on laptops. Many are wearing black and arrive on bikes. Lots of them are smoking cigarettes and appear to longer conform to a gender. They really lose me with those last two. Inside I’m happy to not be that cool. To each their own. Personally I like genders and I don’t like cigarettes, luckily I’ve positioned myself upwind from both. I wonder if that’s luck or instinct and training?

I spend my day off the bike, well — on the bike. For some of it. Coffee first. Then, Virginia is for lovers… of cemeteries. That’s me. I hit Hollywood Cemetery. It’s holds its own against the super impressive Forest Lawn Cemetery in Buffalo. Presidents James Monroe and John Tyler are buried in Hollywood. Tons of Confederates, including Jefferson Davis, are as well. An entire sections of thousands and thousands of confederate soldiers. Forest Lawn boasts the graves of President Millard Fillmore, Congresswoman Shirley Chisholm, and of course Rick James. And it’s twice the acreage of Hollywood. Advantage Forest Lawn.

Richmond does have the outdoor people space advantage over bUffalo though. And stripes on roads and crosswalks and bike lanes and such. But then again I can’t think of many cities who don’t. Western New York perpetually corrupt leadership on almost all levels directly precipitates lower quality of life for its residents. Roads are barely striped or re-striped. Open space for people to freely exist is always the first to go. Elected leaders couldn’t give a fuck about things like this, their livability is doing just fine. I explore Richmond’s Brown Island. The T Tyler Potterfield Memorial Bridge is super awesome and ped and bike only! I hit a couple more parks. Tredegar Iron Works. Patrick Henry Park. Monroe Park, again. All this and let’s not forgot the 60 mile paved trail into the city.

To be filed under preparation and maintenance: I hit the grocery store. I eat a ton of barbecue. Brisket and ribs and Mac and greens and slaw and cornbread, oh my. I clean the Sojourn’s chain and entire drive train. They say you should do it based on sound and I’ve been hearing mine yapping it up. It’s a must. That rain the other night. Plus so much crud and sand and dirt and science knows what else from almost one thousand miles. I watch Being John Malkovitch, cause why the fuck not. If I had an 8 track player I’d rock out this Minnie Riperton tape, because fuck yeah.

I pull one more double shot of espresso to ward off the brisket-and-ribs-coma. Get everything set to push back out and… oh shit it’s way past my bedtime. There’s a bed. This coffee ain’t keeping me up. I get in it. Zzzzzz.

I attempt to sleep in whilst sleeping inside. It doesn’t work. I’m up, packing and sneaking in an extra shower. I get moving fairly early and have the lightest traffic of the trip yet as quiet Saturday farm roads come up on my visual display. It’s feels almost natural to pedal pedal pedal now. I’m hitting “I can do this forever” point. Robotic. Like I’m Robocop, except I’m not a cop. I won’t event talk to the cops unless you pay me. And sometimes you do, so sometimes I do. Anyhoo. Robobike. My climate advisory sensors also indicate a happening on the radar maps. Fellow cycling tourist and hospitality guru Perry in Louisiana would call it ketchup and mustard. Storms. I don’t like riding in lightning. I’ve got at least a few hours before they come in.

The signs tell me that Virginia is for lovers. They’ve come a long way from them slim ass cigarettes… this ain’t gon’ stop so we just goin’ to continue.

Virginia for lovers. Lovers of Hay Soos for sure — so many churches, crosses wrapped in white clothes. I’ve come a long way and I’m a lover of winding country roads — I’m on one right now. I also love cemeteries — little pop up plots everywhere. Isle of Wight just sounds creepy and weird and a little scary on a map and when I read it a sign. Now, there’s nothing even here and it’s even stranger. I mean nothing. Like not even the post office the map indicates. I manage to figure out a rest stop that doesn’t have a no trespassing sign, allows for rest myself and the sojourn.

I’ve come a long way for hills, baby. Like the 9% variety. Outside of bridges and causeways and the like, I don’t think I’ve seen above a .5% grade the entire time. US Highway 17 was flat as fuck. I’d like once again to thank the Spoke gods old and new for watching me survive that road. Praise be.

Bacons Castle Plantation Farm. I forget to get a picture of the sign and there was one. Finally a castle dedicated to pork fat! I come up to the intersection that is the anything. There’s a store I wanna at least fill up water bottle at. It’s the only thing for miles. There’s a cop car with its lights on sitting on the side of the intersection. He gets out and walk a little toward me, looking like the nosy inquisitive bastards he probably is. He asks if I need to get across, I reply “yes, I’m going into the store”. He walks out and stops a car for me! Ok now. Police crossing guard. There’s a bike race. Or a bike event. Slow Roll at least took the word race out of everything having to do with bikes. It’s ok to go slow. Or even be slow. Ask the tortoise. And it’s a Saturday, that’s right. Bike events. Bike rides. Thanks copper. Roller skating jam.

I chomp some nondescript convenience store sausage, and after more than a few chats with folks coming in and out, I peel off. MAMILs speed off on the turn while I pack, apparently my route is there route. I meander and about to pull over to the man sitting in his car, putting the bacon into Bacons Castle, maybe thank him or ask what the bikes are all about, then I realize — I’m not at work. They are not paying me. Don’t talk to the cops.

Ferry Four. Into Jamestown. Named after a native. The boat. Not the settlement. I barely make it on time, rolling downhill up past stopped cars who’ll have to wait another 45 minutes for the boat. I make the cutoff, literally getting on board behind the last car. Whew. That’s timing for ya. There’s four other day cyclists on here We chat briefly. Everyone wants to know where i started and where I’m going. It’s a short ride over the James River. Good bike trail coming up. And Jamestown historic stuff. Rain looking ominous as they put on raincoats. I’m good for now.

The Virginia capital trail is the truth. Three miles out of it from Williamsburg and I’m all up into it. The rain looks imminent. There’s lightning nearby. I’ve got experience being out on a bike trail in crazy weather. There’s typically no cover. Nowhere to run to baby. Or ride to. Tornadoes in 2010 Minnesota come to mind. Ive got a bad feeling about this Chewy. And whadya know, a dope provision shop right on the trail. “Spoke & Art”. I get a coffee. And a sandwich. I charge my devices whilst under a covered porch. There’s a couple live acoustic performers under a separate covered porch. Perfect. Not getting struck by lightning today.

An hour or two rolls by, I roll nowhere, the rains pounding down. The kid working there is about 19 or 20 tops. Let’s call him Brennon. Brennon can tell I’m a long ride and offers up: “our owner is huge cyclist, we keep the covered patio open 24/7, plus there’s a water fountain and air conditioned bathroom around back — you can camp here is you like.” Wow. Now This Must Be The Place, David Byrne.

The rains subside. Looks like there’s another round. So ketchup. A little mustard. I could stay, I could get 5 more miles and and camp at nearby Chickahominy Riverfront Park. I’ve got the Jimmy Legs and I’d rather not hang beee until they close just to set up. Fully charged and fueled, I pack up and hit the trail. Campground is closed and no one picks up when I call the number in the sign. The website shows it’s full. There’s plenty of primitive sites open and it’s getting close to sunset. Fuck it. I pop up the tent. Five minutes later a monsoon the size of West Virginia. It pours down. Typhoon level rains.My stuff stays dry. I get soaked to and from — get this — the showers. I’m taking a nice hot shower while I hear it come down cats and dogs right outside. I turn the water off and the sound doesn’t change. I get wet again back to camp. Climb in and pass out.

As they pass, each mile is unique in its impression. Different. Like that mile’s momma always told them they were special. There’s no easy miles. No easy days. Some are better than others. The outer banks provided timespace for better miles and easier days. 70 miles into Kitty Hawk with a tailwind is still hard work, go ask Wilbur and Orville. My arms and hands are sore. My sit bones. Neck feet. 70 miles with wind behind me is better than coming at me. The last few days I’ve refined my working with the wind Leine never before. Making the miles and hours easier in any way is the name of the game.

I am awake and up and out earlier than ever. I have no destination and there is not much in front of me in the way of camping, lodging or food. So nothing really. Green murk. There’s a 2 mile long bridge back onto the “mainland” about 4 miles ahead, and I want to crunch it before any sort of rush hour traffic. Plus I’ve been checking the winds and they will be whipping across and at me.

This bridge, the Wright Memorial Bridge — oh yeah, those guys — marks the end of the island portion of this program – with another 60 miles after it to reconnect with the main route into Richmond. My outer banks alternate ride is sunsetting as the sun is rising as I push lightly through quiet little wooded neighborhoods alongside marinas filled with yachts, bacon is the smell track and song birds still the soundtrack. I’m out here meeting people without a cause and being open and honest with them. It’s wonderful to do. My mind drifts into what’s really at the core of American humans being so mad at something or at each other all the time, usually for no good reason. This doesn’t happen in other nations, it’s clear by the way we treat each other and the way they treat each other. The real cause for really real. The Royal we has got the how what when where; we need the why. Here I am riding my bike and thinking about a guy a while back basically just mad at ethanol in gas, which I am not here to defend. Duh. More than one thing can be true at the same time people. So one group is mad that it’s a poor, low quality fuel. Another is mad because it’s expensive. Another, because it’s a fossil fuel-burning waste of precious life on our planet and… vvrrrrroooooom! A 70’s Ford pickup blows by me, spewing black smoke and stank all up into my face and lungs. This douchebag, he brings us closer in brain cell counts with this one action. Cough cough. Fuck you.

With debris all up in the shoulder, I pretty much have to take the lane or ride the line. Leaving Bodie Island, the last island hop, I gotta give a special shout out to Orkacoke for having no bridges and few vehicles. Wait a second, Bodie Island is actually a barrier peninsula you say? True indeed. But did you really look it up? I did. It used to be an island, until the inlet — near current day Nags Head — closed up. Ok, ok. You know what they say, “once an island, always an island.”

These miles kinda suck; it’s early though, so I go into my thoughts for a bit. Incomplete solutions have gotta play into the reason behind the omni-vitriol of our nation. America is fucked up and fucked. Pay attention, this is patriotic shit people. Half measures. A decline of actual exceptionalism. No more Will and Orv. For anything. Pick a card any card. The writing is on the wall. All the cliches! Education. Health. Debt. Manufacturing. Worse than Idiocracy, plenty of people are still capable, yet very few are desirous of even giving a shit. Take care of everything except the people as if one can live in a nation without living in it. Except, yes the profit motive. Greed is good, I guess Gordon. Let’s hope we can hold on to culture and civility, at the very least. Wait do I sound cynical?

Cutting north west I have a bit of a tailwind. It’s at my left with the gusts though. It’s hottern hell, I’m sweating it up. Miles pour on. A town named Coinjock has a store and water. There not much out in this neck of the woods yet there still are “OBX” signs and marketing everywhere; we’re 100miles away from Orcacoke. This ain’t Hatteras anymore Toto. Coming up in the back way, I don’t even feel like Kill Devil Hills and Nags Head were very much OBX to me — all this out here though, nah. Perception is reality.

It’s never an easy day. I’ll say it again. Short or long mileage. I bathe in icy hot. I eat ibuprofen like a fat kid eats cake. I’d eat cake like a fat lid if I had any. This day is ultra. Hot, like 88° F hot. Little to no cover. No clouds. Even less camping or even lodging options. Legit 40-50 miles between services. Nothing but dismal swamp. No games. Really, it’s called the Great Dismal Swamp. I’ve got enough swamp ass already, no need to add to it. I push more miles.

I find another gas station with a store after 30 more miles. I’m gassed. I need shade. The shaded side is occupied by a bumblebees nest, so I go inside. All they have is Gatorade. I don’t like it. Fuck it. Gimme it. Oh gas station fried chicken? Gimme it. Crush it. I sit inside and cool off. After a bit I look at my map. It’s still another 30-40 miles or so to anything. I could camp outside a fire station or really just anywhere not private property. I don’t know how I’m feeling about that. All this current swamp booty and all. So I’m like fuck that noise and dial up the motel in the next town 35 miles up. Actually I just book it online, I don’t dial shit. I now have what is known as A goal. A carrot on a stick and a hot shower and electricity and a bed. I push off, all excited, that’s when I see my ACA map has me cutting back down to get under the swampland. And um, no dirt roads for me google maps. RUH ROH.

The wind blows. No it really blows. Hard. This ain’t what I was led to believe by the Catholic Church to be a blowjob. And worst of all, it’s in my face. Cruelest of maneuvers is having to get back on 17, going SOUTH (southwest actually) into a 14 mph wind from the southwest. After about one horrifying mile I turn slightly off — still into the headwind on US 158. This might be worse. One lane in each direction. 3 inches of shoulder, littered with debris. Into this wind. I’ve got 6 miles of this, none of those miles is very enjoyable.

I’ve turned north. This is a good mile, as I cross the Virginia line. Tailwind central. My body aches and is tired of being in the saddle; I’ve got my north start. Literally. I stay on the busier road to avoid micro cutbacks into any sort of wind.

After mile 90, I black out. On autopilot. Even the wind can’t help me. My brain shuts down in part survival mode, part zen state. I cut across town, skirting most Friday traffic, I think. I have no idea and get tangled up in a highway exchange And overpass. A mile later and not only is the hotel just great, it’s on the other side of the parking lot from the Food Lion. Good last mile. Long day. I take a wonderfully delightful shower, the kind from which those women in the 90’s TV commercials would orgasm. I get some vegan ice cream to celebrate — it’s what Damon would do on long pushes that end in a room. I do some sock, underwear and glove laundry in the motel sink — there’s 5 states worth of sand, hairs and dirt in there. I hit that bed. You know what it is.