Hoping for a Tail Wind

Be kind and rewind to the top of this month when this little Wahoo Elmnt Bolt (who gives me nothing) bike computer arrives just days before I’m leaving. If they would give me shit I’d tell them that’s too many names for one thing. Seems to be a nice failsafe on missing turns. I’m interested in not having to stop to flip map pages or confirm my location with my phone. No way I’m abandoning my basic battery odometer and paper maps anytime soon; I recreate and load up the route as best I can in the last 48 hours I have laptop usage, hopeful it’ll be worth the hefty investment.

A connecting principle
Linked to the invisible
Almost imperceptible
Something inexpressible
Science insusceptible
Logic so inflexible
Causally connectable
Nothing is invincible

It’s early morning. The first time in a while I’ve woken up in the same space two days in a row. It’s hard leaving this awesome space. I imagine myself living here. I don’t think I would live in Richmond. It’s just the feeling of having a space that I miss. I know it’s not real. Home is where the hatred is. And living here is not realistic. I make coffee, make waste, make tracks. Downtown is quiet early and it is chilly, in the mid 40°s. Fahrenheit. Chills. Winds out of the north. Guess which way I’m headed?

Most days I think of other bike touring friends I ride long rides with. Many of the best conversations I’ve ever had are with those folks. I’m pretty sure I’ve talked to myself enough on this ride. Today my homie Damon is on my mentals. We’ve had some deeply intense chats along the trail. We’ve also talk about the dumbest shit. And everything in between. He has this technique of self climate control where he’d always have long pants and sleeves with short ankle socks. He cools himself at the ankles apparently. I have two pairs of ankle socks to go with my one pair of long and my one pair of whatever-the-really-short-that-you-can’t-even-see-in-the-shoe socks. So I’m giving it a shot. Right now. Like right now, right now. And… it ain’t working. I’ve got pants on. I’ve got my rain jacket on. And I’m cold leaving this historic ass city. Surrounded by ghosts. War ghosts.

Traffic is quite light and other than my internal temperature controls, it’s a pretty nice ride for not being the Cap Trail. Butt fuck I’m glacial. I stop and add my long sleeve, under my short sleeve, under my jacket. Quiet country roads morph into full on farm roads. Lots of small farms.

In Ashland I munch a peanut butter banana and trail mix fajita alongside a protein bar. It’s a combination unstaffed Amtrak station and town visitor center. Railroad history I can dig it. Quiet little secular town. That day I’m Richmond actually leaves me more gassed at 20 miles than I’ve been in days. Damon would argue against the day off for this reasoning. I walk in and am low key flirting with the retiree volunteer at the visitor center. She’s all reticent with her reciprocation of it, knowing she doesn’t need to come out from behind the booth to show me a map she knows I don’t need to read with her hands that don’t have a wedding ring on them. Her name is likely Pam. Maybe! Or is that Pamb? With a a b? Hello lovely lady. She must have a thing for captain cavemen, because with more than two weeks sans razor, I now resemble him. I’m pretty sure she started the whole thing two moves ago; instead of clubbing her over the head and dragging her alongside my bike, I just fill up my bottles and head out, hoping she’s not a billionaire looking for someone like me, because if so then I done just fucked the fuck up.

My headwind is gleefully joined by hills. Not the OG 90s department store, actually hills! Ain’t seen them much at all this trip. Florida, Georgia and the Carolinas coast is flat. Or at least it was when i rode through. Not turning back now. Nor never. Neh never. Hills can be fun, rolling along, using my gears and going from 5 to 25 mph.

Playlist variance in effect. The customer Slow Roll Boombotix speaker is recharged and blasting. Synchronicity is the full album experience. Du jour. This Wahoo Bolt (still not paying me) is fully charged too and it’s letting me know the robots have won. Did I mention that Damon is the one who called me clamoring over these machines, inspiring my immediate investment? For the first time all ride it’s telling me something more than turns. Oh, there’s a climb coming up? Thanks little buddy. R2. Johnny 5. It congratulates me as I “summit”. Cute.

The next hill though. Holy shit. “King of pain” is appropriately theme songing it up and Rosy The Robot tells me this is a 13% grade, when I can look down, at 2.5 mph. Otherwise I just hear beeps. I have to tell the police to the shut the fuck up, so I can hear traffic coming while I do the entire street wide serpentine-zig zag zig-slalom thing. I don’t wanna walk and I don’t wanna get hit by a car in a turn, infrequent as they are on these farm roads. The police should be able to, but cannot, save you from traffic. Many times someone hits a pedestrian or a bicyclist with their motor vehicle, they’re not even charged. If they kill someone, it’s never more than involuntary manslaughter. And no one goes to jail over traffic tickets. Maybe it’s irony, the only jail needed would be having the PRIVILEGE of operating that massive petro-powered death bomb revoked. Yoked. Yoksy-doked. People would lose their minds about not having their cars and likely get their shot together.

Theres not so much as a store in-route for 40-50 miles so I’m glad I got the all-bottle refill back in Ashland. Also. I am in favor of taking drivers licenses away for real. And regular re-testing fir all. As a New York State EMT basic, I have to recertify every three years. Dna we get once a decade for motor vehicle operation? I’m also quite pro-listening to The Police. I’m all wrapped around my own finger on it right now. Also, I listen to the other other police too. I won’t talk to them for free, but I will listen for free. I mean, if someone wants to pay me, I’ll take the money everytkme for listening to the police. Both versions in fact. Not like the psycho therapist listening though. Especially not for Sting. Just listening. The sarcasm dripping from my mind is rudely interrupted by handlebar Wall-E. Shit. Another 13%er? My legs get to communing.

A train breaks down right on my path. I wait for an hour. Then jog 1/2 mile to find out I can’t get around the back. Ride up the gravel path the other way. Guys working tell me “it’s gonna be a while”. Fuck. I keep up the gravel path and eventually, thankfully, can get around the train with little detour. The other plan adds 40 miles. Glad this one happens.

Sending out an SOS. I’m on climb 7 of the day. I didn’t know how to count climbs. Or measure grade. Until bike Dot Matrix comes along. Did we just become best friends?! My legs don’t know give a shit, they are screaming. Up into my hips and back. Real Pain. I’ve moved on to Regatta de Blanc and my body sings Deathwish. This day is reminded me of my first taste of Texas Hill Country back on the southern tier cross country with, of course, Damon. Let’s harness 1.21 jiggawatts and go back to 2021 right now. Or just get a taste of my deliriously exhausted self shouting at my bestie in the middle of nowhere.

By climb ten I’m dumb. Gassed. I’m done with The Police and go back to official Atlantic Coast long ride playlist. My phone is on do not disturb always and airplane mode most times. Unless I’m pulling up music or maps. I get a text.

My dude. Talk about synchronicity. I’ve got designs on several sneaky spots I can probably illegally camp for the night. That’s his thing, Damon calls it wild camping. Yet another term. I call him up, update him on the wahoo and everything. I check the forecast. He says “When the overnight temperature low and the motel room price are below 50 it’s no question for me”. That’s seals it. This Motel 6 is $48, that’s what I call leaving the light on for me. I book it. I also grab a burrito to go and head to the room. From the outside it’s a mess. From the inside, it’s better than plenty I’ve paid more for. After the day I have endured, there’s no capacity for complaint. And little capacity for being awake much longer.

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.