9/14/11 - 9/19/11 From the Piedmont region, across the southern tobacco and cotton plantations, through the Tidewater area, Virginia oozes with history, while dazzling you with it’s beauty and depth. Having called this state my home for over twenty years, it was high time to climb on my trusty Cannondale touring bicycle, and explore America’s tenth state.
Off with the sunrise, I began this adventure heading west from my home in Leesburg, VA, on the W&OD trail. This 100 foot wide rails-to-trails bicycle path is one of the narrowest parks in Virginia and one of the longest, stretching from Purcellville to Alexandria. With the small familiar towns of Hamilton and Round Hill behind me, I hit my first real climb crossing the Appalachian Trail at Snicker’s Gap, near Bear’s Den. This 1150 foot climb, straight up, later produced my highest speed of 42 MPH, as I descended into the Shenandoah River valley, just south of the West Virginia border.
With the Shenandoah National Park in my sights, I took a well needed break at a McDonalds in Front Royal. In my thirty years and 11,000 miles of bicycle touring, McDonalds has become an oasis, offering filtered water, clean bathrooms, and a comfortable place to take a break, not to mention a variety of low cost high energy foods.
Skyline Drive, the 105 mile thoroughfare, running the entire length of Shenandoah National Park, soon became the highlight of my trip. After the establishment of the park in the 1930’s, the Civil Conservation Corps (CCC) enhanced it by bordering the road with beautiful stone walls and building scenic overlooks, as well as tasteful campgrounds and visitor centers. It has aged wonderfully and seems to have very little impact on the surrounding wilderness. My excitement was evident as I entered the park at it’s northern gate, full of energy, not realizing that the next six miles would be straight up.
After four miles of crawling up Dickey Hill, I took a break at the visitor’s center to replenish my water and to fuel my body. The cool morning soon gave way to temperatures in the mid 80’s, adding to the difficulty of the climbing. This day would bring a series of climbs, mostly up, passing Stony Man Peak (4011’) and the highest peak in the park Hawksbill (4051’), bringing my average speed to only 9.9 mph. The mountain views were magnificent, but when the clouds rolled in you could sense the impending rain. After feeling a few drops, I found a nice clearing in a flat wooded area just opposite Crescent Rock overlook (3550’), where I set up my tent and collapsed after 94 miles of tough going. The torrential wind and horizontal rain, as well as the cracking thunder, woke me. Unfortunately, an area of my tent floor leaked, and I spent the rest of the night avoiding puddles that had formed.
I awoke to a spectacular view of the mountain peaks nestled in the clouds. Breaking down camp took longer than usual, trying to place wet items to air out as I rode. The rain had subsided, but as I descended into the clouds my visibility was seriously restricted, and with the steep wet winding roads and speeds of up to 40mph this was a thrilling but treacherous ride. With the highest peaks behind me, the next fifty miles of the park rewarded me with more downs than ups, but the intense fog denied me the mountain scenery I had enjoyed the previous day. Practically out of food as I exited the park, I decided to descend out of the Blue Ridge Mountains into slightly more populated roadways.
Route 151 took me back to civilization, and after passing the Wintergreen Resort, I was rewarded with an IGA grocery store, where I stocked up on supplies, as well as a submarine sandwich for lunch. The rain returned, and when I spotted an old abandoned house outside of Piney River in the middle of nowhere, I stopped to investigate. It was a little two bedroom house, still furnished, but in a state of disrepair, and telltale signs of some critters having lived in it. It was dry so I set up my tent and spent the night. I found evidence that no one had lived there since 1986 and I couldn’t help but wonder what had happened. The house gave off good karma, and I slept great.
The morning brought with it a cold front that dropped the temperature to the low 40’s, and with the damp air, it chilled me to the bone. Passing Amherst on the Patrick Henry Highway, right by the gravesite of the patriot’s mother, really gave me the sense of the historical value of this area. Then, continuing south I came upon the town of Appomattox, the site of General Lee’s surrender and the end of the Civil War.
Now that I was out of the mountains and passing through small towns, every so often, I felt more at home with the ride. Finally reaching route 40 and heading east gave me a real taste of southern Virginia. The low lying farm land is perfect for the acres of tobacco and cotton farms as well as corn. When a trailer loaded with hanging tobacco leaves passed me, I knew I was in the south. The artillery being fired from Fort Pickett made me a little nervous, as route 40 crossed right through it.
Once again mother nature decided to pay me a visit, dropping cold rain, so after passing literally dozens of abandoned homes on this trip, I kept going until I spotted one just south of the James River. When I entered the building it became clear that it was an old church, with several home made pews scattered about. The place was a mess, with a big hole in the roof and the windows broken out, but one corner was dry with an old piano up against the wall. I put two pews together and made a bed and then laid out all my gear to air out. The next day was a Sunday, and I had stange dreams that I would be discovered the next morning by the church group.
Taking the Scotland Ferry across the James River towards Williamsburg, gave me a birds eye view of Jamestown, the site of the first English colony in the new world. Then, riding through Williamsburg, the largest living colonial museum, reinforced Virginia’s place in the founding of this country. Unfortunately for me, it was early on a Sunday morning, so almost everything was closed, but I was able to ride through most of it.
My sights were now set on Fredericksburg, where I had been invited by my son’s girlfriend to crash on the couch of her dorm apartment at Mary Washington. The 115 miles was my longest daily mileage for the trip, and as I arrived just after sunset, the atmosphere in town was lively, even for a Sunday. Cristina greeted me warmly and her three roommates were so nice and treated me as though I was another student. After eating and showing off a tobacco leaf and a cotton plant I had found on my trip, as well as the map of my journey, we hung out for a while before I finally crashed out.
Off by sunrise, with only about 75 miles left on my trip, I had time to reflect. At 575 miles, this had been one of my shorter cycling tours, but it was filled with some of the most memorable towns and the best road conditions ever. The weather wasn’t very cooperative, but I didn’t have a single mechanical issue, not even a flat tire the whole trip. As I passed Oatlands Plantation, a national historic site just outside of Leesburg, I knew I was home.
Check out the pictures on face book "Adventures with Albert" page.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Cycling Across America from Florida to California
10/25/85 - 11/19/85 This adventure was the beginning of a two year hiatus from my career as an aircraft mechanic that culminated in some of my most memorable trips and sealed my fate as an adventurer. After selling my Newport 27 sailboat and moving ashore, my dreams of sailing around the world were put on hold. My employer, Petroleum Helicopters, denied me a one year leave of absence, so for the next six months, I worked all the overtime I could, paying down my outstanding debts, as well as saving about $8000, before resigning. Just coming off a cycling trip up the east coast of the US in the Spring of 1985, I knew what to expect and was ready to go.
Riding through the “hole in the wall tunnel” crossing into Mobile, Alabama finally gave me the sense that I was on my way. After moving all my belongings to my parents’ barn in Cambridge, NY, I flew back to Pensacola, FL, where my bicycle awaited, loaded and ready. My old friend, Mark, bade me farewell, as I climbed on my saddle to make my way west.
Crossing into Mississippi, old rout 98 wound it’s way up the DeSoto National Forest, with logging trucks flying around the curves, just short of grazing me, as I steered the white line on the shoulder-less road. This was hairy stuff, and when a couple joined me for lunch in Hattiesburg, MS, they couldn’t believe that I was cycling “bloody 98”, where many had lost their lives.
After that, Hurricane Juan arrived, bringing with it five straight days of torrential wind and rain. This unusual hurricane bounced on shore two times before heading north. Everything I had was soaked, and with the flooded roads, my progress was abysmal. Taking refuge in a hotel room, in McComb, Ms with all my gear airing out, I felt like I was swimming to the west coast, not cycling.
Just outside of Texarkana, a city half in Texas and half in Arkansas, the rain finally abated. Entering Texas was like a rebirth; the weather was cooperating, and I was able to average close to 100 miles-a-day. I even stopped at a laundromat in Paris (Texas, that is) to dry out all of my wet things. At Wichita Falls, a reporter wanted to do a story on me, but I was losing my sun, so I continued on, finally ducking into an old abandoned house for the night.
With about half of the Panhandle of Texas to go, Mother Nature decided to make her move again by blowing in a strong, steady wind from the west. Luckily, the flat terrain, with thousands of acres of cattle grazing lands, made peddling tolerable, yet it was like going uphill the whole way. One evening, I jumped the barbed wire to camp in an open field among the cattle, wondering if I’d be awakened by them licking my feet.
A herd of antelope, running right beside me for several miles, welcomed me to New Mexico, where the terrain turned to desert, and the towns were few and far between. While the November temperatures were cool, the intense desert sun forced me to carry extra water, adding to my burden. The famous “UFO’s” of Roswell, NM, were on my radar, as I road into the city to re-supply and to do some maintenance on my bicycle at a local bike shop, which graciously offered the use of their equipment.
Replenished and fitted with a new rear tire, I headed out on Rt. 48. An old timer had suggested this rout; unfortunately the paved section turned to dirt and the grade was very steep climbing the 10,000 foot Capitan Mountains, not to mention the strong mountain head winds. It was brutal and, after only about seventy miles, I called it a day, camping out right on the side of this remote road. A ranger stopped by my camp site and informed me that it was the opening of deer hunting season, which put my mind at ease, as there had been continuous gun fire that evening.
The next morning I didn’t feel well at all; sleep deprived and depressed, I finally hit “the wall.” The steep dirt road, along with a head wind that only allowed me to go 3-mph, riding as hard as I could, convinced me that I didn’t have the stamina to go on. I got a room at the Capitan Lodge and started making arrangements to fly home. My brother, Hector, answered the phone, as I called to break the news to my family. His shock and disappointment were enough to convince me to go on. That night, I went through all my gear and mailed half of it home. With my bicycle lighter, and with a renewed determination, I went out the next day with a vigor.
Crossing the great Rio Grande at San Antonio NM, was exciting, but meeting up with Kevin, a fellow rider, was just what I needed. He had started out in New York and was headed to his sister’s place in Phoenix, AR. We road well together, and when it started to snow it was a comfort to have someone else there. As it turned out, I had sent most of my warm clothing home to lighten my load. I was literally wearing all the clothes I had to stay warm.
At Pie Town, NM we found an abandoned gas station and went in for shelter. That evening, the owner came by and invited us to his home just down the road. What luck! We were worried he was going to throw us out; instead, he fixed us dinner and a spot right next to a pot belly stove to sleep for the night. The food was all made from scratch, even the bread. There were hams hanging from the ceiling and dozens of mason jars filled with all varieties of fruits and vegetables on the shelves. There was electricity but no running water, with a hand pump a the well in the kitchen and a two-seater outhouse in the back. The next morning the whole family, five kids in all, were up at sunrise with cinnamon rolls rising in the oven and fresh hot coffee on the stove. Wow, I can’t begin to explain how hospitable the Sloan family was, and after my trip, I sent them $100 to show my appreciation.
With Arizona in our sights, we crossed the Continental Divide, where rivers and streams change direction. Just our luck, a rare weather pattern had the temperature in the 20’s, with up to ten inches of snow. It was hard going, but the roads were plowed, and we continued on. As we dropped down off the mountains into Phoenix, the temperature rose, bringing with it giant desert cacti and other plants that I had never seen in person. Kevin’s sister made me feel right at home, as she welcomed us and offered me a place to crash for the night.
With only 400 miles left, I was up with the sun the next morning, refreshed and ready, although a little sad that I was on my own again. After studying the map, I realized that the back roads going to LA were almost devoid of towns, so I opted for Interstate 10. While considerably shorter, the right shoulder was full of speed bumps that drove me crazy, as well as hurt my sore bottom. The left shoulder, while considerably narrower, was nice and smooth, and with very few cars, it was plenty safe. The Arizona as well as the California police stopped me several times warning me to stay on the right side..
As I crossed the Colorado River into California It seemed surreal. I kissed the ground and jumped for joy. Little did I know that I was entering one of the most traffic-congested areas of the world. By the time I got to Riverside I was completely lost, and with nowhere to camp I got a room at the Dragon Motel, a seedy spot in a small town just outside of San Bernadino. There were strange people knocking on the door all night, and when I looked up from my bed and saw a full size mirror on the ceiling I realized how seedy it really was.
When I rounded the corner and spotted my uncle’s house in Van Nuys, that’s when the gravity of this adventure really hit me. It had taken me almost a month to travel thousands of miles, through some really difficult adversity, and yet here I was. I felt like I could accomplish anything, but first I needed a well deserved break.
Riding through the “hole in the wall tunnel” crossing into Mobile, Alabama finally gave me the sense that I was on my way. After moving all my belongings to my parents’ barn in Cambridge, NY, I flew back to Pensacola, FL, where my bicycle awaited, loaded and ready. My old friend, Mark, bade me farewell, as I climbed on my saddle to make my way west.
Crossing into Mississippi, old rout 98 wound it’s way up the DeSoto National Forest, with logging trucks flying around the curves, just short of grazing me, as I steered the white line on the shoulder-less road. This was hairy stuff, and when a couple joined me for lunch in Hattiesburg, MS, they couldn’t believe that I was cycling “bloody 98”, where many had lost their lives.
After that, Hurricane Juan arrived, bringing with it five straight days of torrential wind and rain. This unusual hurricane bounced on shore two times before heading north. Everything I had was soaked, and with the flooded roads, my progress was abysmal. Taking refuge in a hotel room, in McComb, Ms with all my gear airing out, I felt like I was swimming to the west coast, not cycling.
Just outside of Texarkana, a city half in Texas and half in Arkansas, the rain finally abated. Entering Texas was like a rebirth; the weather was cooperating, and I was able to average close to 100 miles-a-day. I even stopped at a laundromat in Paris (Texas, that is) to dry out all of my wet things. At Wichita Falls, a reporter wanted to do a story on me, but I was losing my sun, so I continued on, finally ducking into an old abandoned house for the night.
With about half of the Panhandle of Texas to go, Mother Nature decided to make her move again by blowing in a strong, steady wind from the west. Luckily, the flat terrain, with thousands of acres of cattle grazing lands, made peddling tolerable, yet it was like going uphill the whole way. One evening, I jumped the barbed wire to camp in an open field among the cattle, wondering if I’d be awakened by them licking my feet.
A herd of antelope, running right beside me for several miles, welcomed me to New Mexico, where the terrain turned to desert, and the towns were few and far between. While the November temperatures were cool, the intense desert sun forced me to carry extra water, adding to my burden. The famous “UFO’s” of Roswell, NM, were on my radar, as I road into the city to re-supply and to do some maintenance on my bicycle at a local bike shop, which graciously offered the use of their equipment.
Replenished and fitted with a new rear tire, I headed out on Rt. 48. An old timer had suggested this rout; unfortunately the paved section turned to dirt and the grade was very steep climbing the 10,000 foot Capitan Mountains, not to mention the strong mountain head winds. It was brutal and, after only about seventy miles, I called it a day, camping out right on the side of this remote road. A ranger stopped by my camp site and informed me that it was the opening of deer hunting season, which put my mind at ease, as there had been continuous gun fire that evening.
The next morning I didn’t feel well at all; sleep deprived and depressed, I finally hit “the wall.” The steep dirt road, along with a head wind that only allowed me to go 3-mph, riding as hard as I could, convinced me that I didn’t have the stamina to go on. I got a room at the Capitan Lodge and started making arrangements to fly home. My brother, Hector, answered the phone, as I called to break the news to my family. His shock and disappointment were enough to convince me to go on. That night, I went through all my gear and mailed half of it home. With my bicycle lighter, and with a renewed determination, I went out the next day with a vigor.
Crossing the great Rio Grande at San Antonio NM, was exciting, but meeting up with Kevin, a fellow rider, was just what I needed. He had started out in New York and was headed to his sister’s place in Phoenix, AR. We road well together, and when it started to snow it was a comfort to have someone else there. As it turned out, I had sent most of my warm clothing home to lighten my load. I was literally wearing all the clothes I had to stay warm.
At Pie Town, NM we found an abandoned gas station and went in for shelter. That evening, the owner came by and invited us to his home just down the road. What luck! We were worried he was going to throw us out; instead, he fixed us dinner and a spot right next to a pot belly stove to sleep for the night. The food was all made from scratch, even the bread. There were hams hanging from the ceiling and dozens of mason jars filled with all varieties of fruits and vegetables on the shelves. There was electricity but no running water, with a hand pump a the well in the kitchen and a two-seater outhouse in the back. The next morning the whole family, five kids in all, were up at sunrise with cinnamon rolls rising in the oven and fresh hot coffee on the stove. Wow, I can’t begin to explain how hospitable the Sloan family was, and after my trip, I sent them $100 to show my appreciation.
With Arizona in our sights, we crossed the Continental Divide, where rivers and streams change direction. Just our luck, a rare weather pattern had the temperature in the 20’s, with up to ten inches of snow. It was hard going, but the roads were plowed, and we continued on. As we dropped down off the mountains into Phoenix, the temperature rose, bringing with it giant desert cacti and other plants that I had never seen in person. Kevin’s sister made me feel right at home, as she welcomed us and offered me a place to crash for the night.
With only 400 miles left, I was up with the sun the next morning, refreshed and ready, although a little sad that I was on my own again. After studying the map, I realized that the back roads going to LA were almost devoid of towns, so I opted for Interstate 10. While considerably shorter, the right shoulder was full of speed bumps that drove me crazy, as well as hurt my sore bottom. The left shoulder, while considerably narrower, was nice and smooth, and with very few cars, it was plenty safe. The Arizona as well as the California police stopped me several times warning me to stay on the right side..
As I crossed the Colorado River into California It seemed surreal. I kissed the ground and jumped for joy. Little did I know that I was entering one of the most traffic-congested areas of the world. By the time I got to Riverside I was completely lost, and with nowhere to camp I got a room at the Dragon Motel, a seedy spot in a small town just outside of San Bernadino. There were strange people knocking on the door all night, and when I looked up from my bed and saw a full size mirror on the ceiling I realized how seedy it really was.
When I rounded the corner and spotted my uncle’s house in Van Nuys, that’s when the gravity of this adventure really hit me. It had taken me almost a month to travel thousands of miles, through some really difficult adversity, and yet here I was. I felt like I could accomplish anything, but first I needed a well deserved break.
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