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VACATION 2003: BLUE RIDGE PARKWAY
IV
A Treatise on Surviving a Bike
Odyssey in the Mountains
by Tom Baker
Summer 2003
For over two years, I had planned
another summer trip, a 600-mile plus tour over the most beautiful and most
difficult terrain in the U.S.: the Skyline Drive and Blue Ridge Parkway. I
ordered a custom touring bike from Philadelphia but did not receive it until
nearly a year after the contract; thus, no tour for 2002. The builder told me
he kept putting others (behind me) in front for production when they whined
about needing their bike immediately. With bike finally in hand, I talked
Ron Hill (Macon, GA) into going again on this mission. He had teamed with
me in 2001 on the same route and was a competent rider. He managed to entice
Dale Vaughan, also from Macon, to join us. Ron was the youngster of the
group at 50; Dale and I are both 58. Ron had also been training hard for
triathlons--less than a week from our start, he had completed Panama City’s Half
Ironman--and predictably would be the strongest of the group. Dale had
completed several Ironman triathlons and was the thinnest of the bunch. He
would be just fine on the mountains. On the other hand, I had missed a lot of
rides because the past school year, I had taught Algebra II and Geometry--after
retiring as a teacher in Georgia--in Cleveland, Tennessee, and spent a lot of
energy staying ahead of my charges. Early season rains had also deprived me of
many training rides. Nevertheless, the beauty and the challenge once again
called, and I answered. (Such behavior is not unlike many women after
childbirth--they seem to “forget” the pain and have more kids!)
Three days after my
school year was over, plans were for us to fly from Atlanta to Dulles Airport in
Washington, D.C., then bike to Front Royal, Virginia, to get on the Skyline
Drive. Since I had front panniers, I had to place my bike in two cartons so it
would fit. Getting it into the shuttle van to take me from Chattanooga to
Atlanta was a problem. The box did not fit in the space behind the last seat,
where luggage was relegated. It narrowly made the entire three seats of the
next row; thankfully the shuttle did not have a full load of passengers this
day.
I made it to the airport
by 7:00 AM on May 30th, an hour before our flight was to leave. Ron
and Dale met me in the ticket line, and we shared war stories until we boarded.
Only one seat in four were taken for this flight, and we surmised the only way
they broke even was the $65 surcharge we each paid for our bikes.
By 11:30 AM, we were
putting our bikes together in the airport. It was 76 miles to Front Royal, and
we had some dubious directions to get there. Two years ago, Leslie Parks,
a local Ron had enticed from the internet, had met us and ridden the first
thirty miles with us as we began the journey. She was unable to come this time
but sent us directions and wished us well. After a few “hiccups”--for which
Dale was severely admonished for misreading her directions--we finally got on
route that Ron and I remembered from the past.
Much of the countryside
was lovely, but half the trip was in congested traffic. The eight miles from
Front Royal were extremely dangerous, as rush hour traffic kept us alert. By
6:00 PM, we finally reached the safe haven of a restaurant for a well-deserved
supper. Afterwards, we mounted our horses and went past the entrance of the
Skyline Drive, as the campground we would stay was five miles away. By the time
we got there, we were well spent from the additional climbs necessary to arrive,
but our site by a roaring creek made it worth our efforts. We quickly set up
tents and did anti-rain dances as threatening weather loomed. . . .
Our first day on the
bike superslab started ominously. Rain began just after we had broken camp, and
we had to wait nearly an hour before Dale had attached all his panniers. We
rode the extra miles into Front Royal for breakfast and met an interesting
couple from Hampton, VA.
The first five miles
were all uphill, and we stopped at the Visitor Center, Dickey Ridge, at the top
and shed our rain jackets, the number one clothing item for the trip. The rest
of the ride featured more climbing than coasting. Several stops to reload with
gorp did little to slow the relentless sapping of my energy stores. Dale caught
me at the entrance to Mary’s Rock Tunnel, our first of 28 for the trip, and
after a snack and pictures, took off while I was still resting.
The remaining 20 miles
were a struggle; and by the time I reached Dark Hollow Falls, 58 miles into our
journey, the elevation was 3490 feet and my legs were jello. Another half mile
was the entrance to Big Meadows, our destination. This is the largest
campground and facilities for the entire trip, and we would enjoy our stay
here. After riding the remaining mile-and-a-half to the camping area, I find
Ron and Dale setting up their tents, and we all shared complaints of the
headwind that nearly stood us up at the entrance to Big Meadows. It was at this
time that I doubted my ability to continue, and actually called CAROL to
pick me up in Waynesboro the next day! She wasn’t there, but I left her a
message, then walked to the showers, which would prove to be the only ones we’d
see run by the Park Services adjacent to the parkway along the route.
After the shower, I
again called Carol, who still was not home. I left the same message: I need
you to come (550 miles or so) and extricate me from the parkway.
Things change. Ron and
Dale encouraged me to stay the course, but the second marguerita is what
turned the tide! After supper, I reached Carol by phone and told her to forget
all the previous instructions. She was glad to--a 550 mile drive to pick up a
wimpy spouse would not have been fun!
The next morning--day 3--
was cold! We broke camp at 7:45 AM and coasted 1-1/2 miles downhill to Big
Meadows Restaurant. After waiting 15 minutes, another tourist drove by, and
seeing us shivering there told us they were opening at 8:30 AM (despite a sign
which indicated 8:00 AM). We regrouped and decided to go the lodge, where we
had had a wonderful trout supper the previous night. Despite the 1-1/2 mile
climb, we soon found ourselves at a table with a fantastic view.
The ride today was not
as tough as yesterday’s, but only minutely. After a few hours, the highlight of
the trip occurred. Going up a climb, Ron and Dale were a couple minutes ahead
of me, and I noticed they were talking to people in a car stopped on the
highway. When I got to them, they pointed to a bear in the woods. By this
time, it had found cover; but I could see the telltale black and knew what that
meant. The guys then continued up the hill, and I returned to my bike to put
away the camera, only the car in the road had not moved. Hearing an unusual
barking commotion, I looked up a tree on the other side of the road and saw two
bear cubs! After taking a few pictures, it dawned on me that I was not in a
very good position--directly between mama bear and her cubs! Sure enough, I
turned to check the woods where I had seen the adult bear, and she was
coming my way! Quickly, I picked up my BILENKY and rolled
it up the hill as fast as I could, thus missing the best picture imaginable--the
bear crossing the road in close proximity with me. Mama was soon at the base of
the tree her cubs were in, and soon the three of them were scooting deeper into
the woods. In four trips on the parkway, this was the third time I had seen
bear--all within a 5-mile radius!
The adrenaline rush
lasted only until the next climb, but we soon approached Rockfish Gap, the start
of the Blue Ridge Parkway (and end of the Skyline Drive). Since there were no
campgrounds for over 20 miles, we stayed in nearby Waynesboro (VA), elevation
1400 feet, a joyous downhill of 4 miles from the parkway. The Western Sizzler
that night was a welcome sight; 60 miles for the day.
Day 4 started with a
breakfast of buckwheat pancakes at Lynn’s Restaurant, and we needed the energy
to fight the “hill” and the traffic to return to the parkway. (Remember that
the parkway is on the ridge; everything off the parkway is a severe
downhill, which makes the return quite challenging!) Today I felt frisky and
led the guys 8 miles to Humpback Rock Visitor Center, a bookstore with a period
farm complete with guides. We soon remounted and at 30 miles were at Whetstone
Ridge, which on an earlier trip served me a well-earned lunch. Closed for
several years now, it provided a coke machine and picnic table for the three
trekkers; two ladies who were at another table shared cookies and cheese with
us. The 63 miles to Otter Creek featured 4800 feet of climbing, although the
last dozen were downhill. The Otter Creek Campground is one of my favorites and
has many nice campsites adjacent a roaring creek. The restaurant serves good
biker fodder; and after 68 miles, I was “home.” Ron and Dale decided to
checkout a private campground, 5 miles farther, in order to get a shower; but
they would return for supper if they had no place to eat. I set up camp, had a
nice lasagna supper with blueberry alamode, and was quickly lulled to sleep by
the creek. The guys had obviously found a feedbag up ahead.
Day 5 was going to be a
toughie because Otter Creek is the lowest point of the parkway at 649 feet.
Also, we were going to the highest point on the parkway in Virginia, 3950 feet,
only 16 miles from Otter Creek. The restaurant did not open until 8:30 AM, so I
decided to survive on gorp ‘til I got to Peaks of Otter at 25 miles. I started
early and figured I would either catch the guys or wait for them at Peaks of
Otter.
The climb today--after
crossing the James River--was relentless. I saw 5 mph on my speedometer often;
and after 10 miles, I stopped to devour a snicker I had wisely obtained the
pervious night. There was a canopy of greenery around me as I trudged on, and I
pulled out my Gore Tex jacket as rain began. How can the temperature change so
drastically yet so quickly? By the time I approached the summit, wind gusts
were making life miserable for me. My breath was now smoke; I put on warm
gloves and my hood over my helmet as I descended. Visibility was poor in the
fog--I could see about 100 feet ahead.
From the top, I had
about 11 miles to Peaks of Otter, mostly downhill. At 10:30 AM, I parked my
steed under a huge oak at the Peaks of Otter Restaurant and went inside for a
late breakfast. An open fire was not in service; but after the necessary cups
of coffee, I was as near normal as I could hope. My seat was next to a huge
picture window, and I could see a large lake and Sharp Top Mountain. A couple
nearby told me of seeing moose in Maine and entertained me with such stories as
I waited on Dale and Ron. They managed to roll in at noon, looking like two wet
blue tick hounds as they described their morning adventures.
We struck out at 1:00
PM, with Roanoke our destination. Roanoke is in a valley, and the 35 miles from
Peaks of Otter were predominately downhill. Washing and drying clothes--a daily
ritual on the parkway--was out of the question on this dreary day, so we decided
to seek a motel instead of camping in “soup.” The Indian couple at the Apple
Valley Motel offered to wash our clothes, and we gladly donated a few bucks each
for a 3-day load. Two years ago, Ron and I had stayed at a campground near the
parkway and biked to the Outback Restaurant, dodging rain and darkness over a
busy thoroughfare. Not so this time--we called a taxi for our expedition to the
same restaurant. After a wonderful meal, complete with brewskies, we stoked up
with munchies at the nearby grocery and recalled our taxi.
From previous trips, I
remembered that a lot of pain was required to leave Roanoke headed south.
Without breakfast, we struggled for 10 miles before getting some relief. We
were resting under a tree at 35 miles when a young Roanoke newspaper reporter
spotted us and stopped for an interview. He was a biker and told us he was
writing several articles about the parkway, and that our story would be
interesting. Ten miles farther, we are at Tuggle’s Gap, a restaurant near Rocky
Knob Campground, campsite for three previous trips. We had a big lunch here and
trudged on.
From Tuggle’s Gap to
Rocky Knob was “only” 2 miles, all uphill. Nine more miles found us at Mabry
Mill, the most popular and photographed spot on the parkway. We hit all the
spots there--blacksmith shop, the mill, the sluice and tannery--before another
shower got our attention. We were going to Meadows of Dan (Dan River) to stay
the night; and within a half hour after our departure from Mabry Mill, we were
there!
Meadows of Dan is the
town’s name, and we stayed at a private campground a mile from the parkway.
After showering--the highlight of our day--we walked the mile to town for
supper. It was here that I ordered spaghetti and received the worst I have ever
had! Not to worry--I found other items to get me by, including ice cream! As
we were leaving, five guys sitting together noticed Dale’s shoes and asked if we
were bikers. They were also riding the parkway, though in a less stressful
manner. Two were from PA, two from CT, and one lived in MD. For the past three
years, they would drive to a rendezvous point on the parkway, bike two days out,
then return for a four-day tour, staying in motels along the way. This year
they started in Roanoke and would ride to Bluff Motel, near Daughton Park, then
turn around. We chatted a bit, then Ron, Dale and I headed back to our campsite
just ahead of the rain.
We had just completed
our sixth day and were 291 miles from the end of the parkway in Cherokee, NC.
Both Dale and Ron wanted to get there on Sunday so CHRISSIE, Ron’s
faithful wife, could drive them home so they could go to work on Monday. Since
it was Wednesday night already, they needed to average 73 miles for four days,
over some of the hardest terrain of the parkway--around Asheville and Mount
Pisgah. Since I was free until August, I didn’t have such lofty aspirations and
told the guys I would not be taking the fast train home, that I would be on my
own the next day.
Day 7 featured an early
start as we broke camp and packed away our wet tents, much heavier than when
dry. I had planned to backtrack two miles to Mabry Mill for their specialty,
buckwheat pancakes, but I was unable to talk my comrades into joining me. They
were itching to start their scramble south, and I didn’t envy them their effort
they would spend ‘til Sunday.
Breakfast was worth the
additional four mile cost, especially with the animated waitress who talked
non-stop while I downed the aforementioned hotcakes. I know buckwheat is not
for everybody, but the coarseness just had to be what a pioneer was fed, and I
felt not unlike one on this trip.
From Maybry Mill, I had
65 miles to my campsite de jour, Daughton Park. Riding in the early
morning is my favorite time, with long shadows and coolness to lift my spirits.
After only a few miles past Dan, a rider passed me! Seeing other bikers on the
parkway was indeed rare, and as I caught up I recognized Mauri Gault,
whom I had met the pervious night at the restaurant. He said they also had
eaten breakfast at Mabry Mill and were going to Bluff Motel, which is adjacent
to the campground restaurant at Daughton Park. The four others soon appeared,
and we had an animated ride into Cumberland Knob, where we ate snacks and rested
at midday. Others in the group were Tom Conway, a soon-to-be-retired
postman, Chris Davidson, an aspiring racer who had lost 60 pounds in his
pursuit of fitness, Chuck Baith, a slightly built carpenter, and Joe
Conway, a tall computer whiz on a new Klein. The past year Chris had
entered a Tour de France contest by Bicycling Magazine to pick the
top ten finishers. No one predicted them correctly, but Chris won in a drawing,
and earned a $4,000 Trek, which he rode. The steed even had “Chris’ Prize” on
the top tube! Since another guy had signed up with them but could not make the
trip, they asked me to stay at the motel with them gratis that night, which I
was delighted to accept.
We rode pretty hard
today--(remember, speed is relative on the parkway; our average was only 12.8.
This was my highest average for the trip, as I was showing off to ride with all
the guys with no “suitcases” to lug up the mountains). Just after spooking a
turkey enough to cause it to fly at 60 miles, I had to take a break on the
roadside barrier-wall, erected by the CCC when the Parkway was built. After
twenty minutes, I was able to resume, and the last mile to the motel was so
steep that even Lance would need to use his granny gear!
The deck of our upstairs
room had a lovely view of the surrounding area. We all walked to supper and
were treated to the best apple pie in the U. S., I’ll wager. It was still
daylight when we returned to the motel, where we gathered around an open
fireplace on the veranda, chatting with three other couples who were vacationing
in the mountains. Seventy miles today; I slept like baby. I suspect one of the
main reasons I keep coming back to the parkway is the cool temperatures. June
is normally a hot month but not at elevation. We even slept with the door open
to let in the coolness; no AC in this pristine setting!
The next morning after
breakfast--more pancakes at the same restaurant as supper--I parted with the
gang, who were backtracking two days to Roanoke. I was going to Julian Price
Park near Blowing Rock, where I would find supper. This was a tougher day than
the previous. Halfway there I stopped at Jeffress Park for gorp and goodies
saved from Meadows of Dan and reloaded the water bottles. Five miles from Price
Park is Moses Cone Park, a lovely manor house that now serves as a gift shop for
handicrafts. I picked out a lovely necklace for my bride Carol, just to be on
the safe side after such a long journey. A cute soft Cardinal, complete with
exact same birdsong, found its way into my panniers, too. Soon I was at Julian
Price and set up camp at a neat site on the lake. After cleaning up best I
could, as there were no showers, I trudged the four miles to Blowing Rock for a
great trout dinner, complete with marguerita. The waiter and others gave me the
forecast: rain tonight and tomorrow, so I prepared well by packing up my bags
and sealing my clothes in Zip-Loc bags, an old Indian trick. At 8:30 PM, I slid
into the tent, with sprinkles close behind.
It rained all
night! At one time, my tent was water-tight, but it was a dozen years old or
more, and water seeped through the floor mat. At least I was elevated somewhat
by a Ridgecrest foam mat; but I could feel puddles near my feet, and my sleeping
bag was getting wet in spots. It was a miserable night.
The next morning it was
still raining. Having no choice but to arise and pack up the mule train, I
finally got the GREEN HORNET--my Bilenky horse--ready to roll. Because of the
rain, I had planned a short day of 40 miles, but 40 miles in the mountains takes
the time and energy of a 75-mile ride at home. The first 7 miles was a steady
climb before I got to Linn Cove Viaduct, a 2-mile stretch over private
property. The roadway is elevated twenty feet or so, in order not to damage the
environment adjacent to Grandfather Mountain. I asked the kind ranger at the
visitor center where the nearest breakfast could be had, and she directed me to
Linville Falls, a mile off the Parkway but 21 miles farther south.
By 10:30 AM, I had
managed to finally reach Louise’s Restaurant, where I had stopped on previous
tours. It boasts that one table in the restaurant is actually the corner of
three counties of North Carolina! Breakfast was great even after nearly 30
miles, and after less than 15 more, I made it through the tunnel to Little
Switzerland, aptly named by its resemblance. I pulled into the Switzerland Inn
and Chalet and asked if they gave discounts to bikers. (I knew they did for
group rides, but I was fishing, since the place was quite POSH.) The kind lady
said no, but for $60 I could get a room in their Adel Weiss lodge, a six-unit
building complete with a central open fireplace, plus breakfast the next day.
This was quite satisfactory, and soon my wet tent was draped over chairs in
front of the fireplace. My sleeping bag found another destination. David
James, a retired local pilot, offered to take it home, dry it and return it
later; and I gleefully said thanks. So much of my clothing was wet that I spent
considerable time in front of the fireplace. Luckily, the lodge was empty but
for me! Supper was only a short walk away, and the rain was finally ending.
Tomorrow would be dry!
Day 10 started with
breakfast at the lodge restaurant, complete with huge picture windows giving way
to views that were breathtaking. Today’s destination was Asheville. Craggy
Gardens was my intermediate rest stop and was a climb all the way. Ten miles
before arriving at Craggy Gardens, I went by the road to Mt. Mitchell, highest
point east of the Mississippi, 6,684 feet. One of these trips I’ve got to camp
at Mitchell, but not this time, as I’d only gone 20 miles this morning. There
is a snack bar and nine rugged campsites upstairs, not for the timid.
Less than a quarter-mile
from the entrance, I spotted a real athlete: a runner on the Blue Ridge
Parkway! By the time I got to him, he was drinking water which was running down
rocks adjacent the road. He said he was Ben Durham and that he was
training for the Grandfather Marathon, held in mid-July. His training run was
20 miles, starting and ending at Craggy Gardens. I wished him well and
continued on at a rate only slightly faster than his.
Craggy Gardens was a busy
place this Sunday, and I was glad to get off my horse and soak in the ambiance.
Several bikers rode up from Asheville, including three racers who looked like
TDF domestiques, for sure. Most impressive, however, was the cute mid-twenties
lass who had just arrived from Asheville, 20 miles away, all uphill! After a
long break, I aimed my front wheel down the mountain and enjoyed a well-deserved
shoosh into Asheville. Can you imagine a 20-mile downhill? It was great!
After checking into a motel, I rode to a grocery a few miles away and stocked
up. Supper was pizza; I was too tired to go out. Today’s mileage: 53 at 12.1
mph, despite the long downhill at the end.
Day 11 was the shortest
of all on the parkway, only 27 miles. However, there is no doubt in my mind
that it is equivalent to 85 miles of non-mountain terrain! After treating
myself at the motel’s continental breakfast, I headed south on the parkway
towards Mt. Pisgah, my favorite site of the tour. Asheville is in the valley,
with hard climbs both north and south when leaving town. I cinched my chin
strap tight and bit my lip as I struggled to French Broad River, 12 miles away
and at 2,000 feet, leaving still a considerable “rise” to go. There were nine
tunnels in this section today, with Pine Mountain Tunnel at milepost 399 being
the longest on the parkway, at 1,320 feet, a quarter of a mile! On most of the
tunnels, I was able to see well enough inside, after taking my dark glasses
off. Longer ones were a different matter and were indeed spooky. Often the
road would curve, and I could barely make out the white center line. Sometimes
darkness would prevail, and I’d have to stop and feel for the right side wall.
When cars would approach, I feel quite vulnerable and quickly gravitate to the
right edge. One of the strangest feelings I’ve ever had as a biker occurs
occasionally as I ride through a tunnel and the light gradually diminishes, to
the point where my equilibrium is affected. By this time, I manage a
three-point landing and continue through very methodically. All these problems
could be solved with a two-pound light, I suspect.
I was able to view Mt.
Pisgah nine miles away en route, with its telltale orange tower spreading high
above. My day’s trip was over before 1:00 PM, and I soon had set up camp amidst
a camouflage of rhododendrons. The next order of business was cleaning up,
securing belongings at the site and beginning a hike to the top of Mt. Pisgah!
Each campsite here has a
metal box in which to place food stores, to keep them secure from pesky
varmints. Two years ago at this same place, I returned to camp, only to find a
skunk that was tearing through Ron’s pannier, enjoying the gorp he had brought!
This time, all the critters would have to rely on themselves, as I locked up all
my goodies before beginning the hike.
Five years ago, Carol
(wife), Eugenia Smith and I had done the same thing: hiked to the top of
Mt. Pisgah, three miles from the campground. It wasn’t too difficult, with only
a barrage of rocks the last mile up for added stress. The trip up took 1:08,
while the return trip only took an hour. At the top, I met a couple of old
geezers like me, one of whom was a math professor at one of the nearby
colleges. After taking many pictures, I headed back and told the guys I’d see
them at supper at the Pisgah Inn Restaurant, famous for its rainbow trout
prepared five different ways.
Of all the lovely
settings for restaurants along the nearly 600 miles of the Skyline Drive/Blue
Ridge Parkway, I’d have to say the Pisgah Inn Restaurant offers the most scenic
view. Words cannot describe the beauty observed from this overlook; it’s a
“must see” spot for everyone. While we were waiting for the trout, we were
entertained by a skunk walking around the edge of the building, within view by
most of the patrons! Mt. Pisgah stands at 5,749 feet, and you can imagine that
I was glad to have a quality sleeping bag for the night.
Day 12, the last day of
the Parkway--(actually, this was only the 11th day on the Parkway,
with the first day being transition)--began with a lumberjack pancake breakfast
at the Pisgah Inn Restaurant overlooking several states along the Blue Ridge
Mountains. There was “only” 60 miles left of the Parkway, and the ride would
feature both difficult climbs as well as some of the best downs of the tour. I
knew from the start that today’s ride, with its mixed bag of goodies, would be
one of the most difficult of the trip, but I didn’t know how much tougher until
much later in the day. . . .
Leaving Pisgah was a rush
for the first four miles or so. As the road leveled out, Looking Glass Rock got
my attention on the left--a bare granite dome that caught several pictures for
the next couple of miles. At 13 miles was the Devil’s Courthouse, where I had
hiked the half mile to the top on a previous trip. Today, I zinged by, thinking
of all the requirements for the day; my plate was full. From here to the top of
Richard Balsam was no picnic, but the top was breathtaking. At 6,053 feet, this
had made 22 miles today; and I took a half hour to down some snacks wisely
stashed in my panniers. A nice lady riding a Harley had walked over to the
elevation monument where I was sitting and offered to take my picture. She was
from nearby Murphy, North Carolina, and told me her pitiful story of tearing her
knee up after falling in her yard. She decided against reconstructive surgery
and is pretty limited in her activity now. When we were in Waynesboro, we saw
news that Rudolph was captured in Murphy, after living in the woods for five
years. I suggested she probably helped him, but she assured me that if she had
known his hideout, she would now be a millionaire for turning him in.
From Balsam Mountain, I
smoked downhill for several miles, hoping it would never end. It did. During
this relatively short section--20 miles--I had to reclaim 6,225 feet, and I was
thankful to reach Waterrock Knob. I pulled into the visitor’s center parking
lot and laid the Bilenky against a fence. An interesting man in his 60’s was
there in full biker regalia, and he said he lived in nearby Sylva and that he
had rebuilt his motorcycle after getting it “dirt cheap” from someone who had
accidentally burned it. It looked showcase to me. Only 18 miles to Cherokee,
and most were downhill!
The cyclist elected to
follow me for over three miles, where he turned on Highway 19. It was awkward
having him behind me, even though I was going 35-40 mph. Eventually the
downhill disappeared, with very little flat coming before another climb, this
time the last one of the Parkway, for sure! After climbing out of Soco Gap, I
stopped to put on my jacket, put the hood over my helmet and zipped it up. I
flew the last 13 miles into Cherokee!
I backtracked after
completing the Parkway a half mile to the Oconaluftee Visitor Center. While the
Parkway was history, the odyssey was not; and I consulted my maps for routing
from Cherokee, which was only a couple miles away. Two years ago, Ron and I had
gone through Murphy and Blue Ridge, GA, en route to Ellijay where my faithful
Carol had mercifully picked me up and Ron had continued (after another night on
the road) to Atlanta. This time I decided to take a route with which I was
familiar. I set out towards Clayton, GA, in the NE corner of the state. . . and
then would travel west towards Chattanooga.
The terrain now was much
more manageable, but two things were working against me: wind and heat. The
headwind was annoying at best, but the heat was new to me. For twelve days, I
had been at elevation, protected from the blazing sun. Instantly, I had to
acclimate. Somehow I had gotten to Dillsboro by 5:00 PM and checked in with
Carol before she left work. By this time, I had gone 80 miles and was ready for
the hot tub. Franklin was the next town of size, so I decided to make this my
end point for the day. A Hardee’s was at the corner, and I pulled in for a cold
drink. While seated, I could see a sign outside which read Franklin 6. I could
do it! Unfortunately, another customer with a better angle advised me the
distance read 16 instead. By this time, I was running on fumes but had no other
option but to continue. Another half hour down the road, I decided to stop at a
gas station and solicit a ride to Franklin in a pick-up truck. This was futile,
so I got back on the road once more. After a short ride, I approached a big
hill, where I decided to abandon the ride. My trusty steed is placed against a
mailbox, and I start thumbing. The third guy pulls over, but he’s in a jeep!
He insisted that he could get the bike with all the gear inside; and after
taking both wheels off, he was right! He was going to Franklin, and I asked him
if there were any campgrounds nearby. He said I could camp in his yard and even
offered me supper! How could I refuse?
My good Samaritan was
Russ Smith; and when we got to his house, about 15 miles away, I met his
wife Mary and their adorable 2-year-old daughter, Rayah. We had
an interesting chat that night. . . and I was grateful. . . for the supper and
prime tent site next to his garden. And, don’t let me forget the shower! The
eighty-eight miles today should fight obesity for a short while . . . .
Day 13, the last day of
the odyssey, began about 6:00 AM. The previous day I had told Carol she would
need to come pick me up between Hiawassee and Clayton, Georgia. Mary had to
hustle to work early, but Russ and Rayah met me at a restaurant three miles from
their home, and we had a good breakfast to send me off. I shot through
Franklin, and another 20 found the Bilenky in Clayton. En route, I had gone
through Dillard and past Nacoochee School at Rabun Gap, where the Foxfire
books were written.
From Clayton, I headed
due west, and the sun quickly warms all under its blanket. I keep thinking it
should be so much easier now that I’m out of the mountains, but it’s only
marginally so. After passing Moccasin Creek State Park, I climb some sho-nuff
steep hills, and the dripping sweat is an unwanted stowaway for the remainder of
the ride. It’s nearly noon, and I imagine Carol is getting close--I’m ready to
“throw in the towel.” A break sitting in the shade helped my legs recover, but
I quickly remounted and continued. I didn’t want Carol to catch me resting!
In only a couple more
miles, I spied Carol as she was approaching me; and after a few classic-pose
pictures, the panniers were off in a flash. After 39 miles today and 771 total
in thirteen days, it’s all over!
EPILOG
A tour of the Skyline
Drive and the Blue Ridge Parkway is indeed a trip of a lifetime, and now I have
done it four times! The challenge is ever-present, the views are beyond words
and the coolness at elevation is a reward for effort spent. What truly makes a
ride like this fulfilling is the people--those who share such an expedition with
you, and the others you meet along the way. I can’t wait to do it again.
Anyone out there want to go with me for number five? I promise you won’t regret
it. . . .
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