May 5, 2017
The Birds and Butterflies and Beetles Are Unconcerned
When we walk over to the grocery store in the morning, I leave all of my stuff where it sits on the tables in the pavilion. My phone, laptop, camera, bike, panniers — all of it. I don't even think about putting them away. A town of 400 people that lets strangers on bicycles sleep in their tidy little park is not a town where someone's going to walk by and nick your dirty cycling shorts.
It is a town where the woman behind the counter at the grocery store will wish you a good morning the moment you walk in the door, then ask you about your trip, and make sure that before you leave you've signed the guestbook that she has all passing travelers sign. When Biff fumbles with his wallet looking for a dollar to pay for his coffee, she waves him away and gives it to him for free.
That's Troutville.
We head southwest through the Catawba Valley. Or rather, we ride on the sides of steep slopes while looking down at the narrow and winding floor of the valley. We face the kind of short hills that feel almost vertical, where you wonder what you've done wrong in your life to deserve such a fate.
The creeks and rivers are all swollen and brown from the massive storms that passed through during the night. They run fast and turbulent just beyond the edge of the road, sometimes no more than a foot or two below where we ride. We bounce over rocks and gravel and dirt where driveways and drainage ditches have been washed out. The birds and butterflies and beetles are unconcerned.
With all the hills it's not a day to try and make miles, so we don't. We take a long break in a shaded picnic area next to a church, looking out on hills so lush and green and thick they almost look tropical. Big, puffy clouds charge across the sky to the east. We look at our maps and see that there's a hostel not far from here, just off the Appalachian Trail. It could be interesting. But their website says it's a converted three-car garage with cots and rubber sleeping pads. We joke about rolling up there and being met by a bunch of dirty old hikers who give us creepy smiles when we walk up to the open garage doors.
"Yew want a compliment-ry back rub?" they ask us. "Yew mind if I take mah shirt off while I give it to ya?"
It's about this time that we decide for sure to continue riding.
The hills are alive with the sound of out-of-breath cursing. Of all the riding we've done since leaving Yorktown a week ago today, this stretch is the most difficult. Cranking with tired legs after a poor night's sleep makes it all the more challenging. A strong coffee or a tall iced tea would help, but there's no store for another dozen or more miles. And so we take our sweet, sweet time. There's nothing else to be done.
It's a fine day and a fine place to go slow. Like most everywhere else we've been in Virginia, it's not hard to imagine buying a house out here, setting up a small farm, and settling into the relaxed pace of country life.
Late in the afternoon we head off the route toward Blacksburg. It's a college town, a liberal town, and we know we're getting close when we start to get passed by dozens of Subaru station wagons. But close still feels far. If dropping down into Vesuvius was like the off ramp toward hell, the climb over the mountains that separate the valley from Blacksburg is like the on ramp toward heaven. Instead of salvation, Kristen finds only shortness of breath and dizziness as we get close to the top.
But we make it. We always do. Then we blast down the other side and into town, where on this Cinco de Mayo Friday it's young dudes grilling on front porches, young dudes walking to go get beer, and young dudes with orange t-shirts that read, "It's a great day to be a Hokie."
We end up at the home of a friendly couple we found through Warm Showers. Laura and Tommy are so connected to the bike scene in Blacksburg that Laura received a text message from three different people in the twenty minutes before we arrived, letting her know that a couple of bicycle tourists were in town.
These guys are into mountain biking and bikepacking, ripping single track, and traveling fast and light. A couple of years ago they rode a few thousand miles on the Great Divide between Alberta and New Mexico in just thirty days. Later this year they're headed off pavement and into the magical, volcanic heart of Iceland. I ask them all sorts of questions about how difficult bikepacking is, and the answers are consistent: it's really hard. If it's cold, you freeze because you can't carry that many clothes. If you're riding in a place without food or water, you crank out huge miles so you can get to a town with food and water in less time. If there's an avalanche field in your path, you throw your bike over your shoulder and pick your way through it.
I love that people like them exist in the world. Their passion for wild places is pure and genuine. I also know that compared to them I'm a total candy-ass. And I'm just fine with that.
After all of the day's steep-ass hills, we forego an invitation to a Cinco de Mayo party at the home of one of Laura and Tommy's friends and head to bed early. We're dead to the world in minutes.
Today's ride: 44 miles (71 km)
Total: 367 miles (591 km)
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