Part 22: Bicycle Coast to Coast Across America—Into the Blue Ridge

By Frosty Wooldridge

 
“As the days run into nights on a cross continent bicycle adventure, your body transforms into a sinewy, powerhouse of blood, guts and muscle.  You devour food; suck great amounts of air into your heaving lungs, which in turn, power your legs that spin the wheels toward  noble moments.  Flats? Mountains? Rain? Heat? Sweat?  Bring it on!  Bicycling lets you know you’re outrageously alive.” FHW
 

(Peanut butter sandwich keeps a cyclist moving down the road.)

At a gas station in eastern Ohio on Route 50, I stopped to fill up my water bottles.  An old man driving a Porsche walked up to me, “What are you doing on that bike?”
 
“I’m riding my bicycle coast to coast across America,” I said.
 
“Why aren’t you working?” he said. “You should be working, not playing your life away.”
 
“Hey, I’ve been working my whole life,” I said.  “Seems like a little bike ride isn’t harming anything.”
 
“Too many Americans think that playing trumps work,” he said, walking back to his car. “We’re becoming too obsessed with having fun.”
 
“Don’t mind him dude,” another lean cyclist with a black helmet said to me as the Porsche man got back into his car.
 
“Hey, how you doin’?” I said.  “Frosty is my name.”
 
“Popcorn,” he said.  “I’ve been chasing you for several days. I started in San Diego and I’m headed to Bar Harbor, Maine. I’ve seen your banana skins and orange peels get fresher as I pedaled faster.”
 
I noticed his Long Haul Trucker Surly touring bike.
 
“Nice bike,” I said.  “Several of my friends bought those bikes. They love ‘em.”
 
“Yup, I got it for $600.00 used,” he said.  “I don’t think the guy knew the real worth of the bike.”
 
“Yeah, twice that,” I said.  “It looks brand new.”
 
“I lucked out,” he said.  “Need a partner to ride for a spell?”
 
“Sure,” I said as I watched Popcorn pull out a cigarette, pop it into his mouth and light it up.
 
“I know what you’re thinkin’,” he said. “What’s he smoking a cigarette for?”
 
“Naw,” I said.  “To each his own.”
 
“I pedal a bike so I can eat anything and smoke anything I want because it gets blown out of my body by all the physical work,” he explained.
 
“Let’s get rolling,” I said.

(Bikes in Bloom along bicycle adventure highway.)

For the rest of the day, Popcorn stayed behind me and proved to be the most prolific chain-smoker I have ever seen in my life. He smoked one down, but within seconds, pulled another cigarette out of his pack on his handlebars, stuck it into his mouth, lit it with his Bic lighter and puffed happily away without losing a pedal stroke.  Damnedest thing I’ve ever witnessed.
 
As we pedaled toward West Virginia, the sun fell low toward the horizon behind us.  With less than two hours of sunlight, I saw a church up ahead with a pavilion with picnic tables, water spigot and electrical outlets.
 
“Popcorn,” I said, stopping. “Let’s camp there with all the amenities of water, tables, cut grass and electrical outlets.”
 
“Well,” he said.  “I need to make another hour because I really need to get up to Maine for my new job.”
 
We shook hands.  He pedaled off down the road.   I saw a cloud of white cigarette smoke wafting into the air behind him.
 
I pitched my tent behind the pavilion, cooked up dinner, took a shower with my shower bag, hooked up my MP3 Player, charged my camera battery and wrote in my journal.
 
Next morning, I cooked up oatmeal, sliced bananas and raisins.  Pulled on a clean jersey, shorts and tights.
 
Within ten miles, I reached the West Virginia state line with a bridge over a huge river.  For the next ten hours, I pedaled up and down, up and down, up and down through 80 miles of small mountains with thick woods.  Probably 2,000 foot climbs, but endlessly coming at me without mercy.
 
I perspired like a horse going up a long mile grade and dried off coasting down. Sweat, dry, sweat, dry, dust, grime, sweat, dry.  At the end of the day, I reached the summit of Backbone Mountain at 3,000 feet. I rode through beautiful country.  I stopped in a bar to eat French fries only to watch a heavy rain slam into the ground.
 
“You can use our pavilion to camp tonight,” the lady bartender said.  “At least you will keep dry.”
 
“Thank you,” I said.
 
After pitching camp, I took a shower to clean off all the grime and sweat.  Fell to sleep like a rock!
 
In the morning, I awakened to a downpour. I pedaled 40 miles through torrential rains.  They never let up.  Yes, I wore a Gore-Tex rain jacket, but you may keep the rain off, but you sweat like a horse inside the jacket.  I pedaled up mountains in the rain and drenched myself with sweat. I coasted down to cool off, but still sweaty.
 
My take?  It feels miserable to ride in heavy downpours on a bicycle.   But through it all, I breathed deep gulps of fresh, clean air that filled my lungs.  I enjoyed the privilege of being alive and expressing such life coursing through my body.  I pedaled “Condor” into the small hamlet of Romney.  I felt miserable at 2:00 p.m.
 
“You got a motel in this town?” I asked the visitor center lady.
“Only one is the Wink Motel about five blocks east of here on Route 50,” she said.
“Man oh man,” I said. “I am so ready for a shower.”
 
Minutes later, I pulled up to the Wink Motel.  “You got plenty of hot water?” I asked the proprietor.
 
“All you want,” he said.
 
I paid the money, pulled my bike into the room, pulled my packs and took a shower.  Then, took a hot soaking bath for 45 minutes. Then, ordered a pizza.  Then, ate pizza while I watched TV to discover the world maintained its crazy levels of insanity while I had been crossing the USA.
 
Sleep, sweet sleep with sheets, pillow, air conditioning and a toilet in the morning.  Is life good?  You betcha!

(Locking down bike with tent with cable.)
 
##
 
 Frosty Wooldridge
Golden, CO
Www.HowToLiveALifeOfAdventure.com
Www.frostywooldridge.com
Six continent world bicycle traveler
Speaker/writer/adventurer
Adventure book: How to Live a Life of Adventure: The Art of Exploring the World
Latest book:  How to Deal with 21st Century American Women: Co-creating a successful relationship
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Frosty Wooldridge, six continent world bicycle traveler, Canada to Mexico summer 2014, 2,200 miles, 100,000 vertical feet of climbing: