Part 23: Bicycle Coast to Coast Across America—West Virginia to Virginia

By Frosty Wooldridge

“A certain quieting of the mind occurs at the completion of a long bicycle journey.  Whether you pedaled 1,000, 2,000 or 10,000 miles, the road comes to an end.  You poured your heart, mind and guts into every mile.  You pedaled up endless mountain passes.  You labored across vast tracks of wilderness. You faced heat, cold, rain and snow. You dripped sweat. You baked in the sun. You pushed headwinds.  You devoured a grocery store full of food.  You felt skin rash on your inner thighs.  Crotch rot challenged you.  Campfires transfixed you.  At night, across the ink-black of space, shooting stars mesmerized you.  The journey changed you.  No greater joy can come from “the” moment of adventure when you conquer the final mile.  It lives in your heart for the rest of your life.”  FHW

(Mural painted on a 150 year old brick building in some small town on Route 50.)

Man, it’s different waking up in a motel room.  I took another shower just to feel the joy of warm water cascading off my skin.  A clean towel dried my body.  Brushing my teeth in the lavatory with running water; such a treat.  I pulled on a clean jersey and shorts along with clean socks.

“I feel like oatmeal and toast,” I muttered to myself as I carefully pushed Condor out the motel room door.  “I might as well treat myself as I near the Atlantic Ocean and the end of this ride.”

I hit the local restaurant in Romney, yet another West Virginia berg in the middle of the Blue Ridge Mountains.  Lots of poverty in that state. Lots of wrecked automobiles and junked trailers overgrown with ivy and other vines.  I think the poorer folks live, the less they “see” all of the crap they toss into the woods or along the highways.

Some local folks almost feel irritated with a guy riding a bicycle through their town. It’s not the “right” thing to do.  It goes against the norm.  Others marvel at my journey.  It’s a crazy mix of awe and disbelief as to why someone would bicycle across the United States of America. That’s especially true when a senior citizen rides a bicycle across the country.

I answer, “It’s so much fun to ride my bike and I feel like a kid.”

I filled myself up, tipped the waitress, walked outside into the morning sunshine—and jumped on my bike.  Today, I expected to hit the Virginia state line.  I’ve climbed the Blue Ridge Mountains, along the Shenandoah Valley and through a ton of history.  A lot of folks farmed this area. A lot of Indians died while losing their freedoms and their land.  A lot of Yankees and Rebels fought hand to hand in deadly combat.  The greats of history rode through these hills and mountains. 

(On a cycle tour, I see thousands of junked vehicles tossed into the woods. It’s pretty sickening because the ones that do the tossing don’t care and the folks that care don’t do anything to clean it up.)

You cannot help but feel the spirits of George Washington, Daniel Boone, Thomas Jefferson, Abigail Adams, John Adams, Ben Franklin, Samuel Adams, Paul Revere, Alexander Hamilton, Betsy Ross, Martha Washington and Abraham Lincoln. 

I pedaled from Romney to Winchester.  I camped out that night between two hedges.  I traveled on a road that popped up back in the 1700s.  Lots of history along Route 50.   Also, not an easy ride for a cyclist. Big trucks threatened to run me off the road in the endless curves.  Thick forests kept my views down to a “green tunnel” perspective.  When the big trucks sped up behind me, I exited the pavement.  Thankfully, I pedaled through much greenery and endless flowers.

(More junk along the West Virginia roads, but in fact, all roads in America feature tossed junk, cars, farm machiner, trucks, trash bags, abandoned buildings and baby diapers.)

The closer I pedaled toward Virginia, the nicer the homes. As soon as I reached the Virginia state line, the road improved, the homes improved, the fencing improved and the cars appeared newer.   Some states live rich while others live poor.  The difference between Mississippi and Virginia seems like two different countries.  While the rest of the world thinks everyone enjoys wealth in America, most don’t realize that 48 million Americans subsist on food stamps and one in five American children face hunger throughout the year.

At the Virginia state line, I took a picture by the sign. A few miles later, I pedaled along white fences, stone fences and beautiful farms replete with horses grazing in the fields. 

(Trash left along highways of America.)

At one small town, I stopped at an antique rifle shop that carried muskets from the Revolutionary War and the Civil War.  The homes in those hamlets dated back over 200 years.  It’s a kick to ride my bicycle through the grand march of history.  Nothing much changes in small towns.  They feature square courthouses, and quiet tree-lined streets with small shops.  No big box stores.  No helter-skelter traffic backing up into gridlock.  I really wonder why we allowed our cities to become multi-million person quagmires and traffic jam insane asylums.

(Pedaling into Virginia and moving toward the Atlantic Ocean and Washington DC.)

As I rode eastward, traffic congestion increased. I pedaled along the sidewalks in Fairfax, Virginia because they allowed no bicycle lanes. 

Looking back, Route 50 carried me through some pretty rough stretches of West Virginia.  I kept my eyes on my rear view mirror in order to make instant plans to exit the highway.   The road forced me to climb and descend hundreds of times.  I loathed the trash and wrecked cars.

In the small bergs, a whole lot of poverty pained me from people who lived in trailers with no way out.

Into Virginia, I felt better to see neat farms and painted houses.  One thing about cycle touring, you get a gut wrenching feeling for the people and the land.  It hurts worse in third world countries.

I continued pedaling until I reached the outskirts of Washington DC.  I found a nice quiet glen to camp for the night.  I wanted to ride into our nation’s capital with a fresh, new day in front of me.  I also wanted to touch the Atlantic Ocean in the Chesapeake Bay.

(Antique gun shop along Route 50 with weapons dating back to the Revolutionary War.)

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