An "Everybody is Out Cycling" day, Visiting Old Vistas, and Riding New Old Roads
This was not a day to sit inside. This was a day to be on your bike because when Virginia gives you a bright sunny day with decent temperatures (mid 70s(F)), no humidity, and a cool refreshing breeze, you say "Thank you, Ma'am" ... and you take it. And run with it.
So, it stands to reason I was not the only one hopping on the bike and heading off for a morning of cycling today. Fact is, as I was heading down my driveway, I saw a guy on an extremely fast S-Works mountain bike - with loads of shock absorbers on every angle of that bike's lithe frame - go flying past on my paved road. Before I could blink he was 1/4 mile up the road, pedaling like he'd had 5 Red Bulls to drink for breakfast. He went up our hill at about 70mph, and had hit the gravel road on the other side before I'd gotten 100 yards down the road.
And that's the last I saw of him and his speedy bike. All that were left were the tire tracks in the gravel road bed. I simply shook my head and settled the LaFree into a nice pace. I had 30 miles on my agenda, and a beautiful day to ride the distance, and I refused to be hurried. It was a day to be enjoyed, not rushed, and I had the perfect route to do just that.
I headed north, more into
@jabberwocky's territory (I fully expected to see him out today, but must have just missed him), with a mixture of paved and gravel roads. It was a chance to see some old familiar roads from a new angle (via a bike), and to decide if I wanted to make this route a one-off, or a routine.
The first 5 1/2 miles were uncomplicated secondary paved roads. Quiet, peaceful, relaxed. Roads my Vado would have loved. The LaFree was certainly enjoying them, but its interest ramped up as we turned onto a beautiful gravel road, named Hibbs Bridge Road, that took us through a deep, heavily shaded woodland, following the natural terrain as it dipped down to keep company with the clear, happily running waters of a woodland creek, then rose again to check out the views barely visible through the intense grouping of trees.
Along this route I happened to see a lady walking a very lovely large black dog along the road. I, of course, had to stop and ask "Giant Schnauzer or Bouvier des Flanders?" My first guest was right she said, but I was surprised when she looked point blank at me and said "I know you". It took me a moment to realize she looked slightly familiar, and with a bit of back and forth info shared, I remembered she had been a boarder at a neighbor's barn down at the end of my road a few years back. We stood and enjoyed catching up on our lives for quite some time until an approaching car, that had come to a halt to politely wait until we yielded our command of the middle of the road, helped conclude our animated conversation. We said our goodbyes as she continued her walk with her dog, the car graciously passed by, and I continued on my way towards some very familiar old roads.
The lovely gravel road ended at a busy paved road full of cyclists, and the random car now and then, but I was only going to use it for a moment to turn onto a paved route that I used to travel every Tuesday and Saturday for many years with my truck and horse trailer decades ago. This was prime foxhunting country up to 10 years ago, with vast open farm fields and wonderful woodlands full of streams and pathways. But now the 500 acres of woods and fields had been claimed by fences, and the open paths we used to ride were closed off as private property, no admittance. A massive 15,000 sq foot mansion had been built in the middle of one of the high fields where we used to sit quietly on our horses, huddled in our thick wool coats, heads bowed against the cold of winter, ears listening to the hounds sing in the fields across the distance and along the creek beds in the woods.
The wild woods had been tamed, the entry had been gated with a full time guard, and three helicopter pads now claimed a former wild berry patch that had been the smorgasbord for the local wildlife including black bears, foxes, and assorted other inhabitants. I still remember the day when one of the hunt staff whips excitedly told us afterwards about seeing a bear amble past her, the critter not even noticing she was there. Her horse certainly saw the bear, however, and she laughed as she described how she felt him rise up a few inches in height as the bear passed, but never moved an inch from his spot.
So many years of good friends, wonderful hunts, cold frosty mornings following a pack of beautiful hounds, hours spent sitting or galloping across fields and through woods and splashing through ice covered creeks on agile, trustworthy horses, and hours listening to the chorus of PennMaryDel hound music echoing over a pristine rural countryside that now only echoed with the noise of helicopters and cocktail parties around the pool.
I wonder if they left any berry patches for the bears...
The paved road hadn't changed, however, and so the old familiar bends and turns of the pavement as it slipped past the old hunt fields felt like a dear friend traveling north with me towards an old town with a very historic past. I wasn't alone with my thoughts as I shared the road with two other cyclists traveling my direction - a lady and a gentleman. We exchanged pleasantries as we passed each other the first time, and a second time when I passed them on a hill (naturally), and then a third time when I stopped to take a picture and they took the lead, and then a fourth time when I passed them (yet again) on a uphill. I slowed to talk to them at the fourth pass for a few seconds to ask where they were going, and to share where I was going. It was so nice to see such big smiles on both as they were clearly enjoying their ride and the stunning day.
At the town my route, now at 16 miles, started my journey back towards home and we waved our goodbyes as they continued towards home in the major town a few miles ahead.
The paved road soon tired of being civilized and shrugged off the blacktop to breathe as a gravel road. Once again the rural landscape took ownership of the land with tractors and trucks being parked in the front of houses rather than cars. Hayfields dotted the byway, many already festooned with a plethoria of freshly baled big hayrolls ready to be picked up and transported somewhere where there was cattle to be fed.
At times the woods and streams moved back in to take possession of the edges of the gravel road, and sometimes to take possession of the road itself. The amount of windfall trees and flooding from the past storms only a few days ago had been promptly, and quite efficiently, cleaned up by our cadre of VDOT (Virginia Dept of Transportation) workers, so the roads remained passable with no detours required, despite the road signs which, apparently, had been either forgotten or left in place for the next flooding, which, given June weather in Virginia, was (if you'll pardon the whimsical use of grammar) a given.
I had just come to the end of the latest gravel road when I chanced across another cyclist at the Philomont store. He lamented that the store was closed on Sunday, and I asked if he needed anything- water, snacks, a banana, a pickle. I told him I packed everything, and reached back to pat my panniers fondly. He laughed, and assured me he was fine. He smiled at my bike and said that I had probably been riding the gravel roads judging from the direction I had come. I admitted I had, and said I was debating going straight on the gravel road across the street that lead to the creek crossing through the water, or taking the alternate gravel road instead, and keeping my shoes dry. He was on a very sleek road bike that would have probably fainted had he asked it to "do" a gravel road, so he was planning to take the paved road route back into Leesburg where he had started, although he wasn't quite looking forward to some of the big rolling hills he would meet right off the bat. We chatted a few more minutes, then said our goodbyes, he heading off on the no-nonsense paved roads while I chose the alternate dry gravel road where my feet would remain dry for the duration of the ride.
The views on this stretch of gravel roads was definitely designed for a camera, so I stopped to take a few shots just as a guy in a mountain bike zipped past. I didn't bother to do more than glance at him, concentrating instead on picking the best vantage point for my photos. Mission accomplished, I hopped back on the LaFree and casually headed down the road, not expecting to find myself catching up with the zippy mountain bike rider as he was powering up a hill. He was just chugging a drink as I quietly announced myself on his left. I apparently startled him because he told me I did! (LOL!). We exchanged pleasantries, and then he took off down the other side of the hill so fast he left a raised cloud of dust in his wake. I was amazed at his bravery to slalom down that hill as I clenched both of my brakes to keep my bike at a steady, slower pace. It was clear, a mile later, that we were following the same route as we leapfrogged a few times until we settled (or rather I settled) into a pace that kept us side by side. As we talked I was amused to see my pedal stroke similar to one employed on a flat going, while he spun much quicker and got out of his saddle at every hill. Then again, as he explained, he had teenagers at home who were "probably just rolling out of bed about now" (it was already well past noon) and so he was hurrying to get his ride in and be home at a reasonable time. For the most part his wife usually rode with him, he said, but she had errands to run today, and he didn't want to miss a ride on such a nice day. He was highly impressed with my bike's ability to climb hills, and he really liked the carbon belt drive. I asked him how in the world did he manage to fly down hills like he did, and he explained his philosophy which, not surprisingly, was that of your classic 30something "I am immortal" daring-do. We did both agree that the gravel roads were a treasure, and he hoped they would remain that way forever.
We enjoyed each other's company until we finally came to a parting of the ways approximately 4 miles from my house. He was now headed back towards home in Purcellville, and would be taking some of my regular gravel roads, including one that would pass right by my house. I, on the other hand, had planned to go just a touch further, and so we said our goodbyes. Such a nice guy - hopefully he had a great ride home.
The final 8 miles home were quietly ridden, simply enjoying the tree shaded gravel roads and the views they offered, and then the paved roads for the final sprint home. 33 miles and 3 hours later I was back on my driveway, heading up towards the house where my hubby stood, in the middle of the driveway, of course, staring straight up at a huge broken limb, hung up and held in place by two other limbs, in the big old willow tree next to the driveway in one of the pastures.
He called for me to stop and look up at the tree with him. I obliged, and the two of us stared upwards at the broken limb while he ran through a number of scenarios of how he could remove that limb before it fell. I casually pointed out, in a wifely way, that common physics would cause all his scenarios to not work, so he was best just to leave it alone and let the wind blow it down, if that ever happened. The way it was wedged so tightly in place it probably would end up staying in that tree for the next 20 years. He thought about it, finally agreed, and we headed up to the garage together, discussing the day and what time I wanted him to start cooking the ribs for dinner. I gave him a time, and that just made his day.
It's the small pleasures in life, like cooking ribs and riding a bike around a beautiful countryside and meeting friendly people, that really make any day that much more special.
Oh, and the route? Definitely going in my book of regular favorites.
Always happy to get good recommendations on the best byways above my area to cycle. Will be exploring to find some more relaxed paved roads for the Vado, too.
