Touring the South, Befriending Mountains, and Breathing Solace
Today was one for celebrating the civilized road. The roads of the 21st century, all ironed to a smooth black perfection, laid out like formal satin ribbons woven through a tapestry of heat shimmering summer greenery and faultless blue skies.
No gravel today...or, rather, as minimal as I could manage since it is nigh impossible in my area to get far without setting foot on the crunchy, natural dynamics of "pre-cellphone, old road technology". Meaning, out in my neck of the woods paved roads had to be hunted down before you could ride them. Their natural habitat lay south of me, so that is the direction I turned the Vado's nose as we set off together to scout for those smooth black satin ribbons of highway, and enjoy chasing them through the countryside.
Only a whiff of civilization met us as we left behind the first 8 miles in our county and crossed south into a lower county. Here the paved roads were almost camouflaged to mimic a gravel road, but my bike knew the difference and leaped to the chase with alacrity, nose into the wind, setting a pace worthy of it's name in Latin ("I go"). And go it did, speeding along as the wind evolved into nothing more than a wonderful cooling breeze on what was becoming an increasing hot morning.
The paved roads having been found, my bike focused it's intent upon their trail. I shared the ride with minimal traffic, all unfailingly polite with that typical Virginia graciousness and charm. Exchanging friendly waves with every passerby on foot, on tractor, holding a weedwacker or a steering wheel, I was awarded the same with generous smiles, and often greetings as well. With such pleasant surroundings to welcome me, all that was left for me to do was pedal along and enjoy the ride.
Whimsy abounds like hidden trinkets for those that can spot silliness even from the saddle of a speeding bike. I had to rein in the Vado and roll back up the road to get a closer look at...what turned out to be a stuffed toy resembling Lamb Chop, a saucy little hand puppet popularized by comedian ventriloquist Sherri Lewis in her 1960's kid oriented tv show. A half century ago everyone age 4 and up knew Lamb Chop and his antics that were guaranteed to provide giggles and laughs as he drove Sherri crazy each Saturday morning for three solid years. I didn't expect such a noted TV personality to be partaking in a starring role in a farm sign review, but...here he was. Imagine that.
My Vado was anxious to get back to the hunt, so I bid Lamb Chop a fond farewell, and continued riding south into the sunshine and wind
We were in snazzy countryside now full of foxhunt jumps and groomed fields. This was a tiny jump, barely worthy of the name. One could step over it with ease without breaking a sweat, yet it still felt itself justified to have the company of the prerequisite gate for those less able (or too old) to hop a rail. Such courtesy is a given in this countryside. One wouldn't expect less.
Then we chanced upon this vision of gold - a brilliant field of glossy yellow butter cups. Almost reminiscent of Dorothy's field of poppies she had to pass through before reaching the city of Oz. "Peasing to the eye" was the Witch of the West's comment of the poppies, and these buttercups, while sunshine yellow rather than a poppy red, are every bit as pleasing. And every bit as deadly. You see, they are highly toxic to livestock, and their presence in a field, especially to this extent, means they will need more than the Witch of the North's winter snow to send them back into the earth. Fortunately, their toxic poison is partnered with a very bitter taste, so livestock avoids grazing on them, allowing this weed to proliferate until it takes over a field rendering the land useless for anything. Plowing or chemicals are the only eradication methods to restore a field like this. Such a shame it was allowed to get to this state.
We had traveled quite a few miles but the roads were still not willing to give up the small bit of wild left in them, so they remained unpainted and a bit rough around the edges. Now and then I would spot an old road that had gone completely back to nature, supplanted by more modern byways taking a slightly different track through the countryside. Here, in the background of this picture, was just such a road given back to the wild, the only trace left of any civilization being a single stone bridge stantion out in an rough field, standing tall and proud as a reminder that, at some point in the distance past, a road had once surmounted the stone shoulders in a leap over the wide creek to follow a now forgotten byway. Not many who crossed the new, gleaming white concrete bridge would give the old stone pillar a glance in passing, even if they saw it. It didn't appear to care much about anything, keeping an indifferent shoulder to the passing cars, trucks, and one curious cyclist stopping to take a picture. It never wavered in its faithful stand at the edge of the wide creek, waiting for someone to supply a bridge to its stone shoulders so that it could be useful once again.
That may never come to pass, but who was I to say so to that old masonry creation. Due to the aggressive growth of the creekside underbrush I could not tell if a fellow bridge support awaited on the far side of the creek. Be that as it may, the stone pillar probably stood alone. I took it's portrait, and rode on.
I felt very sorry for this blind driveway, thinking how terrible it would be not to see the sweeping grandeur of nature right at the road's edge. I kept imagining the end of the driveway teetering on the edge of the road in a pair of dark glasses and a cane, tapping cautiously in front of itself and listening hard for the sound of approaching cars. I could see the blind road eagerly inviting me in for lunch, glad for a visit. Maybe some hot soup? And perhaps an expresso?
But reality is rarely as fun as a giggling Mel Brooks inspired imagination, and all I discovered was a flat, boring, antisocial driveway not caring to even glance over at me as I cycled past. No dark glasses, no cane, no eagerness for someone to pause for a bit of friendly conversation and lunch. Just an indifferent driveway unwilling to expend even the smallest amount of energy to surmount the small hill (the "blind" hill) to peek at oncoming traffic. Too many blind jokes, perhaps? I rode past, disappointed, unnoticed and ignored.
Ah well. I was content to let my bike retain pace, and while saddened that there would be no espresso, we soon left the innocuous not-blind-merely-boring driveway in our rear view mirror.
As I cruised past this view I happened upon a gentleman standing alongside the road, his face obscured by a rather large camera with an even larger zoom lens, his body, face, and camera all pointed in the direction of the mountain in the distance. His car was parked on the road nearby, signaling he was not a local. Being rather nosey, I stopped, announced myself as someone rather nosey, and asked what he was taking a photograph of. The mountains, perhaps? Actually, he said, he was framing the old barn in the distance, and this barbed wire here. I glanced at the tired, rusted roadside wire protecting the field from intrusion. "It's rusty", the man said, as if that made it noteworthy. I could see the charm in that, and said so. I asked if he was out for a day of photographing , and he gave me a small smile, explaining how he had to get out of the house for a while for his sanity and (his face displaying that tell tale look of mild exasperation to life itself) "for the sanity of the family". I told him I thought that was both thoughtful of him as well as hilarious.
Being that the day was sunny and the light excellent, I remarked that he was bound to get some lovely photographs. The haze, he said, waving his hand in a vague direction towards the distant mountains, was a bit of an issue, but he was sure he'd be able to edit it out later. I wished him well, we said our goodbyes, and my bike took off once again at a merry pace.
I let the roads glide past under my bike's silent wheels as I sat back, enjoying the endless delights of a countryside in late spring. I was not intent upon hunting further south into the domain of more paved roads as the sun and the day were getting rather warm, even with a cooling headwind. So I turned the Vado back north, giving it free rein to cruise at will down more familiar paved roads as I sat and took in the passing views of exquisite estates with manicured fields, and elegant entryways with equally elegant names on classy estate signs.
The miles rolled on as the estates passed one by one in stately review for my pleasure, each endeavoring to outdo the others in class and prestige. One such estate, pulling out all stops to be the most of the most, actually had their fields - not just lawns but entire acres of fields - groomed by those special mowers that cut baseball fields resulting in a perfect cross patchwork of mowed lines. At one point a small creek had accidentally gotten in the way of the perfect crosshatch lines, but it was as if the mowers had simply levitated over the creek and continued the lines in continued perfection. I didn't even want to fathom how they did that, let alone the expense.
Some people just have too much time on their hands and way too much money.
Eventually the paved roads to the south met up with the few paved roads across the East-West highway, and I was once again in the land of gravel roads. I had relatively few choices if I wanted to stay on the paved roads as I headed home, but all those choices came with a short hop on a gravel road at some point. It was inevitable, and unavoidable. But not unwelcome.
Time slows down when you ride a gravel road. The hustle and bustle of modern life suddenly disappears. The noise, the hurry, and heightened awareness of the 21st century ...simply fades away. Nature reaches out and takes you by the hand, encouraging you to slow down, to look around, to hear the songbirds, and savor the coolness of the woodland trees hovering like protective nannies all along the road shoulders, carefully shading the road bed from the hot sun overhead. A lady and her little dog were out enjoying the peaceful byway, unaware that there was anyone else but themselves anywhere to be seen at that moment. They were just crossing a tiny low water bridge, and at that point stopped to watch the water flow beneath the old timber bridge boards.
The gravel road took me deeper into the woods, deeper into the silence of the afternoon. My bike had slowed down to an ambling pace, allowing me to simply be at one with the silent roads. At the bend of the road, had I turned left onto a path that had once been public roadway but now long abandoned back to private ownership, I could have asked the Vado to do 2 miles of cross country back to our farm. But that way was only open to horses, so we continued to follow the public gravel road to the right another mile until it reached the main paved road.
We were now only about 3 miles from home, but I never quite noticed how the mountains seemed so close when traveling this road. It stuck me as very pretty, and very picturesque. Quite worthy of stopping, just for a moment, to take a snapshot which, sadly, didn't quite capture the real thing to do it justice.
The neighbors at the end of my road had had their pig statue being politically correct for the pandemic with a mask, but now the pig was being decidedly fashionable, too. My neighbor was out in his yard so I asked, and received, permission to take a photograph. He said his wife is the one who "dresses the pig". Then he added "obviously". We both chuckled, then relaxed into easy conversation. He was curious about my bike, having seen me riding by almost every day, and wondered where I went. He said he and his wife have been walking to relieve the boredom of being home so much, and while they had tried the popular bike trail in town, it proved to be a bit too popular for any type of proper social distancing, and much too noisy. So they are sticking close to home, now, he said, walking the gravel roads.
We lingered in casual conversation, as neighbors do, and discussed our gardens, lawns, mowing, and the weather, agreeing that we will both be having to get out in the early mornings soon to avoid the heat that is about to hold us captive in our homes far more securely than the current virus. Virginia heat and humidity is nothing short of a formidable foe that can only be fought with quality air conditioning and carefully planned retreat inside anything with AC or a powerful fan until nightfall.
We soon said our goodbyes and he returned to his outside chores while I eased the Vado back into the road for the final mile home.
One mile further and the Vado rolled into a gallop downhill with home in its sights, just in time for a late lunch out on the porch under a cooling ceiling fan and to hear all about hubby's entertaining day battling errant fenceline grasses with his trusty sidekick (the weedwacker), and cleaning the barn's gutters.
Life in the countryside. Simply perfect.
You will be doing lots of trail riding now I guess? 
Great read once again!
