Congratulations on getting your Vado repaired to better-than-new and back to operation. Hope your new motor didn't cost the arm and a leg that my imploded motor cost me.
I left my Vado at home today when I headed out with the Gazelle for a 20 mile tour of the very wet countryside (yeah, it rained in the morning which was a surprise). This was a solo ride as my neighbor G was busy with her builder and architect on her house renovation, otherwise she would have joined me. I decided to stick to the few paved roads we have because our gravel roads had turned into muddy quagmires with swimming pool sized puddles in all the wrong places.
I hadn't been on these roads since the summer, so it was a nice change of scenery.
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I was barely a mile from home and stopped to snap a picture of the adorable pony in his very expensive turnout with his two horse companions. I had just taken the picture when a big truck pulling a massive horse trailer rolled up to me and stopped, windows cranked down so that my neighbors within could call out a hello. They were just coming back from foxhunting with a hunt whose territory was on the other side of the mountain, so we chatted about the hunt, the hounds (who had run a coyote right off the bat which exhausted everyone by the time the hounds lost the scent - coyotes run a straight line at blistering speeds while foxes run in a big circle, the scent often bringing the hounds right back where they started), the footing ("very deep" my neighbors both said at the same time together), and my cycling. They made me promise I'd drop in at their farm, soon, for a glass of wine and a visit. We said our goodbyes - them to trailer home, unload the horses at the barn, and retire to their house with their feet up, tired from a long day in the saddle, while I threw a leg over my Gazelle and settled in my saddle for a 20 mile ride through the countryside, sans hounds, foxes, or coyotes.
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The roads were still wet from the morning drenching, my tires sounding exactly like sizzling bacon in a pan on that wet tarmac, greatly amusing me.
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The paved roads followed the profile of many exquisite estates, most bordered by the ubiquitous black painted post and board fencing so familiar to Virginia while other boundaries were earmarked by endless lines of perfectly erected stone fences. You have to admire the artistry and dedication portrayed in these precisely stacked monuments to human endeavor.
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The back gate to this estate framed a beautiful vista. I know the lady that owns this property, and had hoped she would make an appearance as I paused at the crossroad next to her farm, debating which way I wanted to go. Left on the paved road, or right onto the gravel road. It would have been lovely to see her and stop for chat. Alas, it was not to be, and so I turned left and pedaled on.
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My direction of travel took me on a loop that encompassed some of the most impressive rolling terrain we had in our area. These were some serious rolling hills which got me almost to 40mph racing down each slope hoping to slingshot up as much of the following climb as I could manage. The rolls were endless, one after another. This picture was taken from the top of the very steep, final roll before I hit the small enclave of Philomont, about 13 miles from home. I was already drenched in sweat from the constant up and down, my legs tiring even as I kept the Gazelle in Turbo mode.
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Just outside of Philomont Fire House is a Smokey the Bear sign with the current fire hazard. The "Burning Permitted" addendum was for the brush pile burns that each farm was allowed to conduct during the winter months. Come summer a ban would be in effect until the following winter, and the building of the yearly brush piles would begin all over again. Our farm usually accumulated enough brush for two piles which we would light afire on the first calm day after the ban was lifted. It was a yearly tradition for the most part. If and when the brush got to be too much to pile in the field, usually after a wind storm, we would just pile it all on the flatbed and truck it to the landfill to be chipped into free mulch.
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I whipped downhill past this house, then turned around and slogged back up the hill to take a picture as this was the sole place I've seen that was still fully dressed in Christmas attire. They certainly are getting their money out of those decorations. I suspect January will have given away to February before the decorarions are retired.
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The road I was cycling had been a turnpike a century prior with much history to call its own. At one time, years ago, the white pump had stood at the end of a junction about a quarter of a mile north of this sign. I noticed a while back that the pump had disappeared from the original site, but hadn't known until today that it had been moved to reside next to the historical marker.
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The pump looked a bit sad and downtrodden, as if stuck in the ground as an afterthought. In its prior life it had perched atop a very nice pedestal, proud of its heritage. I hope whoever stuck the pump in this new location takes the time to recreate the pedestal. I suppose time will tell if that happens.
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The older, still existing houses on this route are uniformly farm houses set close to the road. Well built and impressive in their day, many are still maintained as residences, a testimony to quality construction that easily spans a century.
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Others are not so lucky. I have watched over the years as this abandoned house on this busy road has slowly settled from something that could have been saved into something now a complete ruin.
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In 1957, according to the county archives of aerial photographs, the house (the square black dot pretty much dead center) was a sturdy residence, proudly positioned along the road, unencumbered by trees and commanding beautiful pastorial views out every window. Time and human neglect would mark its slow fall from grace over the next 70 years.
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I parked my bike off the road and struggled through the tangle of thick vines and pricker encrusted underbrush to the sagging front door for a peek inside. The remnants of human habitation were in a suspended free fall into piles of old broken and rotted wood. A bed spring on its side formed a fence blocking the interior. Whether on purpose or by accident, it served it's purpose.
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I didn't go inside, but remained outside where the only hazard was the undergrowth which threatened to trip me at ever step. I backed away carefully after taking my photographs, almost stepping on a broken ancient artifact disguised among the leaf litter underfoot. I had no idea what it was. A radio, judging by the pieces? A small reminder of someone's past life. I wondered what they listened to on it. News of WWI, the Great Depression, Roosevelt's speeches for the New Deal, the battles of WWII. All that is left now is rusted pieces, the transistors forever silent.
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Behind the house a new electric utility box had been erected on a construction frame. Someone had purchased the property (for $5,350,000 I would find out later) and was in the permit process of building a new home. A million dollar home, like the gated property across the road, which will probably be the death knell for the dilapidated ruin near the road .
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I looked at the surrounding properties, all sporting million dollar mansions that may well tell their own stories a century or more from now, just like the old abandoned house behind me.
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I left the old place to its memories, and headed down the road towards the mountains in the distance. I wasn't going that far, at least today. Maybe another time when it was warmer. I was getting a touch chilled having stopped to photograph the house, and now all I wanted to do was turn in the direction of home.
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My adopted road intersected the turnpike road, so I turned and headed south. I was about 5 miles from home, but chilled from the cool air sneaking into my parka onto my damp sweatshirt. Despite my personal discomfort the views of my less populated countryside did not fail to bring a smile to my face. It was nice to see the farm ponds filled to the brim with sparking clear water after a precipitously steep decline in the water levels this past summer when most ponds were little more than banks of dried mud anxiously surrounding a sad foot or two of algae choked water.
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The rain, now long gone, had dropped enough moisture to form an inversion layer in the valley at the foot of the mountain chain where the warm air below met the cooler air midway up the slopes. A paint brush swipe of ethereal white across the intense blue of the mountain. Very artistic and quite enchanting if you ask me.
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In the farm across the road from mine, someone had driven along the end of the field on the old farm road leaving a mud track to mark their passage.
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I parked my bike for a final picture as the sky cleared itself to present the most amazing palate of blue I'd ever seen. It was a fitting end to a lovely ride.
A few seconds later I was headed up my driveway towards home.
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