Day Twelve: Double Timing to the Outer Banx
Distance: 86 miles (!)
Song of the Day: Clash — Rock the Casbah
6:15AM: Wake to a single yelp from Maggie in Paul and Donna’s back room; hear her cooed back to sleep. Rain patters the windowsill. Lizzie, per usual for the hour, won’t budge despite many nuzzlings. Spot cat ears poking above blankets — at least someone’s awake. Doling out cat pets, momentarily bask in static of dim dawn early light. I don’t want to move.
That’s because there’s eighty five miles to ride today. I’ve never ridden so far in one day (that’s right, I’ve never ridden a century). I’m also maxed out at 80 pounds of bulky gear after prior day’s grocery run. Windy rain speckles the sill as my gut tells me we’d better get started. A long ride is upon us.
First mile zombie-like as we creak through rain on bikes mostly shelved yesterday, punctuated by tire pumps and pannier adjusts as we get acclimated. Sidle onto Centerville Turnpike, striking absence of shoulder; morning traffic racing at 40, 50 MPH as wind lashes left-to-right forcing a tightrope act between converging threats. Two miles of white-knuckling and Lizzie and I are both stressed. At least the rain isn’t too bad. Eight more to go — then who knows what?
A few more miles in steady two-direction traffic we cross some train tracks; always gotta watch these. Strain to hit the slick wet metal exactly perpendicular but I neglect to signal to Lizzie to do the same, or better yet pull over and walk. She’s ridden across tracks several times, but I dealt with them daily on San Francisco — Market Street commute for years and took several big spills. Pang of fear — Lizzie lets out yell as she slips of Tilly on the tracks. Whip head around — the bike slid out away from the road. Lizzie is down but I see her scamper fully off the road. Curse myself for not reacting faster, toss my bike down and haul her gear into nearby driveway.
Conduct obligatory joints and sensitive areas check. Her knee is a little banged up and she’s in minor state of shock but very much OK. Tilly’s fallswas slowed by panniers and Lizzie was out of her cleats so nothing got crushed or twister. Took some pressure to left palm during fall but wrist looks OK. Calmer now, we look down driveway, large confederate flags — let’s hope nobody’s home.
Lizzie accesses first add hit, applies band-aid, we huddle and chat while she regains her confidence.
Check the map. We’re really close to the end of this road — looks like abou a mile left. I’m in the lead today and I tell her I’ll pull over if we see more train tracks. She’s good to go, the fall was scary but really not too bad. Riding this distance, everybody falls. Off we go again, cautiously completing what has been the worst ten-mile stretch of the trip.
Things brighten up from there. Sun peaks through clouds as we hit Battlefield Ave and shoulder widens significantly. We shoot applesauce goo into our mouths — Maggie’s but she didn’t dig it. Yum! Thanks for giving some to us, Maggie :)
Rainjackets off as we hum down 168 in first sunshine in three days. Ten miles down we pit stop for Hardees mashed potatoes and a biscuit. Cashier a middle-aged white woman, looks to be in training phase and new to it, as she’s repeating instructions to herself, mantra-like. But nobody appears to be available to actually train her. So understandably, she’s stressed out. She struggles to ring up a ‘plain’ biscuit; I surmise there is no button corresponding to my order as they sell biscuit sandwiches, feel slightly guilty. Young-ish black man runs drive-through to my left — his figure blurred in corner of my eye as he whirs, now packaging cooked foods, now taking new orders while delivering queued orders, running point-of-sale while restocking fervently multitasking. Back-breaking work, I bet it scarcely leaves workers better off than no working at all, intellectually and fiscally. Mashed potatoes and biscuit ring up for $3.77. Arrive on counter seconds later. Did we need them so quickly? We are taking a resting break. Everybody is miserable under the grinding work. What is this Hardees for? Who is benefiting here? This is the work that fills the void from slave labor substratum that is this country’s history, our historical and not entirely expunged or revised raison d’etre. I’m not OK with it. We eat out mashed potatoes, hit the loo, and walk out to blinding sunlight.
More miles on easy shouldered route 168 and we hit North Carolina! Liz wants a picture but it’s too dangerous to stop so I snap quick one from saddle:
Sun is out. Traffic has subdued. Bags, tires and tummies full. ‘Family vacation’ with Paul, Donna and Maggie now to be held in memory, the Outer Banks await. Warm Showers host confirms it’s OK if we arrive late; Lizzie reports she’s feeling good. This trip seems to works itself out quite nicely.
North Carolina
Noon: Pull into Route 168 State rest area as rainclouds attack sky. 30 miles into not-insignificant headwinds leaves us famished. We dump our food bags onto picnic table, construct hodgepodge lunch from PB & nutella tortillas (hereby branded “PB&N”), protein bars, craisin trail mix, granola, sea salted almonds, and coffee. Split a two-third gallon of water, refill all bottles, and conduct a grunt-riddled symphony of stretches before veering back to 168 for another eight miles.
At one with with wind and soft rain I embrace train-engine meditation of turning pedals over gears, breathe deep as legs rise and fall. Songs dance in and out of my head:
“Do you know the way to San Jose / ba ba da bada ba badaba da ba baaaaa…”
“Thank you for taking me / from my monastery / I was dying to get out…”
Flat roads give way to horizon bridge: here rises the IntraCoastal WaterWay, a manmade canal from the 1880s. Lizzie very angry at me for snapping pictures from the bridge because the side barrier is only 18 inches high:
4PM: Approach Wright Memorial Bridge, reputed to be arduous crossing according to Lizzie’s diligent research among Warm Showers host and local bike shops. You can favor Scilla with-the-traffic, no shoulder as cars race from your rear at 60 MPH; or Charybdis against traffic, with decently wide shoulder blighted with debris and fishhooks as cars race directly towards your face. We side with Charybdis, hopefully our Panaracer Pasella tires can take a few fishhook hits — this would make a hellish place to go flat. It’s a long bridge, too — 2.8 miles — an eternal 25 minutes to cross. WOW are we happy as we glide past the final trucks shrieking upon the bridge offramp. No police in sight, good thing cuz I’m certain our Charybdis maneuver was not legal.
Outer banks ride is a pleasant 6 miles through wooded roads. We arrive 5:20, just in time to meet the magnificent Pat Broom, our Warm Showers host!
Pat moved to OBX 8 years ago following a long stint as Director of Operations in Stamford, CT (“It was my job to clear the snow.”) She’s an avid cyclist posing as amateur, sure seemed to know her stuff. Rides an upgraded version of Lizzie’s Salsa Vaya (it’s titanium with a lighter gruppo.)
Three humorously pack-like miniscule dogs, Lucy, Ethel and Ricky, roam the three-story bayfront beachhouse Pat purchased and restored from storm and flood damage long ago. Ricky, the newcomer, is a 1 year-old stray added to pack when Pat’s vet pulled a cunning but well-intentioned bait-and-switch, asking Pat to come to office for doggie meds then presenting meds in one hand, Ricky in other.
Pat is a staple in the Outer Banks community and a Warm Showers veteran, having hosted travelers from France, England, Germany. O, the Showers Debt accrued sitting in Pat’s jacuzzi, fussing up her kitchen and undulating atop her foam roller!
