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The Life's Too Short Tour
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Days 9 and 10: A Quaint Rest Day
Day 10:
There is a book by travel author Bill Bryson called I'm a Stranger Here Myself in which he makes a trans America trip by car, observing and commenting on things American as he goes. It was a best-selling book, but when I read it I was disappointed that he maintained a negative, cynical and even insulting view of American small town culture throughout. I could hardly finish the book because of what seemed incessant whining about the annoying nuances of our culture. Get over it, I thought, or stay home. Well, this morning I realize that perhaps grumpy Bill Bryson may have had a point, especially if he had ridden his bicycle through Virginia's Historic Triangle. Let me explain:
There are towns in America I call Kitchen Decoration Towns. These are towns which at their center and core, often the heart of their downtowns, are venues mainly for gift shops which sell knick knacks, souvenirs, and decorative kitsch. Faux Americana to hang in your kitchen window, that sort of thing. Alongside them are quaint coffeeshops and eateries decked out with ecalyptus wreaths and wrought iron benches. These type of downtowns draw steady business, and as such are a boon for small towns whose downtowns have decayed under the pressure of behemoth stores such as Wal-Mart and suburban shopping malls. They are pleasant enough towns to pass through, these Kitchen Decoration Towns, but stay for a while and you invariably ask yourself: is this all there is?
Kitchen Decoration Towns are built to target one thing: gift shoppers looking for decorative knick knacks and for iced mochas in pretty little coffee shops. These gift shoppers are the savior of many American downtowns which otherwise would have succumbed to decline long ago. The husbands of these gift shoppers typically sit on benches outside, reading newspapers or staring blankly into the distance, waiting. It's a brilliant business strategy for ailing downtowns, and great for those in the market for eucalyptus wreaths, soap holders and faux antique hanging mobiles, but a bore for an uncouth guy like me looking for a McDonald's with WiFi.Kitchen Decoration Towns abound around the nation, and I have been lured into them erroneously by the first impression they give off. At first glance I find the artistic creations in gift shop windows, the pleasant shrub and bench-lined walkways, the aroma of espresso in the air, alluring. But a precursory walk through dispels the attraction for me, and I find myself quickly realizing I don't belong.
Which brings me to Virginia's Historic Triangle, the area encompassing Yorktown, Williamsburg and Jamestown. The area is chock full of American Revolutionary War history, with tour routes and informative placards of history everywhere. They are, to this observer, the apex of the American Kitchen Decoration Towns. These towns bring the concept to a high and perfected level. You are drawn in by the interesting American history of the area, but inevitably find yourself on a bench outside a quaint giftshop wondering why you thought you belonged there in the first place. Should I peruse the aisles of colonial soap holders one more time? Or just order another mocha? Men are fish out of water in these kind of towns.
I stayed at a beautiful home in Yorktown last night, provided free of charge for TransAm cyclists by Grace Episcopal Church in Yorktown, since Yorktown is the starting point, or ending point depending on which direction you take, of the Adventure Cycling Association's TransAm Route. They get a lot of TransAm cyclists passing through, and I signed the registry among hundreds of such entries spanning back years. I'm no anomaly here, just another guy bicycling to California. I had a fantastic night's sleep at the house. A lovely place.
When I arrived in Yorktown the day before, after stowing the 520 away, showering and changing into my off-bike clothes, I eagerly set off into the town to investigate the historic sights. Yorktown has a fascinating history to it. It is where American and French ships bombarded a British garrison during the Revolutionary War in a three-week siege which ended in the British surrender. I walked around town looking for the history, and it was there, nestled in between shop after shop of gifts, and high-priced little cafes, all focused around a quaint colonialism as their theme. This place is so quaint, along with its uber quaint neighbor to the west, Williamsburg, that I daresay they could be the quaintest towns on the face of the earth. You can wallow for hours in brick-lined, ivy-strewn, well-tended quaintness. These places to me seemed a theme park of quaintness, a faux colonial amusement park for tourists. Not to ruffle any feathers of Virginians who are proud of their Historic Triangle. Don't worry, gift-shopping tourists have no interest in the perspective of a ruffian bicyclist such as myself.
This morning I biked west along Colonial Highway, the start of my westward trek on the ACA TransAm Route, which begins in historic Yorktown and ends in historic Jamestown. (You must always precede the names of these towns with the word historic, and shop must always be spelled Shoppe.) I only made it ten miles when I realized I had hit the wall. I needed a day off, a rest day, and I could not put if off any longer. As I biked over hill and dale of the Colonial Parkway through a lush old growth forest of maple, ash and oak, a secluded parkway free from the scourge of commercialism that lines most byways I'd taken up to now, I felt my body fading, fading, fading. It was beautiful, calm, peaceful, perfect, but all I wanted was to find a McDonalds where I could have a Coke and check my email on WiFi. McDonalds are despised in Kitchen Decoration Towns, a place for Philistines who indulge in terribly middle-class eating habits. And so as I biked along Colonial Parkway, the prospect of WiFi and Coke was remote and distant, somewhere beyond the beautiful forest.
The 10-mile stretch between Yorktown and Williamsburg represented the toughest stretch of bicycling I'd faced yet, both for my ailing legs and for the hills along the route, the first I have encountered thus far. I granny-geared my way to Williamsburg, coasting into the historic epicenter of quaintness feeling tired, bedraggled, worn out from nine straight days of pedaling since Manhattan. Rolling into Williamsburg I stopped at a corner to ask for the nearest McDonalds. The woman I addressed responded with "McDonalds? Does it have to be McDonalds? There is a nice coffeeshop called Aromas just 'round the corner." It was a trap, to lure another unwitting tourist into their web of quaintness, to sit upon a wrought iron chair eating a $10 muffin in an espresso-scented placed named Aromas. I saw the hook and did not bite.
Having reached my limit of tolerance for quaintness, I shot back. "I'm just looking for regular America, is that anywhere around here?" I felt like Jack Nicholson in As Good As It Gets, in fact I frequently do, a bad trait I hope this incessant pedaling with smooth.
The woman seemed befuddled, and looked at me incredulously as if to say "what? you actually want McDonalds?" But a man who overheard the exchange offered "the fast food joints are down that road about three miles."
Bingo. Regular America here I come. And so here I sit, in a McDonalds. Drinking Coke and eating an egg McMuffin, gleefully regular, and on WiFi.
I had planned to make it 60 miles west today to a Methodist church which offers bikers free camping. But I thought better of it as I sat here allowing the full brunt of my exhaustion to take hold. I'm wiped out. I need to rest or risk injury. Experienced tourers say take one day of rest for every six days of biking, and so I am overdue. I took a motel room, relatively cheap too compared to the ridiculous prices I encountered in the North, and there I try to nurse my legs back to normalcy.
As I was writing this, a McDonalds employee named Kervin struck up a conversation with me. Like all conversations I have these days, it started with the 520.
"Where you biking to?" The 50-something black man asked kindly."California," I replied, which is always followed by "yes, really, California."Kervin went on to inform me that his nickname is Lightbulb, because he is always lit up with the Holy Spirit, he explained.Lightbulb cautioned me to exercise wariness while biking. 30 years ago he had been struck by a car while biking, sending him into a coma for 31 days, he revealed. "They was gonna pull the plug on me man, but God had other plans." We talked at length for a long time, through two full-sized Cokes, until at last his shift was complete and he departed. "Stay safe Thomas, we were supposed to meet here this morning, I know it, and you got God protecting you out there, I know it," he said."Yeah, I know it too Lightbulb, I know it too," I said.
Day 9:After crossing the Chesapeake and Delaware Bridge into mainland Virginia, where Nat and I parted ways feeling a bit like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, I stayed in a motel in Virginia Beach where I had planned to take a day of rest. I didn’t take that rest day. Instead, upon waking the following day, after contemplating the prospect of a day lounging about in a motel room, I forged ahead to Yorktown where a free bed awaited at Grace Episcopal Church’s Riverview House. I knew about the Riverview, a lodge specifically for touring cyclists, from the Adventure Cycling Association maps which I purchased to guide me trans America. It was a difficult ride to Yorktown, not physically, but mentally as there were several bike-impassable highways, tunnels and bridges to navigate. Crossing the river over to Hampton, Virginia became a prime challenge of the day, as the tunnel involved in the crossing quashed biking, and so I tried several failed options before I finally made it across, by making a handwritten sign in magic marker on cardboard which said NEED RIDE THRU TUNNEL.
I stood aiming the sign at trucks at the entrance to the highway before the tunnel, and within minutes a pickup truck stopped and the woman inside signaled for me hoist the 520 in the back and jump inside. I saw by the name tag, a work ID of some sort hanging on the console, that her name was Dena. She said she lived on a sailboat with her husband in the harbor at Norfolk and had recently returned from a backpacking trip in India: a fellow adventurer. She got me through the tunnel, and I was on my way, pedaling easier this day enroute to the Yorktown.
Along the way, through uninspiring commercial doldrums, I discovered that my legs had gained a new level of strength previously unknown. I had more power. I could pump the pedals harder and with less fatigue. I felt great, roaring up inclines; racing the shoulder of an Interstate; never fading. I guess my legs have finally started to adapt. They are still sore to the touch, but feel harder, bigger, stronger.
I stopped at a McOffice somewhere along the way to eat a salad and Coke. As I approached the door, an Asian, perhaps Filipino, man held the door open for me. I thanked him, but he looked away blankly, and I surmised it was because he did not speak or understand English. He was obviously on lunch break from some sort of highway landscaping work, clad in jeans, work boots and bright orange traffic vest. Two of his similarly attired colleagues went to the counter and ordered, but this man stood looking unpoised, uneasy, at the rear. I signaled for him to go ahead of me in line, but he waved me off and retreated to stand by a window, saying nothing. After I ordered and sat to eat my salad, I looked over to see him sitting with his two colleagues as they ate. He sat looking away out the window, with no lunch.
Based on a group of men I saw earlier, dressed in the same orange vests and participating in a roadside work gang picking up trash, mowing, and raking, I surmised the men to be workers on a welfare program, fulfilling their obligation to work for the assistance. It wasn’t difficult for me to come to this conclusion, because I had once been in the same role a couple of decades ago: a food stamp recipient working through a city program on the roadway. I had become broke when attempting to attend music school in Minneapolis, and I spent a full year in abject, homeless poverty. Wasn't pretty.
The work we did in exchange for $100 worth of foodstamps was menial, jobs no one else in society wanted to do. I worked with a group of other food stampers out on the side of the highway, dressed in orange, feeling like a sort of chain gang in full public view, humbled and humiliated.
And so seeing these men in the restaurant, two of them eating lunch while the Filipino man sat there without, I knew he was broke and didn't have the $5 needed to get a small meal. I remembered being in the same exact position during my time on welfare, while the guys I was with ordered burgers and I had no money. It was a lousy experience, sitting there hungry after a full morning’s work while the other workers enjoyed a meal. Five dollars seemed lofty, unattainable. It was a sickening experience I never forgot, a low point. I relived that moment as I sat there today eating my salad and watching the three men, and I felt deeply sorry for the lunchless man. Rather than observe and allow the misery to exist there in the same room with me, I bought the man lunch, and had the manager of the store hand it to him as a gift from the restaurant. As I left, I glanced in through the window at the man, he was chomping on his sandwich, and so I pedaled away.
Call it paying forward the alms I myself have received many times; or call it a humanitarian duty; but the real reason I bought the man lunch was simply because I empathized with his pain, maybe like the wounded deer in New Jersey last week that I urged the police on the scene to shoot dead. It was not a selfless act, it was something I did to ease my own conscience, because a big voice in my head kept saying “you’ve been there, you know how he feels.” It occurred to me as a pedaled on that the $5 I sacrificed for his lunch was worth more to me then, than it would have been had I kept it in my pocket.
until later...
6 comments:
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Hi Tom,
Great to read of your trip, thoughts and events. I'm looking at going for a tour (a shorter ride) and came across your site. It's a real inspiration to follow along your trip.
Safe journey,
Scott.
Vernon,
British Columbia,
Canada
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Thanks Vernon, nice guitar playing on that song...
Hi Scott, glad you are reading, honored to have you following, I'm glad you are inspired, do know that your words are inspiring to me also.
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From Bear:
Tom, I am delighted to see that you gotacross the Hampton Roads Bridge Tunnel. I just couldn't figure out how you were going to do it except by use of the hitch hikers thumb and the pick up truck circuit.
I heard from Nat today. A direct quote "Today a spoke massacre occurred on my rear wheel." He used the pick up truck circuit the same as you and got into Greenville, NC where a bike shop fixed his tire for free. He is off to Wilimington, NC next.
I am glad you hit the wall in a safe place. Rest easy. I suspect their is a good reason above and beyond the religious side for that 7th day of rest.
I am really enjoying your blog. I feel blessed for having gotten to know you. Ride safe!
Bear
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From Kathy:
What a view you had from your room! Happy to hear that you got a good night's sleep and that you're taking a rest day. It does a body good. I do it the other way around. One good day of work and I'm down for the next six.
You're a good man, Charlie Brown. Love that you provided lunch for a fellow human being. Can't wait to read about the folks you have yet to meet.
Could I just say many, many thanks to all of you who have assisted and encouraged Tom along his way so far. At the beginning of this tour, Tommy met a stranger sitting on a bench along the Jersey shore, Pastor Richard. Paster Richard told him that on a journey such as this, all things would be provided. And so they have, through the goodness and generousity of hearts like yours.
Though worry and doubt had me in it's grip as this tour started, I now think what a great adventure (keeping in mind that I'm not pedaling!).
Westward Ho!!!
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Bear, great to see you here! I am happy to hear Nat is still making progress, despite his spoke massacre. I'd like to meet up with again sometime Bear, your positive outlook on life is contagious! Keep in touch!
Kathy, yes I had some good rest, and the legs are starting to recover, this day I will pedal easy, hope to make it a campground tonight. :)
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I look at the T.V.
Your America's doing well
I look out the window
My America's catching hell
I just want to know which way do I go to get to your America?
I change the channel
Your America's doing fine
I read the headlines
My America's doing time
I just want to know which way do I go to get to your America?
Go west young man, go west young man, go west!
Where is my picket fence?
My long, tall glass of lemonade?
Where is my VCR, my stereo, my T.V. show?
I look at the T.V.
I don't see your America
I look out the window
I don't see your America
I want to know how to get to your America!