On the Trail of the Lonesome Pie

Day 72

Lexington, VA to Charlottesville, VA

Distance: 76 miles

Climbing: last serious climb of the trip

Views: spectacular

In the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia, on the trail of the… well, I am no longer the lonesome pie, for a couple of days, at least.

Tonight, I met with Ed and his wife, Holly for dinner. I was working for Ed in London just before I left for this trip and was thrilled when I found out that my route took me through Charlottesville, which is where Ed and Holly live.

And as today approached, I realised that Ed would be the first familiar face I had seen since I left Valerie and Paul’s house in Portland, OR on July 21, waving goodbye to Paul with my blue surgical glove-covered hand, two of my fingertips dripping with blood, after a disagreement with a sharp knife…

It seems a long time ago.

Since then, I have covered around 4,000 miles, seen amazing scenery and wildlife and met some truly wonderful people. And each day has brought a new start, with different and unexpected happenings, and chance meetings with folks I would never have met had it not been for the fact that I am doing this trip on a bicycle, and on my own.

But, as I have said before, I have missed seeing friends, family, loved ones and having the continuity that comes with everyday life. At least I will be not be taking it for granted so much when I return.

Today, I was keen to get an early start from Lexington, but as is sometimes the case these days, my planned departure time was at least 45 minutes before the time at which Steed and I actually rolled out onto the road.

I had woken up early and ventured out in Lexington town centre in search of breakfast, only to find everything closed. The coffee roasters, which sounded great, somehow seem to get away with opening at 10am of a morning, which sounded very civilised, but not much use to me.

Instead I camped out on the porch of Macado’s, the sandwich chain to which Vince and Joanne had gone when getting that fantastic grilled ham and cheese sub for me in Marion, VA, and was first in through the door as it opened at 8am. The guy there was great and stepped to it for me when I explained the situation, whipping me up a delicious BLT and coffee in the shake of a lamb’s tail.

When I did eventually set off, it was a warm but overcast morning, and I was a little disappointed as I knew that I would be climbing to the Blue Ridge Parkway at around 25 miles into the ride, and I was looking forward to the views. It runs 469 miles from the Great Smoky Mountains in North Carolina to the Shenandoah National Park In Virginia, although I was only on it for 20 miles or so...

The ascent to the parkway was one of the longest and steepest of the trip so far, which is in some ways ironic, since it was also my last big climb of the trip. From here to the coast, there is some rolling terrain, but nothing to rival what has been the bane of my legs for the past few weeks.

And as I was climbing, I could see through the trees that the sun was coming out, like it was beckoning me, ready to show off its vast, spectacular views rather than shroud them in mist.

When I reached the top, just as I was about to join the parkway, I met Karel, a Dutch cyclist on a recumbent bike who is also Eastbound. We stopped and chatted for a while, and by the time I headed out onto the Parkway and continued to climb (what was that all about?) I suddenly realised that I was seriously pressed for time. Having made arrangements for dinner, and knowing how long these mileages actually take me, I was a little anxious.

I was also running out of water. The climbing had been more strenuous than I had expected and continued for longer on the parkway, and the last grocery store marked on the map was nowhere to be found and/or had closed down.

As I looked from side to side and out to the blue mountains in one direction, and a spectacular valley in the other, instead of taking it all in in a leisurely fashion, my brain was thinking… you really should get a move on Kat – oh, and you should have woken up earlier, been quicker at eating breakfast, managed to get through the railroad crossing before that long train came along and made you wait over 5 minutes, not spoken to Karel for so long, and why oh why did you get so cocky and think that you didn’t need to bring an extra bottle of water… have you learned nothing?

But gradually, I convinced myself to relax and realise I had some downhill in hand, and that I would find a way to make it work. It always does work out, even if it’s not quite as expected, and it was just remembering that and having faith in it which then allowed me to soak up the beauty of my surroundings, and even manage to stop and take a couple of shots (which really do fail to do it justice).

Descending from the parkway, and flipping over the map, I found that I was expected to do a huge loop around on some back roads to get to Charlottesville. I had seen a sign on the main highway saying “Charlottesville 19”, but by ACA-man’s route planning, this was around 24 miles. Sighing but setting out to follow ACA man’s advice, I found myself on the crappiest road surface for some time, going up and down small steep hills past loose dogs, and still with some traffic on the road. When a sign told me to turn directly away from the direction I knew Charlottesville to be in, I had had enough.

Muttering “bugger this for a game of soldiers” as I spun Steed around, we headed for the highway and made our way, quite safely, into town on that.

My B&B is right near the University, which has some beautiful, historic buildings and monuments, as well as a little area of hopping bars, cafes and restaurants, which I am looking forward to trying.

Holly and Ed told me all about it after swinging by to pick me up and taking me for a fantastic meal at their Country Club (which is also the place where they got married).

It was a lovely evening, with great food and wine, and even better company.

And tomorrow, my lovely friend Julia is driving down from Washington DC to spend the day with me in Charlottesville.

As I said, lonesome, not I…

Me x 

Holding Blog

Made it safely to Charlottesville, VA, a great city and home to the University of Virginia. A blog is in the works but will post tomorrow morning. Me x

True Colours

Day 71

Christiansburg, VA to Lexington, VA

Distance: 91 miles

Climbing: 5, 738 ft

Railroad tracks crossed: lost count, but at least 10…

Steed and I rode out of Christiansburg into a damp and misty morning, slicing through the Virginia colours like a pizza wheel cutting through a topping of slow cooked red, orange and yellow peppers, the oil oozing and glistening on their surface.

There’s something about a grey blue sky, and a coating of rain on the leaves that seems to make the contrast between the shades all the more vivid and unbelievably beautiful. And with views like that, I couldn’t be upset about a few raindrops, and the need for the wet-weather gear to come into action.

I’d been thinking over the last few days that, even if it rains on me every day between now and the coast, I would still count myself incredibly lucky with the weather on this trip. Not that I’m willing it to put that theory to the test of course, but it has been great.

Today, though, was another long day’s riding, with a few short, sharp hills, and this prayed on my mind as I made my way through the first few miles. I still don’t take these things for granted. A 91-mile day is a long day and a significant challenge in anyone’s book.

For the last few days, my concern has not been so much about failing to get there, or having to ride in the dark. It’s how much my legs and lower back are going to hurt.

I guess it’s a cumulative thing but, at the start of a day, even after my usual morning stretching routine, my legs are sore and tight, and the thought of them riding 90 miles seems, quite frankly, laughable. They, and my back, will twinge every now and again with a particularly steep section. But somehow, in the course of the day, they loosen up, and I plod my way through the daunting sections of map slowly but surely, until I’m onto the last panel for the day, and the mileage is down to single figures.

It was around 35 miles into my ride today that I came across Ken. I’d been through a small town already where I’d been hoping to get a coffee and a snack, but had found the gas station had closed down. I was therefore hot-footing it to the next town, which was a fair schlep further on, and so I was pretty much flying down a hill, when I swung round a bend and came face to face with Ken pushing his bike up the hill on the other side of the road.

Shouting a greeting and getting barely a nod in response, I screeched to a halt and U-turned to get back up to Ken. I recognised the expression on that face and I knew what it meant.

“How’s your day going?” I asked, and I could see Ken hesitating to answer.

“Good… bad… absolutely shit?” I continued. “Shit, right?”

It made us both smile and we broke the ice.

Ken is from New York and took the train down the coast. He only started a few days ago in Richmond. He’s camping and carrying a lot of stuff. He doesn’t have shoes that clip into his pedals, and he already has technical problems with his brakes and gears. I could see why he would be a tad miserable. And this morning, he had been properly rained on...

I had already been thinking that, had I cycled this route East to West, I have no idea how I would have coped with these ridiculous hills without the base of fitness and routine. But with these additional challenges, well, I’d be a little disheartened too.

We stopped and had a nice long chat, which lifted my spirits, and Ken’s I think.  I gave Ken a couple of the energy gels and bit and pieces that Mark had given me (Mark, I’m sure you won’t mind me sharing the love) as I only have a few days and hardly any climbs left now, so I felt Ken’s need was greater than mine. And in return, Ken gave me a sachet of an all-in-one nutritional shake made by the company that he works for - it looks pretty good and I'm looking forward to trying it out. 

I also found out that he’s doing his ride for an autism charity, so when he’s got his website up and running, I’ll add a link to it on here.

Pressing on with my day, I had a nice surprise coming up, in the guise of a new gas station/restaurant which wasn’t marked on my map, but which made me a fantastic grilled ham and cheese sandwich, and was a few miles before the town that I'd been speeding towards with images of lunch in my head. 

That, together with the sun coming out, was enough to give me the positive vibes I needed to coast through the rest of the day.

Lexington is a cute little town, and I arrived at my hotel at a decent hour. I ate in the hotel restaurant, which was great, and I also was able to sit outside on their patio. Taking in the view from my table, I saw that I was overlooking the parking lot of…. a laundromat.

I know, it’s sad. I had to resist the urge to run round there with my dirty clothes. But at least I was probably the one person in the restaurant who truly was happy with the view.

Only a few cycling days left now. I’m conscious of the need to focus focus focus, so I don’t fall off or do something stupid at the last minute. I’m feeling happy and sad all at the same time. And supremely lucky to be enjoying this amazing journey.  Still more to come…

Me x 

Wild Hogs

Day 70

Wytheville, VA to Christiansburg, VA

Distance: 56 miles

Sweet Treats: abound

Groundhogs: Around

After posing the question only yesterday, I have to say that today was much more of a typical day that I’ve had in some time.

Waking early, but not too early, I started the day with a lap round Wytheville in search of some decent breakfast. Maybe a couple of eggs with the usual sides. But unfortunately, the cupboard of Wytheville was bare… all that was open were the various chain restaurants.

So, after the W-Loop, I ended up pretty much directly opposite my motel at the Sonic Drive-In dipping French Toast Sticks into tiny pots of breakfast syrup. At the time it was rather like a guilty pleasure, but I felt a little sick once I set off.

The route out of town was rolling but smooth. No long climbs but a few sneaky little steep grades from time to time, and a misty view across to the mountains.

My first (and only) stop of the day was at the Draper Mercantile, where I was greeted by Thomas, who I’d spoken to on the phone yesterday, and who had offered to come and get me in order to fix my bike.

We hung out in the bike shop there, The Junction, for a little while to chat. Thomas did the TransAm in 2012 and is planning the Southern Tier for Jan-March 2015 – since I’ve done that route too, with a few diversions, I was able to give him a my thoughts on it, and to get a little jealous!

As I entered the main building, I found a chic and hopping restaurant/café with the most amazing buffet brunch going on. If I’d known, I would have hot-footed it straight to Draper rather than looping Wytheville. Although I would have been slightly concerned that the Bottomless Mimosas might well have led to a Legless Touring Cyclist…

Instead, I ordered a suitably unctuous slab of coconut cream cake, to top up the sugar and fat count... 

Between Draper and Christiansburg, there were not only more hills, but also some interesting wildlife. I don’t have pictures, unfortunately, which is what seems to happen when these little devils catch on that I am trying to snap a shot of them.

I saw another Heron today. I’ve seen a few in recent days, and many over the whole trip, but they have always been straight into flight mode before I can even get the camera out of my bag. I don’t think it helps, these days, that I greet them with the line:

“Ah, so, Mr Heron, veee meet again,” in a fake Russian accent. A couple of times I have even hummed the Bond theme tune and performed the opening sequence spin with the gun (for which read “camera”) too.

But today, I was blessed with the presence of Groundhogs. It’s funny, because I don’t think I would have known what they were if it had not been for the fact that Mark and I made a little diversion across a field yesterday in his truck to deliver a cold beer to a guy who was working on the hay. We ran over a huge crater, and Mark laughed and said “Damn Groundhogs.” Apparently, they are prolific diggers when it comes to their burrows.

Today, my first sighting was of a pair of chubby brown/grey furry haunches wobbling their way into the undergrowth.

The next was again in the grass by the side of the road, but this one looked directly at me before fleeing into a nearby field. And so I had to seek an audience with the town Groundhog, Christian, instead.

“So, what’s it like being a Groundhog in Virginia then?” I asked.

“Well darlin’, Virginia, Pennsylvania, anywhere, it’s never been the same since that dang movie,” he said.

“What, Groundhog Day,” I said, enthused. “I loved that film.”

Christian raised his furry brows at me, then narrowed his eyes and grimaced.

“Bill Murray, Andie Mcwhatsername,” I continued hesitantly. “Actually, she was a bit annoying,” I conceded. “But not as bad as in Four Weddings.”

“Anywayyyys,” Christian drawled. “The thing is, and it’s all their fault, everyone thinks we’re boring now. That Groundhogs are dull.”

I waited, and Christian looked around nervously as he spoke, his words speeding up…

“We’re not,” he said, looking sideways at me and then around the room to people who weren’t even speaking with us.

“Okaaay,” I said.

“No, because, we’re actually some of the funniest rodents you’ll ever come across,” he said, his words spilling out as I could see a case of hives starting to appear around his temples.

“Boy, oh boy,” he said. “Is it just me or is it hot in here?”

“Um, I don’t...” I started.

“And don’t you start by circling around me trying to see if you can see my shadow,” he said. “It only counts in February.”

And so I made my excuses and exited, politely declining the offer of Christian telling me his funniest joke.

“No really, it’s a good one,” I heard him call as the door swung behind me.

Groundhog, Christian Grimes, "I'm the funniest rodent I know."
"No, really, I am..."

I arrived early to my motel and, for the first time in ages, had some wallowing time before getting myself ready and heading out for a romantic meal for one in a superb fine dining restaurant near the motel.

Onto the final map tomorrow, 368 miles to go…

Me x 

Within Pitting Distance

Day 69

Damascus, VA to Wytheville, VA

Distance: I cycled around 35 miles of what should have been a 57-mile journey…

Kind people: many, but in particular Joanne, Vince and Mark

I’m not sure when I’m going to have a “normal” day again on this trip. Or, indeed, whether normal really exists, rather than being a figment of my imagination.

Despite my stupidly early night last night, I didn’t rise at the crack of dawn. I’d woken instead in the middle of the night and decided to read a couple of chapters of the “walk in the woods” to send me back to sleep. 

Stifling my laughs given it was the wee hours, I also cracked open a bag of trail mix as a late night feast, and fitting accompaniment to a book about walking the Appalachian Trail.

And so when my alarm went off this morning, I was tired as a tired thing yet again. But I set off from Damascus at a vaguely respectable time and, despite the slight twinge still in my left hammy, I was ready to compensate and plod. Indeed, I was happy that the gradients on today’s climbs looked nowhere near as severe as those which have graced my path over the last couple of days. And even with a pace of 10 mph, may average and which I thought I could comfortably manage today, I would have been rolling into my motel around 3pm this afternoon.

And perhaps it is that setting of targets and/or expectations which is the trigger that invites everything to turn itself on its head.

I’d not gone more than a mile out of town when I stopped to take a photo of what appeared to be a great view and was accosted by someone called Marsha, who was some kind of Bike Control person.

“I’ve been trying to catch up with you,” she said as she swooped in alongside me by the roadside.  "Are you going cross-country, “she asked. “Because you really shouldn’t be on this road on a Saturday morning, it’s treacherous.”

She went on to explain that the road was steep, with bends in it which meant that I couldn’t be seen, and that I would have a procession of "white van man towing trailer full of bikes" buzzing behind me for miles, if not crashing straight into me from behind.  But... if I stayed off the road and on the Virginia Creeper Trail, I would be fine.

I could see the trail from the road and could also see that it was not paved.

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” she said. “It’s packed down really firm, and there’s not been any rain, so you’ll be fine. Just keep going until Bridge 41 and then take a left down a gravel road back to the highway.”

I decided, on reflection, to take Marsha’s advice, and for the first mile or so I was happy. Until, that was, the trail started to turn rocky and loose, with big, unexpected, jolting stones and rocks, and the odd mud patch. 

Oh, and until the cyclists whom the vans had been transporting to the top of the trail were coming past me in a constant procession down the hill, surprised to see some idiot touring cyclist, or indeed anyone at all going UP the hill.

I didn’t pass another cyclist going in my direction for the whole time, and nobody passed me. Just the chain of downhill coasters. And, naturally, the odd twerp who was over on my side of the trail and couldn’t get back over the right side without almost crashing into me.

Although on an average day I could see that the trail would be divine, and it was truly beautiful, Bridge 41 couldn’t come soon enough. And, although I was dreading what the “gravel road” down to the highway would be like given the drubbing to which I had just subjected Steed, I was pleasantly surprised. It was almost paved, and only had some light gravel. But most of all, it was a Twerp Free Zone.

Checking the nameless Gamine on exiting the trail, I was slightly dismayed to see how much time I had wasted on this little excursion, but still happy that I had completed some of the climbing for the day, and cock-a-hoop to be out on the wide open road again, with a proper road surface which felt like perfectly smooth ice after the trail.

And so I plodded on and up a long but slight gradient until I had topped out for the day. Which was when the sh*t went down…

I was just cresting the hill when I started to feel Steed's chain/whole mechanism seize up so that I could barely turn the pedals. At first it just jolted and turned with severe effort, and then it jammed altogether.

Stopping by the roadside, I lifted everything off Steed and turned him upside down to inspect.  I wondered if it was all the crap from the trail and got my lube and cloth out and started to try to clean it up a bit, but it was clear this was having little impact.

Checking the map, I saw there was a bike shop just 10 miles off the route in a town called Marion, and around 20 miles from my location. I tried to get cell phone reception to call. And just as I did, a car pulled alongside and I thought, isn’t it nice that someone is going to ask if I need help.

But they didn’t. They stopped to ask if I knew the area and could give them directions to a place they wanted to visit. When I told them I didn’t know the place they were looking for they just drove off. 

Obviously thinking that I just liked to stand my bike upside down with all the panniers and other items lying beside it by the side of the road for a laugh every now and again… and yes, I know I could have asked them for help, but they were going in the wrong direction and had a full car, but even so, really???!

Not getting any reception and laughing at what had just happened, it occurred to me that I could probably coast, without turning the pedals, most of the three or so miles down the road to the junction with the highway and hitch a lift from there.  And so that’s what I did. Making it to within a few hundred yards of the junction, and walking the rest.

I hadn’t been standing very long when a car passed going in the right direction. Sticking my arm out in what occurred to me split seconds later to be more of a princess “flag a cab” kind of movement than a cool dude “hitch” sort of gesture, I wasn’t surprised that the car didn’t stop. But then moments later it was back.

Vince and Joanne asked if I was OK and I said I was trying to get Steed and me to the bike shop in Marion, to which they replied, “Well, that’s where we’re headed. We live just round the corner from the bike shop.”

So after a bit of jiggery pokery, we put my wheels and panniers in the boot, and Steed and I shared the back seat – well, Steed draped himself across most of it, and I twined myself around him. 

On the way to the shop, I discovered that Vince and Joanne were retied special needs teachers, and we laughed about how, coming from a small town (as I do too), they must know everyone and see all of the kids grow up, and have children.

“We decided to retire before we had to teach any of the grandchildren of the people we taught,” Joanne disclosed, laughing at the scenario. 

And so we were all laughs and smiles and having a lovely chat.

But when we reached the bike shop, it was CLOSED.

Joanne and Vince insisted on getting me some lunch (and since I was starving I didn’t argue) while we pondered the options, and so Vince headed off from the car and came back with a delicious toasted ham and cheese, with salad and mayo, while Joanne made some calls and tried to track down a guy called Mark, who reputedly “knows more about bikes than anyone else I’ve ever met” according to the person who had texted her.

Well, we tracked Mark down and arranged to meet him (but not until after I had popped back to Vince and Joanne’s and met their cute Basset Hound Tia, and elegant ginger cat, Oliver.)

And so Vince handed me and Steed over to Mark, and we whizzed to Mark’s workshop in Atkins, VA via the carwash to clean Steed’s gunky bits, before Mark set to work fixing poor old Steed’s predicament.

It turned out that the jolting of the trail and the grit and tar from the road had caused the sprockets to loosen until they were falling apart. And so Mark took them completely to bits, cleaned every single one, then fitted them back together and replaced/tightened the bolt on the outside to keep them together. He then checked over a few other things and gave Steed a good polish until he was gleaming.

We chatted away as Mark worked, and his wife Joanie also arrived, and so there was more convivial banter about Joanie’s business (she makes ingenious jewellery out of acorns) and other topics of interest.

Then Mark presented me with a load of freebies he gets from promotional stuff he does, energy gels, powdered energy mix, lube for the chain. It turns out that he used to be big in NASCAR – one of, if not the premier crew/mechanic during his time if I understood correctly – and very well-respected. Now he has a number of business interests as well as organising biking events, and generally being an all-round stellar person to have around.

Anyhow, it was late afternoon by the time Steed was ready to roll, and so we decided that Mark would drive me to the nearest point on my route and drop me there. It was a compromise between me cycling from Atkins (my initial instinct) and Mark’s offer to drive me to Wytheville.

Before Mark dropped me off, we swung by the fastest dirt circuit for NASCAR which was right at Rural Retreat, where I was rejoining the route, and took a quick photo on the podium!

Well, what can I say. Hardly a typical day.

Time and again, I am blown away by the kindness of the people that I meet, who keep me safe and look after me in what could otherwise be a scary and treacherous situation. I should also mention that Mark wouldn't take any payment for all that he had done...

Thanks to Mark, Vince and Joanne, my saviours, and simply awesome people.

Me x

P.S. Also a mention for a guy called Thomas from a bike shop in Draper, VA, that we thought we might have to drive to (Vince and Joanne offered to take me if needed) who gave me his cell number and told me he would come and pick me up and fix my bike if I couldn’t get to him/find another solution – another one of the good guys of this world who just make me smile and smile. 

Taking the Toad to Damascus

Day 68

Damascus, VA

Distance: zero miles (non-cycling day)

Things to do in town: not much

Things done in town: even less

Yes, this toad has lain still in Damascus, VA, wallowing, lounging, resting the legs…which, come to think of it, look a little bit like toad/frog legs these days what with all the hills.

After my sensible night, I woke stupidly early, while it was still dark, and ventured out to the gas station for coffee, water and snacks, figuring that if it had gone to sleep before me, it should be awake by now… it was.

Crawling back into my bed, I downloaded “A Walk in the Woods” by Bill Bryson on my Kindle App. It’s a book about him walking the Appalachian Trail and one I’ve read before. I remember laughing out loud on the tube to it last time, and I was already doing the same here “on site” within minutes of starting it this morning.

But Damascus is a curious little town, which I discovered when I finally ventured out properly around lunchtime.

Steed and I made our way down to the bike shop to pump up his tyres and buy a replacement bottle cage. Both bottle cages have been broken for some time now and I have done nothing about it since, curiously, the bottles are easier to push in and pull out with the break in them. But yesterday, I found the front one looking scarily “gapey” and realized that I’d be b*ggered if it broke on the road, and the super glue didn’t work, so…

And it was as Steed and I were ambling, toad-like, along the main street that I noticed all the stores that had closed down. I also learned that the Laundromat had closed, which is surely unthinkable for a town that is best known as being a place of civilization for hikers of the Appalachian Trail.

How many of these hikers arrive here after many nights of eating re-hydrated food and sleeping rough, in their nasty, hideously-styled walking clothes, stinking of sweaty geek, and stamp their boot-clad, or sandal-with-socks-clad feet and say “why”?

Well, I don’t know how many, but I do know why.

Apparently, the Laundromat was taken over a little over a year ago by a couple from “out of town” when the people who had run it for 27 years decided to call it a day. By “out of town” I mean, a few miles out of town. But enough, it seems, for someone (or more than one someone) to sneak in at night, taking advantage of the trusting 24hr opening policy, and pour powdered cement in every single washing machine. True.

“I guess they don’t like outsiders in this town,” the guy who told me said, and he was himself from out of town.

Ah dear, and so I do know, but I am still left asking “why”?

But on a happier note, I found a great place for lunch today. An Inn next to the river, where I ate fried green tomatoes, and the freshest peeled prawns you could hope for, washed down with a couple of glasses of top notch Californian Chardonnay.  Oh, and I bothered the geese and the ducks by pointing a camera at them too.

Hamstring problems too?

Contenders, you will go on my first whistle...

Mallard, Kaylee Dewee, happy in her work,
 "Honey, I ate LeBron James, well, some of him."

Ah, the Princess may not have too many clean clothes (I did do a little hand-washing) but she’s happy.

Fingers crossed that the hammy behaves when I set off tomorrow. Massage therapists in Damascus? 

You’re having a laugh!

Me x

Supplemental Post: How it Starts

Warning: I am posting about my experiences of domestic abuse in the hope that it will help others to a greater understanding of what goes through a victim's mind when these things happen. And in the hopes that, by describing my experiences, I can help shift the stigma and provide support to those still in abusive situations to know that others have been through this and survived, that they are not alone, and that it is not about them - it is about an abusive situation that hopefully they can move away from when they are ready to do so. 

***

It’s not an easy time for anyone. I understand that I don’t have the monopoly on misery, and I feel genuinely sorry for anyone who is forced to have contact with me.

Most days, I cry before I go to work. If that doesn’t happen, you can pretty much assume that there will be tears before bedtime. Sometimes there’s both. 

If sh*t goes down when I’m at work, I’m grateful that I have a separate office, and a chair that I can turn towards the outside window. I try not to let my shoulders shake too much as the tears flow.

Then they chuck me out of my office, put me in open plan. It’s the final straw.

***

We’re on the way out to a rare evening out, Him and me, when I find out that my ex-husband has been in touch with my parents. I try to defer the irritating phone call from my mother to a later date, but He catches the whiff in the air. I spill.

“You’re all f*cking freaks,” He tells me. “You, your ex and your f*cked up family. Sort it,” he commands.

When I say that I don’t know what to do, how he wants me to sort it, he tells me that it’s not for him to comment. I’m a bright girl and if I can’t work it out for myself then I have no empathy, and zero respect for him.

We barely talk over dinner. He flirts with the waitress, or she flirts with him, or perhaps both, I’m not sure. I am invisible. I don’t object. Until I scream at him in tears in the car on the way back home. Quite rightly, and yet again, he calls me a freak.

***

I sneak into the bedroom the next evening while He’s watching TV. I can hear the ebb and flow of the show that’s on, a rush of laughter followed by a lull as someone’s speaking, then another burst of noise again. I’m remembering the feeling of lying in my bed at home as a little girl, my eyes blinking at the crack of light from the hallway, the door always slightly ajar. Hearing the same noise rising up the stairs from the living room and in through that bright line of white light, punctuated by my Dad laughing heartily at something, and then making some muffled comment to my Mum.

As I push the door silently into its frame tonight, with Him downstairs, and creep across the floor to sit on the bed, I have a strange flutter in my stomach. All this furtive movement is making me nervous, as if I’m doing something secretive, wrong, shameful. I’m feeling like that a lot recently.

I push the button on my phone and call my Mum and Dad.  I speak quietly and evenly. I get straight to the point as I don’t know how long I’ve got.

“You can’t be in touch with him anymore,” I tell them, referring to my ex. “I can’t believe you would already.”

There is silence and so I tell them that I can’t stop them but if they choose to carry on despite my wishes, then I never want to hear about it. They must never mention it to me, and they must not speak about me to him, and especially they must never mention Him to my ex.

My Mum shouts at me down the phone. My lovely Mum. My first thought is that the noise coming out from my mobile is louder that my own voice in the room, and I feel gripped with anxiety. Like it’s all a huge secret and I’m about to be rumbled.

“I don’t know what you’ve become,” she tells me. “I just don’t know you anymore.”

The flutter turns into a stab of nausea. I’m thinking that undoubtedly she never knew me but that now she knows me only too well.

***

He and I are having bigger and bigger arguments. It’s not a one-way street. I scream at him frequently these days. It seems like it’s the only way I can get him to listen to me, but even as I’m screeching at the top of my lungs I know that it’s not going in.

One night it happens when we’re getting ready for bed, the argument of the evening. The fact is that I’ve nearly got away with it for the whole day and so this last-minute spoiler seems all the more poignant.

I whip myself up into a frenzy, a childlike tantrum. My face is maroon, the precise shade of a dodgy acrylic sweater that I wore in the Eighties. But tonight I’m wearing just black knickers and a grey vest top for the whole of the event, as we stand on opposite sides of the bed, screaming insults, intermittently glaring directly at each other, our eyes firing tiny poison-tipped arrows, steeped in rage. It’s freezing and I’m shaking uncontrollably, the blood pumping through my temples, and I just want it to explode out of me, to release, relieve.

 Eventually, in a fit of drama, I turn my back on him and rush out of the bedroom door and down the stairs.

I think I know what I’m running from, but I forget what I’m running to, as I stumble into the darkened kitchen, the building site. The floor stretches before me, a sheet of dusty grey cement, like powdered ice as my bare feet step onto it, tiny pieces of grit and other debris digging into my soles.

I’m squealing and sobbing like a child, straining, holding my breath and then gasping the black air when I can hold it no more. I clench my fists and start bashing them against my thighs, and then up and into my abdomen. He arrives at my back and grabs me from behind, his long, strong arms enveloping me, crushing me until I can’t move. But as soon as he releases his grasp, I’m at it again, punching and sobbing.

“Stop,” he tells me calmly. And he pulls my arms back, so I can’t move them. I sink to the floor and feel the cold rough cement grazing my leg and buttocks. He’s down there with me, his arms around me again. At last I feel like I have his attention, his affection, that he is proving his love for me by his intervention.

“This has got to stop Kitty,” he whispers into my ear. But all I can think is how amazing it is to feel his warm breath against my neck, tickling the downy hairs that are standing on end.

***

The next day I am supposed to be having lunch with a guy at work, one of the other sector heads, to swap ideas. I have put it off twice already and my boss is now pressing me. But I’m scared about His reaction.

I don’t tell Him about it until after it’s happened, and then I phone and mention it lightly as if I’d forgotten about it. But I’m telling him now because I know that’s the deal, that he needs to know.

“Get real, Kitty,” he tells me. “You didn’t forget, you’re just hiding stuff again like the lying, scheming b*tch you are.”

“No, really, I forgot,” I tell him. But inside I know I am a lying, scheming b*tch.

***

Next time I tell him as I am in a taxi to meet a different man for a business lunch. At least I’m doing it before it happens this time I console myself.

“How long have you known about this Kitty," he asks me? "Why are you telling me now?”

“Because you say you need to know, and I forgot to mention it before.”

“Kitty, you don’t forget. You lie. Deal with it. Stop doing it.”

***

The next time I don’t tell him at all. But now I know that I am actually deceiving him, by omission, not playing to his rules. Imposing my own judgment of what is harmless and what is not. And I’m paranoid that somehow he’s going to find out. There’s nothing to hide, but clearly there is, otherwise I’d be telling him.

I think I’m going crazy.

***

Depression is a strange animal. Like a skunk, you rarely see it alive, but you can smell the stench of it, and you will undoubtedly see it dead on the road after the event. And like the fur of a skunk, I pass from white to black and I don’t see it coming.

I read a story in the newspaper about a woman who has walked into the Thames and disappeared. Apparently, she is a lawyer for a rich individual who has just been charged for fraud offences. People are suspicious, they wonder what she knew and who has gained from her disappearance. All I can think is that she is very brave.

***

It’s a couple of months later as I’m watching the Thames rushing and gushing past, hearing it lapping up against its banks, fantasising about just dipping my toes in, and then perhaps keeping going, I decide instead to go to therapy.

He tells me that I need it. He’s tried to help me, he says, but so much about me is rotten to the core, he feels like I need a specialist on the case. It all stems back to my childhood, he declares. It revolves around anger, denial, pathological lying and the inability to process emotions. He diagnoses passive aggression, and perhaps, although he’s no expert, a teeny bit of autism. It’s my lack of warmth and empathy that leads him to this latter conclusion.

“It’s all very well being a brain,” he tells me. “But nobody cares about that when it comes to real life. You remember that thing called life?” he asks me. “You do know that life is not work?”

And I tell him that I do, but actually perhaps I don’t.

Indeed, there’s something about all of this that is ringing true. Nobody seems to want to speak to me or spend any time with me these days, and maybe this analysis is explaining why. If people do call me in the evening, I tend not to take the call if He is there because it always leads to an argument afterwards.

If I call them back from work during the day, He wants to know why I won’t speak to them in front of him.

“What is it that you have to hide Kitty,” he asks me. “Are you telling them lies about me?”

“We didn’t speak about you,” I say, even though it’s not entirely true.

“No, I’m sure you have many more f*cked up things to discuss,” he says, his voice saturated with sarcasm, dripping from his mouth like a dog’s saliva as it snarls at its prey and fantasises about what’s going to happen next.

And so from there, somehow people stop calling altogether, and I don’t call them anymore, from work or home. It’s too difficult to figure out how to handle it with Him without being accused of some sort of deceit or other misdemeanour.

My family have cut back contact to a minimum since the debacle over the ex. My sister confides in me that they are doing this because they think it might be easier for me this way. She’s not really explaining why, but actually I think that she could just be bang on the money. 

I know that the therapy is my answer. My chance. The golden egg that will make me into a better person, good enough for him, worthy of his love. 
I just need to sort myself out, and then I know we will be happy.

The Virginia Creeper

Day 67

Breaks, VA to Damascus, VA

Distance: 79 miles

Average speed: virginia creeping, must be near the slowest on trip (no precise data since nameless Gamine went to sleep for a while in the middle of the ride)

Left Hamstring: hamming it up

I woke in good spirits. But while the spirit was willing, the body had a damn stubborn streak running through it right from the get-go.

Setting out from my motel in the light, rather than the dusky darkness that prevailed as I approached last night, I was dismayed to see that it was just at the bottom of a hill. Indeed, one of three spiky little hills. Stupidly steep, moderate in length, but, as starts to the day go, boy was it brutal.

It was only ten miles of steep up and down until the first town of the day, Haysi, where I stopped for a proper breakfast, but it seemed like a lot more. I’d wolfed down a couple of those plastic cereal bowls and some orange juice in my room before I left but, given my measly turkey meal the night before, I was ready for some proper tucker.

I couldn’t see a café in town so I settled with the Subway at the gas station, which was fine. The rural gas station is the darling of the touring cyclists, and I have to say that the route has been replete with them for the last couple of days. Always stocked with hot coffee, cold water, ice, rest rooms, unhealthy snacks… I love them. And the more there are, the less I have to carry between them.

I was slow to roll out from Haysi again, chatting with some guys in pick-ups before I left who were concerned about me on the road on my own. Although I have to say that I might have been more concerned had a couple of them pulled in by the side of the road in a secluded part of the route, but luckily I haven’t had any problems with that so far.

But I shouldn’t tempt fate. To answer my sister’s question from the blog comments from a couple of days ago, I have been toying with the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains for the last couple of days. And now I have reached them proper. Known not just for hiking but also hillbillies, I can’t help but think of the movie Deliverance, and keep half an ear out for the duelling banjos.

I did see a guy yesterday by the side of the road in one of the villages I rode through who smiled widely to expose some rotting teeth and half chewed tobacco.

“You gone get run ove…” he drawled pleasantly in my direction, and then laughed.

Potential dangers aside, and hoping not to encounter him or his family or his dogs for the rest of the trip, the weather today was gorgeous, and the scenery lush, but the road surface was neither - either broken and cracked, or intact but a rough chip and seal. When combined with the gradient and my level of tiredness, I was crawling along so slowly that I did speculate whether I might actually just fall over sideways at some point.

Indeed, I started to worry not only about keeping my balance, but also about the Virginia Creeper. 

It covers absolutely EVERYTHING it touches with alarming speed, from road signs to telegraph poles (and lines). Hell, I’m sure there are a few houses out there which are lurking underneath a pile of the stuff.

“Virgil, where are you honey, you’ve been gone for hours?”

“Well sugar, I dunno whatta tell you, I just been to the bar and I’m in the pick-up but I can’t find the dang house.”

I wondered whether, if I went any slower, people might find Steed and me just a few hours later, a bicycle and rider shaped piece of green moving at a glacial pace around a section of steep switch backs.      

Let me out...

Speeding up a little at the thought, I still found that I had only managed around 35 miles before I was so hungry I needed to stop for lunch, and that it was already after 2pm. Packing in a grilled ham and cheese with salad I set off again for the longest and steepest climb of the day out of a small town called Council.

And it was as I was pedalling away from the restaurant that I started to feel not only a general overwhelming sense of tiredness but also a distinct pain in my left hamstring. I’d felt a twinge during my morning stretches, but thought no more of it. Realising I still had another 40 or so miles to go, I decided that I would simply have to adjust my riding style to compensate and strangely I managed to do so. Relying more on my right leg and pushing the pedals from a different angle seemed to do the trick. Although occasionally I would forget until a sharp pain would give me a jolting reminder. 

The views were good though.

Stopping an hour or so from the end of the ride to phone the B&B and tell them I would be arriving late, I met my first friends of the day… a couple of cute kitties who came over to speak to me in the small town of Meadowview. 

Meowview in Meadowview

It was just what I needed to carry me the last few miles on, and into Damascus, my stop for the night.

After checking into the B&B, I had a very quick shower and headed straight out for pizza and beer. The place did microbrews so I happily tried out a couple of the “blondes” while I watched a young guy who was hiking the Appalachian Trail attempt and succeed at a “Man vs Food” style hot-wings challenge before disappearing rather rapidly to the rest rooms… I suspect he might be sprinting some parts of the trail tomorrow, into the trees anyway. 

Ambling back to the B&B and intending to buy myself a large bottle of ice-cold water to rehydrate, I was dismayed to find that, at the stonkingly late hour of 9.15pm literally everything in town was closed, including the gas station. 

I guess that’s the difference between hikers and touring cyclists… well, some of them.

Rest day tomorrow… phew.

Me x