True Southern Hospitality

With the days continuing to get shorter, we are finding that it’s hard to break camp much sooner than 8:30 or 9 AM. Today was no exception. It was already warm and muggy when we set out on the route. We had to cover 55+ miles to get to Richmond, and we wanted to get an early start to avoid any potential rush hour traffic as we approached the city in the late afternoon.

The route was decidedly different from what we had been pedaling for the past few days. In many ways, it reminded us of our ride trough New Jersey…deep forests that occasionally opened up into fields, very low traffic roads, courteous drivers…a big change from the chaos we experienced approaching Fredericksburg. We found the terrain to our liking. There were still hills to climb, but they were spaced further apart and we could maintain a comfortable gear and cadence. Our average speed was increasing, and as the day progressed, we found ourselves in very good spirits. The countryside we passed through was quite rural. The houses we saw were not as large or as well kept as others we had seen, and it was obvious that we were riding through a section of the countryside that was unquestionably poorer than we had previously experienced. The major crop in the area was soybeans, hay and silage corn…basically the same as we have observed since the Mid-Atlantic States. We had anticipated that we would see tobacco being grown. After all, Virginia became the richest of the original 13 American colonies because of tobacco. But this was not the case. The last tobacco barn sighting was in the Pennsylvania Dutch country, and we wondered when we would come upon one again.

The temperature continued to rise, along with the humidity, and the day was as hot as we had experienced since the trip began. We drank prodigious amounts of water to stay hydrated, but the sweat was pouring out of us like we were in a sauna. While cycling along in Hanover County, we were passed by a sheriff’s patrol car going in the opposite direction. We found that in this part of Virginia, people do in fact wave at each other when passing in a vehicle…just like Montana…and we gave a wave and a “howdy” to the officer in the car. About a minute or two later we noticed that he had pulled up along side of us with his blue light flashing. Wondering if we had somehow committed a traffic violation or other impropriety, we kept pedaling and gazed at him as he rolled down his window. In his right hand he was holding a bottle of ice water and called out “You got enough of this? It’s a hot one today and I wanna make sure y’all are alright.” We assured him that we were fine, and thanked him for his kindness. It kept us smiling the rest of the day.

We’re told that the Richmond area is home to nearly a million people, but you could have fooled us. The approach that we took to town was decidedly rural, the traffic manageable, and even though we arrived during the rush hour, we had absolutely no problems. We found the neighborhoods to be well kept and the housing in good shape. The city, which became the capital of Virginia in 1780, is located on the fall line of the James River. The falls and rapids attracted early industry to the potential of harnessing power with water wheels, and later hydroelectric generators. The James is navigable up to Richmond, and is on the edge of the Atlantic Coastal Plain. A little geography lesson is in order as way of explanation.

The Atlantic Coastal Plain extends from Florida to Cape Cod. It varies in width from 100 to 200 miles, and it is like a sloping beach, it’s clays and sandstone sediments deposited and flattened thousands of years ago by an ancient Atlantic Ocean. In Virginia, the coastal plain is often referred to as the Tidewater region. The Chesapeake Bay has formed deep tidal estuaries at the mouths of the James, Potomac, and other major rivers which cut deeply into the Tidewater. The James bisects and in many ways defines the nature of the city.

That night, we had a special treat. During our stay in Washington DC, we had received via email two different invitations from individuals we had never met, inviting us to stay with them while in Richmond. We made connections with John and Lee Emory. John has been an Adventure Cycling member for a number of years, leading trips and teaching some of the touring classes the organization offers. He and his charming wife Lee share a passion for bicycling and life, and they treated us royally…feeding us, housing us, and giving us a chance to do our laundry. We swapped cycling stories over a fine pasta dinner and some excellent Virginia grown wine. It was an evening we will never forget.

We had made the decision to go off route to visit Colonial Williamsburg. Our thought was that even though it was about 30 miles out of the way, we didn’t know if we would ever be through here again, so what the heck. And besides, we’re on vacation. John mapped a route for us that took us along Route 5, basically following the James River. Before taking our leave of their house, we read in the local paper that a storm was brewing in the Atlantic that was scheduled to head inland sometime in the late afternoon or early evening, so we wanted to get to our campsite and set up before the fun began.

We did spend time visiting the battlefields near Richmond, but decided that we needed to get going and began pedaling in earnest around 10 AM. While Route 5 does parallel the James River, the tree cover is such that you don’t see much of anything…only woods. Periodically you would come to open fields, home to stately plantation mansions and farms. We did see cotton growing in one field and had to stop for the perfunctory photo of a field covered in white. Indeed, it looks just like cotton balls.

In reality, the only plantations we saw up close were of trees. This was tree farming country, and we were passed by numerous logging trucks along the way. While the terrain was gentle, we were battling a headwind from the East, which was an indication that the storm was on its way. It actually became a taxing day for us, and after 56 miles we reached camp around 5:30, tired but relieved to be at our destination.

With daylight gone by 7:15, we ended up cooking by candlelight, and called it an early night. So far, no storm. Maybe the weather forecasters got it wrong this time. Decidedly, this was not the case. Around 2 AM, all hell broke loose. Thunder, lighting…crack, boom…the rain coming down in a torrent. We lay awake, listening to the cacophony all around, and watched the water stream off the rain fly. We had no idea what the morning would bring, but we knew it was going to be WET.

We finally had to answer natures call and get out of our still warm, dry sleeping bags and dive into the maelstrom. The “high ground” we had pitched our tent on had become surrounded by a lake. Running to the restroom was like jogging on a bowl of jello. The land was so saturated that we were sinking with every step. Then and there we made a decision. It was time to pull up stakes and get our bodies out of there and into a motel to wait this one out. The radio was calling it a “N’or Easter”. We had heard about these in Maine, but apparently they can happen anywhere along the Atlantic coast. The rain was coming off the ocean with winds of up to 40 MPH. It was pouring down in sheets, with absolutely no end in sight. We had stowed everything the night before and were prepared to make a quick getting. Stuffing the sopping wet tent into its stuff sack, we walked the bike through the muck to the road and pedaled off to a room with a roof over our heads and a nice hot shower.

Our Momma’s didn’t raise fools.