The Parkes and Stockham Cycle Part 2: TransAmerica

Date: Friday 24^th September   

Route:  Damascus, Virginia – Radford, Virginia 

Distance: 102 miles 

Total climb: 6,463ft

Net climb: 6ft

The only downside of our arrival in Damascus was the fact that mysteriously my back wheel started to stick almost as soon as I hopped off Diana and started to push her around the town.  Another visit to a bike shop was needed, but after our session in Quincy’s the night before we weren’t hugely keen for a very early morning.  Still, we managed to haul ourselves out of the comfortable beds and head out for an excellent (if expensive) breakfast in the town.  Damascus is something of an outdoorsy tourist hub, with walking, cycling and climbing in the near-by hills.  It also lies on both the Trans-America cycle route and the Appalachian Trail (a famously difficult walk through the Appalachian Mountains).  As a result the town is chocked full of cyclists, walkers and (luckily for us) bike shops.  Fortunately, there was no great rush as none of the bike shops opened until nine and so we had time to have a brief look around the town.  Once the shop did open the repairs were done very quickly (a few adjustments to the spoke tension) giving us just enough time to stock up on supplies and to finish packing up back at the Hiker’s Inn.  We headed back to the bike shop to collect the bikes and head back out on the road.  Damascus seemed like a fun town and it was a shame to leave, but at least our route was taking us through some of the rich scenery that the area is renowned for.  The road out of Damascus took us up through the hills of the Cherokee National Forest, all the while with a small free-flowing stream off to our right; conditions that were perfect both for cycling and the mandatory Parkes two-miler.  We were straight into a climb of almost 2000 feet, but the gentle gradient and green and pleasant surroundings meant that in what seemed like no time we were past Konnarock and at the summit, and undoubtedly feeling a little smug towards those tourists who were getting a lift up to the top in minibuses.  The reward was a magical ten mile downhill to Troutdale where we had agreed to meet Team Stockham for lunch.  As it turned out we had got there too soon and the Team missed us completely; but we were treated to some more Virginia hospitality in a very friendly diner.  In addition, we chatted to a lady who was very excited about the fact that we came from England – her granddaughter was doing a year-long project which involved getting postcards from as many places around the world as possible.  She asked if we would send her a postcard from England, which we agreed to do, and with Fred’s impending travels during his gap yah we hope that she might just have a few more postcards than the rest of her classmates.  We also met up with another cyclist – this time on the same route as us.  He wasn’t doing many miles each day so we hoped that we would be able to catch him and get back into first place in our race. 

The next stretch of the day was an enjoyable, although mainly unremarkable canter through rolling Virginia farmland which was generally downhill.  Sadly, our cycling lunch companion must have stopped at the town of Ash Grove as we didn’t encounter him again, despite making rapid progress.  We were convinced that we had found him as we closed in on a cyclist on the final hill into Rural Retreat; to our dismay it turned out to be a teenager on a mountain bike.  Still, a cyclist is a cyclist and so we arrived in Rural Retreat delighted to be back in first place and very much ready for an afternoon snack.  Rural Retreat is marked by a large corn silo bearing its name and a large number of sizeable dogs in the houses on the road into town.  Team Stockham were on hand to greet us at the diner next to the railway in the town that was once the cabbage capital of the USA.  Although the town has lost some of the sheen of its glory days as a vegetable hub it still boasts an excellent diner which is clearly a Mecca for the locals (some of whom, ironically, professed some rather anti-islamic sentiments).  For the third day-time meal in a row we met a cyclist during our break, although this time he was setting off as we arrived.  In any event, we couldn’t afford to hang around for long as we still had over fifty miles left to go for the day and it was already past three o’clock.

As we made our move to set off , however, we were stopped by a policeman who asked us if we were missing anything from our bikes.  Initially concerned that we might be in trouble for something, it quickly became clear that the cyclist that we had met half-an-hour beforehand had had his GPS unit stolen from his bike; the policeman was merely concerned to ensure that none of our kit had been taken.  Our bikes intact, we set off again and after a quick stop to inflate our tires our route turned sharp right and we trundled through Wytheville and on to the frontage road which runs a few metres away from interstate 81.  We took our final stop of the day at a service station Dairy Queen for milkshakes that were delicious, refreshing and cooling in the late afternoon heat.  The route for the remainder of the day remained on the frontage road, periodically crossing over the interstate.  It was not a picturesque section of the route and surprisingly provided a few navigational challenges, but we finally arrived at the turnoff to state route 626 into Radford after a warning from Team Stockham that the road was in a pretty poor state of repair.  The team were a bit concerned that we still had a way to go and that we would be cycling on a gravel track in near total darkness.  As a compromise we decided to ride on but with the Team behind us ensuring that all was well (a now well worn tactic).  The Team were right to be concerned; the road was in a pretty shocking state and was also fairly busy with traffic.  Nonetheless we managed to navigate it without any wheel-spins or slides and, running along the side of the New River, it proved to be a pleasant route into Radford.  With a population of over 15,000 Radford was the largest town we had seen in weeks and as we crossed the bridge into town its bright lights were quite a change of scenery.  We also noticed a large football stadium just across the bridge and had high hopes that we might catch part of a college game.  Sadly it was not to be, as there was no game that night and the highlight of the evening ended up being the whistles we received from a car-full of girls who (probably ironically) gave a shout out to our ever diminishing backsides.  Just after our fan club had made their presence known we stopped to get directions to the motel from Team Stockham – “don’t worry – its just left, up a hill and then you’re there.” In fact it was a further mile and a half to a point where we were genuinely concerned that we had cycled past the town.  Thankfully, Tammy the Texas Chariot eventually came into view and whisked us the 500 metres up to the local Super 8 Motel – our palace for the evening.

For dinner it had to be Appleby’s; eventually.  G2 once again took us on a rather circuitous route around the town although it did give us the chance to drive past a high-school football game – with a crowd of what looked to me like well over two thousand.  It never ceases to amaze me how seriously Americans take school sport.  Once we arrived at our favourite neighbourhood bar and grill and changed tables to give ourselves a better view of the multitude of TVs, we settled into yet another cracking meal (although Mother Stockham did send back her prawns on which there was definitely too much sauce – a subject on which she was undoubtedly an expert having ordered the same meal by this stage on six occasions).  The stress of yet another late night finish came to the fore briefly over dinner, but all were soon tucking into the enormous helpings while watching at least 7 different sports at the same time.

Date: Thursday 23^rd September

Route:  Elkhorn City, Kentucky – Damascus, Virginia 

Distance: 82 miles 

Total climb: 7424ft

Net climb: 908ft

It is safe to say that we were both somewhat disappointed to have stopped in Elkhorn City, Kentucky last night and not forged on into Virginia – our final state.  In fact – as with so many things during the course of the journey – it proved to be a fortuitous turn of events.  Our early finish and the fact that we were setting off from a motel directly on the route meant that after breakfast at the diner we were out on the road by 7:45; earlier than we had managed for quite a few days.  This in turn meant that we had time to pause at both the tomb of the unknown Confederate soldier and Lookout Point – which had spectacular views over the surrounding valleys – before completing the short ride to the state line.  Arriving in Virginia was a moment that we had been looking forward to for weeks and a real mental marker – we had only one state left to cross out of the ten that had stood in our way when we set off from Astoria.  We celebrated, as ever, by taking photographs in bizarre poses which puzzled a number of the motorists driving past.

Our triumphant ride into the forests of Virginia was followed by a few small climbs and then a swift, winding downhill into Haysi, where we stopped at a garage for a quick snack and to put some air into Fred’s tires.  Our quick break turned into a rather more lengthy pit-stop as the valve on Fred’s rear inner tube snapped off in his hand as he attempted to remove the outer plastic cap.  The tire went completely flat in less than a second.  Whilst endeavouring not to think about what would have happened if the valve had broken as we were coming down the steep descent into Haysi, we both decided that this was a good point at which to change our front inner tubes which we had not changed during the course of the entire journey.  It seemed too much to hope that we could manage the entire route without one of our front tires malfunctioning in some way, but they had performed heroically, so it was with admiration and a note of sadness that we parted company with them.

Tires changed and cookies from the garage Subway eaten, it was time to press on.  Our route took us through Council and up a long and fairly steep climb above Honaker where we were planning to have lunch.  The views from up on the top were spectacular, although our mood was spoiled somewhat by a resident reversing out of her drive right in front of us, with little regard for our safety and by a couple of young scallywags driving a boy-racer who decided that it would be amusing to try and distract us on the downhill into Honaker.  As we were planning to eat in Honaker it would have taken more than a spot of juvenile banter to break my concentration.  Unsurprisingly their attempts came to naught and we were soon sat down, with Team Stockham, at “The Farmers Table” a small family restaurant on a side road off Main Street (just left after the railway if you ever choose to visit).  Although diner food had become something we were now rather over-familiar with, it was a good lunch (steak sandwich in my case) in a pleasant setting, overlooking the hills that we had still to cross in the afternoon.  We were joined by another cyclist who was attempting his own Trans-America journey; albeit on a different route.  His tale was a rather more sombre one than ours, as he had originally set out with his brother-in-law who part way through the journey had suffered from an aneurism and was now in hospital.  Still, he was soldiering on, but it made me reflect on how difficult it would be to attempt a trip like this alone.  Whilst friendly, our companion didn’t seem to be having a great deal of fun.

Back out on the road again, we were soon confronted by one of the least pleasant sections of the entire route.  We had to cycle uphill along a busy road and were presented with a choice of either cycling on the road and taking our chance with the traffic (which included a large number of coal lorries whose drivers seem not to put a great deal of store by watching the road in front of them) or attempting to cycle in the “hard” shoulder which was, in fact, simply a mass of loose gravel.  Fred, far better at being aware of the traffic around him, took on the road whilst I opted for what I took to be the safer option of the gravel.  Multiple wheel slides and skids later (one of which nearly took me under the wheels of an aforementioned coal lorry) I finally made it to the top, where Fred had been waiting for some time.   Fortunately, the quality of the road surface improved significantly after that brief section and at Rosedale we turned left onto a main road with a proper hard shoulder, which provided a suitable tonic for my now jittery nerves.  The rest of the day’s ride was unadulterated fun passing through a series of forests and lush valleys before stopping at Meadowview for a quick break.  It was after closing time so we didn’t hold out much hope of finding a shop open, but serendipity once again took charge in quite a surprising way.  We wandered into what looked like a cafe, but in fact turned out to be one of the best restaurants of the local area, “The Harvest Table”.  It was housed in a beautifully restored building which was itself the centrepiece of a seemingly genuine old town square.   The staff could not have been kinder and although we didn’t have time to stop for dinner they were happy for us to eat a couple of bread rolls and drink a few glasses of Coke.  To round off our stop perfectly we met a group two couples who asked us where we were heading.  It turned out that they all lived in Damascus, our evening’s destination, and that they had seen Team Stockham booking our accommodation for the night.  They assured us that we were in for a comfortable night’s accommodation and recommended Quincy’s Pizza restaurant to us for our evening meal.  All told it had been an ideal stop – relaxing, nutritious and allowing us to freak out Team Stockham by accurately predicting where we would be staying for the evening.

From Meadowview we had only 13 miles to Damascus, lit (until the last few miles) by a glorious sunset, and riding through rolling farmland.  We met Team Stockham at the point at which we rejoined the main road into the town and rolled on to the centre of town at which point we asked them for directions to the Hikers’ Inn.  Suitably astonished that we already knew where we were staying they gave us directions in return for an explanation.  Thankfully it was only a few hundred feet to the back door of the place and after we loaded up the bikes into the car for the evening (purely as a safety precaution) we got ourselves settled into probably the most homely accommodation of the whole trip.  Our hosts washed our kit and provided all sorts of recommendations for things to do in the surrounding area.  After a quick shower and change we were off out to dinner.  I love pizza.  I also love Quincy the 1970s TV show starring Jack Klugman.  That should give you some sort of insight into how much I Ioved Quincy’s pizza restaurant, Damascus.  To make things even better it was open mic night and the locals had turned out in force.  We were treated to music (mainly country but with some rock thrown in) from performers across the whole spectrum of both talent and sobriety.  The evening’s MC undoubtedly had the X-factor, but our favourite act had to be the guy who, perhaps after a few halves too many, complained that his guitar was not working.  Good pizza, quality live entertainment and a few racks of pool made the ride to Damascus all the more worthwhile.

Date: Wednesday 22^nd  September   

Route: Hindman, Kentucky – Elkhorn City 

Distance: 62.5 miles

Total climb: 4295ft

Net climb: -161ft

It was a strange start to the day.  After asking the motel owner for his breakfast recommendation, he sent us on a wild goose chase around the streets surrounding the motel.  Eventually we abandoned trying to follow his directions and found that the diner that he had been telling us about was no more than 500 yards down the road on which the motel was situated.  This was one in a long list of examples of people having a seriously deficient knowledge of their local area, yet such things never failed to astonish us.

Breakfast, in the empty diner, was good if somewhat lacking in atmosphere.  Of more concern to us, though, was the thunder storm which was raging over our heads.  The rain was so heavy that I was convinced that we would be unable to cycle that day.  I even had the temerity to suggest a rest day.  When the storm starting to clear we decided to head back to Hindman to see how the weather looked there.  It was going to be a late start, but it was clearly preferable to get some miles under our legs rather than just taking the day off.

We got Diana and Rosie set up and ready to go in the solicitors car park in Hindman and then got under way.   The initial stretch was a gentle uphill to the town of Pippa Passes, but my growing addiction to looking at the elevation profile on the back of our map meant that I knew that our day involved four climbs, which, although not long, looked as if they might be rather steep.  Our first climb came as we turned off the main road, just before the town of Bevinsville.  It was certainly the steepest climb that we had encountered on the trip to that point, but we were encouraged by the fact that it was not nearly as severe as a number of the hills that we had scaled in our adventures on the North York Moors (particularly the dreaded Limber Bank).  It was, however, starting to get much hotter than it ever gets in North Yorkshire….

After arriving at the top of our first significant climb of the day we rolled down into Buckingham, where Fat Daddy’s Diner, proved to be an irresistible stopping point for lunch.  A quintessential American Diner, it was exactly what we were looking for.  Team Stockham managed to track us down after about half an hour, which gave us the chance to plan our afternoon’s efforts whilst eating (in my case yet another BLT sandwich – approximately number 35 of the trip).  Both Fred and I regretfully turned down the milkshakes that Fat Daddy had on offer, knowing that milkshakes and tough climbs are not always excellent bedfellows, and with that we headed back out onto the bikes.

The next two climbs, in the mid-afternoon heat, were longer, steeper, and tougher; however they did provide some moments of amusement, including seeing a man walking his (presumably) pet deer on a leash around his garden.  The hills also had the great advantage of long gradual downhill sections (“the payoff” as we had come to call them) after reaching the summit.  These sections of roads followed a pattern that had become familiar to us throughout the Appalachians, with houses and shops lining the side of the road, but no actual towns.  It seems that the lack of space in the steep valleys means that although lots of people might live in a valley there was is one line of houses/shops and nothing more.  The roads are also exceedingly narrow and windy and required constant vigilance whilst on the lookout for oncoming cars.  For once it was not a joy to be riding at the front of the group.

We stopped for our afternoon break in the town of Lookout, intent on pushing on to Haysi – our planned stopping point for the day.  For once the garage we stopped at had no seats and so we sat on the steps outside eating our familiar combination of chocolate bars, cosmic brownies, soft drinks and tinned fruits.  As ever I was struck with the sensation that we must have looked rather odd to anyone happening to pass by.  Nonetheless, it was a joy to be out of the afternoon heat, even if we did look like slightly sweaty and bedraggled hobos (albeit in exceedingly bright clothing) who had not eaten a meal in weeks.

The rest of the day did not turn out quite as planned.  We rolled on downhill for a large part of the next 13 miles, passing innumerable small, rickety wooden shacks (one which was for sale and was suggested as a potential international headquarters of the Tomahawk Cup – a prestigious English golf tournament) and up into Elkhorn City.  Here we met Team Stockham who were sat by the river chatting to a local chap.  They had expected us to arrive later on in the afternoon and so had booked accommodation in the town.  On the basis that we had somewhere to stay and that it would save time in the morning if we could set off directly from where we were staying, we decided to call it a day.  We were short of Haysi, but considering the early morning weather and our late start we had made good progress for the day.

Safe in the knowledge that we had no more pedalling to do, we went over to chat to Team Stockham’s new friend.  A keen bluegrass and country music fan, he was a man who sat and watched the world go by.  His nickname, “Jack the Ripper”, was something of a concern, but he provided a credible explanation for it and seemed harmless and welcoming.  His main crime as far as we were concerned was the CD which he gifted to Team Stockham and which provided a relentless soundtrack of jiggy country music for the next couple of days. 

We had arrived too late in the day to have a go at “rubber tubing” down the Pound River and so after we had said our goodbyes to Jack we rode the remaining quarter mile to the John Moore motel.  I previously had no idea that the senior clerk in my chambers (also named John Moore) had branched out into the Kentucky tourism business, but it proved to be a good stopping point.  We followed the now standard evening routine of unpacking, showering and heading out for dinner – this time at the local diner owned by a man with whom our friend Jack had a bitter feud but which served up one of the best meals on the trip.  The place was full of people from the town and had that homely atmosphere that American diners and bars do so well.  Perhaps everyone didn’t know our name; but it felt as if they did.  

Date: Tuesday 21^st September   

Route:  Booneville, Kentucky – Hindman, Kentucky 

Distance: 64 miles 

Total climb: 4,675ft

Net climb: 289ft

The day began with our first Dairy Queen (or “DQ”) meal of the trip.  A solid breakfast was made memorable by the “servers” who not only found our accents hilarious, but also insisted on making one of their number, whom they described as “the biggest hillbilly in Kentucky”, say various words in her incredibly strong accent.  Thus “hair” became “herr” and other words became completely unrecognisable. 

After packing up and heading back to Booneville, we had a quick photo session before getting back out on the road.  The first leg of our day to Buckhorn was magnificent.  Surrounded by the same mountains and forests as the previous day, we could now see that everything in the valleys was completely covered by a type of vine, lending a mysterious air to the landscape.  Trees, pylons and fences were made to look as if they had been lifted from the set of an Indiana Jones movie and it was easy to imagine that a lost temple lurked just around every corner.  We had also moved definitively into “fall” and so at various times in the morning we were covered by a deluge of golden leaves.  It was a magical 18 miles.

We stopped in Buckhorn for our morning break at the local post-office, outside of which stood a group of about 8 men.  Fred was initially wary of leaving the bikes outside, however our fears were allayed when we discovered that 7 of the men were pastors and one was the owner of the shop (what is the collective noun for pastors?).  The group told us the history of Buckhorn and the local wooden church, known as the Cathedral of the Mountains, which had been built by the congregation.  We signed the cyclists’ log in the post office and stocked up on drinks and snacks before noticing that Team Stockham had also stopped in the town on the other side of the road.  They had been in the rival shop, chatting with the owner who apparently bore a striking resemblance to Jabba the Hut. 

Team Stockham headed off to explore Buckhorn Lake, while we headed back out on the road.  Safe to say the rest of our day was not the most pleasant cycling of the trip.  Pretty soon after Buckhorn our route took us onto the main roads that are used for transporting coal out of the Appalachians.  For the first few miles there was no hard shoulder; this was probably the scariest section of the entire route as cars and lorries flew past us with little more than a couple of feet of space.  Fortunately, after that section the road gods were kind to us and provided wide hard shoulders (or as Team Heagney had christened them earlier in the trip “hard wide shoulders”) for the rest of our time on SR 15 and SR 80.  The hard shoulders were good for alleviating the feeling of mortal terror; nonetheless they were not that easy to cycle on, covered as they were by huge amounts of detritus – from lumps of coal and broken glass to bungee cords and an abandoned kettle.  Still, they allowed us to spend a bit more time looking at our surroundings and see the peculiar results of strip mining.  All around us hills had been completely denuded of soil and left as strange man-made rock formations.    What was left was an unquestionably odd, but strangely beautiful landscape.

After a stretch of undulating main road (which looked far more difficult on our elevation map than it actually was to cycle) we finally turned off the main roads at the wonderfully named town of Dwarf.  From there onwards we had an enjoyable 16 mile ride along a stream, with barely a car in sight until we reached our finishing point at Hindman.  With a bizarrely good level of co-ordination, we arrived just as Team Stockham were parking in the centre of town.  Once again there was no accommodation nearby, save for one motel which Team Stockham had refused to book due to its uncanny resemblance to the Bates Motel and the fact that the room that they were shown (and presumably, therefore, one of the better rooms) had a hole in the ceiling.  Instead we headed to the Combs Motel in the nearby town of Hazard (Kentuckians have a real talent for town naming it seems).  It was in the process of renovation, and had no internet, but with retro wood-panelling and a decent shower it offered everything we could have asked for. 

We planned to get some serious blogging done, but first was the small matter of dinner.   Appleby’s was our go-to option in yet another business loop, but the difficulty was getting there.  After G2 (the replacement GPS system bought in Carbondale) had taken us a variety of different ways around the car parks of a local school, we finally found our way out and into the welcoming arms of “Your Neighbourhood Bar and Grill.”  Another heroic performance from my new favourite restaurant left us ready for an evening of blogging.  As ever Fred managed to write an entry in the space of half-an-hour.  After 75 minutes, I had almost finished mine…

Date: Monday 20th September   

Route:  Harrodsburg, Kentucky – Booneville, Kentucky 

Distance: 103 miles  

Total climb: 6965ft 

Net climb:  -242ft

The Days Inn, Harrodsburg had afforded us the chance to get back on an even keel.  We were rested, our clothes were washed, and in the morning we were distinctly breakfast proud.  All of this, though, was a prelude to entering Appalachia, which most of the cyclists whom we had met and were doing the TransAmerica route from East to West had told us was the hardest section of the route.  We were slightly nervous at the prospect.

Team Stockham dropped us off in the centre of Harrodsburg (the motel was a few miles outside of town on the “business loop” – the blight of all American towns) and after a quick stop at a gas station to refill Fred’s rear tire we were heading out of town.  Sadly, our route did not take us past the row of enormous houses that we had seen in the twilight the previous evening and which seemed to have jumped straight off the pages of the Great Gatsby.  We did, however, pass the site of the home of Daniel Boone – one of the original pioneers of the interior and the man who was responsible for making an accessible route through the Appalachian Mountains for people travelling West.  It wasn’t much, but for me it provided at least some encouragement that we would be able to make it through the Appalachian wilderness.

The day began in much the same way as the previous day had ended, riding through the rolling Kentucky countryside.  Our first stint was a 26 mile stretch before stopping at a shop a few miles from the town of Buckeye.  It was already hot and so a soda fountain was exactly what was required.  There was no soda fountain.  It was, though, the oddest shop that I have ever been in.  Inside a large building there were very few items on sale, and those that were on sale made up a distinctly bizarre selection.  The shelves were stacked such that there would be one can of peas, then a foot of empty space and then a solitary bottle of anti-freeze.  Fortunately, they did stock cold drinks and chocolate bars and so met our requirements nicely.  Unfortunately my Twix tasted as if it was about 15 years old and was the most likely cause of some severe digestive issues that I encountered over the next 36 hours.

We left the shop puzzled, but refreshed and headed on towards our lunchtime stop, Berea, “the Gateway to the Appalachians”.  The final few miles into town took us along the Beebe-White Bike path.  As ever it was a joy to be off the road, and it gave us the opportunity to really enjoy the ride into a beautiful university town which is also home to an extraordinary school, designed, I can only speculate, by one of the creators of the Jetsons.

Berea College has a remarkable history (seriously – it’s worth a read on Wikipedia) as the first non-segregated college of higher education in the South; and now offers a free college education to the people of the Appalachians, on the basis that the students work in the local community.  This approach to education, combined with some beautiful architecture makes for a hugely friendly and welcoming town.  When added to the best lunch of the trip at the Main Street Cafe (including a bizarre but very tasty German Chocolate Cake) and an invite from some of the students in the cafe to stay for the evening and come to a college party it was exceedingly difficult to leave.  Sadly our schedule was tight and we couldn’t afford to lose another half-day.  We had to push on into Appalachia.

I had been worried about the Appalachians (or Apple-chians as we had taken to calling them) from the beginning of the trip; I had heard that services would be limited, that the hills were very steep and that the people did not welcome travellers (I also know the plot of the film “Deliverance”).  There was some truth in the first two of these points, but the third could not have been more wrong.  The people of Appalachia proved to be as helpful, friendly and kind as their countrymen and women had been throughout the whole of our trip.  They might, at times have been fairly difficult to understand (the accent is strong, to say the least), but time and time again, people went out of their way to help us, in entirely selfless ways.  In this respect at least, we have a lot to learn from our American cousins. 

Still, enough moralizing and back to the narrative…Five miles outside of Berea we stopped at the town of Bighill to refill our bottles and were delighted to find that our route took us away from the geographical feature that had inspired the town’s name.  Instead, we hugged the edge of the valley floor, for the most part following Red Lick Creek.  The hills around grew increasingly tall and steep and it was apparent to us that an artificial sundown, created by the hills would mean that we were going to be cycling on into the dark once again.  The upside was that we had a thirty mile ride with no hills whatsoever, which allowed us to make good time and provided a gentle introduction to Appalachia.  The most remarkable (if slightly macabre) element of this stretch of the ride, was the large number of family cemeteries that were visible from the road.  It became clear to us that they were placed on any point of raised ground – presumably in an attempt to avoid the flooding of the steep-walled valleys.

We were in a race against the gathering dark, and after narrowly avoiding an oncoming car on the originally named “Flat Bottom Road” we finally had some climbing to do.  We made short work of the climb and once at the top we had left the fairly dense forest behind and were back out into open farmland.   Having not seen Team Stockham since breakfast, we made a series of attempts to contact them, but with limited reception we did not hold out much hope that they would get our texts or answer-phone messages.

As we pushed on and back down into the valleys it started to get distinctly cold, and at one point I began to feel the impending onset of a sugar low (in much the same way as I had in Montana weeks earlier).  Fortunately, three Clif Shot Blocks came to my rescue and we made it to the crossroads at Vincent in good shape.  By this time it was dark and cold, but we knew there were only seven miles to go and that there were no more climbs.  For me, it was perhaps the easiest seven miles of the trip so far, and the day was rounded off perfectly by the final two mile downhill into Booneville where we stopped at the BP garage.  It was just past 9pm. 

It had been a big day – 103 miles – in which the terrain had changed completely from rolling fields to a forest covered mountain range; but the day was not over yet.  We were informed by a group of locals that there was no accommodation in Booneville, we still had no word from Team Stockham, and we had no idea where they were.  Eventually we managed to hail them on the phone, only to discover that they were in Berea and seriously worried about our wellbeing – they had driven the entire route back from Booneville and not seen us, which was impossible.  In any event they were delighted that we had made it to the end of the route and set off to join us.  While we waited we were comforted by the joys of two Hunt Brothers Pizzas (a mainstay in gas station nutrition) and, in my case, an indecent amount of Coca Cola.

Finally we were reunited with Team Stockham and after loading up Tammy, we sped off to McKee where they had arranged rooms at the Town and Country motel.  Newly refurbished, it was a sight for tired eyes.  All that remained was to solve the mystery of how Team Stockham had missed us.  The answer – their newer set of maps gave an entirely different route from Berea to Booneville.  With mother Stockham vindicated, we resolved that at the start of every subsequent day we would check to ensure that our maps were in fact taking us along the same route.   

Points to note:

• Fred received the less considerate end of road courtesy from a gentleman in a pickup truck, on the road out of Harrodsberg. The two exchanged differences of opinion on fiscal policy, social provision, and the desirability of seeing the country by bike; all through the window of said pickup whilst climbing up hill.

Date: Sunday 19th September   

Route:  Sonora, Kentucky – Harrodsburg, Kentucky 

Distance: 96 miles 

Total climb: 5625ft 

Net climb: 184ft

Food, as anyone reading this blog will have realised, is a central preoccupation of mine whilst out on the road.  It should not come as no surprise then, that as I woke up in the Glendale Economy Inn, my thoughts immediately turned to thinking about what breakfast delights waited for us in the Iron Skillet.  I was not disappointed; the unlimited breakfast buffet was magnificent and we all spent an enjoyable hour there preparing for the day ahead.  Our efforts, were knocked into a cocked hat though by the chap on the table next to us who in addition to the porridge, eggs and bacon and other delights on offer managed to tuck away an entire plate of steak – it was mightily impressive.  Another patron also very kindly gave Team Stockham some tips for what to visit during the day including the whisky festival in Bardstown.  The Skillet had once again proved to be a triumph.

Back to the motel, the bikes were loaded into Tammy and we headed back to Sonora.  It was a Sunday so everything was closed, but it looked like a fun town with lots of antique shops (essentially stocking anything over 15 years old) and bunting lining the streets.  We headed out on SR 84 and although it was a lateish start, the plan was to stop after only 10 miles for what I hoped would be one of my personal highlights of the trip – the Abraham Lincoln birthplace memorial.  It is not often that we get to visit the birthplace of our heroes and for me this was a special moment.  There can be no doubt that they “do” memorials very well in the US – perhaps their short history as a nation means that they are particularly keen to protect and commemorate those people and places that have contributed to it.  The site has a memorial building which marks the spot of the Lincoln cabin, next to the old well.  We spent about an hour at the site and in the visitors centre and it exceeded all of my expectations.  It was past eleven o’clock by the time we were back out on the road, but we were in good spirits and ready to make up the time.

Our route for the next 40 miles took us through a changing landscape where we were enclosed by a series of low, rounded hills known as the Knobs.  Steadfastly refusing to make any jokes whatsoever about our surroundings we continued until reaching the top of a short climb where we were overpowered by the smell of a distillery.  This was not ideal when we were breathing hard whilst finishing the climb, but it did mean that we had arrived at Bardstown – Bourbon capital of the world, site of the whisky festival, and more importantly, our stopping point for lunch.

We shunned the McDonalds on the main road in order to ride to the centre of town and catch a bit of the festival.  The town was lovely with a genuine sense of history, unfortunately, almost everything was shut and the festival was on the far side of town.  After a lot of searching we eventually found a place to eat – the Old Talbott Inn.  It looked like an old English pub, but inside it was a rather different affair.  In the entrance hall, to a rather bizarre backdrop of medieval harpsichord music we were asked if we wished to eat in the restaurant or bar; we eventually chose the bar on the basis that the menu was basically the same and there were TVs showing sport in the bar (including the Patriots v Jets American football game that I had been keen to watch and some women’s football, the standard of which was mystifyingly poor).  After an interminable wait (which had the advantage of letting me see more of the game) we were finally served our food – which, it has to be said, was good.  By this time Team Stockham had also managed to find us, and so we all ate together. 

Our lunch stop had been much longer than intended and so we were keen to get back out on the road.  We were momentarily delayed after I whacked my head on the pub’s wooden sign, but we had to get away.  Back on the bikes we headed out of Bardstown and back out into the green Kentucky countryside. 

We took one more stop twenty miles down the road at the Lincoln Homestead state park, a collection of houses that were occupied by various members of the Lincoln family (most had been moved there from other places in the state) including the house where his father had proposed to his mother.  The houses were closed for the evening, but they provided a good mental diversion from the road and the drinks machine provided a chance to take on board some more fluid on what had been a hot afternoon.  Just after we had set off again we were met by another cyclist who had stopped for the evening.  He was slightly younger than us, and also doing the TransAmerica ride with a friend, although they were planning to take a few weeks longer than us to complete it (in fact these were the two cyclists that we had heard about the previous day in Fordsville – we had finally caught them!).  They were camping at the Lincoln Homestead and recommended it as a place to stop, but we were set on reaching Harrodsburg by the end of the day. 

Make it we did, although, as with so many days, we cycled the final ten miles as darkness set in.  Team Stockham rode at our backs for the final few miles and although this caused some confusion (and tension) as we pulled into the final junction at Harrodsburg, it was very reassuring to have them there.

We hopped off the bikes and loaded them into Tammy, before heading to the eatery recommended by the manager of the Days Inn motel that Team Stockham had booked us into – the Huddle Hut.  It was a curious recommendation as it was a fairly standard burger chain, although Britney, our waitress, did provide some amusement by failing to understand a lot of what we said and proceeding to talk faster that anyone we had encountered to date.  We headed back to the motel, full, and pleased to have made it to Harrodsburg, albeit a bit disappointed not to have seen more of the town.

Date: Saturday 18th September   

Route:  Glenville, Kentucky – Sonora, Kentucky 

Distance: 106 miles 

Total climb: 5,178ft 

Net climb: 209ft

As initially planned, this was to be a monster day of 130 miles; but we had clocked an additional twenty miles the previous day and so felt confident that we could make it.  As it turned out, we were foiled by the heat and the clock.  That said, in our efforts to make it we annoyingly failed to take any decent photos of the day.

Our day began, as it had ended, in the sprawling retail park on the outskirts of Owensboro, with softball players everywhere.  Fortunately it seemed that we beat them all to breakfast, as Denny’s was empty when we wandered through the door.  A chain yes, but a superb breakfast served up by a rather moody waitress (it was tempting to point out that at least she didn’t have to cycle over 100 miles that day, but that would have been churlish).  After we had polished off our sizeable portions, we headed back in the car to the crossroads at Glenville and set off, at around 10am by which time it was already getting warm. 

By the time we had steered ourselves to Whitesville (24 miles into the ride) it was positively warm and the large “soda fountain” in the “gas station” there was soon our best friend.  A few more drinks and a couple of slices of pizza later and our core body temperatures had cooled sufficiently to head back out on the road, although not before Parkes had identified, purchased and eaten a large bar of Dairy Milk chocolate.  This proved to be ill-advised and led to him feeling sick for the next 10 miles of pedalling.  We paused before heading out; first to note some creative graffiti in the toilets (the most memorable example being “the South will raise (sic.) again”) and second to chat to a couple of local kids (aged around 17) on bikes who wanted to know about our trip.  They told us not to expect much on our route over the next 10 miles, but after that they couldn’t say what was in store – they had never travelled that far.  Somewhat astonished by that revelation we headed on to Fordsville – the 10 miles journey that we had spoken about with the lads – and met team Stockham on the outskirts of the town, talking to someone who was in the process of building a car from scratch.  It was the Fordsville motor festival and the whole town was full of “petrol heads” who were “kicking rubber” as well as lots of locals who were milling around and the various stalls and exhibits.  We stopped for a quick look, but resolved that although it looked fun, our time would be better spent pedalling.  We did stop long enough, for another random act of kindness, when a local chap paused to chat and gave us a free bag of cookies each.  He also told us that there were a couple of cyclists a few hours ahead of us.  This was all the incentive we needed – we were racing again!

Once again we had arranged a meeting point with team Stockham at a junction 7 miles past Fordsville, where our map informed us that there was a shop and a gas station.  It turned out to be an idyllic spot where we could lie on the grass under the shade of a tree.  Unfortunately, the shop had recently closed and so there were no cold drinks to be had.  Still, Tammy was stocked full of water and Ma Stockham had bought some fresh peaches so we didn’t go completely without.  Nonetheless, it’s always disappointing when you have your mind set on something and it fails to materialize – especially when at times on the bike there’s little else to think about other than your next drink/meal (note: I think this might be less true for Fred, for whom food plays a less significant role in the day…)

After we headed off from our bucolic haven the heat did not relent one jot and although the sight of large expanses of water at the Rough River Dam was pleasant we really needed some time out of the heat and some more substantial food.  Cometh the hour, cometh the Knotty Pine family restaurant in McDaniels, who not only provided some much needed fries and a milkshake but also gave them for free when they found out that we were doing our ride for charity.  Yet another example among so many of just how kind the American public is at large – such incidents never cease to cheer us and to spur us on towards our goal.

For the rest of the day we continued through the rolling Kentucky countryside and although the temperature cooled, this correlated (as it so often does) with a loss of light.  We spent the last hour of the ride in total darkness, although for the final four miles we were accompanied by Team Stockham on the back, ensuring that any traffic was forced to slow down.

Unfortunately, we had failed to take account of the fact that we were passing into the Eastern time zone and so we lost an hour of riding time; this combined with the heat meant that we couldn’t sensibly make it to our intended destination.  We therefore stopped in Sonora, ten miles short of our target. 

Team Stockham informed us that there were no motels in Sonora or anywhere on the next ten miles of the route, so after loading the bikes into the car we headed north on the I-65, only to strike gold again.  We checked into the Glendale Economy Inn (a bizarre name given the Neo-classical exterior – for those in the know it resembled a certain Hotel Tall Trees…) which was located opposite an Iron Skillet restaurant.  Now I am prone to exaggeration when it comes to the quality of road-side food; but this place was simply incredible.  Open 24 hours-a-day, with a shop and a restaurant, and serving really excellent food; it was exactly the kind of place you would expect to find in the US but which just doesn’t seem to exist in great numbers.  It is a chain and no doubt it would seem soulless after a few consecutive visits, but it was exactly what we needed.  No need to worry about sorting breakfast in the morning.  It was suddenly all about the Skillet.

Date: Friday 17th September    

Route:  Elizabethtown, Illinois – Glenville, Kentucky 

Distance: 87.5 miles

Total climb: 5607 ft

Net climb: – 98 ft

We awoke, at least somewhat relieved that there was no evidence of the mice/bed bugs that the locals had suggested may greet us in our motel room.  As an additional bonus Jay also managed to get one of the televisions working so that we could catch up with what was going on in the world (or the rest of the US at least).  We got dressed quickly into our civvies and headed for breakfast in the centre of Cave-in-Rock.  In days gone by this town had been a den for pirates and bandits, who hid in the cave on the side of the Ohio river.  Today they are a far gentler bunch and a sign in our breakfast restaurant warned us that profanity would not be tolerated.  Coupled with the poster of the Ten Commandments this seemed likely to keep the local diners in check.

After breakfast we drove back to the motel and quickly showered and dressed before getting a lift back to Elizabethtown.  In the light of day Elizabethtown is far more impressive than at night, with a stunning location next to the Ohio River and the oldest operating hotel in Illinois – which we had failed to notice the previous evening.   We loaded the bikes up on the riverfront while Team Stockham chatted to some motorbikers who had just set out on a tour of their own.  After a quick chat with another local about the various towns that he had lived in on the South coast of England during the war, we set off to cycle back to Cave-in-Rock and the Kentucky border.

The ten miles from Elizabethtown to Cave-in-Rock included a number of short, steep hills along a pretty poor road surface, nonetheless, time seemed to pass quickly and soon we were rolling down to the banks of the Ohio River to catch the Cave-in-Rock ferry.  Unfortunately we had just missed the ferry and so would have to wait twenty minutes for it to return from the other side.  Time for a quick Coke break.  We attempted to sit down and relax in the small park made by the locals on the side of the river, unfortunately we discovered (rather later than we would have liked) that it was swarming with thousands of some kind of flying insect.   Having been just about to sit down we ended up sprinting back to the ferry-dock covered in the flying critters and doing our level best to knock them off our shirts, shorts, hair, arms and faces.  We decided that it was altogether safer to sit and wait in the car park for the ferry to return.

Soon enough we were loaded on to the clever little ferry (whose engine room could pivot away from the car-laden deck) and heading across the majestic Ohio River.  This was the second and last part of the route (we hoped!) which we were unable to do by pedal power alone and so constituted our second instance of “legal cheating”.  Once we landed on the other side we were in Kentucky and had left Illinois behind.  We had only spent two days in Southern Illinois but they were very enjoyable indeed: the riding had been fairly easy and the rolling green fields felt a little like being home in Yorkshire; the towns we had seen had been all we could have hoped for and crossing both the Mississippi and Ohio Rivers in the space of a few days was just magic.  Finishing another state so quickly also provided just the psychological boost that we needed. 

After we touched down in Kentucky we made good progress along the gently rolling roads; we passed Yoda’s General Store (nice to know that he’s still occupied despite the end of the film franchise), a lively country auction (we think Fred may have inadvertently bid for a prize pot bellied pig) and saw more signs warning us that there might be Amish carts on the road.  These signs had cropped up a number of times over the previous few days and we both really hoped that we would get the chance to see some members of that endlessly fascinating community.

We didn’t have to wait long; when we stopped in Marion after a further 12 miles for a quick morning break in Subway, we were joined in the queue by a group of Amish teenagers.  It was an incongruous image, but we thought we might embarrass them by stopping to ask them about their choice of lunch venue.  In any event we had to get back on the road – it was getting hot and we still had some distance to cover. 

After another twenty-two miles we stopped in Clay intent on finding a more substantial lunch.  We were met on Main Street by Team Stockham, and popped into Jeri’s Cafe – which appropriately enough had a London-themed decor.   The plan after lunch was to meet at Sebree – our planned destination for the day and see if we could clock up a few additional miles, without needing to ride in the dark for too long.

It was a hot afternoon, but surrounded by large ranches and endless rolling green farmland it was a joy to keep on riding.  We made it to Seebree at around 5pm, where we expected there to be a shop.  There was.  There was also a Tent Revival Meeting; these are events for the local community with music, food and a sermon from a travelling preacher.  The owners of the shop (who also provide accommodation for touring cyclists) welcomed us into the festivities and after we had got the drinks and snacks that we needed after a warm afternoon in the saddle, we sat and listening to a selection of genuine country and bluegrass music.  It was the perfect break, and whilst some (or most) of us may not accept the underlying message and may fail to understand the degree of religious fervour that we encountered at many stages during the trip, it would be almost impossible not be charmed by the warmth and kindliness of the people and the sense of community spirit at the meeting.

With our bodies refreshed and still humming along to a couple of the tunes that we had heard we set back out on the road with a plan.  To sprint the next 13 miles and see how the light was – that would mean we had banked a few extra miles for the day without cycling after sunset.  It was clear that the break had given us a boost because flew, covering the distance in just 45 minutes.  We met Team Stockham and agreed that we would ride the next 7 miles to Glenville and then stop for the evening.  We dropped our pace a notch, but still made it to the crossroads at Glenville before dark. In total we had covered 20 miles in seventy minutes since leaving the revival.   

Delighted with our progress we loaded our bikes into the car and headed off to Owensboro to find a motel.  This proved more difficult than expected as the NSA Mens Class “E” Softball World Series was taking place over the weekend and it seemed that every average softball player in Kentucky had headed to the bright lights of Owensboro.  Nonetheless after a few fruitless attempts Motel 6 came to the rescue.  For dinner – there was only ever going to be one choice – anyone for Appleby’s….?

More stuff….

–          The only real downside for the day was that (not for the first time) Fred’s eyes reacted badly to the sunscreen that we were using and he was rendered effectively blind for the final four miles of the ride.  He would continue in agony until after he had showered and more than an hour had past.  This was not (I was assured) in any way amusing. 

JBS

Date: Thursday 16th September    

Route: Murphysboro, Illinois – Elizabethtown, Illinois 

Distance: 87.5 miles 

Total climb: 5607 ft

Net climb: – 98 ft

The Apple Tree Inn, although not exactly palatial, had afforded us an excellent night’s sleep; so good in fact that we set off rather later than normal.  Unfortunately it did not provide breakfast.  Our hastily concocted plan, therefore, was to head towards Carbondale and stop at the first place that served breakfast.  We rolled the 11 miles into Carbondale fairly quickly, following Greta’s directions to the letter.  By a fortunate happenstance, I had programmed Greta to take us into the centre of Carbondale as we had planned to finish the previous day there.  I had forgotten this and so although we ended up veering about a mile off route, it also meant that we wound up in centre of town, having cycled right through the middle of the university campus.   In an even bigger helping of good luck, Greta took us to a spot which was not only right next to Mary-Lou’s Diner (famous for its breakfasts for miles around) but also on the same street as the first bike shops that we had seen for hundreds of miles.

We checked Rosie and Diana into the Cycle Surgeon to have then looked over and then settled down to an excellent breakfast at Mary-Lous.  A Carbondale institution, the place is covered in pictures of the great and the good that have eaten there over the years.  Our now habitual breakfast of oatmeal followed by some form of eggs/bacon combo was served by probably the friendliest waitress we have had (sorry Pam in Riggins!) and the whole place had a warm and inviting atmosphere.  While we were eating, Team Stockham also arrived at the diner with news that their Garmin GPS (Grace) had broken down.  They were to spend the rest of the morning trying to get it fixed.  Breakfast finished, we headed off, giving Team Stockham strict instructions to visit every bike shop in town and source as much chamois cream as they could buy as we were running low on supplies – a situation that could not be allowed to continue.

As we rode out of Carbondale, past the incredible university sports grounds (the football field looked to have a capacity of at least 20,000 – testament to how seriously they take college sport over here) we had to ride on some fairly busy roads.  All went smoothly save for one amusing driver who instructed us to “get a car” – our second piece of mildly amusing banter in the space of 12 hours.  After deciding to continue on our bikes, in spite of the suggestion, we rode on past a series of magnificent lakes – albeit with peculiar names.  There seemed no obvious reason for calling them “Little Grassy Lake” and “Devil’s Kitchen Lake” but they provided a spectacular background to our late morning.

Save for a couple of “foot-down” breaks, our first proper stop after Carbondale was in the inappositely named Goreville.  Although it sounded like the setting for a budget horror movie, it was in fact a lovely small town and home to the excellent Delaney’s Restaurant.  Inside we had an excellent lunch topped off by two enormous milkshakes and chatted to the locals, one of whom gave us a hugely entertaining lecture on the history, geography, flora and fauna of Southern Illinois.  As with so many places that we have stopped it was a shame to leave, but all too soon the road was calling us again. 

The remainder of the afternoon was spent through the gently rolling and lush green fields of Southern Illinois.  Our late start meant that we had to keep riding into the gathering dark along some fairly busy roads.   This required some negotiation with Team Stockham as to where was best to stop, however we finally climbed off the bikes in Elizabethtown.  Only to head straight into the nearest bar to try and find an evening meal.

We struck lucky again and within half an hour I was sat eating pizza at the bar.  Although Parkes had decided that he wasn’t hungry he wound up in the middle of a discussion with a local named Chris as to the comparative prices of every known commodity in the UK and the US.  Chris’ unceasing wonder at how expensive cigarettes, alcohol, food and the rest are back at home provided a ready source of amusement for all.  He also very kindly insisted on buying beers for us both as his guest and recommended that we should sample some of the local restaurants once we had crossed into Kentucky, including that state-wide institution KFC.

The bar had been the perfect tonic for a stressful end of the day, although we were warned by Team Stockham that the Cave-in Rock Motel might wipe the smiles off our faces.  Even the locals hinted that it might not be the ideal place to spend the night.  The cardboard sign at the front of the motel did not bode well, and Parkes decided to play it safe and sleep in his sleeping bag.  Nonetheless although it was basic and a touch unloved it was great to finally climb into bed, and at a remarkably early time for us.  We needed rest, we were riding into Kentucky the next day and we had been warned that we would need to be on our guard.

In other news….

–          Although basic, the Cave-in-Rock motel was the first place we stayed with two televisions in each room – one for playing videos to compensate for the fact that the television reception was so poor.  It also had arguably the best shower we had on the trip – albeit with a purple bin bag as the shower curtain….

– With broad smiles on their faces the locals informed us that there were two four-star hotels in Elizabethtown – unfortunately they were not listed on our maps.

JBS