Enacting my part in what had become almost a daily ritual, I left the KOA campground while Anthony was still sleeping. I went down some hills for a change, and was able to easily cover the 20+ miles to Lexington by lunchtime.
After a fast food lunch at Wendy’s, I located the Lexington bike shop. I wanted to have my front wheel “trued,” because I had noticed it wobbling a bit. While the bike was being worked on, I asked the mechanic what sort of maintenance I should be doing. The response was essentially, ‘not much;’ he suggested only that I keep the chain moderately lubricated (putting too much oil on a bike chain is a sin almost worse than not oiling it at all, as the excess lubricant attracts gunk and road dirt), and be attentive for any oddities in the way the bike was riding or handling.
As I passed out of Lexington, I rode by Washington and Lee University, and was not impressed by what I saw.
Hoping to camp in Buchanan, I arrived at a service station off of I-81 hot, befuddled by the directions in the guidebook, and very tired. Then, of course, Anthony showed up, and we rode together to a KOA which was four long miles out of our way, but which was the only known camping spot for miles. Adding to my annoyance was the fact that this campground charged us $6 apiece for the privilege of pitching our tents, while the one the previous night had charged only $2. I was on a tight budget, and by the end of the first week I had spent almost exactly $70, out of a total allotted of, as I recall, something just north of $1000 for the entire trip.
Anthony was still somewhat aloof, but soon enough we were brought together by two other campers, Keith and Joe, factory workers from Ohio, who were getting an early start on their Fourth of July celebration. They were “bikers” in another sense, riding Harleys. They cradled their Miller beers in individual foam coolers and swapped ribald stories as Anthony and I listened politely. These two men, older and with more earthy temperaments, gained our interest as they shared seat-of-the-pants life experience, from bikes to babes, that was unlike our own, and fascinating for its novelty.
The shared bonds of maleness and hunger established, the four of us headed to an all-you-can-eat spot Joe had spotted down the road. They invited Anthony and me aboard their motorcycles and we complied, feeling mildly traitorous to our kind. At the restaurant, we pulled in next to two more Harleys. Indications were that these cyclists were of an even tougher breed and, sure enough, having been invited to join their table, we spent the meal listening to racial slurs, stories of sexual conquests, and of course, motorcycle talk. It was all very colorful, yet ultimately a big yawn, and I was happy when the meal finished and the four of us returned to the campground, and our individual spaces.