My prayers for companionship, offered up with increasing frequency as my solitary daily routine began to pall, were unexpectedly answered today.
I didn’t get away from Rural Retreat until 11 a.m. after cleaning up after a botched, burned breakfast of French toast. Once underway, however, I encountered some of the easiest riding thus far. The guidebook gave me advance notice of a 3.5 hill in the Jefferson National Forest, but even that proved not especially difficult. Following that climb, a swift downhill and a little more brought me to Konnarock. From there, I continued down for another 12 miles, finishing this easy 42 mile day by coasting into “The Place,” a large house that had been converted into a hostel for Appalachian Trail hikers and cross-country bikers.
I readily plunked down my $1.50, which bought me shelter, water, and the company of other like-minded souls, and began to mingle with my compatriots. I discovered among them 11 other cyclists who were part of a Bikecentennial-sponsored trip, two Appalachian Trail thru- hikers, and two women cycling cross-country together. Then, sometime after my arrival, another solo male cyclist showed up.
It was the latter fellow, Jeff Day, from Massachusetts, with whom I bonded. I appreciated his ironic, irreverent sense of humor , and immediately felt that I had found a kindred spirit. He too was aiming for the West Coast and shared my quest-like vision of our undertaking. We agreed to join forces.
And the great hunger for voyages rose up in him — to come always, as now at dawn, into strange cities,
striding in among them, and sitting with them unknown, like a god in exile, stored with the enormous vision of the earth.
Thomas Wolfe, “Look Homeward Angel”
Perhaps it was an attitude that connected us, one not dissimilar to that of Wolfe’s Eugene Gant. Both of us — Jeff, for whom things were always black and white, clear-cut, and I, for whom this trip had been a welcome relief from dithering, uncertainty, aborted plans, and closet nightmares — both of us fancied ourselves “gods in exile,” sharing a feeling of self-importance laughable in retrospect, but forgivable in a young person setting out in life.
We both appreciated that this job we had set ourselves was not only a physical challenge, but one of constant escape, constant self re-invention. Not put upon by the unfinished tasks of the static life, we were freed to flee, again and again, from rootedness. At every stop, every town, village and hamlet, we could, parasite-like, extract the essence of the place, free of any duty or obligation but to live our role of “traveler … adventurer,” our mildly risky task giving my normally staid self a welcome whiff of iconoclasm, the always-changing scene providing Jeff new ears for his jokes and stories.
That these jokes and stories would become a bit tired to my ears, or that Jeff’s over-the-top gregariousness would leave me longing once more solitude were events in the future, that night in Damascus. On that pleasant summer evening, I was looking forward to sharing my journey with a companion.
Embracing the fine weather, Jeff and I both elected to camp outdoors, rather than sleep in the house. I had become quite comfortable sleeping in my little bivy sack, an orange waterproof shelter just large enough for my sleeping bag. Folded into its stuff sack, it was very tiny and light, making it ideal for a trip such as this. On a night such as this, I could dispense with the rain fly, and fall asleep looking up through the mesh at the vast sky and stars above.
