I got a late start from Ashland, and was done riding by 3:30, electing to camp at a picturesque (and free) campground in Mineral rather than push on any further.
Mineral proved to be a pleasant little town. After making camp, I walked down the main street, bought a beer, and observed the Boy Scouts holding a meeting in the local church.
Although Anthony started after I did on this day, he eventually passed me, and I assumed he would continue on to Charlottesville, but about 6:30 in the evening, he rolled in, as I was heated my canned lasagne dinner. He became a bit more sociable as we shared a few beers. Thankfully, the predicted rain never materialized.
Some of the older folk I met at the local country store cast a cloud over my day with their dire predictions. One old mountain man in particular had cautioned:
“It’s dangerous, doing what you’re doing, a young fellow like you, not even 21.”
“But I’m 23,” I protested.
“Oh … well … you’ll never make it over those mountains,” he grumbled.
Another, a woman, wanted to know what I’d “be” when I quit riding, a question that I thought I had avoided for the time being. My answer was evasive, but she nevertheless assured me that her “prayers would be with me,” as she glanced heavenward. “Only a miracle can save this wayward soul,” she seemed to be thinking. I felt doomed.