The next day was September 2nd. It was the day to go up onto the Blue Ridge Parkway. Alan had warned me earlier to make the climb early in the morning, but my position didn’t allow that. Most of the morning’s ride was along the river grade, parallel to train tracks.
At Vesuvius, the woman in the store said that the climb to the Blue Ridge Parkway was the steepest on the whole route, and that most people walked it. I tried not to pay much attention to that statement. Finishing my Gatorade, I turned right into the hills. It was 1 PM.
Initially, the grade wasn’t too bad, but soon, I had shifted down to my lowest granny gear, and was standing. I intentionally shielded my mind from distractions. I did not look up, or at traffic, or even at my cyclometer. Most of my time was spent counting pedal strokes. 40 seated, 40 standing.
On the way up, I saw lots of black-and-yellow caterpillars crossing NON-perpendicular to the road.
Soon enough, the climb ended. I had seen much worse in California. The Parkway was beautiful. It followed the ridge, where only native forest was visible for miles around. Although strikingly beautiful, the Parkway, with its constant ups and downs, was almost as exhausting as the climb up.
Just before Dripping Rock, I stopped at an overlook to rest. There was a girl there, a college freshman that had driven up in her car. Blonde, blue-eyed, and pretty, she was sitting alone on the wall, sunning and writing letters. She was wearing a long tiered cotton skirt, and a jogbra (she had removed her blouse to catch some sun). The kind of stuff that college dreams are made of. I asked her to take my picture, but had enough class not to try to take her picture.
On the way down, I found Afton, the home of the Cookie Lady. It was a perfect stop for the night.
I marveled at the incredible goodness that June Curry had poured out over the years. She offered food, and even had the kitchen stocked so that bikers could cook their meals. Every wall of her large house was covered in postcards. Over 6000, I heard. She had 28 bulletin boards set up, filled with articles that cyclists had sent her, describing their trips. Tons of souvenirs of every size and type filled one corner. There were 21 photo albums, filled with pictures of the thousands of cyclists that had stayed there. On one cabinet alone, I counted 17 bags of mail. The sheer volume was breathtaking! On one wall, she had put up all the wedding invitations and baby announcements that people had sent her.
I sent June a card after the trip, of course, and we sent her a wedding invitation when we got married the following year. I wonder if those were added to the display? June actually sent us a small candy dish as a wedding gift. It was amazing, and a bit embarrassing, because she had little money to spare.
When I asked, June said that she would accept donations, but that it was really OK if I didn’t want to.
That night, I made my Friday check-in call to Merrianne. She sounded in a down mood. I thought about what I could do from 3000 miles away to cheer her up.
June let me use her phone in the main house to call Merrianne. I also met her Father, “Dad,” who had respiratory trouble. I recall helping to blow up some balloons for some kind of party.