Name that cyclist: Susan wants you to give her a "trail name" for her Appalachian journey.
Yesterday I finally got round to changing the pedals on my bike from toe clips to clip-ins, a seemingly small alteration which has led me to Heaven. Five minutes after setting off again through the town of Damascus I slowed to look at an inviting B&B, tried to unclip, failed and two seconds later hit the pavement with both feet still securely connected to the bike. After lying like an overturned beetle while I scraped my dignity off the floor, I managed to extract myself from the heap of metal and tarpaulin and took the hint. Now, almost 24 hours later, I am sat on the front porch of the Montgomery Homestead typing this blog after a brilliant day exploring this hub of hiking, cycling and, bizarrely, Harley Davidsonly activity.
Damascus lies a quarter of the way into the Appalachian Trail, a 2,100-mile trek from Maine to Georgia, which takes hikers on average five months (unless you're 'Sparks', a Brit from Southampton Uni who's aiming to do it in two and a half - you go girl!). It's also a stop-off along the Virginia Creeper Trail, an old railway track which has been turned into a fantastically sensuous ride through dense forest, draping creepers and tumbling creeks. I rolled into the town through the Jefferson National Forest after one almighty thunderstorm (where ironically I sought shelter in the house of the almighty) and was treated to a Jurassic Park-esque journey, complete with weird calls and steam rising off the dripping trees.
People here know their stuff, you can buy everything and anything you would possibly need for months on the road or trail and there's a real feel of respect for nature. And as it's the only place for miles around where you can do this it really is an oasis. I bet you can hear the relief in my voice, can't you?! The ride here was eight hours of lonely forest road interspersed with flashes of mad panic as dogs came careening out from behind seemingly deserted trailers aiming for my tyres. So I've never been happier to land face down on the pavement before in my life.
I even crossed my first state line - taking a quick trip into Tennessee which is three miles away and explains why a lot of people here speak with heavy southern accents. After all the rain everything is very green and sultry but the waters in the creeks are dangerously high.
Oh, and I should point out a fact which was tactfully put to me at breakfast this morning by hosts Susie and Gaines. The Blue Ridge Mountains are actually in the Appalachians. Which would explain the curvy nature of the roads, the coal traffic and the righteousness of my Dafoe-in-Platoon keening.
And now I really need everyone's help. All the people who come through Damascus have a 'trail name,' (see Sparks) a nickname which they use for the duration of their trip. People have asked me for mine and I haven't got one. Before I regress into a junior school victim mentality can people please chuck some ideas out there? Keep it clean. And no, the Littlest Hobo simply will not do.
This blog has been powered by Cliff Bars, organic energy bars without which the author would simply have fallen apart.
