Imported on 24-Sep-2006 from a LiveJournal of 1-May-2006
When I got to Buffalo, I found Myra had not yet left. So we had lunch together.

There was Nextel service at Buffalo, so I called to see how things were going back at work. It was the first time since I left on vacation. (Nice!) It was already into the afternoon by the time I started south again.

The road south of I-40 follows the Buffalo River valley to Lobelville and Lindon, and then follows a ridge for several miles before dipping down into the valley at Flatwood, and then out again. It was mostly just a matter of slogging into the wind up and down hills with the usual twists and turns, watching out for trucks, and taking snack breaks at gas stations at Lobelville and Lindon.

This sign in a churchyard in the valley got my attention:

I wouldn’t refuse to worship together with the people who do that, but I’d first have to build up some reserves of energy for a) arguing with them or b) keeping my mouth shut. If I had a time machine I’d go back and tell Henry VIII and Martin Luther that this is what happens if they’re not careful about taking the church in nationalistic directions.

After I climbed the twists and turns east of Flatwood, I suddenly realized that the traffic had disappeared. Where it had gone, I don’t know. Not only were there no more trucks, but cars were few and far between, too. I needed to make a turn south, to Waynesboro. I came to an intersection with a road that went off to the south, but it didn’t look like much of a road. The road to the east looked like this.

The road to the south looked like this.

I wasn’t sure if it was the right turn. It was getting late and I didn’t want to have to backtrack and re-do any of the miles into the wind, nor did I want to go off on some old road who knows where. It was time to ask for directions.

But there was nobody to ask. Several miles back, while taking a photo break at the bridge over the river, a driver had stopped and asked if I needed help. That sort of thing happens often. So I stood by my bike alongside the road, studying my maps. That’s often all it takes. Finally a car came along, and ignored me. A few minutes later I heard another one coming, so stood by the road with my arms outstretched, map in one hand and helmet in the other.

That worked. It was a pickup with two men, looking like maybe they had come from work. I asked if this road to the south was Highway 13, the road to Waynesboro. “Are you going to Waynesboro?” the older one asked. “You can take that road. It will save you a couple of miles.”

Is it any good for bicycling?

“It’s about like this,” he said, pointing to the bit of it you can see in the photo. He looked at the younger man and he agreed. “It will save you 3-4 miles,” he said. They wished me good luck, turned around, and drove back the way they had come.
Well, that was a bit strange, but I was all for saving miles. I rode down the hill, and found that the road was NOT as good as the part in the photo. But it was ridable, so long as I didn’t try to ride fast. And later when I had better maps I found that it had NOT saved me 3-4 miles. It had saved me only a mile. But I got a photo of an old double log-cabin that was falling apart — something I had been wanting.

Back on Highway 13 I was riding with the lumber trucks again. Once in a while I’d get a whiff of the smell of the logs. Red oak it smelled like. I never got to verify that it was red oak, though. I presume white oak would be better for furniture wood, but I guess I don’t know that for sure, either.

By the time I got to Waynesboro I needed my light and reflective vest. I even got off the road a couple of times when there were too many trucks in the dimming light. 66 miles for the day.

Photos fixed, 1-Aug-2007