My Cross-Country Bike Tour

Read my final note and thank-yous:

So this is it. No more camping out in the Colorado woods alone, no more getting caught in the rain in 40-degree weather, no more meeting wacky strangers on the side of the road. Sometimes I thought that I’d never make it, but I’m finally done. My cross-country excursion is complete… [read more]

Donate to The Arc (www.firstgiving.com/xiaoyu)

Finale slideshow of pictures from the Midwest and the South

I am 13 miles away from Yorktown and I’m currently resting in a hotel in historical Williamsburg that Joanne Hansinger of The Arc of the United States has arranged for me. I’m set to travel the final few miles tomorrow with some other cyclists from a local cycling club who will be joining me.

Section 12 went by more quickly than most of my other maps. From Christiansburg I traveled to Lexington, where the owner of the Country Inn & Suites gave me a room for the night. I traveled from Lexington to Greenwood the next day and crossed over the Blue Ridge Parkway. My entrance onto the Parkway at Vesuvius consisted of a four mile climb that I would have to credit as being the steepest I’ve encountered on my trip. I spent my last night outdoors at a campground in Greenwood, where I met two cyclists from the Netherlands who were just starting out on the TransAm from Yorktown. The weather in the area has been pleasantly cool and I was shocked to hear that it had been over 100 degrees in Yorktown when they arrived a week ago. As they, in turn, questioned me about the roads that lay before them, I was reminded of my conversation with Philip, the British cyclist who I had encountered so long ago in eastern Oregon.

After Greenwood, I rode to Kents Store, a small town some 50 miles away from Richmond. While riding through the area, I met Kent and Susan, who were spending time with their grandkids outside of their house. I had originally stopped to ask for directions to the town’s only store (it was unmarked on my map). A couple of towns that I had passed previously had stores that allowed cyclists to camp in the back, so I was hoping that I’d be able to negotiate a similar arrangement here. Kent pointed me in the right direction and I headed off, but no more than a few minutes later, he and his grandkids pulled up alongside me in a minivan and generously offered to let me stay the night at their house. Kent and Susan cooked me dinner while I showered and we chatted a bit afterwards over food before heading off to bed. Susan prepared breakfast for us all in the morning before we parted ways. I had an excellent night’s sleep and again I felt comforted to have been in the midst of such hospitable people when I was so far from home.

I spent yesterday night in a Wal-Mart parking lot in Mechanicsville, a small community right outside of Richmond. There were no campgrounds to be seen when I arrived in town and some sort of convention going on had the lodging booked solid. Mike, the manager of the aforementioned Wal-Mart, would not let me sleep inside of the store as I had first hoped when I walked in looking for a place to stay, but he offered to let me rest in his car for the night instead. I gladly accepted and headed out to his car after feasting on a quick yogurt and macaroni salad dinner. Mike’s car was surprisingly comfortable and I fell asleep quickly.

I had a short day today from Mechanicsville to Williamsburg. I passed through a few Civil War battlefields around Richmond early in the day before pressing on to the Colonial Parkway at Jamestown. From Jamestown onward, the land becomes very swampy; why anyone would choose to establish a colony here is beyond me. There were informational signs along the way and I stopped to read many of them: throughout my entire trip, I had passed through many areas of historical significance that I had studied in school but did not particularly care for until now. Of course, it’s much more meaningful to go visit a place than to simply read about it in a textbook.

13 more miles. I can’t believe it’s almost over.

I’m almost at the end of my trip. Though I ride through unfamiliar territory, each day has taken on familiar feel. My equipment functions perfectly, and when it doesn’t, I know how to fix it. The sharp aching that I felt in my legs so long ago at the start of my trip has been replaced by a mild soreness that never seems to go away. I’ve become more adept at making the right decisions; it’s been a long time since I spent that freezing night at Muddy Gap. And a few days ago, I felt as though I had exhausted the potential for adventure in my trip. I could not have been more wrong.

Back in Kentucky, after I left Berea, I continued through the foothills of the Appalachians. As I was riding just outside of a small town called Booneville, I felt something hit the back of my head with such force that I was unable to hear for several seconds. Moments later, a lone car rushed past me and I hit the brakes hard. I touched the back of my neck, where I felt some sort of object lodged in my skin that I was unable to remove. I saw a man working on a house down the road, so I rode over and asked him to take a look at my neck. He told me that it looked as though I had a BB stuck in my skin. At this point I was concerned because I was unable to pull it out myself. The guy working on the house told me that the nearest hospital was around 30 miles away, so I set off in search of help in Booneville. Eventually I knocked on the door of a house on the side of the road, where I met Jenny, who confirmed that I had indeed gotten shot with a BB. Jenny helped me call Sister Marge of a nearby church, who agreed to drive me to the hospital while Jenny looked after my bike. Sister Marge and I had a pleasant conversation during the drive down, after which she sat for over two hours in the waiting room while I went in to have the BB removed. It was a superficial injury—the doctor cut the BB out of my neck in a matter of minutes and he let me keep it as well as a copy of the x-ray the nurse took of my head. By the time I was finished, however, it was dark outside, so Sister Marge offered to let me stay in her house for the night. The next morning, she cooked breakfast for me and drove me over to a pharmacy to pick up some antibiotics the doctor had prescribed before taking me back to Jenny’s house. Sister Marge refused to let me give her any gas money—she had even paid for my emergency room visit. The whole experience was quite a shock, but what was perhaps most surprising to me was that I had encountered two strangers of such different character on the same day: one who had shot me with a BB gun and another who had gone out of her way to help me.

From Booneville I rode a short day to Hazard, where the folks at the Hazard Hotel generously let me stay for the night. Along the way I met another man named John, who listened patiently as I vented about my experience in Booneville and who helped me put things in perspective. I had a similar reception the next day in a convenience store near Hindman where Jerry, the owner, presented me with a silver dollar after I chatted with him about my trip. That night I camped under the gazebo in the city park in Elkhorn City, a few miles away from the Virginia border. The park was located next to the swimming pool, whose owners and their friends brought me dinner and allowed me to use the pool showers. I had been hearing about the coal trucks in Kentucky since Missouri, but I’ve only seen a handful—most likely because I passed through the truck routes during the weekend.

The following day I got caught in the rain soon after moving into Virginia and I sought refuge for the night in the Elk Garden United Methodist Church near a steep climb called Hayters Gap, which I tackled the next morning. I went off-route soon afterwards and took a shortcut towards Marion to save some mileage. As I was biking through Marion, I met Dave and Sheila, a couple who invited me to be their guest in their newly constructed bed and breakfast, the Collins House Inn. Dave and Sheila had done all of the work on their inn by themselves—everything from installing the heating and cooling pipes to furnishing the rooms—and I felt as though I had walked into a five-star hotel when I stepped inside. Dave gave me a tour of the inn before we all enjoyed an amazing dinner prepared by Sheila—she even did my laundry and filled me up with a delicious stack of waffles the next morning. Their bed and breakfast had not officially opened for business yet and Dave and Sheila told me that I was their first guest to have stayed with them, but they were such affable people and accommodating hosts that I was surprised to hear that they hadn’t been hosting people for years. They refused to accept any money and I felt genuinely refreshed as I headed on to the last leg of my journey.

Section 10 is done. I now only have 750 miles—eastern Kentucky and the whole of Virginia—standing between me Yorktown. The biggest obstacle I’m facing is the Appalachians, the last mountain range I’ll cross on my route. The general consensus on the Appalachians seems to be that they’re a souped-up version of the Ozarks. Judging from the severe-looking elevation profiles indicated on my final two maps, I might’ve arrived at that conclusion by myself. But I’ve come this far already, so I guess I’ll just take the hills as they come.

Kentucky surprised me. Some parts of it so far remind me of Oregon. In fact, one county road that I took today wound its way through a ravine covered in greenery; if it weren’t for the humidity, I could’ve been convinced that I was riding the trails back home. Other parts are reminiscent of Kansas: farmland, albeit on rolling hills. I’ve even seen some turtles on the road, including one very grumpy snapping turtle, just like I did in Kansas. Then there are the features that are unique to Kentucky alone. Right outside of Bardstown, I rode by a huge liquor distillation facility made up of 20-30 separate five story buildings. At first glance, I thought that I was passing a prison, but the sign out front informed me otherwise. I also passed by Abraham Lincoln’s birthplace on my ride from Rough River Dam State Park. That completely took me by surprise—for some reason I had always thought that Lincoln was born in Illinois.

I’m staying at a Days Inn in Berea tonight. I met up with two kids around my age outside a nearby restaurant who were flying RC planes. Apart from Bob and Violet in Sebree, I hadn’t had the chance to have a real conversation with native Kentuckians, so I was happy to talk with them while I ate my dinner.

I left Bob and Violet in Sebree and ended up in the Rough River Dam State Park the next day, where I met up again with Noah and John after patching up flat number six. The weather in the past few days had gotten comfortably cool at night and so we all split the cost of a campsite in the state park and stayed outside. I whipped up a bag of my favorite mashed potatoes and ramen noodles, showered, and crawled into my tent. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was in for a sleepless night.

At around 2 AM, loud noises outside of my tent woke me up. It was John. “Xiaoyu,” he said, “I think some raccoons got into your panniers. They’ve ripped some bags.” At these words I instantly snapped out of my stupor. If raccoons had damaged my panniers, I would’ve had a serious problem on my hands. I got dressed as quickly as I could and bolted outside, all the while imagining myself picking up both of my front panniers (where I store all of my food) and discovering two large holes at the bottom. As I arrived at the picnic table that I had leaned my bike against the previous night, I noticed that I was standing in the midst of a miniature garbage dump. Shredded Ziploc bags and granola bar wrappers were scattered everywhere. Fortunately, the panniers were okay. One of them was a bit scuffed up from the dirty paws of whatever animal had gotten into it—it had the remains of what looked like one of my fudge Pop-Tarts spread across the front—but it was otherwise unharmed. I sorted through the garbage on the ground, where I found two survivors: a cereal bar and my very last Clif bar. The raccoons had cleaned everything else out—about $20 worth of food. In frustration, I threw both the cereal bar and the Clif bar down on the picnic table and headed off to the bathroom. Unbelievably, when I returned, both bars were missing! As I stood by the picnic table, I heard a noise coming from the drainage pipe in a nearby ditch. It was the unmistakable sound of a Clif bar wrapper being dragged across the pipe. I was furious. I grabbed my pepper spray and emptied the entire bottle in front of the pipe. The raccoons had taken everything from me, right down to my last Black Cherry Almond Clif Bar (my favorite) that my parents had given me back in Oregon. I had been saving it for a special occasion.

When I finally did get back to sleeping, it didn’t seem like long before the sun rose and the humidity inside my tent forced me back outside. With nothing to eat, I rode to a nearby gas station and pigged out on junk food before continuing.

From Carbondale I took a shortcut and rode a relatively flat century over the Ohio River into Sebree, Kentucky. The official route from Carbondale to Sebree would’ve had me cross the Ohio farther south and I would’ve needed to take a ferry. After remembering my run-in with the construction site near Togwotee Pass in Wyoming and the grave sacrifices I made during that pivotal moment in my journey, I considered taking the ferry out of the question. Consequently, I took the shortcut, which put me instead on a bridge over the Ohio and which kept my wheels turning under my own power the entire time.

I’m currently staying for a rest day in Sebree with Bob and Violet of the First Baptist Church, two legends of the TransAm Trail whose hospitality is so well known I’ve been hearing about it consistently from other cyclists since Kansas. I had two excellent meals with them and Violet even helped me wash my cycling clothes, which I had worn every single day for the past week. Needless to say, they were pretty rank and I was glad to be able to put on some clean underwear.

The Ozarks put up quite a fight—some of the grades I climbed were significantly steeper than anything I tackled in the Rockies—but I made it across alive. What was troublesome about crossing the Ozarks was the humidity. On some hills I’d be sweating buckets and none of the sweat would evaporate, leaving my shirt and bike shorts soaked. I’ve gotten into a bad habit of not washing my clothes regularly, so when the sweat finally dried, it would leave behind a white, salty deposit.

When I left Everton several days ago, I didn’t hit the Ozarks right away, but the terrain did get increasingly severe as I headed east. My next stop was in Marshfield, a small town next to an interstate. I had hoped to camp in the city park in Marshfield, but I pulled into town on the 4^th of July and the park was crammed with people trying to get seats for the rodeo and fireworks show that night. Marshfield isn’t a large town, but their fireworks display was very impressive nonetheless. It was such a muggy night that I didn’t even bother pitching my tent after everyone had left. I pulled two benches together in a concession stand and tried to get a few hours of sleep. Soon after I spread out on the benches, however, a group of flies arrived and started pestering me. I guess I smelled worse than I thought. At around 4 AM I had had enough. I cooked a quick breakfast, packed up, and hit the road. When I passed through the town of Houston, I stopped by the Houston Motel, where the owners offered me a few bottles of cold water before I rode on. I eventually ended up in Summersville, where I spent the night at the Family Youth Center.

The next day I pushed onwards through the heart of the Ozarks to Centerville. I had heard from some of the locals that cyclists were allowed to camp at the courthouse in town, so I rode on over. There I met the dispatcher in the attached sheriff’s office, who gave me directions to the bathrooms and places I could camp for the night. Our conversation was interrupted every now and then as she paused to run license plate checks for deputies calling in, coordinate over her radio two teams of paramedics bringing a man who had had a heart attack to the hospital, and talk on the phone to a man complaining about his neighbors. I was surprised that such a lightly populated area could have this level of demand for emergency services. I was also impressed by the dispatcher, who kept her cool and focus the entire time. Later on, things settled down and we talked briefly in between reports of an ATV accident before I left the office and fell asleep on a bench in the courthouse.

I left Centerville the morning after and headed towards Farmington. Along the way I met the Grubbs, a family running a fruit stand near St. Joe State Park. I had stopped to chat and they offered me a soda and filled me up with fresh peaches and apples. Their hospitality was just as refreshing as the cold drink and fruit they gave me. In Farmington, I stayed at the Tradition Inn for the night before pushing onwards to cross the Mississippi River into Illinois.

I’m currently staying at a middle school in Carbondale along with several other cyclists who are on a ride to Chicago. I owe tonight’s accommodations to Jon, the owner of a bike shop called The Bike Surgeon. Jon drove back from home during his dinner to reopen his shop, where he spent over two hours personally servicing and addressing my concerns about my bike. What’s more, he brought me dinner and found a place for me to stay for the night. My bike runs as good as new now and I’m all set to tackle the Appalachians.

All right, so I’m officially not in Kansas anymore. Kansas wasn’t quite what I expected. I didn’t get to pull uninterrupted centuries through the state, I didn’t get to visit the Cosmosphere and Space Center, and—perhaps worst of all—I wasn’t able to reenact my “Fields of Gold” daydream. Oh well…better luck next time.

Moving on…today I had a brief encounter with another flooded road on Missouri’s side of the state line and I had flat tire number five near a small town called Jasper. The terrain is starting to get hillier as I head towards the Ozarks. I’ve been given varying reports on the difficulty of the Ozarks: some westbound cyclists I’ve asked simply shrug them off as no big deal while others cringe at their mention. One thing that everyone seems to agree on, however, is that they’re quite steep. I guess I’ll just have to see for myself.

Throughout my trip I’ve also been hearing unpleasant things about the motorists in Missouri, but that doesn’t seem to be the case for me. As far as I can tell, the people are just as friendly as in any other state that I’ve passed through and, given how the roads around here are so snakelike and hilly, I’ve found the motorists to be of above-average patience. On a random note, I’ve discovered that some of the highways in Missouri are lettered (for example, highway “A” or “HH”) instead of numbered. It’s very strange.

Tonight I’m staying at the Running Spring Farm Hunting Preserve and Inn, where the owner, Bill, has kindly allowed me to sleep on the couch for the night. Looks like the clouds are clearing up—it’s starting to get hot and humid again, so I’m glad to be able to spend the night in an air-conditioned room.

Exotic animal farm (check Day 48) and other interesting stuff.