DATELINE: May 24-9, 2017
States 30 and 31, West Virginia and Kentucky
7.4 Mile hike in the Monongahela National Forest near Lewisburg, WV
62 mile metric century ride, The Horsey Hundred, Georgetown, KY
Preparations for this challenge began in April, when I finally made the jump to clipless pedals, a long time goal of mine, then promptly bought a Merckx aluminum and handed down my Trek Lexa SL bike to my husband. That forced him into clipless pedals as well, and also provided him with a fast, comfortable, modern bike of his own. So in theory, we were poised to become a cycling couple, and Kip was no longer a cycling widower. Additionally, we made the leap to birding couple by birding the Watchung Reservation in mid May with true birders Henry and Deborah, so we had binoculars with us as we headed into the birding hotspot that is West Virginia. Our ultimate destination was the 40th running of the Horsey Hundred, a recreational cycling extravaganza based in Georgetown, Kentucky. Bikes, birds, and horses: what a winning combination.
I loaded the bikes in the old minivan, and Kip and I hit the road on a Wednesday at 9 am, right as rush hour dwindled. We had no particular agenda for the day beyond arriving in Lewisburg, West Virginia by the end of it. Route 78 turned to Route 81, and we headed south around Harrisburg and crossed a bit of Maryland and found ourselves in Middletown, Virginia, site of a crazed, harried, topsy-turvy Civil War battle: the Battle of Cedar Creek.
Civil War sites disappear under asphalt and sheetrock every day. Under constant development pressure, usually only a tiny corner remains, with a forlorn plaque commemorating it, next to a shoddy strip mall with pawn shops and dollar stores. Not so Cedar Creek. Soldiers stealthily slipping through the hayfields have been replaced by cows.
The Heater House survives, from which a Union sympathizing mother sent her sons off to die for the Confederacy. It was a field hospital during the battle. And in the near distance, the Belle Grove Plantation, a site of the National Trust for Historic Preservation, presides over the battlefield as it did then.
We indulged in a bit of birding on plantation grounds, bagging mountain bluebird, cedar waxwing and eastern meadowlark, then we were treated to a private tour of the plantation house, which has been restored to its 18th century glory.
Built by Isaac and Nelly Madison (as in sister of James Madison) Hite in 1797, it served as headquarters for the Confederate, then the Union generals, all in the same day, as the battle raged literally in the front yard. In later years this gem served as a roadside inn and as a weekend home for a gentleman who had the generosity and foresight to will it to the National Trust. The limestone home is meticulously preserved, and I would live in it in a heartbeat.
Any plantation home carries with it the stain of slavery, so I was curious to see how the subject would be covered in our tour. Our guide did not shirk from his responsibility or sugar coat the facts. He stated them outright without a trace of politics either way, but my impression was that he did so in almost hushed tones, seeming uncomfortable, even contrite. We didn’t talk about it much. It was kind of like, “Yeah, so THAT happened. We all know it, we all regret it, even though we didn’t do it, We as a nation did it.”
But the last stop on our tour, in the root cellar and winter kitchen, surrounded by pictures depicting the lives of slaves on the farm and in that time, we watched a filmstrip. Here, we were treated to the kind of history that is probably still taught in schools throughout the south. There was a syrupy quality to it. “The workers were slaves, but they were allowed to do as they pleased once the work day was done, and blacks and whites were almost one big diverse, happy family kind of crap. I don’t know if they meant it to placate certain visitors to the plantation who were raised to believe that slavery was good for the planters and equally good for the slaves, or whether they plan to update the narration, but I am going to write and suggest they review their own filmstrip and check their white privilege at the door.
Drive drive drive. By the time we reached Lewisburg and turned the key on the 1853 mansion we were to call home for the next two days, it was raining hard. We walked to dinner through the drizzle. The hostess said she hated this time of year. The fronts march across Kentucky like Union soldiers intent on the sea, and when they encounter the resistance of the Alleghenies, they dissolve into tears, in the form of rain. Prospects for the West Virginia challenge, only vaguely conceived by yours truly, were dampening by the hour. We drank local beer and splashed our way home, hoping for a brighter morrow.
Next morning, I set out early to explore Lewisburg on foot. Voted the Best Small Town in America in 2011 by something or other, maybe even the Lewisburg Chamber of Commerce ;), this is a lovely spot. Architecture ranges from log cabins to Victorian charmers, with proud, square-shouldered federals like our Air BNB occupying the middle ground. There are plenty of restaurants and shops to interest visitors, but none besides coffee shops were open at 7 am for me. After an hour or so, I went home to meet up with my husband. The weather forecast called for flood warnings through 9 am, then a break till one, then more downpours, so we knew we had best get a move on if we were going to do any hiking.
Our destination was the Blue Bend Loop in Monongahela National Forest. Enduring a mystery squeak in the car so annoying that I was tempted to count tolerating it as my challenge for West Virginia, we made it to the parking lot in about 40 minutes, stepped out of the car, and immediately were enveloped in the steady drone of a roaring river. There was a ranger standing in the center of the lot, looking for all the world like he had just stepped out of Central Casting. He even had a dog named Blue. You can’t make this stuff up. In a drawl as steady as the shower that had just descended on us, he explained that the water was high enough to block access to the valley from one side. He had found Blue tied up at a campsite, no car around, Blue in danger of being cut off from rescue, so he took her with him. He said the river was still rising, and that he didn’t think our trail had been cleared since the storms of the prior year, with big trees down over the path. hmm.
Anyway, after a longish chat about the fire road that led up the ridge, we crossed the bridge to reach the start of the Blue Bend Loop. This is what we saw under our feet.
With the far side of the bridge already underwater, and the water still rising, we abandoned the hike after 25yards and headed uphill on the fire road. Discretion over valor.
We climbed a steady 3.6 miles in overcast, no rain, no other hikers. There were a couple rangers in trucks and one man pulling a camper. Everyone’s final word after conversation was Be Safe, which was sobering. We determined to beat the weather if we could. I had visions of the car being swallowed by the river, and wished I had moved it to the high end of the parking lot. But while I was worrying, was were hiking, and birding. We saw scarlet and summer tanagers, blue-headed vireo, heard a barred owl, got indigo bunting by eye and by ear (Fire!Fire! Where? Where? Here! Here! See it! See it!), eastern towhees galore and somebody with a tangerine throat, probably a female blackburnian warbler. We put in a call to Henry and Deborah, and they couldn’t think of another bird with that color…
At the top of the ridge we got a fine view of both the surrounding ridges and of a towhee advertising his territory with a rousing chorus of “Drink your Tea!” And we turned for home.
Seven and a half miles total, the car didn’t float away, we didn’t get drenched. In fact, it didn’t rain the rest of the day. Go figure. A bit of West Virginia in the bag. we got a late lunch and a Guinness, bought some cheese and crackers and wine in a local shop, and ended up having dinner at the French Goat, a lovely little place right across the street from our home.
The next morning, facing a four plus hour drive to Georgetown, we still had time for more West Virginia adventures. I wanted to go rafting, but with the rivers all in a muddy torrent, we figured that was going to be impossible. North of the highway a bit, we could have explored the lower New River Gorge and the highest metal bridge in the nation, but harkening back to our early parenting days, we opted to head south and view the Sandstone Falls. This is is slow roller that an unconscious Lassie slipped over after falling in the river in an effort to rescue her boy from the mean rancher next door and his gun in the 90s movie of the same name… Whatever. It was something to do…
We picked our way round puddles and construction equipment on a long ass access road to the park and falls. Here and everywhere in West VA, we saw evidence of Robert C. Byrd, the senator who served for decades. He was able to get stuff done for his constituents. He was probably Chair of Appropriations, a powerful perch indeed.
This road really did need improvements, and the people living along it did not have much. Many folks seemed to have decided that a mobile home was their best bet, wheels allowing them to escape the unpredictable river and its endlessly malleable banks. We had a right good time birding near the falls, once we remembered to bring our bins with us from the car. Kip got his first common redstart, which had no red, but a goodly amount of orange. Also had a yellow breasted warbler and a yellow throated warbler. I think… It’s now June 19, and I don’t have the best notes…
Kip took the wheel, and instead of backtracking, which was my unvoiced plan, he continued on, the construction zone now finished, and went straight up the ridge. The road was close to terrifying in a minivan with bald tires, low clearance, and 150,000 miles on the rusted chassis. I found my voice and voiced it. One lane, rocks, washouts, steeps beyond steep, like my recurrent nightmare where the car flips back over on itself. This for 7 miles, an eternity. Even longer for Kip, because as I mentioned, I had found my voice.
Just as the road was hinting it might flatten, a beat up old pick up truck ambled towards us, and an older couple in faded fabrics eased to a stop to allow the driver’s side windows to align for a spell of conversation.
“how’s the road up ahead? Is it passable?”
“oh, you’ll be fine. It’s just a few chuckholes…”
And so we survived and left West Virginia in the rearview, crossing into Kentucky. The terrain in Kentuck is classic rollers, and the drive gave me plenty of time to coach Kip on how to ride them. There is always another hill in view. Do yourself a favor and keep your gears up and keep working so that you can almost crest the next with a minimum of fuss. He likes to go slow on the downhills. That will hurt, here. He nodded sagely, but he doesn’t really listen when I tell him how to bike.
The Horsey Hundred is in its 4oth year. That means they really know how to do this cycling thing. We checked in, got our dorm rooms, took the bikes out for a very short spin, and then treated ourselves to the food trucks and live band. Some guys in their early 20s shared our table. They said it was their first century ride and what should they bring. I said Gatorade, water, food, the cue sheet, oh and sunglasses. They didn’t even know that they would need glasses..
A century ride is nothing to take lightly, if you plan to complete it. I was wrestling with myself. The weather forecast was pretty ominous. The ride organizers were texting us instructions for how to save ourselves in the event lightning chose to enter our bodies. Did you know that you should crouch with your heels touching and your elbows on your knees? I tried to do it, but with my tight hamstrings, I found it difficult to stay balanced and toppled over.
After a restless night featuring endless slamming of fire doors at both ends of our dorm and of every room along the corridor, I gave up on “sleeping” and arrived at breakfast at 6:15, to find a LOT of riders already eating, talking about one thing: the weather. I didn’t meet one person who planned to ride the hundred. I made up my mind to do the metric, 62 miles. Riding in storms is not fun. I was looking for fun.
I crossed the start line at 7 am on the dot, knowing it was going to be too early for rest stop support for the first 30 miles, but wanting to beat the weather. I stumbled through the first few miles, where the arrows were white and faded, not matching the green I was expecting. I texted Kip to warn him…The weather was overcastish and warm, but not oppressive.
Early on, in a bit of fog, a loud and bubbling birdcall caught my attention. I looked up at a fencepost and saw a bobolink. This is a blackbird with a white back. They are in decline because they are grassland birds, ground nesters, and lawns do them no good at all. Additionally, the hayfields they rely on in rural areas are often cut too early, before their young have fledged. I have only seen these birds once before, in upstate New York near Canton, and I was captivated by them. One expects to see crows out walking the fields, but not with creamy white backs! The bobolink sighting was worth a second text to Kip.
There was, literally, no traffic. The countryside was gorgeous, the rollers kept lining up like infantry, and I powered through, sharing much of the ride with Dave, a train engineer. He had a Ragbrai jersey on, and told me he had ridden the Bicycle Ride Across Iowa four times. He said, though, that the Horsey Hundred is his favorite ride of all.
We saw horses, lots of horses, and I stopped at the top of a roller to make friends with one chestnut colt. He had a brass nameplate hanging off his halter. It said Ocean Magic. That is the name of his mom. Watch out for a colt out of Ocean Magic in a year or two. He will make a name for himself.
A chicken, and much later, a rooster, crossed the road. Why? For an instant, it was impossible to guess. But when I saw the flock of turkeys, I had my answer. Why did the chicken cross the road? To avoid spending her day with a bunch of turkeys. As for the rooster, no telling what that bad boy was up to…
Dave was riding strong, and hanging with him was a challenge. He rides in his big ring, the high gears, all the time. I usually stick to the small ring unless I know that the terrain ahead is flat or downhill. Anyway, by the time I got to the final rest stop, fifty miles in, my left foot was screaming, and all I could think of was I WANT TO GET THIS SHOE OFF.
I sat in the grass, rubbing my toes, looked up, and there was Kip. He was thirty miles in on the 42 he chose, and we both were facing the final twelve. He said he was being passed by grandmothers exclaiming, “On Your Left!” He does have his own way of riding, that’s for sure, but he is ok with it, and he made me laugh, which I sorely needed.
Given our disparate styles, we decided to ride in apart from each other. Dave had gone on ahead, saying he was tired and just needed to get done. I know the feeling. It’s the Emily Haselton This Needs to End feeling. I arrived at the rest stop in that condition, but a foot rub and a lot of Gatorade helped, and I was able to enjoy the final stretch run, like a colt out on a morning gallop. Sixty-two glorious miles, no rain. Wow. I showered and waited for Kip. It wasn’t long till he glided in, having ridden his Longest Day. Together, we indulged in the sumptuous lunch offered at the cafeteria from 1 pm to 7 pm and stared into space along with other dazed and happy cyclists.
After duel naps, we found an Irish pub featuring actual Irish people and practiced our gift of gab. Dinner at the very popular old warehouse with a young vibe but so-so food finished off our day. We were already of a mind to skip the next day’s ride in favor of exploring Kentucky further. And after miles of pedaling, the slamming fire doors did not seem so loud overnight.
Sunday dawned, as we knew it would. I forget what the weather was. The folks at breakfast who make long distance rides the basis of their every vacation were making plans to ride again, but Kip and I thought we had seen enough rollers from a bike seat that we knew what it was all about. We headed for Old Friends. Old Friends is much like Best Friends, only it’s in Kentucky, not Utah, and it is a rescue only for thoroughbred racehorses. Michael, the owner, is on intimate terms with all the resident horses, from Kentucky Derby and Preakness winners War Emblem and Silver Charm, all the way to Genuine Reward, a son of the legendary Genuine Risk who never raced and who was once listed on eBay for $500. Every horse here, famous or a nobody, is a somebody on equal terms, and truly loved. They all have found their forever homes in the Kentucky bluegrass, grazing their days away. I was in tears at the opening movie, laughed my way through the tour, and cried again at the close when leaving a donation in support of the mares.
My favorites were Game On Dude, who won $6.5million and was owned by Joe Torre, and War Emblem, winner of the Kentucky Derby and the Preakness, who decided one day he was not going to run another step. He later decided that he was not going to breed another mare for humans. Ever. I admire his independent streak. I left with a heart full of memories, a new Game on Dude baseball cap, a War Emblem pint glass, and a postcard of Genuine Risk running with her little Genuine Reward by her side. If you ever find yourself near Lexington, KY, check out Old Friends.
Country roads, take me home, through the place I belong, West Virginia… (John Denver). I wanted to sing but spared Kip the agony as we took a northward swing out of Georgetown and headed for Parkersburg, WV, situated on the Ohio River. Parkersburg looked like a ghost town. We walked down to the river to do a bit of birding, and we met a tour guide who worked at a local historic site. He recommended we check out the Civil War overlook on the bluffs above the river.
Afterward, the streets were empty. We had trouble finding a place to eat, but figured out there was a restaurant at the historic Blennerhassett Hotel downtown. Lovely place, not too expensive, and we had a decent dinner there, though the service was oddly pokey. Not southern necessarily, just odd. No other way to describe it. You may be asking yourselves, what were we doing in Parkersburg?
Good question. I was in pursuit of Alexander Hamilton history. At the turn of the eighteenth century, a very wealthy Irishman named Harmen Blennerhassett purchased an island smack in the middle of the Ohio River and built an incredible plantation house. It burned in 1811, but has been painstakingly rebuilt and meticulously restored. Harmen and his wife were rich, but not wise.
After he had gunned down Alexander Hamilton, been acquitted of murder, and left the vice-presidency, Aaron Burr concocted a plan to capture all the land west of the Mississippi River, which was French and Spanish but was in the process of becoming American since the Louisiana Purchase. He was going to establish his own country and make himself king. And he needed funds. And he found the Blennerhassetts. He gladly took their money, then tried to raise an army. He had about 60 men, which was hardly enough. Long story short, Burr was tried for treason but never convicted, and Blennerhassett lost everything and returned to Ireland to live in shame, supported by a sister. Incredible story, but pretty much true, though my memory is not perfect. Oh, and you can see Aaron Burr’s deathmask in Parkersburg. Check out the museum before you board the ferry…
There are no roads to Blennerhassett Island. We took the ferry and signed up for a horse and wagon tour and a house tour. Both are excellent. The mansion houses many antiques originally owned by the Blennerhassetts. And there is another fascinating house out there. It was moved to the island because it was the home of the Blennerhassett’s best friends. They used to walk across the Ohio back in the day to visit them. This second, more modest house reminded me a lot of my own farmhouse. The folks who own Blennerhassett Island are in the process of restoring it. What an amazing place to visit on Memorial Day.
Thoroughly pleased with Parkersburg, we caught the 12:30 ferry and grabbed a quick sandwich at the only open place in all the city. Then we shared the drive and wended our way home through friendly West Virginia, trafficky Maryland, and tidy Pennsylvania farm country before rolling in the drive around 9 pm. Several life birds, a good hike, a trip through thoroughbred country in the slow lane, and a bit of edumacation. Who could ask more of a spring weekend?
