Sutton, West Virginia

 



West Virginia continues to dish up a steady diet of climbs exceeding a mile or more.  Most of the climbs are followed by a descent of equal length, but after some the road will level off for a spell. At the summit of a five-miler I was greeted by a cluster of homes, one of which was holding a yard sale.  

Two older guys, who had parked across the road from it, were walking over to the sale as I approached.  One said to the other, “That’s the healthiest man in all of West Virginia.”  I was too far beyond to hear if there was a response of “and the craziest,” as they may have also thought.  Who in their right mind would want to be pedaling up these steep monster climbs on a bike, loaded or otherwise?  I certainly didn’t see anyone else doing it.  

The road out of Hinton the day before along the New River took me over another of those long climbs.  I was having an enjoyable, strain-free ride along the scenic river, which I presumed would be continue for ten miles when I would depart from its gentle banks.  But after less than three miles I came upon an unexpected huge hump in the terrain which led to the New River Gorge National Park and the Sandstone Falls Overlook five hundred feet above the river.  

Those five hundred feet were among the 4,699 I did for the day, by far the most of these travels and on a day when I rode the fewest miles, fifty-five, thanks to all the climbing.  It wasn’t my lowest average speed, however, as I’d had a couple worse days thanks to headwinds.  Most of my day spent climbing was on roads with little traffic and few habitations.  The route also included two state parks in the thickly forested terrain. I was back amongst abandoned homes as I had been in Kansas.  

One made for an easy shelter to camp behind.  My tent appreciated the soft grass after the many nights of lumpy ground in forests pocked with roots and rocks poking at its underside. 

Just as Kentucky abounded with businesses and roads taking the name of Blue Grass, West Virginia has abounded with businesses of Mountaineer this and that.  I spent a few miles on a four-lane highway, 19, that is known as the Mountaineer Highway.  A smaller road leading into it had signs identifying it as the  scenic Cranberry Corridor.  

Litter is such an issue that in addition to the frequent “Unlawful to Litter” signs, there is an occasional “Proud People Don’t Litter,” trying to shame people from what seems a natural propensity in West Virginia.  The roadsides are so thick with cans and bottles, it is as if motorists consider tossing bottles and cans a divine right, such as carrying a firearm, thinking that littering only applies to dumping loads of refuse.  There is no urge to pick up the litter.  I’ve come upon only one or two stretches that have been adopted, unlike every other state where services organizations and businesses and individuals are happy to put their name on a sign saying they’ve adopted the next two miles.  Ironically, foster parents wanted signs turn up all the time. 


At least the church message boards provide some amusement.  Its not clear if pastors are posting sermon titles or just some witty, homespun homily such as “Sin is a short word with a long sentence,” “A smile is happiness right under your nose,” “Tweet others as you’d like to be tweeted,” and “Inflation has not effected the price of salvation.”

I thought I might have something else to gather along the road when I saw a recycling center advertising that it bought lead tire weights.  I didn’t stop to see what they were paying, as I certainly wouldn’t be in the neighborhood again, but later went on-line to see what the going rate might be.  If each were worth a dime or more, I’d be tempted to stop for them, as I once did for cigarette packs when they were worth close to a quarter on redeemable merchandise.   The internet quoted a price of thirty-one cents for a pound of the lead weights, making each worth just a couple of cents, leaving me curious as to who would bother to collect them, as it would take quite a few to add up to even a dollar.  I was  glad I could tune them out.  

Sundays used to be a day when I worried about charging my iPad, as it would be rare to come upon a library with Sunday hours.  But shortly before I left on these travels I replaced my iPad, as it had several cracks, one of which was fogging up.  Before the cracks had become an issue, I’d been tempted to simply replace its battery, which I didn’t realize wasn’t possible, as it needed recharging with increasing frequency.  

When I took it in to Apple I was surprised to learn it was still at 88 per cent of its original capacity.  The new one though holds a charge so much better that I haven’t once fallen below fifty per cent in all these weeks, and I’m able to fully charge it each night in my tent with a mini-battery I’ve charged with my generator hub all day.  It’s wonderful to be freed of continually being on alert for outlets for additional charging, though I always take advantage of them when I’m at a Taco Bell or MacDonalds.  

Most, but not all, of the franchises have an available outlet.  It takes some prolonged  snooping at times to find one.  At one MacDonalds I was wandering all over after putting down my helmet and handlebar bag at a table.  Someone thought I couldn’t remember where I had put them and pointed them out to me.  When I told him I was looking for an outlet, he happened to know there was one in the children’s play area, where I then sat amongst the frolicking kids tending to my business of eating and charging.  On those rare occasions when an eatery doesn’t have an outlet, it’s no longer the disaster it had been, since the battery is so strong. 

I was initially reluctant to travel with an iPad, concerned about keeping it charged.  Now it’s not an issue at all.  I continually marvel at how the iPad has enhanced the touring from its precise GPS assistance, photography, not having to sign in for a computer at libraries, podcasts, ebooks, email, FaceTime and more.  It’s hard to imagine how I got along without it.