|
Want to be notified when the blog is updated? Want to share your own story or offer some encouragement? Want to mock me until I'm a blubbering wreck? Whatever the reason, click HERE to send me an email. If you've got something to say, I want to hear from you. I'll honor wishes to remain anonymous, but make no other promises. Anything you send might (or might not) appear in the blog. | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
|
Road Magic Yesterday, sandwiched between a Halloween party and throngs of trick-or-treaters, Dawn and I walked from Doswell (home of King's Dominion amusement park) to Carmel Church, where we stopped in at Mount Olympus Farm.
Road Magic is the unexpected, serendipitous pieces of good fortune that befalls someone taking a trip on the road. If you stop for gas while you're out on a long drive and Angelina Jolie, who just happens to be at the pump next to you, says, "Hey there, sexy. Want to star in an R-rated romance with me?" (substitute Brad Pitt if you're female...or just otherwise inclined). That is an example of road magic (as well as a far-fetching imagination). For Dawn and me, the road magic was a little more subdued, but appreciated nonetheless. Although rain had battered our cars for the entire drive up, it stopped as soon as we put on our ponchos and stepped out onto the road. We walked the 5.7 miles over rolling blacktop with a constant eye on the sky, but the weather remained cool and windy day. Leaves were flying through the air and I kept snapping at the air in an attempt to catch one. Dawn had better luck without even trying. She caught one right in her eye. As I laughed and laughed, Dawn told me that Karma would get back at me. Sure enough, a short while later, a pine needle cluster speared me in the noggin and made me shriek like a little girl. I was worried the bad Karma would spill over to today, and sure enough, when I set out the rain was dumping down on me again. This time I was by myself, and when I got up to Mount Olympus to walk the next leg of my journey, I lingered inside before taking off. Finally, I threw on my poncho and headed out the door. As with yesterday, the rain stopped almost immediately. I was out on the road for almost 3 hours�walking the 5-� miles through Golansville to Ladysmith and then turning around to walk back to my car�but the rain held off the entire time I was on the road. Then, when I got back in the car and started it up, the rain started pattering once again on my windshield. Freaky. Usually, the kind of the luck that finds me is the "bad" kind. But I'll this sort anytime I can. Thank you, Road Magic. Surry to Scotland I drove out to Smithfield today to interview the editor and owner of The Smithfield Times. As long as I was in the area, I decided to follow the interview with a hike out to the Scotland Ferry. I'd parked my car in Scotland and walked the 4-� miles to Surry, passing by browned corn stalks and fields of cotton plants weighed down with the bulky, white blossoms. There were also signposts planted in peoples' yards proclaiming their stances on a proposed coal-fired power plant in Surry. Living on the other side of the water, I haven't followed much of this discussion, but over here the issue had greater consequence and it seemed like every other yard professed the opinion of its owner.   Surry County neighbors express opposing views I turned around to hike back to my car and made it only about a third of the distance when a stranger stopped to offer me a ride. How nice! Since I'd already logged the mileage in one direction, there was no need for me to tromp back again. He dropped me off at the ferry, which I rode across the James River. The car ride got me to the finish about an hour earlier than planned and I still had some daylight left. Lucky for me, because otherwise I would have missed seeing the Jamestown Pie Company, a hole-in-the wall joint on the side of Jamestown Road. It may have been tiny, but it was a great find! I stepped in and ordered up a chicken pot pie before I'd noticed they didn't have any tables to eat at. I couldn't wait the half-hour to drive back home, so I ate it in the parking lot. Not quite the dining experience that delicious pie deserved, but it would have to do. After all, I wasn't gonna let that sucker get cold. I was so happy with my chicken pot pie that I ordered a bumbleberry pie as well. Mmm, I can't remember the last time I had bumbleberries. Probably because they don't exist. That was just the name they gave to a pie that was a mixture of several berries. That pie, too, was scrumptious. But it was more than I should have by myself. I thought of the generosity of that stranger giving me a lift and decided, begrudgingly, to bring it in to the office tomorrow to share with my co-workers. The bums better appreciate it. And they better thank me and pat me on the back and grovel at my feet. How's that for the spirit of generosity? And it's not even Thanksgiving yet. Yellow Blazing to Fredericksburg My planned route from Richmond to Fredericksburg runs a straight line for 50 miles following Route 1. Though both ends of this 50-mile stretch include some built-up areas, most of the highway passes through quiet and fairly empty country. I wish I could tell you that it was an exciting piece of road but that would be a lie.   Move it along...nothing to see here Route 1 is a long, dull swath of tar that runs 2,000 miles along the East Coast from Key West up to the Canadian border. It does pass through important sites and major cities�Miami, Philadelphia, New York City, and so on�but along the way it goes through a whole lot of nothing. The little stretch I walked did include some very interesting stops along the way�Mount Olympus Farm, the Virginia Bazaar, James River Cellars�but you'll have to go to the Virginia Living blog to read about my stops at those places. Here I'm going to talk about what happened between those waypoints. When I'd stopped in before at Mount Olympus Farm, I'd met a kindred spirit in Calicoe Richir, a worker at the farm. When I told her about my walk across Virginia, she nodded appreciatively and then told me about her own "little hikes." Shortly after she graduated from Mary Washington, Calicoe and a friend hiked 250 miles of the Appalachian Trail, starting out at Springer Mountain in Georgia and walking through parts of Tennessee and North Carolina. Yowza! After telling me of the joys hiking in the woods, she rather aptly summed up what I was doing: "You're a yellow blaze guy." The smile on her face told me she knew I'd ask the requisite follow-up. "A yellow blaze guy," I said, "what's that?" "The AT is marked with white blazes," she explained, "so people who hike the trail are called white blazers. When you're out on the trail and you come to a road and follow that instead�to go into town or a hotel or something�then you're called a yellow blazer." I thought about asking if the term "yellow blazer" was meant to also imply being chicken, but she wore a playful smirk on her face and I decided I didn't want whatever answer she had loaded and ready to fire. I get enough abuse from Dawn. As I trekked the long stretch of blacktop from Thornburg to Fredericksburg, there was little to see on side of road. There was a junkyard of a house I nicknamed "Gas Station Sign Nirvana" and Mr. B's Bluegrass Park (closed till spring), but most of the hike was just mindless trudging. The sky, for most of the time, was overcast, adding a gloomy pallor to my hikes. Calicoe's comments weighed on my mind, and it seemed I was just logging miles, trying to make it to the next destination. And. Time. Inched. Along. But then I reminded myself of the well-worn (and true) saying: beauty is in the eye of the beholder. If I looked hard enough, I could enjoy a certain rustic bliss in my solitary walks. The soggy remnants of frequent rain were not enough to dim the splendor of trees changing color, their leaves a bright patchwork of auburns, reds, and golds. As I passed by clapboard dwellings far removed from the road, I got a warm feeling from the smoke meandering from their chimneys. And when I finally entered the built-up areas surrounding Fredericksburg, I found I missed the serene setting of my walk in the country. Too many things in life are this way: never fully appreciating something until it's gone. True, I need to log a buttload of miles to accomplish the goal I've set out for myself, but I need to explore and appreciate the areas I walk through as well. I need to make being a yellow blazer something of which to be proud. Never Doubt Dawn Although yesterday's walk took me up to the Fredericksburg city limits, my route from Virginia Beach up to that point still had a few gaps in it. Today I was planning to fill one of those in: the 10-mile stretch from the Virginia Bazaar in Ladysmith up to Thornburg. Dawn came with me today. We rode in one car and I figured that she would browse and shop at the bazaar while I went walking and then come pick me up. But, to my surprise, she said she wanted to hike it with me. "Are you sure?" I asked. The farthest she'd ever walked at one time was 7 miles; today's distance was almost 1-� times that distance. "You remember how you felt on our last walk, don't you?" That walk had taken place a week ago and taken us 5-� miles along the same highway we were now getting ready to hike. "Yeah, I know. It kicked my butt. But I don't want to come up all this way and wimp out now." Not only did she complete the 10 miles, eclipsing her previous longest walk by 3 miles, but she did it at one of the fastest paces we've walked together. Usually, we lollygag and jibber-jabber as we walk, but this time we were racing to beat the sun. We lost the race though, and the sun dropped below the horizon before we were anywhere near the finish line. I'd packed two flashlights in my ruck sack and we shone them at oncoming traffic. Most cars moved over into the second lane, but some of them stayed near the edge and we had to hop into the ditch every now and then. Do we know how to have an exciting Saturday night, or what? There was a giant hill just before we reached Thornburg, and after we crested it we made a mad dash for the stoplight that marked the end of today's walk. As we crossed beneath it, Dawn paused to let out a cheer. "10 miles," she said. "TEN MILES!" Then she punched me. "I can't believe you doubted me." Blast from the Past Though I earlier bemoaned the way time slows to a creeping crawl when I'm out on the road, occasionally friends accompany me on my walks and help to make time fly. Such was the case today. A couple of weeks ago, I broke down and joined FaceBook. I'd been urged and invited and pestered to join for years, but I'd held off for the same reasons I don't like to order things online: I'm paranoid that my personal info will fall into the hands of nefarious types and that I'll fall victim to some digital scam. But, after months of writing this blog, my online reticence has withered and died. Within days of joining FaceBook I got messages from people I hadn't heard from in years, and in some cases, decades. One of these people was an old high school friend, Dawn Morrison-Kingston. When I last saw Dawn, she was a quiet and smart girl in high school. She has since become a runner, competing in several long road races and even completing a marathon (information that would have helped me out if I'd known about it sooner).
I started out at what I thought was a strong pace, but Dawn glided along effortlessly beside me and said, "We can go faster if this is too slow for you." Ouch. This was about the time that I found out about her becoming a runner (told you the info would have helped). But it was too late to slow down. The gauntlet had been thrown down. The challenge issued. My manhood assailed. I picked up the hem of my skirt and kept up with her as best I could, but it was a losing battle. Worse yet, I was the only one fighting. All kidding aside, the walk was pleasant and it was fun to catch up on old times. We chatted about our hometown, friends we both knew, and what had happened in our lives over the last two decades. We walked a little over 9 miles from Yellow Tavern (just north of Richmond) to Ashland. It took us 2 hours and 26 minutes (just under a 16-min-per-mile pace) but when we finished I told Dawn it only felt like 2 hours and 20! At the end of our walk, I took a picture of Dawn walking and showed it to her on the camera's screen. She frowned and said, "I look better in thumbnail." She commented that I wasn't in any of the pictures from today and I thought to myself, Well, that's because you still look fresh as a daisy and I feel like a trampled weed. Outside one of the Randolph Macon buildings, we plopped down on a concrete bench and I whipped out the post-walk food I'd packed for both of us. I'd brought along a couple of bananas and a couple of sandwiches I'd made with TLC (well, that and mustard). Dawn had been on the same wavelength as me, making two sandwiches and bringing along a couple of pears and a couple of snack bars. It was a little much to eat at one sitting (at least, if I want to remain "incredibly shrinking"), so we each ripped one of our sandwiches in half and shared. Afterwards, we headed over to James River Cellars (more about that in the forthcoming Virginia Living blog), where the manager, Mitzi Batterson, gave us a behind-the-scenes tour. In the tasting room, we sipped a dozen of their award-winning wines and I had someone snap a photo of us together. Some of my confidence had returned. It might have been the warm buzz of fermented grapes in my system or the knowledge that with my body weight I could drink this little waif under the table. Arrgh, it's good to be a man! The Storm of the Decade I laughed when I heard the news teaser on Tuesday asking viewers to stay tuned for the 11 o'clock news when they would give details on how to survive "what may be the storm of the decade." Hyperbole, I thought to myself, it's just the best thing ever! But, here I sat, stuck at home for days due to the storm I so cavalierly dismissed. There are only two ways out of Poquoson, and one of them has been closed off for the past three days. As remnants of Hurricane Ida lashed Virginia with rain, the storm surge pushed the tide up over much of my low-lying hometown. My home has been safe, but I've been marooned for much of the time. The main road leading out of my neighborhood is impassible at high tide, when water from the surrounding marshland creates a lake on the blacktop. Worst of all, I've had to live the past few days without Internet (if you can call that living). Oh, the horror! I don't mind using a flashlight to find the bathroom, but how can I survive without instant messaging and brainless surfing? It's amazing how dependent I've become on something I can't even hold in my hand. But the past few days have felt like I lost a dear friend. A drug-dealing, co-dependent friend, but a pal nonetheless. The wind finally died down somewhat and the power is on (for now). At low tide last night, I drove over to the Subway in the center of town and found the Food Lion parking lot filled with RV's, campers, and cars trying to get out of the flood zone. Calling Ida "the storm of the decade" might be a stretch, but she still packed a punch. Forrest Gimp It's amazing how many people (guys mostly) I've met who, like me, have Plantar Fasciitis. Before I was diagnosed with this problem a couple of weeks ago, I'd never even heard of it. Perhaps this is just a case of becoming more aware of something because it now involves you. Just like when you buy a distinctive car, say a yellow VW Beetle. Beforehand, you never see them on the road; but after you buy one, they�re everywhere. Same thing applies for other cars (except, of course, for Yugos. If you buy one of those, you won�t see any more of them on the road; but you will give your neighbors something to laugh about) and for debilitating ailments. My ailment is Plantar Fasciitis, a swelling of the tendons that run underneath the foot and connect to the calf, which causes intense pain in the heel of the foot. The strange thing is that it feels somewhat better once I'm moving around on my feet�not 100% better, but slightly improved. But then when I stop moving around, the tendons tighten up and the pain is worse than before. It's insidious. The worst time of all is in the morning when I wake up. When I get out of bed, it feels as if I'm stepping on a nail in the morning. The reason why is because we point our toes when we relax and the tendons under our feet tighten up overnight. When I take that first step in the morning, the fibers rip anew, making the healing process take longer. My doc suggested I keep a towel at my bedside so I could hook it over my toes and stretch out my foot before taking that first step in the morning. That helped some. Instead of stepping on a nail, it felt like I was stepping on a tack.
Hashing Things Out Dawn came with me today on a road trip. We were going to the Virginia Tech vs. Maryland football game (which the Hokies won...yea!), and as long as I was driving all the way up to the DC area I decided to get in another walk. I wanted to connect up with the point I'd left off on my earlier walk in the DC area (Oct 2-4), but I kept driving around in circles on the confusing network of streets. I'd drive past on a nearby highway close to my designated starting point (the western edge of Arlington National Cemetery) and would somehow wind up farther away. Then I'd turn around and pass by it again. Dang! (Although the words I used at the time were a tad harsher than "Dang"). When I finally got it figured out, there was another problem. I couldn't park near the starting point. There was nothing around but high-speed highway lanes. So I hopped outside to do this first leg on my own and Dawn drove the car 1-� miles down the road to wait for me. It had been dark and storming for the entire drive up, but I was determined to walk no matter what. Clad in my bright orange poncho, I stepped out prepared to get soaked. But then the rain stopped. It was "road magic" all over again. The rain held off and didn't start back up again until I reached the parked car. Then just after I hopped in, the first few sprinkles dotted the windshield. "This is too strange," Dawn said. "It usually works the other way for me. It'll be clear all day, then when I start doing something it will pour down on me." Ever the gentleman, I tried consoling her. "It's just Mother Nature trying to put you back in your place." Okay, so I'm not much of a gentleman. But you already knew that from all my cussing at the traffic circle. We drove the car another 5-� miles west on Arlington Boulevard to Falls Church and parked it at a pancake house, where I called for a taxi to take us back to the spot we just left. "This way," I told Dawn, "we can have pancakes when we finish." But my promise was in vain because it took the taxi nearly a half-hour to pick us up, which was the time I had counted on using to wolf down a short stack. Dawn has been with me for a lot of my walk across Virginia, and I have kept track of her mileage as well as my own. Before today's walk, she had covered 99.4 miles with me. So, today, when she had gone a little over a half-mile, I let her know that she'd just reached 100 miles. You should have seen her dancing on the side of the road. Dressed in her yellow storm suit, she looked like the Gorton Fisherman on speed.
Then we realized he wasn't whistling at us when he waved across the street at two other runners. The whistling man turned and ran off while the other two crossed the street and followed. Before the other two reached our position, the first man stopped, sucked in a breath, and blew three more times. Tweet, tweet, tweet. Then he turned down a side street and ran off again. "Omigosh," I said. "These are hash runners!" Dawn looked at me like I was crazy. Well, she knew I was crazy, but she thought I might have dropped another step on the ladder of my dementia. "What are you blathering about?" she asked. Hash running is a group activity where a "hare" gets a head start and runs a course that "hounds" are supposed to follow. The hare marks the course with blue chalk dust and the hounds follow this "scent." The guy we'd seen with the whistle was one of the lead hounds and he was using the whistle to let the rest of the pack know where the trail was marked and where it turned. Over the next half-hour, another dozen-or-so runners followed the same course and turned down the same street. "Hey, look at this," Dawn said. We'd just run across another one of the blue chalk markings. The hare's trail had wound back out of the nearby neighborhoods and was back on the main thoroughfare. Moments later, the whistler came jogging out of a side street and was about to pass us by for a second time when I asked him about his organization. He jogged in place and told me about the Mount Vernon Hash Harriers, which runs a 4-6 mile trail every Saturday somewhere in the Northern Virginia area. Following the run is a social hour, which includes beer (or water, if you prefer). On their website, they bill themselves as a "drinking club with a running problem" and describe their sport as follows: Hashing is a non-competitive form of exercise with great entertainment, relaxation, and a weekly release of frustrations and energy. (To distinguish this from your sex life, it's also held outside, with lots of other people around. If that also describes your sex life, you'll have to define hashing for yourself.)If I ever get back into running shape again, I'm definitely going to try hooking up with this club. What a fun group. Of course, that won't be until after I complete my long walk. Today's walk only knocked 7 more miles off my 1200-mile journey, but I feel a whole lot closer to the end now that I've reached the northernmost point and turned west. And I don't even have a hare marking the way for me. Tweet, tweet. O. B. E. I learned some great sayings in the Army, one of which was "Overcome by events," or simply O.B.E. What that means is that something you planned to do didn't happen because of other extraneous events. In this case, I planned to walk the 5-� miles from Stafford to Garrisonville in conjunction with a business trip to the area. My office was sending me up to Stafford for the day so I was planning to do my walk after our work was done. I even arranged for one of my co-workers to drop me off at my starting point. I mean, if I was going to drive 2-� hours north to a place that sat right along my planned walking route, how could I not take advantage of it? Here's how: when the workday was over and we headed out to our cars in the parking lot, mine had a flat tire. I changed it out with the donut in the trunk and made new plans with the guy who was going to drop me off to follow him home for a while in case I had any trouble with it (Thank you, Jim). Still, it looked like I was going to get my walk in when the office sent me up to Stafford again 2 days later. This time, we were going up later than before so I made plans to get my walk in before we started working. However, I was on an article deadline and I had to take my nephew somewhere and it was raining all day and yadda, yadda, yadda, next thing you know, I missed another opportunity to get in my walk. Of course, the Army had another saying they loved to use for someone who constantly fails to get something done: FUBAR. The last 4 letters of the acronym stand for "Up Beyond All Recognition." You�ll have to figure out the �F� for yourself. Anyway I didn�t want to be labeled as being FUBAR (yet again!), so I made plans to do this walk tomorrow. As the saying goes: Third time's the charm. The Best & Worst of People Dawn and I drove up to Fredericksburg today and checked in to the Inn at the Olde Silk Mill, an opulent hotel on Princess Ann road at the edge of town. I told the woman at the front desk, a lovely newlywed named Jennifer Clore, about my walk and she quickly agreed to drive us back to my starting point. How sweet and generous. If there's one thing I've learned walking around this great state, it's that most people want to be kind and help someone out given the opportunity. Which is great, because I'm full of opportunities. Jennifer dropped us off at the southern border of town (thanks again, Jennifer), the spot where I had left off on November 6 when I was "Yellow Blazing to Fredericksburg." I strapped on my ruck and off we went, following Route 1 north until we veered off on 33 to weave through this interesting burg. We passed by the University of Mary Washington, a confederate cemetery, and various sites and shops in Old Town. All this in 3-� miles. When we walked back to the Inn, we hopped in the car and drove up to Stafford to complete that walk I tried to do two times last week. The walk from Stafford to Garrisonville was fairly dull, but something noteworthy occurred before we even started walking. Garrisonville was a little far for us to beg a ride from Jennifer, so we drove up to Stafford and called a taxi. After waiting for nearly a half-hour, it showed up and drove us 5-� miles up the road. I couldn't see a meter anywhere (nor posted rates or any of the other things I've seen in reputable taxis), so I asked how much I owed when he dropped us off. "Thirty dollars," he said. I ducked back to dodge the bolt of lightning I was sure would hurtle down from the sky to smite him, but no. There is a sad truth I've witnessed on the road: though most people would love to help you, there are many who wish to hurt you. At times, cars have veered toward the shoulder as they've approached me, the sound of laughter trailing from a window as I jump into the ditch. I've also had people yell at me out their windows as they passed. But this cab driver gouging me seemed worse. The others were more spur-of-the-moment occurrences that were either fueled by booze, immaturity, or inbreeding. But this was calculated. I felt angry and sad at the same time. Not a great way to start a walk. Luckily, my bad mood didn't last long. About a mile into the walk, I remembered that today was my nephew Ryan's birthday. My family has a tradition of singing Happy Birthday to whichever one is unlucky enough to be celebrating at the time. I say "unlucky" because the manner in which we sing is bad. Intentionally bad. Intentionally, horribly bad. I whipped out my cell phone and Dawn huddled next to me as I punched in the number. There had been an accident on the road (no, it hadn't been the taxi...rats!) and both lanes of southbound traffic were backed up and standing still beside us. Undaunted, we belted out one of the worst and most off-key renditions of Happy Birthday ever sung by someone not named Paris Hilton. Though Ryan was gagging on the other end of the line, we brought a smile to the faces of plenty of drivers stuck in traffic. Better yet, a short while later I halted as we were walking past some nondescript shopping mall. "Do you know what's so great about this spot?" I asked Dawn. "What?" Dawn asked, looking around and seeing nothing special.
She jumped up and gave me a hug, then took my picture as I celebrated. Dawn has been the embodiment of the Best in people throughout my walk. To go on today's walk, she had to juggle her work schedule and call up a half-dozen people to arrange for dog sitters. But she knows how important The Walk is to me and goes out of her way to help. I might meet a few carpet baggers as I continue down the road, but I won't let their sour spirits infect my own. I've got too many miles to walk and too much bad singing to do along the way. The Inn at the Olde Silk Mill was an incredible place to stay, but I'm not writing about it here because I will be featuring it in next month's Virginia Living blog. But, if you ever go to the Fredericksburg area, you should definitely check them out. Not only is their staff the best, but the accommodations are spectacular. Other places I will be featuring in the Virginia Living blog that were so good I have to give them a shout out here include the scrumptious Greek food at 2400 Diner and the old-fashioned desserts of Carl's Ice Cream, which, I'm sorry to say, is now closed for winter. Dawn and I were lucky enough to visit Fredericksburg on their last weekend of business. Fortune and Misfortune I woke up early this morning and was planning to hike from the Inn at the Old Silk Mill out to the Stafford courthouse 9 miles down the road. I was ready to go at 6 a.m. and roused Dawn at that time to let her know where to pick me up. Bleary eyed, she said, "What? Don't you want me to go with you?" I'd been thinking I'd let her sleep in, but this was better. It's always more fun having someone along on my walks. Especially when they're sleep-deprived and can't fight back when I poke fun at them (not that I would ever do something like that). Dawn realized her giddy-up was lagging a little this morning, so the plan was that she would walk with me for a mile-and-a-half until we got outside of town then would turn around and come back. I'd later call her on my cell phone and she'd pick me up when I reached the Stafford Courthouse.
My misfortune was pretty minor. As I was hoofing it along the side of Route 1, I saw an interesting building with a happy face sign on top of it. While reaching for the camera in the side pocket of my rucksack, I stepped on uneven ground and tipped over spectacularly. I did a full face plant with my ruck coming up over my head. Luckily, the shoulder at that spot was peppered with thick clumps of grass, which softened my header. Nothing was broken. I was merely bruised. As I looked at the sign across the road, the smile seemed more devious than happy now. Of course, face-planting is somewhat of a tradition for me. Back when I ran track in high school, I tried pole vaulting my senior year. But I never quite "got it." I knew about body position and how to swivel up over the bar, but I could never get the pole to bend and give that snap that launches a vaulter through the air. So my trajectory was more of a continuation forward instead of a launch upward. At one track meet the landing mats on the other didn't extend as far as I was used to, and my feet landed on the outer edge. My momentum kept me going and I landed on the ground�you guessed it�on my face. My father was standing at the chain link fence at the edge of the track and as people rushed to see if I was okay, he stopped laughing long enough to call out, "He'll be fine. He just landed on his head." But, today's face-plant was a minor incident. I sprung back up and dusted myself off without injury. Dawn's encounters this morning were more troubling. My nephew Ryan was watching her dogs this weekend, and he called to tell her about a problem with one of them. She paused on the bridge to discuss this with Ryan as some homeless man came walking her way. I'd passed him earlier and thought him harmless; but then again, I'm a big, burly man and Dawn is a wee lass. This guy approached Dawn as she stood on the bridge. He made a jerky move toward her and said, "Are you going to jump? Lots of people jump? Go ahead. Jump." What this guy didn't know is that Dawn is a 20-year veteran of the sheriff's department and has man-handled many a wackadoo in her time. She immediately took up a protective posture and told the guy to back off, which he thankfully did. But as Dawn tried to head back to the Inn, the crazy guy was walking circuitous laps nearby. By the time she shook him off, she was passing by a motel where she had encounter number 2. Some bald guy came out of one of the rooms and fell into step slightly behind Dawn. She moved over to one side of the sidewalk so he could pass, but baldy moved over to the same side and just kept pace with her. She slowed; he slowed. Finally, Dawn stopped and waved one hand in a "go ahead" gesture. Baldy also stopped and said, "What?" "You can go ahead," she said, "I don't like to be followed so close." To which the guy replied, "Maybe I don't like being followed either." At this point, Dawn was thinking, What is it about me that attracts all the weirdoes? (When she related this to me later, my first thought was, "Am I included on that list?" but I was smart enough to keep my mouth shut). But, remembering her training, she once again took up her stance and changed her tone to the don't-mess-with-me tenor that law enforcement officials pick up on the job. "I'm asking you nicely to move along. Now, have a nice day, Sir." Baldy must have recognized the posture and the tone, because he backed off and walked along. But not without much cursing, which he kept up the whole time Dawn had him in sight, yelling across the street and attracting all the attention he possibly could. This flashback to her former life was bringing back all her former habits from law enforcement days�the awareness of her environment, the protective posture, the jonesing for some doughnuts. The good news was that once she made it back to the Inn, fortune was once again smiling on her. The Inn had a continental breakfast and while Dawn raided it, she was not once approached by a crazy person. That wouldn't happen until she saw me again. NOTE: My misfortune didn't end when the trip was over. When I returned home, I discovered that most of the digital pictures I had taken on the trip were corrupted due to operator error. While lamenting their loss on FaceBook, I heard from an old high school pal named Wade Harrington who said he might be able to help. Wade now owns a video production company and he was able to recover most of my lost files. Thanks to Wade, many of my lost photos are lost no more. If you have any video needs, anything from animation and graphic design all the way up to feature films, surf by Two Peppers Productions and check them out. Irish Eyes are Smiling Though Dawn and I had each had bad experiences this morning, we shook it off in the afternoon and went to check out Old Town Fredericksburg. We checked the dining guide for a good place to eat and came up with a couple of them. However, the first one we checked out hadn't had their grand opening yet (and why it was already in the dining guide, I don't know), and the second one (The Sunken Tavern) was not open at that time. Harumph. Undaunted (well, maybe slightly daunted), we decided to park at one end of Old Town and walk along until we found a suitable place. In just a couple of blocks, we came across a restaurant called The Blarney Stone and had to stop. Dawn and I both are of Irish descent (her maiden name is Sullivan and my mother's maiden name is McAneeny) and our roots were calling out to us.
She twirled her doggie bag as we strolled along the various shops, stopping in an Irish gift shop to see if they had anything with our family crests on it. Dawn was lucky...in a manner of speaking. "Isn't this the most butt-ugly crest you've ever seen?" she asked. We continued our circuit through Old Town and after a while we heard a strange keening in the distance. A caterwauling that can be confused with no other. We heard bagpipes. And they were coming closer. We hurried the block-and-a-half between us and the music and saw a procession heading into a building. When we got there we found it was, of course, a pub. This one was called the Otter House and there were two men in kilts playing Scotland the Brave on the sidewalk outside the front door. We paused to listen while they played several tunes. While the bagpipes played, Dawn swung her bagged pie and I bobbed my head. A woman approached with a Scottish Terrier on a leash and when she paused to listen as well I could have sworn the terrier was bobbing its head along with me. It, too, must have heard the call of home its blood. Dawn stayed outside to listen while I went in to find out what all the hoopla was about. I discovered what was going on but before I could head back down to tell Dawn, the two bagpipers came up the stairs and the whole room applauded them and offered to buy them drinks. Dawn followed behind them with a sly grin on her face. "Well," she told me, "I was following them up the stairs and I always wondered about the rumor that Irishmen didn't wear anything under their kilts...so I bent down to take a peek." I burst out in laughter. "Well?" "Well, the rumor's true."   The Irish celebrate in Old Town Fredericksburg After I regained my composure, I filled Dawn in on the reason for the procession. The pub had only been open for about a month and today the owner had the mascot marched through town before coming to rest on its perch in the upstairs bar. The mascot was a stuffed otter (hence, the Otter House). After gazing upon the creature, I turned to Dawn and said, "Yes, I have seen something as butt-ugly as your crest." It may have been ugly, but it had character, as did the whole bar. As did all of Old Town. The beer was flowing, the crowd was singing, and the mishaps of the morning were long forgotten. Our Irish hearts were full and happy. And our Irish eyes were smiling. The Mermaid Walk
We started out where my hike from Virginia Beach to Norfolk left off (The Chrysler Museum) and hiked north through the artistic community of Ghent. When we reached 22nd Street, we turned west until we reached Rowena's Bakery, home of one of Terry's mermaids. I hoped we'd be able to see the other two as well, but that was impossible. Many of the Norfolk Mermaids, including Terry's, have been stolen and/or vandalized. Even in art, it seems, mermaids are an endangered species.   Posing with the Rowena's Bakery Mermaid (for the record she came on to me, not the other way around) Our hike back took us along Colley Avenue, where there were no mermaids but plenty of interesting sights. We window-shopped and gawked and generally entertained ourselves. We were supposed to curve back along Mowbray Arch to the museum but we overshot the turn and wound up on the other side of the river. Taking the MapQuest printout from my pocket, I waved it at Terry and said, "That's why I always bring this along. So I don't make any wrong turns." Afterwards, we drove back to a gift shop we'd seen called The Mystic Mermaid, where we shopped for mermaid ornaments and other mermaid memorabilia. Our little adventure had come to an end, but before we called it a day we crossed the parking lot to The Baker's Crust for brunch. After all, hunting for mermaids makes you hungry. Kilmarnock to Irvington
It was a cloudy day when we left Newport News in our cars, but the rain started coming down as soon as we hit the highway. Dawn was in a snit when we arrived, saying, "When will this %#*&@#!^ rain ever quit!" We'd been planning to hike 11 miles, but with the weather conditions I figured it better to park the cars 5 miles apart, do that leg, and do more afterwards if we felt up to it. Turns out the frustration was for naught. Road Magic was still with me, and as soon as I got out of the car the rain let up. We carried our rain gear anyway and hoofed it out of Kilmarnock on the muddy shoulder. Just north of town, we came upon an unexpected sight: a pair of giant corkscrews standing on either side of a dirt road. This was the entrance to White Fences Vineyards. I'd seen the winery on a map and was prepared for the white picket fence that surrounded the property, but the kitschy and oh-so-appropriate outdoor art was a fun surprise.
Dawn and I have torn up some all-you-can-eat buffets in our time, but that was a while ago and I told her that I didn't think all she could eat would be that much any more. "Don't worry," she said, "I'll make you proud." She gave it a valiant effort, but called it quits halfway through her third plate. In her defense, her food looked more like sea cows than "shrimp," and, of course, there is the fact that neither of us is trying to stuff ourselves until it hurts anymore...which gives another twist to the popular expression: "No pain, no gain." So, I learned two things on today's walk: 1) With its new meaning, I now like a saying I once hated; and 2) rain makes Dawn curse like a sailor on shore leave. Good information to know. Next time it's raining, I won't just bring a poncho for protection. I'll bring some *%$&# ear plugs as well. Interesting Stops Along Route 1 The 50-mile trek from Richmond to Fredericksburg carried me through Glen Allen, Ashland, Doswell, Thornburg, and a few other towns too tiny to mention (sorry, Golansville and pals...okay, so at least Golansville got a mention). The walks were spread out over the past few weeks, wedged in around work and other commitments. My path went up Route 1, the East Coast highway that runs parallel to Interstate 95 for 2,000 miles from Key West up to the Canadian border. The 50-mile stretch I walked from Richmond to Fredericksburg included some very interesting stops along the way, which I describe in the Virginia Living blog. Their site also includes a variety of other interesting stories about lifestyle, food, and entertainment from across the Commonwealth. You should swing by their site and check them out.  A Few Good Men Today's 9-mile walk from Stafford to Dumfries would pass right by the Marine Corps Museum, which stands on the side of Route 1 in Triangle. I'd seen the gleaming steel mast that protrudes from the roof soaring above the treetops many times before as I drove past on nearby I-95, but I never stopped in to visit. Until today. Since I was planning to visit a place filled with military lore, it seemed only appropriate that I do the walk with my friend and fellow veteran, Tom Hipple.
As I picked up the phone and we began our hike (again), I thought about how much ribbing I'd be taking from Dawn if she were along and breathed a sigh of relief. When we'd gone about 8 miles, Tom all of a sudden started patting his pockets. "You won't believe this," he said, "but I think I left my keys in your car." Now I was wishing it had been Dawn, because my ribbing in return would have been merciless. Instead, I tried to be as graceful about it as Tom had been...without much success. I razzed him for a little bit then said, "You know I'm going to out you in the blog." "Yeah," he said, shaking his head, "I figured as much."
Jeb slurred his appreciation and we were on our way. "Whatch'all doin up here?" he asked. When I told him we were planning to visit the museum, he said, "That's right, you can't take it wif you. Least ways, none of my relatives never came back and told me they been to the other side. He heee." There were plenty more non-sequiturs along the way, but Jeb certainly made interesting company. Plus, he left us with this garbled gem: "Treat each day like it's a blessing," he said. "When you go to sleep at night, you never know you gonna wake up. Lots of people don't." With that sage advice in hand, we dropped Jeb off and made our way to the Globe & Laurel. It turned out the restaurant wasn't only a favorite among Marines, it was a popular cop hangout as well. Over the past 41 years, droves of policemen from around the country who trained at Quantico have stopped in and left their uniform patches with the owner, and he has tacked them to every available inch of the ceiling. The food, I'm glad to say, was as tasty as the decor was interesting. Tom and I each had the beef pot pie special, which came with salad and dessert. The dessert was a sweet potato pie that was warmed and covered with a brown sugar cinnamon crust. When the waitress came by to see what we thought of our meals, Tom said, "Oh, it was horrible. I couldn't eat any of it." She looked down, saw his bowl was scraped clean, and raised her eyebrows. "Hey," Tom added, "you're just lucky my tongue doesn't reach that low or I'd lick it clean." Satiated, we turned our attention to the Marine Corps Museum. This was my first visit, but Tom had been twice before and had to cut out early, giving me some tips about some of the "can't miss" sights in the museum. There were retired aircraft hanging in the air beneath the glass ceiling, life size displays of Marines in action, a laser-operated live firing range, and much, much more. Outside was a cement path that circled the museum, and on the edges of the path were bricks engraved with the names of Marines who had made the ultimate sacrifice for our freedom. Also, spaced evenly along the walkway were rock dividers, each of them engraved with Marine qualities such as �Integrity� and �Honor.� As the walkway wound up the hill toward the chapel, the engravings on the rock dividers changed to the names of battles such as �Guadalcanal� and �Tarawa.� It was a really moving sight. I shot plenty of photos of the museum and grounds and loaded a few of them onto my website for you to view. If they move you at all, please take a moment to thank a veteran. He or she will appreciate it, I promise you. Or you can put together a care package to send to a service member overseas. Just go to AnyMarine.com for information on how to do this (other branches are listed on that site as well). Happy Hokies in Hoo-ville Although I�m a huge Hokie fan and have gone to one or more of their games every year for the past decade or so, I�ve never been to what many consider our most important regular season game: the rivalry game with Virginia. This game not only decides who gets to hoist the Commonwealth Cup in celebration, but it also determines who owns the in-state bragging rights until next year�s game. And today I would finally get to witness it firsthand. Accompanying me today was Dawn, who, though she hails from Chicago, has become a Hokie convert. She was shocked the first time we watched a game together, but after road-tripping to a handful of VT games she has become almost as fanatical as me. Almost.
"Believe me," I said, "there'll be more Hokies driving up this road than Hoos." "If you say so. Just do me a favor and walk a few yards ahead of me. I don't want to be collateral damage." Though no one swerved to hit me, I did get a few jeers thrown my way. But most of the steady stream of vehicles driving up Route 29 were flying Hokie flags of their own. As they passed, many of them honked and cheered. Most of what they said was lost in the road noise, but each time we'd pump our fists or give a victory sign in return. When we arrived on campus, we cut through some of the parking lots and every so often we'd hear someone call out, "Look! It's that guy we saw!" One such person, Jane Baker, invited us to take a break at her tailgate. Although, to call this gathering a "tailgate" didn't do it justice. Beneath a large tent, six-foot tables were pushed together and stacked with every kind of football food imaginable. Crockpots were bubbling, coolers were overflowing, and the smells were intoxicating. Dawn dug into the vittles with gusto and nearly gnawed my arm off when I tried reaching around her for a bun. I fixed myself a BBQ sandwich and a bowl of chili, then capped it off with a Bud Light in a can that was painted maroon and orange in honor of the Hokies.   Nothing more fun (or hospitable) than a Hokie tailgate Laid out on the grass were the boards and beanbags for a game of cornhole (an unfortunate name for such a fun game). Dawn and I tried our hand at it and each of us missed the boards completely on our first tosses. On the third toss, I got lucky and plunked one of the beanbags through the target hole. Dawn followed that by dropping her beanbag through the hole in the board next to our feet and raising her arms in victory. I tried to tell her that "Cheaters never win," but she was too busy doing her happy dance to listen. As much fun as the Baker tailgate was, we had to get going. We still had to get back to the car and change out of our stinky clothes before kickoff. Along the way we chatted with a few more people who had seen us on the road. When Dawn informed one of them that I was "The Incredible Shrinking Bill," he looked at my gut and burst into laughter. "Looks like you got a ways to go!" Zing. We missed one of our turns heading back to the car and wound up walking a loop through UVA's beautiful grounds. Then, when we made it to the stadium, we accidentally entered at the gate farthest from our seats and jostled our way around the entire perimeter before making it to our seats. I guess we hadn't walked far enough on our planned walk; we needed to add on a little bit more at the end.
A couple of days ago, everyone was eating turkey and giving thanks. Today, wahoo was on the menu and it was the turkeys gobbling them up. And, I of course, was giving thanks. |
