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The 700  This morning�s walk started out like so many others. I threw on my safety vest, popped in my ear buds, and hiked my usual 5-mile circuit to the library and back. But then I got a surprise. My neighbor, Rich, came up behind me and gave me a big �ol shock. It was 5 a.m., and the only people I usually see are the newspaper delivery guy and, on occasion, another walker. I quickly forgave Rich for nearly giving me a heart attack because the first words out of his mouth were, �Man, you look like you�ve lost a ton.� Rich can relate. He also gained some weight a couple of years ago (though nowhere near as much as I had) and he has since dropped a load. He is now a much slimmer version of his old self and looks, to me, as if he�s reached his ideal weight. We chatted about Hokie football (we are both alums and kickoff is a mere 3 days away) and then discussed our exercise routines. Unlike me, he shed the pounds by running. Even so, he slowed his pace to walk a mile-or-so with me before running off. I hadn�t noticed it at the time, but I�d picked up the pace from my normal stroll during the stretch Rich was walking with me. Well, I�d noticed, I just hadn�t cared about it while we were all ramped up talking about the impending football season. Once out paths diverged though, I slowed my roll to something closer to my typical, ambling gait. I was excited when I returned home. Not so much because I finished the 5-mile walk a few minutes faster than usual, but because I had reached another milestone moment. Adding this morning�s distance to my mileage log brought the total that I have walked since the beginning of the year to 700 miles. 700 miles. I could drive from my house up to Boston and then lap the city for an extra 100 miles before covering the same distance. Or, I could head south and arrive at the outskirts of Daytona Beach. And, since they�ve outlawed skirts in favor of bikinis, I can forget about those last few miles and pretend 700 miles is enough to land me in Daytona�s sand. Far be it for me to flout the thong police! Most of those 700 miles have been logged on the streets and sidewalks of Poquoson, but many have also been trod over other regions as part of my Walk Across Virginia. I�ve walked across just about every city and county in Hampton Roads (I still need to finish the leg from Smithfield up to Scotland) and my Walk Up the Necks has reached the edge of the Northern Neck, which I plan to cross and continue northward until I reach the waters of Maryland. Many people have asked, �Where have you been so far?�, so it occurred to me I should post a map on the site that traces my route. I don�t have a graphics program that can create one of those, so I turned to my friend, Tiny Terry, for assistance. "First," Terry said, "you need to do me a favor." Then she told me about her secret fantasy, handed me a sword, threw a red cape over my shoulders, and had me pose bare-chested for the picture you see up above. After our photo shoot, she doctored up a map to show where I've been, grafting a thick yellow line onto the map to chart my circuitous route across Hampton Roads and up part of Virginia�s Necks. The map will change as I extend my route, the yellow line extending deeper into Virginia as I trek farther away from my hometown. So, without further ado, view the results of Terry's labor by clicking HERE You're in the Army Now Brad, my old Army bud, and I went walking this morning at 0500 hours (that's 5 a.m. for you civilian types). He took me out to Fort Monroe where he's stationed and after chatting with him for a few minutes, I was spouting acronyms and military lingo as if I'd never left. Talking Army comes back to you just like riding a bike�I mean, an M-4 twin-wheeled, self-propelled vehicle.
The crabbers weren't the only ones up at that hour. Unlike when I walk around other places in Hampton Roads, there were plenty of other people out in the dark. Throughout the morning, a few dozen soldiers passed us individually on their morning runs and we saw one group of soldiers gathering together for PT formation. It did my heart good to see the old military routine, particularly since I wasn't stuck in formation. "You know what that reminds me of?" I asked Brad. "What?" In answer, I started singing a "Jody," which is what we called the cadence calls and marching songs meant to keep a formation in step. By coincidence, Brad turned right at that moment and headed for the interior fort's entrance. I mean, it had to be coincidence. It couldn't be because he didn't care for my singing. I followed him through a tunnel leading to the interior and then we clambered up a hill to the fort's parapet. The foundations for the old gun emplacements were still in place, with metal, circular tracks that allowed the guns' rear ends to swivel when altering the aiming point.
After we got around to the back of the fort, we saw a big metal archway over another path leading up to the parapet. It read "Jefferson Davis Memorial Park." Hmm, I don't know if that was somebody's idea of a joke or what. Union forces held Fort Monroe for the entire duration of the "Unpleasantness Between the States," and Jefferson Davis, the Confederate President, was imprisoned there for a while when the Civil War ended. Though it's possible, I don't think his dying words were, "Gee, I wish someone would memorialize that place where I learned to sing falsetto." Being a good 'ol boy, I'm guessing his last words were something more along the lines of "Hey, ya'll, watch this!" But, I digress. When we finished our circuit around the old fort, we hiked back to Brad's truck, passing the Old Point Comfort Lighthouse just before General's Row, the stretch of houses where general officers and their families live. When Brad wasn't looking, I slipped a note in the Commanding General's mailbox that read as follows:
As we drove home, I began to wonder what would happen after the general read the note. The fort had been used as a prison before; why not again? Years from now, other people might walk up to the parapet beneath an arch that reads "Brad Lawing Memorial Park." Boy, the things I do for my friends. Rock-n-Roll Every year on Labor Day weekend, a road race unlike any other rocks Virginia Beach. This year, I decided to join the party. This was also the opening weekend for college football, so I had a couple of people over to my house the night before to watch the Chick-Fil-A Kickoff Classic. The game didn't end until midnight and the race began at 7 the next morning. Shuttle buses were laid on to transport racers to the starting line from 4:30 to 6 a.m. Our instruction packet suggested we get there as early as possible, because streets would be closed off and anyone coming late might be cut off. Since I'm not familiar with Southside roadways and am a bit of a noodge when it comes to being on time, I got there at 4:30 after only 2-� hours sleep. Thousands were already present in the VB Convention Center parking lot, sitting on curbs or stretched out in the grass. I grabbed a banana and a bagel from one of the tents, then flopped down to catch a few z's. Very few, as it turned out. At around 5:30, race organizers started playing music over loudspeakers interspersed through the parking lot. Every five minutes or so they would interrupt the music to make an announcement, share an inspirational story, or even just tell a joke. Sleep was not to be.
Just after the starter's gun fired to kick off the race, the theme song to Rocky played over the speakers. The race started with music, and music filled the air throughout the entire 13.1 miles. 20 bands were stationed at various locations along the race route, playing a mixture of pop, rock, reggae, jazz, country, and all other sorts of music. In a few spots, homeowner's along the route also got into the spirit, setting up their stereo systems in the front yard to play music for the passing throng. Although it was officially a race, it had the feel of a 4-hour block party. Another remarkable thing that sets the Rock-n-Roll series apart from other races is that the course is filled with organized cheering sections. In addition to the thousands of folks lining the streets to applaud, there are stages set up where performers dance and cheer. There were also 17 cheerleading squads from local schools shouting out their encouragement, often with inventive cheers and sometimes with acrobatic leaps on the road's shoulder. Of course, after four hours of cheering, they also had to trot out a heap of time-worn, repetitive ditties. After cheering non-stop for four-plus hours, I was thinking they were more deserving of a finisher's medal than we were. Not that I was offering to share mine with them. They can look, but they can't touch!  Let's go fat boy, let's go (clap, clap, clap). Let's go fat boy, let's go All of the organized cheering wasn't set up by the race committee. At one point, a handful of guys wearing grass skirts and funny wigs were cheering the crowd on. Also from mile 3 to mile 5, I heard people on the side of the road saying things like "Go Bill!" I was wondering if one of my peeps had put the word out on me. Hey, when you see some enormous guy who sweats so much he looks like he just stepped out of the shower, his name is Bill. Cheer him on, will ya? But, no. It just so happened I was walking next to a guy who had his name (Bill, also) embroidered on his shirt. So much for being recognized. There were plenty of interesting characters competing in the race as well. One guy was juggling the entire time he ran. Every now and then, he'd drop a ball and kick it until he could stop and pick it up. There were also a couple of runners with strap-on wings and another racer dressed up as Elvis. I noticed three women walking together and going about the same pace as me. Occasionally they would pass me and I would pass them back. One time I was walking next to them as they were commenting on some of the buildings we were passing. One of them said, "Wow, that's a beautiful one." Not one to pass up an opportunity like that, I replied, "Why, thank you," giving them a nod and a wink. Thankfully they were too worn out from the walk to mock me scornfully. Taking that as a good sign, I chatted with them a bit. "You've got a great pace," one of them said. "We've been using you to keep time." All three of them were slim and trim, so her little aside made me feel good. Then she started picking up her pace and I realized (too late) that this was her diabolical plan to get me back for claiming to be the "beautiful one." I hung with her for a few miles until my tired legs beat out my wounded ego and I finally slowed down. As I entered the finish chute I heard "Are You Tough Enough" playing over the speakers and that gave me enough juice to finish with a smile on my face. As soon as I crossed the finish line, a woman hung a finisher's medal over my neck and I felt like an Olympic champion. But not for long. As soon as I stopped moving, I became light-headed and started sucking wind. I'd drunk water and Cytomax Sports Drink at every refreshment station along the route, so I was surprised I didn't feel better. They were handing out bottles of water just past the finish line, and I grabbed three and gulped them down. I also took one of the ice cold hand towels and thought I heard it steaming when I draped it on the back of my neck.
"Yeah, no problem," I said, though, truthfully, I was still feeling dizzy. They steered me toward a wall and I sat down with my medal, stroking it and talking to it as if it were my pet. I'm writing this the day after the race and I still haven't taken the medal off. I'm still talking to it, too. The race organizers posted a video of the 2009 Rock-n-Roll Half Marathon Finish Line on their website. If you view the video, I'm the guy who breaks the tape and crosses the finish line in first place. I might look a little different (and Kenyan) in the video, but that's just the TV angle. Don't believe me? Hey, you're getting smart. Actually, you can see me cross (much later), but you need to enter my bib number (27475) into the search field when you click the following link: The Incredibly Wobbly Bill. I cross the line about 15 seconds into the video. There will be a bubble in the left hand corner that counts down from 5 seconds and says "Congratulations" when I cross. With a simple click it will be like you did the race with me. And you didn't even break a sweat. I'm so jealous. How �Bout Them Apples At work, I like to take a mid-morning apple break, taking my delicious apple out the front door to crunch away in the fresh air. We�re located in a business park, so the air isn�t all that fresh, but staring at the parking lot is a nice change from staring at a computer screen for hours. I�ve tried my hand at a couple of different apples over the past couple of months. Though you can always get a bad apple, there is no bad type of apple, so my experimenting with Red Delicious Apples and Galas and Granny Smiths has been a delectable journey. After trying everything in the grocery store�s baskets, I found my favorite to be the Fuji, which is so scrumptiously sweet and juicy that I can�t believe it�s not stocked in the candy aisle. Lo and behold, when I thought the matter put to rest, I read an article in last week�s Parade Magazine about The Search for the Perfect Apple. They wrote about hybrids that were being crossbred in laboratories and told of the Honeycrisp, �which many regard as the best eating apple of all time.� I called up the local farmer�s market to see if they carried the Honeycrisp, and the woman on the other end of the phone gave an orgasmic sigh. �Ohhh, those are so delicious. We try to get them whenever we can, but we�re out of them now.�
So, yesterday, I took my mid-morning apple break in early morning (I couldn�t wait) and stepped outside with my first ever Honeycrisp. The �crisp� part of its name was accurate. It had a nice crunch when I bit into it. But the �honey part was misleading. It tasted just like a Sweet Tart, albeit a juicy, crunchy Sweet Tart, but a Sweet Tart nonetheless. And, unless �Tart� is preceded with �Pop,� it is not one of my favorite flavors. Don�t get me wrong: the Honeycrisp was still tasty. As I said before, there is no such thing as a bad apple. But it is not the crowning achievement atop Mount Appleicious. That, for me, is still Fuji, King of the Apples and my mid-morning partner for the foreseeable future. But the apple story doesn�t end there. After munching on the Honeycrisp on Tuesday morning, Sherri refused payment for the bag of apples she�d brought me. So, I thought, she thinks she can show me up like that, does she? Well, I�ve got something for her! I�d run across a local store recently that will make pies to order (Linville�s Wine & Deli in Poquoson: 868-5051), so I called in an order for a key lime pie (Sherri�s favorite) and an apple crisp pie, which was recommended to me by another co-worker. The guy who answered the phone wasn�t the pie guy, and when I ordered an apple crisp he said what sounded like, �Oh, you must mean an apple krugen.� �Sure,� I said, also having no idea of the difference. What can I say, it�s a guy thing. As it turned out, an apfelkuchen is a German apple cake. I�d never heard of or seen anything like it before, but that fit in perfectly with my recent apple experimentation. I picked it up at lunchtime today and brought it into the office for an impromptu apple cake party. It reminded me a little bit of a cobbler, but with thinly sliced apples baked atop the crust. And, man, was it good. I�m glad I brought it into the office because otherwise I would have been tempted to eat the whole thing myself in one sitting. As it was, I carried home a little less than half of it with me. There it sat on the passenger seat, tempting me, taunting me, calling me like a siren song to my demise. Would I be able to withstand temptation, or would I wreck myself upon its tasty crust? I knew if I brought it into the house with me, I'd succumb, eating a slice with dinner, then a half-slice before bed. Another half-slice after tossing and turning, unable to sleep while thinking of the delicious treat on the counter downstairs. And then, after that slice, finally saying, "What the hell," and finishing off the rest of it. I�ve been down that road many a time and know that good intentions aren't enough to steer myself clear of a tasty trap. So, I did the only thing I could do to prevent myself from stuffing the whole thing down my throat. I stopped at my sister's house on the way home and gave the cake to her family. More specifically, to her son, Ryan. I drove home and cooked up some chicken for dinner, going to bed with only a minor thought about the cake. I wondered if anyone else at my sister's house ever saw it after Ryan took possession. From the devilish gleam in his eye, I wouldn't bet on it. How �bout them apples? Walking Across Virginia I started walking to lose weight. But as the miles accumulated, I realized that I could have trekked to Philadelphia if I�d been going in a straight line instead of walking back and forth on my hometown streets. Thus was born the idea for a walk across Virginia. So far, my circuitous route has wound across Hampton Roads and up part of Virginia�s Necks. Generally, one walk picks up where another walk finished, each leg acting like a link in a chain that will stretch across the Commonwealth. However, I will not necessarily walk each leg in sequence and some of the chain's links may be unconnected for a while. Although I have a route across the state mapped out in my mind and can walk from A to B to C, I don't want to pass up opportunities that arise at a distant location just because it is out of sequence. For example, I walked across Chincoteague in July when they had the running of the ponies. But I have yet to walk any of the 75 miles leading up the Eastern Shore to Chincoteague. My good friend Terry has created a map that traces my meandering path across the state. This map can be viewed by clicking on a link at the top of the page that reads: Where Bill's Been. When you click on the link, you will also find a list of the cities, towns, and counties through which I�ve walked. The map will be updated from time to time, and you can watch the yellow line marking my progress slowly creep across the state. If it looks like I�m going to be visiting your area, drop me a line and maybe we can connect. I�m always looking for a walking partner and the occasional lift back to my car. I'm also always on the lookout for interesting people to chat with and places to visit. If you know of someone or somewhere I should visit on my walk, please let me know that as well. Until then, I remain your faithful blogging (and shrinking) friend. A Bridge (No Longer) Too Far The day before last week's half-marathon, I had to pick up my race packet at a Health & Fitness Expo. There were plenty of booths with free samples and vendors selling the latest in runner's gear. I tried out one of the freebies, GU Roctane, during the Virginia Beach race and thought it was nasty stuff. The company title�GU�is an appropriate name, as the Roctane was a gooey paste that you squeeze from a small packet while performing some high-endurance activity. The concept was great, but I felt funny afterwards and couldn't figure out why. When the race was over, I carefully read the packet and saw in teeny, tiny print: "2x Caffeine." Yikes! It sounds to me like a product more suited for long-haul truckers than racers.
Dawn accompanied me on today's walk. Though many of our walks together have been cool (experiential wise), this was our first walk together that was cool (temperature wise). The sky was slate gray, full of thick clouds blotting out the sun. There was also a cool breeze. The first day of autumn was weeks away, but fall was here, and winter was not much further away. I glanced at the sky and wondered how the coming cold would my future walks. Dawn clutched herself and mimed that she was shivering as if we were up in Alaska. She was wearing jeans, a shirt, a thick sweatshirt over that, and a knee-length, insulated raincoat over everything else. "I need all of it,� she said. Meanwhile, I stepped out of the car in shorts and a tee shirt, feeling fine. Of course, I�ve got much more natural insulation than she does. I hoisted my ruck, fingered the button on my stopwatch, and we were off. �I wonder if that gas station has a loo?� Dawn said, turning into their entrance. I fingered my stopwatch again and looked at the time: 1 min, 45 seconds. �Boy, this hasn't been much of a trip.� �Shut up,� she said. "Well," I said, �If you�re going to the loo, you better be skipping.� A few minutes later, I hit the stopwatch and we were, once again, off. This time, Dawn waited until we were 11 minutes into it before she tried to stop me. "You got any snacks?" she said. It so happened I did. But I saved the snacks till we were a few miles farther into our walk. Although my first experience with GU had been poor, that didn't keep my from bringing another of their freebies on the walk: GU Chomps. This time, I read the package beforehand and saw that it contained NO caffeine. Thank you! When I opened the package, the GU Chomps looked and felt like Gummi Bears. Once I popped them in my mouth though, I found their consistency was that of a bite of Jell-O. Except Jell-O that is power packed with amino acids and electrolytes. Also, they didn't stick to my teeth as much as Gummi Bears. The sample packet only had four grape-sized chomps in it, and I split them evenly with Dawn ("evenly" in terms of body mass, meaning she got one while I got three) and I couldn't really tell if I gained any energy from it or not, but it passed the taste and portability tests. I'll buy a bigger pack later and bring it on another walk. Since the GU was gone in just a few chomps, I dug into a side pouch on my ruck and removed a bag of dried mango-flavored pineapple slices. When I popped one in my mouth, it was a taste explosion. Wow! I grabbed a few more and passed the bag to Dawn. She dug in and I heard her moaning in delight behind me. The bag rustled some more, followed by more moans, and so on until I turned around expecting to see her with her head in the package like a horse with a feedbag. When I snatched the bag from her hands, she begged, "Let me have just one more. Please, please, please." Having a feeling that "one more" would be followed by another such entreaty, I stuffed the bag back in my ruck. We were walking from our starting point in Hartfield to the south side of the Norris Bridge, which lay in Topping. All around us were fields of browned cornstalks and thick, green, leafy soybean patches. We were walking on a wide shoulder for the first 3-� miles, but during the final 4 miles of today's trip we were tip-toeing on a shoulderless road. Good thing I had my toe socks! Actually, the toe socks held up well during the walk. It was a workout just to fit them over my sausage-like phalanges, but once I got them on my feet were rather comfortable. At about the halfway on our walk, we stopped at the house of Ruby Lee Norris, a 93-year-old who is still an active gardener, poet, photographer, and freelance writer. One of her recent articles, titled "Cherrywalk," appears in the current issue of Virginia Gardener along with six of her photos. "I've also got a piece in the next issue of Pleasant Living," she tells me. "Wonderful," I said, secretly telling myself, That's okay, Bill. It doesn't matter that she's getting more bylines at 93 than you are now in your supposed prime. Besides, how good can her work be at this age anyway? Then I picked up the magazine and read the first paragraph of Ruby Lee's article: "Along the road in Essex County not far from Tappahannock on the Upper Rappahannock River, wildflowers bloom in profusion on a warm May day when we visit Cherrywalk. Pale pink clusters of mountain laurel brighten the spring-green growth in the forests. White daisies, blue bachelors' buttons and yellow cat's eye dot the shoulders of the highway. They are harbingers of the carefully designed gardens, noted for their native plants, that we are going to visit."I mouthed the word Wow, set the magazine down, and started wondering if it was too late to respond to that "Truck Drivers Wanted" ad I saw on a matchbook. "Okay, Dawn," I said, "Time to get going." We said our goodbyes to Ruby Lee and trekked off for the bridge. There was a surprising amount of traffic and everytime we stepped off the road into the grass, which was often, burrs grabbed hold of our laces and embedded in socks. One (I don't know how) even got stuck in the leg of my shorts. They sure do have dedicated burrs out there in the country. The country also has its share of jokesters. Near the beginning of our walk, we saw a street named "Go Away Road." Later, when we passed the Community Boosters Club, we saw that somebody had stolen a �T� from the sign so it read: "Community Boosers Club.� The jokester spirit entered Dawn as we were walking on the road and we saw several trucks headed our way. "Let's play chicken," she said. Getting in the spirit of things, I said, "Sure," then grabbed her arm at the elbow and held her in the lane of traffic. She didn't like my version of the game. The welt on my arm can attest to that.
I thought about Ruby Lee's writing and how vibrant she is at 93. Better get busy, Bill, I thought. You've only got 50 years to catch up! In addition to being a talented writer, Ruby Lee Norris is a descendant of State Senator Robert O. Norris for whom the Norris Bridge is named. The Norris Bridge celebrated its 50th birthday in 2007, and White Stone threw it a birthday party. In the TV story on the celebration, they turned to (who else) Ruby Lee for context. Thanks to YouTube, you can view the minute-and-a-half story here: Norris Bridge Festival. Walking Around The Grounds My nephew Mike is a physics major at the University of Virginia, and today I headed up to visit him and watch the UVA football game against Texas Christian University. I stopped in Richmond on the way up to pick up my father. He�d been out at a business party up in Northern Virginia last night and hadn�t gotten home until 2 in the morning. So I understood when he brought a pillow with him in the car. Mike, as it turned out, also partied the night before and though I hadn�t asked, I don�t think it was for �business.� He hadn�t gotten to bed until 4 a.m. When I called at a little past 11 to let him know we were almost there, I woke him up. He guided us to a parking spot that was about a mile away from the stadium. �It gets really congested after the game,� he said, �so it�s best to park far away and walk. You�ll be able to walk faster than if you were in a car.� Mike must have known I missed my morning walk and was helping me make up for the lost mileage. What a pal. We first walked to a little hole-in-the-wall called The College Inn to grab lunch and Mike told us of all the places he would take us on his little guided tour of the UVA campus. Except they didn�t call it a campus here; they called it �The Grounds.� And the central area was called �The Lawn.� And the student waitress taking our order was called �The Ninny.� I ordered a chicken sandwich and when I asked if I could substitute a veggie for the fries that came with the meal, the waitress said, �It comes with chips, but you can get a side order of fries.� I furrowed my brow and looked back down at the menu again. Then I pointed out to her where it said that fries came with the entrees. �Oh,� she said, �I�ve only been working here 2 months.� Then I shouldn�t know the menu better than you, I thought, I�ve only been here 2 minutes. �So, can I substitute a veggie for the fries?� �No, but you can get it on the side.� Oh, well. I�d still be fine if fries were the worst of my transgressions that day. They weren�t. After lunch, we walked the half-mile back to the car to slather up with sunscreen. My dad poured on so much white goo that it looked like he�d rolled around in mayonnaise. �For my dainty complexion,� he said with a laugh. I likewise slopped on a heaping portion, and then we were off. The tour wound through the hilly grounds and went up and down scores of stairs. I was very glad I�d been walking so much, because it didn�t seem like the terrain had a single flat spot anywhere. Mike acted as a tour guide, naming the various buildings and monuments and telling us what he�d learned in his two years on campus�I mean, the grounds. �That�s the President�s house,� he said, pointing to a large, multi-columned building on a hill. �You sure?� my dad said. �It looks like a fraternity.� Two-foot tall Greek letters were displayed prominently on the front of the building. �Oh, yeah,� Mike said �That�s just graffiti. We�ve got that all over.� He then told us about the various secret societies at the university and how their painted symbols can be seen all over the grounds. Sure enough, we saw giant �Z�s� painted on the risers of several stairways and �IMPs� posted on the sides of various buildings. �Are these societies anything like in that movie, The Skulls?� I asked. �Yeah, kind of.� �So, if you join one of these societies, you can rub out any professor that fails you?� Mike didn�t even bother to answer; he merely rolled his eyes and sighed. When we walked across one of the bridges, he pointed out the Z on the stairs and told of the myth that any girl walking across that particular Z would become pregnant that night. �It�s funny,� he said, �because you can see people actually going out of their way to skirt it.� He also told us about the Secret 7 Society, which performs charitable deeds. �The Jefferson statue on the lawn serves as their mailbox,� he said. �People write out suggestions for what to do with their money and place the letters at the foot of the statue.� Except, when we got to the statue, we saw that it was actually a statue of Homer (the one from Greece, not Springfield). I looked around at the rooms circling the Lawn and asked Mike if any of them were the room that Edgar Allan Poe stayed in as a student. "I don't think so," he said. "I think they've just got a statue of him up somewhere else." I noticed a historical marker by one of the rooms and walked over to it. It marked Poe's room, which had a quill and ink set on an old table and a stuffed raven on the windowsill. Mike looked at the sign and scratched his head. "Well, what do you know." "Hey," I said, "Next time you want me to show you some things at your university, just let me know." Later, when we passed the �President�s House� a second time, we saw a bunch of people on the porch and sounds of a party coming from inside. �The President is very easy going,� Mike said. �People pop in on him all the time.� �Okay,� I said, �Let�s pop in.� As Dad and I started to walk over, Mike halted us. �Well," he said, a little sheepishly, "I�m not exactly certain it�s the President�s House.� �Ah,� I said, wondering how much of what we�d just learned on our tour could be disproved by a quick visit to Snopes.com. If nothing else, it had been an entertaining afternoon.
We�d probably trekked between 3 and 4 miles through the hilly campus�I mean, grounds�and still had another mile to walk back to our car once the game was over. On top of that, we had to climb up the stadium steps to our nosebleed seats. I may have missed my walk before leaving this morning, but I was definitely getting my workout now. This was my first trip to Scott Stadium, and I was mightily impressed. Until I noticed all the vacant seats. The Hoos had lost their season opener last week to William & Mary, and there weren�t a lot of happy faces in Hooville. The woman in the stands in front of me read a newspaper and a book instead of watching the game. The apathy was understandable. The visiting team was ranked #16 in the nation and fan expectations were pretty low. As it turned out, they weren�t low enough. From the outset, things went wrong for UVA. When their mascot, a Cavalier dressed as a dandy, rode out onto the field waving a saber atop his steed, the horse came to a sudden stop and threw him head over heels onto the turf. He bounced back up and after several attempts managed to climb back in the saddle. The football team would not be so resilient. The Horned Frogs jumped out to a 30-0 lead before they put in their second string and gave up a couple of late scores. Boos rained down from the crowd, along with calls for Al Groh�s (the UVA coach) head. During one time out, the Jumbotron said something about how fans could follow Groh on Twitter. The guy in the stands next to my dad mimed being Al Groh twittering, �Here I am in the unemployment line.� Ouch. Of course, a loss to TCU was not the end of the world. A man two rows in front of me wore a shirt that told what was really important to the fans: beating VT. The back of his shirt showed the UVA football schedule and written below that was: �Beat TECH (and you know which one).� So, there was still one hope left that day for the dejected Hoos. Maybe the Hokies would lose their game. Sometimes schadenfreude is all you have. But it was not to be. I cheered quietly to myself when out-of-town scores flashed across the Jumbotron and I saw that VT had downed Marshall 52-10 earlier in the day. We left with about 6 minutes left in the game, which meant we were one of the last ones to leave. The exodus had begun at halftime, and a steady stream of orange shirts poured through the stadium exits through the third quarter. There were only two sections of the stands that were still packed: the band, which wasn�t allowed to leave, and the purple-clad section of Horned Frogs in the corner. My nephew might be a little mixed up when it comes to the history of his campus�I mean, grounds�but if there�s one thing he knows, it�s how to best support his football team: go to a party instead of going to the game. That way there are fewer people booing in the stands. Wild Blue Yonder I started walking to lose weight, but that is not the only reason for my walk across Virginia. A big part of my voyage is to explore the countryside and delve into the history and all the neat little bits of Virginiana I come across. Another part is seizing opportunities when they show themselves, doing all those things that everybody talks about but never gets around to doing. Today would be an opportune day. Dawn came with me again today. Our plan was to walk a stretch of the Northern Neck from the Norris Bridge through White Stone and into Irvington. As we were driving up to our starting point, we stopped at Ruby Lee's house to drop off a mimosa tree that Dawn had promised her on our last walk. But that would not be our only stop before reaching the bridge. Just a little farther up the road, we saw signs warning drivers to "Beware of low flying aircraft." My dad used to fly F4s in the Air Force, so I grew up around runways and airplanes, but I'd never seen a sign like that. As we rounded the bend into "downtown Topping," we saw a tiny airstrip. And parked on the runway was a beautifully restored, blue-and-gold Fairchild PT-19, a WWII era aircraft with an open cockpit. Across its nose was a banner with one word: Rides.
I was the first to ride. I stepped onto the wing and into the cockpit, then the pilot, Michael Kuhnert, strapped me into the rear seat with a four-point harness. He plopped a leather headset on my head and I regretted not having a bomber jacket and white scarf to complete the image of the Sopwith Camel. I heard Michael's voice in my earphones�"You ready to fly?"�and I replied in the mouthpiece�"You bet I am!" As the plane taxied down the runway, I was startled when the control stick bobbled between my legs, then laughed as I realized what was going on. The Fairchild is a trainer aircraft, so, just like a driver's ed car, there are controls in both the instructor's and student's seats. When the pilot operates his controls, the same actions occur in the rear seat. Michael revved the engine, sped down the short runway, and then we lifted into the air, defying gravity. Every now and then, the two pedals on the floor would push in and out, and some knob on the side would spin and nudge my leg. The plane banked and I saw the surrounding trees grow smaller and within moments we were out over the wide blue swath of the Rappahannock River. We followed the coastline to the Chesapeake Bay, and as we flew, Michael's narrative on the headset filled me in on what I was seeing, using clock positions as directions (10 o'clock is front left, 2 o'clock front right, and so on). "These two islands," Michael said, indicating a pair of marshy outcroppings in the Rappahannock, "used to be one island. It used to be more than three times this size, farmable land. Someone offered the owner $700,000 for it, but he held out for more, wanted a million. Then Hurricane Isabel came and phftt." We banked when we reached Stingray Point. "It got its name from Captain John Smith," Michael said. "He nearly died from an encounter with a stingray. At your 9 o'clock is the place where Indians kept an antidote for the stingray poison. They came over in canoes and saved John Smith." He paused a moment, then added, "You think they would have saved him if they knew what was in store for them?" As we rounded the point, he told me that the strip of land I saw to the west was the Eastern Shore, which laid 17 miles away. It seemed seem much closer, though, in the clear evening sky. Then it was time to turn back to Hummel Field. Nearing the runway, I lifted my arms like one would do in a roller coaster. The only problem with an open cockpit flight is when someone with flabby biceps (i.e., me) sticks an arm outside the cockpit and is nearly beaten in the face with his own arm flab. I've really got to start working out with dumbbells again (and, no, I wasn't referring to my friends...though they qualify). The landing was smooth as butter, and we spun around at the end of the runway and cruised back toward the hangar. When I climbed out of the cockpit onto the wing, I felt as if I were weightless. "You're going to love it," I told Dawn. The plane took off again and now it was Dawn's turn to touch the sky. Another Cessna had landed while I was up, this one piloted by a firefighter medic from Henrico. I stood by while he and Garrett swapped flight stories and used lingo I didn't understand. After a while, the Fairchild approached the strip and I saw Dawn raise her arms in victory just as I had.
We drove north and began our walk on the other side of the Norris Bridge. Dawn kept talking about the flight, every now and then breaking into laughter. "I still can't believe it," she said. "That was just so unexpected." Traffic was heavy on the road and dusk was just giving way to darkness. I wore my reflective vest and carried a flashlight, with Dawn walking behind me. We spent much of the time huddled on the shoulder while we waited for strings of trucks to pass. The road we had been on acted as a choke point for the entire region, connecting the Northern Neck with the Middle Peninsula, so we were thrilled when we finally reached White Stone and turned west for Irvington and the traffic grew sparse. When we'd walked for a while in the dark without a car passing us, I grabbed Dawn's arm. "Lie down in road," I said. "Yeah, right," she replied, waiting for a punch line. But when I dropped down on my back, she followed suit. Our eyes adjusted to the dark and the night sky clarified. Slowly, the velvet overhead filled with a million pinpricks of lights. It was almost as if we could see eternity. I leaned over to Dawn and pointed out something in the sky. "Look," I said. "A satellite." She followed my finger and soon saw the red light orbiting the Earth. "Oh my God," Dawn said. "That's incredible." We stared at the sky a while longer and then heard a vehicle approaching. We got up and continued toward Irvington. We saw the single headlight of a motorcycle, and I got an idea. "Hey," I said, "Let's pretend we're a motorcycle, too." Dawn laughed and we got in the middle of our lane. I turned on my flashlight and we both made loud motor sounds. The motorcycle slowed for a moment, wondering, I suppose, why someone had been driving without a headlight on, but then when he saw us we heard him laugh and speed off. "You know," Dawn said, "this has been one of the most wonderful days of my life." I felt the same way. I was thrilled with today's adventure and wondered what surprises lay ahead. I don't know what tomorrow will bring, but when Opportunity knocks I will answer. Michael Kuhnert owns and operates Bay Aviation on Hummell Field in Topping, Virginia. To schedule a flight with him, call (804) 758-9500 or (804) 436-2977. You won't regret it! Ham to Bacon Today, I decided I would pick up the route I had left off almost a month ago on the western edge of Hampton Roads. I had a great day visiting with my good friend, Doris Gwaltney, the last time I was in Smithfield, and I was looking forward to some more good company. Unfortunately, I had some difficulty getting started. My plan was to walk from Doris' house up to Bacon's Castle. I used MapQuest to plot my course before setting out, and brought a tiny pocket map with me. MapQuest directions said I should go through the heart of Smithfield and then take Route 258 up to Bacon's Castle. Sounded easy enough. But, since this was terrain I had never seen before, I thought it best to scout the route in my car before setting out on foot. Good thing, too. After driving through town, I turned onto 258 North, which actually took me south back to Smithfield. Okay, I figured, this is one of those sections of a long road that doubles back and goes in the opposite direction for a little bit. So, I headed back to Doris' house, pegged the odometer again to track my mileage, then repeated my journey, this time taking US 258 South (to go north). I drove about 9 miles down this road before realizing I wasn't going anywhere near my destination. Strike two. I drove back to Doris' again, pegged the odometer a third time, and set out once more. This time, I drove through the 258 intersection and stayed on Route 10, which also goes by the cool name Old Stage Highway. After 5 miles, I saw a sign for Bacon's Castle and breathed a sigh of relief. I had left my house a little before 4 in the morning, but it was 6:15 before I actually started walking. Two-and-a-half hours on the road. I was not off to a good start, but it wasn't my fault. I blamed MapQuest. I blamed the night sky for being too dark. I blamed VDOT for not having idiot-proof signs. As my hero, Homer Simpson, likes to say: "This is everyone's fault but mine."
The forecast gave a 20% chance of rain, but it held off and the gray sky provided a nice cover from the sun. When I figured I had about an hour left in my walk, I tried to call Doris to apprise her of my progress so she could be ready to pick me up. Unfortunately, my MapQuest faux pas was not the end of my difficulty with numbers this morning. Though I had written her phone number on a piece of paper last night, I forgot to bring it with me. Wracking my brain, I called what I thought was the number got a groggy stranger who hung up on me. I transposed two of the numbers and tried again, with pretty much the same result. I eventually called my walking pal, Dawn, and got the correct number. When I finally reached Bacon's Castle, I was shocked to learn it wasn't an actual castle made of bacon. How disappointing. Bacon's Castle, it turns out, takes its name from Bacon's Rebellion. At this site in 1676, Nathanial Bacon led an uprising against colonial rule. A full century before our independence, this is one of the first acts of revolution in our history.   Hey, where's the bacon? My first lucky break of the day came when I arrived at my destination. Just as I stepped foot in the parking lot, Doris arrived. It had been a 14-mile hike, so I stretched my legs before hopping in the car. On the drive back, we halted at a stoplight and a hog truck pulled up next to us. "There's no mixing that smell up with anything else," Doris said, rolling up the windows. Her husband, Atwill, cooked lunch for us: a healthy portion of broiled chicken, rice, and veggies. It was mouth-wateringly good, and though I'm certain dessert would have been a tasty way to wind it up, I somehow managed to decline. I can't recall the last time I did that. I might have to mark this date down in the calendar. Chalkfest I wasn't planning to walk today. I was planning to plant my butt on the couch and watch college football all day long. But my artist friend Terry had other ideas. She'd signed up to participate in the Gloucester Chalkfest, something I'd heard about but never seen, and my "seizing opportunities" speech from last weekend was nagging at me and telling me to get my couch potato rear in motion. Terry had wrenched her back yesterday, so I thought I might get a reprieve; but when she decided to tough it out and go anyway, the guilt became too much. I had to go. The way a Chalk Festival works is that various artists are assigned blocks of pavement on which to draw, they are given chalk, and then they set to work creating street art in an allotted period of time. In this case, 4 hours. I arrived after she'd been toiling for 2 hours and I had plenty of advice to offer from years spent as a bathroom stall graffiti artist, but she was having none of it. Her spine became a question mark as she bent over the pavement. She'd taken painkillers and her back was causing less discomfort than my pestering, so I decided to go off on a little walk. The festival was taking place fairly near the starting point of one of my previous walks. On that walk, I had gone south on Main and taken Route 3 to the Mathews County line. So today I'd go north and see if I could find anything interesting. A short ways up the road, I came across a statue of Pocahontas that took me aback. It showed her as a young girl holding out corn as if in offering. I was surprised because in many revisionist accounts, she is portrayed as being older, which sits better with modern sensibilities. But the preteen statue is more accurate to her age when she saved John Smith from execution, so kudos to Gloucester for the portrayal. Near the statue was a sign pointing to the next town over: Rosewell. Cool, I thought. I always wondered what Area 51 looked like. I hiked down that road and told everyone I came across, "I mean you no harm. I come in peace!" They were not impressed. About the same time I discovered that "Rosewell" was about 10 miles away it hit me that this wasn't "Roswell." I turned back to see how my chalky pal was doing. Although she'd never done any sidewalk art before (unless you count hopskotch), Terry took second place. I left before the award ceremony so I could catch the opening kickoff of Hokies vs. Huskers, which was a good thing for Terry. I would have narced her out and demanded they do a drug test on all the winners. I can't help it. I've been indoctrinated by all those years of "Just say no." Which, of course, is probably what Terry will say the next time I ask to watch her work.   Terry's chalk art after 2 hours (left) and after 4 hours (you know where) Lightfoot to Norge This was a fairly uneventful hike. Norge is only 3.3 miles away from Lightfoot, although I did cover twice the distance since I had to walk back to my car. Sidewalks start and stop along several portions of the route, and there were a handful of joggers and other walkers making use of them. We all nodded and said hello to the fellow members of our tribe. There wasn't much to see along the side of the road, which cut through swaths of empty fields or passed by homes and small businesses spaced far apart. I passed by the wasteland that once was the Williamsburg Pottery, which is now filled with dilapidated structures and parking lots overgrown with weeds. But there was one thing to get excited about: I was finally back on the road to Richmond. The state capital sits about 40 miles from here, a distance I can cover in a handful of walks. My hikes to this point have meandered all over Hampton Roads as well as roaming north across the state's various peninsulas, but reaching Richmond will be a milestone marker. That is where the map I keep on my "Where's Bill Been" page runs out of space. I've already walked off the northern section of the map, and it's thrilling to think I'm going to soon fall off another of its edges. Who Let the Dogs Out? A lot of people have been asking me what I do about dogs when I'm out walking, and the answer, up to this point, has been, "Nothing much." Truthfully, though, I had come up with an ingenious plan to handle dogs should they attack me. A plan that was born of watching too many episodes of Wild Kingdom as a lad. I remember the way these adventurers would hang off the sides of Jeeps as they chased lions and tigers and cheetahs across the African plains. And as they pulled up alongside their quarry, they'd launch a weighted net at the beast and trap it. Why couldn't I do the same thing with dogs? I shared my idea with a co-worker, who promptly doubled over with laughter. I think she's still laughing now. "I tell you what," she said. "Why don't you come over to my house and try it on my dogs before you take to the road with it?" Good idea. At least then, I wouldn't get mauled from a failed attempt. I'd only suffer the indignity of slobber. Who was I kidding? The net idea was never going to work. Even if I had a net that was strong and large enough, the weights to fasten to its edges, and the turret mounted cannon with which to launch it, where was I going to stow it all? If only I had a Jeep. Oh, well. My lackadaisical attitude toward the matter was primarily due to a lack of near misses with angry mutts. That all changed on the last trip I walked with Dawn. When we were hiking in the Northern Neck, a growling dog came out of its yard and started following us down the street. We'd been walking side-by-side, so I pushed Dawn in front of me and kept an eye on the trailing hound. "He can bite you just the same as he can bite me," Dawn said. "In fact, he has more of a target area to choose from." I considered trading positions with her, maybe even holding out one of her fleshy tidbits for Cujo, but our follower had lost interest and gone back home. Shortly after that walk, I read an article in Parade Magazine about fatal dog attacks, which states that the incidence of dog-bite fatalities has risen in America "from an average of 13 a year in the 1990s to more than 30 annually in recent years." Yikes! Shortly after reading that article, I stopped in at the local military surplus store and bought a canister of pepper spray. I fastened it to one of my rucksack's shoulder straps on a quick-release ring and brought it with me on last week's hike to Bacon's Castle. It bounced on my chest as I walked, giving me confidence, making me feel like a warrior headed out to do battle. As if on cue, the dogs were out in full force this morning. Several times, I heard vicious barking as I passed someone's yard and whipped out my canister. The first time, the mutt was chained up in the front yard, and the next two times, the dogs were little more than loud kittens�one was a dachshund and the other was some mix breed of poodle and chipmunk. None of this shattered the warrior image I'd created in my head. I was still Rambo. Of course, I was the much older version who occasionally has to gum his food but can still kick ass when he has to. So a chipmunk-sized dog is just about my speed. They're tiny, but they're furious little balls of fur. Elon to Madison Heights This morning, Dawn and I set out for Lynchburg. We've been on a lot of road trips together over the years. Most of the time, I'd pick her up early in the morning and we'd stop at the Burger King right around the corner from her house, feasting on deliciously evil croissandwiches and grease-infused cheese tots. To avoid temptation, I shopped for healthy food yesterday and brought along a shopping bag of fruit and other healthy snacks and packed sandwiches, yogurt, and V8s in a Little Playmate Cooler (unfortunately no kin to Playboy Playmates). Even so, deep fried nostalgia burbled in my heart as I passed the Burger King and my arteries added another layer of plaque as I reminisced.
Mother Nature had other plans. She was in a testy mood and cracked open some clouds the moment we left Dawn's house. It poured the whole trip to Central Virginia. When we got to the starting point at 8 a.m. and it was still coming down hard, I hopped out of the car and geared up. "Give me a call if it gets any worse," Dawn said. She would not be walking this morning. Dawn has an aversion to rain. She might be related to someone from Oz, but that's just a guess. The walk itself was a killer, not due to the rain but because of the terrain. I plodded through the hilly country and gazed up at various rock outcroppings. Lynchburg sits in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains and is known as "The City of Seven Hills." On this morning's walk, I think I climbed seventy hills...and I hadn't even reached Lynchburg proper yet! The finishing point was the campus of Central Virginia Training Center, the state's largest residency area serving individuals with intellectual disabilities. My reason for choosing this spot as my endpoint was that there is a nature trail that links up behind the campus that runs along the James River through downtown Lynchburg, which would be my second walk of the day. The rain let up about a half-hour before I reached CVTC, and when I reached the outskirts of campus I stopped to take a photo of the historical marker. Johnny Law braced me after I shot the photo. "If you're going to take any pictures here, you need to get permission from administration." His concerns were due to the several hundred residents on campus and protecting their rights to privacy. I slipped my camera back in its Ziplock bag and marched on, searching the parking lot for Dawn. She was snoozing in the car but shot up when she heard my sudden and rather boisterous rapping on the door (I couldn't help myself). I wanted to take pictures of some of the gorgeous buildings, so I ran over to ask a nurse walking past where I could find the administration building. When I returned to the car, Dawn said, "Why didn't you just ask me? I've been sitting here for hours." We got out of the car and I headed toward the proper building. "Hey," Dawn said, "I thought administration was that building over there." She pointed the opposite direction we were heading. "That's why I didn't ask you," I said. She was still woozy from just waking up, and all she could do was laugh sheepishly and rub her eyes. I should have learned by now how Karma works and been kinder to Dawn. But no, I had to get my shots in. Later in the day, the soggy shoe would be on the other foot. The hike that lay ahead would leave me addlebrained and Dawn would get the last laugh. Madison Heights to Lynchburg For the afternoon hike, Dawn and I drove to one end of the James River Heritage Trail, one of the state's most beautiful walking and biking paths. It winds for 3 miles through an abandoned railroad bed alongside Blackwater Creek, spilling out onto a brick sidewalk that shoots through into the downtown area. Then it crosses the James River and follows that for another 3-� miles. The trail is being extended even farther. If you live anywhere near Lynchburg (or even if you don't), you should plan a hike there. It is truly spectacular. Although the nature hike would take our breath away, we started the afternoon on a somber note. Our starting point for the trail began in the midst of something called The Awareness Garden. This is a garden built to honor the families and caregivers whose lives have been touched by cancer. Dawn has been touched by cancer. Twice. The second time, she was told that she had less than a year to live and should get her affairs in order. Instead, she got a motorcycle. "It was something I always wanted to do," she said, "and it was a wonderful distraction." The Awareness Garden is filled with plants, trees, benches, and a fountain with a monument of two kids playing in the rain. Winding alongside the garden is a path filled with bricks commemorating the memory of loved ones lost to cancer. Too many bricks. Gazing out across them all plants a knot in your throat and leaves you speechless. In the center of the bricked area stands Lalla's Bell, which visitors are encouraged to "ring three times to celebrate the end of treatments, to remember a loved one, or to bring hope for a cure for all." I rang the bell three times for Dawn. She rang the bell three times for her ex-husband Harry, who died from lung cancer. And together, we rang the bell three times for our pal Terry, who is a breast cancer survivor.   The Awareness Garden is located at the 1700 Block Old Langhorne Road We needed a few moments to collect ourselves and we stretched for our walk in silence. Nearby, a woman was doing likewise, propping her leg up on a bench and leaning forward to stretch out her calf muscle. After the woman ran off, Dawn propped her leg up on the bench and said, "I'm going to roll my pant legs up, too." The rain had stopped but the ground was puddled, so I could understand her point. What I couldn't understand was the comparison. The other woman had been wearing Lycra shorts. I pointed that out to Dawn and she said, "Leave me alone. I'm emotional." Though the trail cut through mountainous terrain, it was fairly level because it literally cut through the mountains. At various points, there were cliff faces on either side of the trail and at one point a tunnel bored straight through 100 yards of rock. A couple of miles in, Dawn went back to the car and I forged ahead. The trail map showed a road leading from CVTC (my endpoint) that intersected with the trail. If I'd have been a little smarter, I would have scouted out that road and done the hike in reverse. The road was 1 mile straight up a mountainside. By itself, it would be a big deal. But after already hiking 17 miles that day, my legs were wobbly and my heart was thumping. By the time I made it back to the car, I was staggering. When I approached the car, Dawn hopped out. "Are you OK?" she asked. "You look a little pasty." I'd already finished all my water, so she ran into one of the buildings to refill one of my bottles. I sucked it down, drank a V8 as well, and started to feel a little better. "What happened to you?" Dawn said. "I thought you'd be here a half-hour ago." "Let me show you." As we descended the slope Dawn consoled me with "Oohs" and "Omigods." I was glad I had a witness to back up my story, but I had a second reason for driving back down the mountain. At the bottom where the road met the trail was an awesome display featuring every type of rock found in Virginia. These weren't the kinds of rocks you see lining the walkway to someone's house; these were monster rocks, mammoth chunks of stone that weighed tons each. There was granite, quartz, limestone, slate, marble, anorthosite, and more than a dozen other boulders. I pulled a flyer from the display stand to read about the rocks and stared at the flyer in some confusion. There appeared to be pictures of rocks on the page, but the rocks were moving around. "How long you going to stare at those stinkbugs?" Dawn asked. I let out a shocked "Argh!" and dropped the flyer. "Still feeling dopey from your walk," she said, patting me on the back in consolation, "or is this just your natural state?" I was too dazed to come up with a good retort, so I just stood there and took it. And this was not the end of my foggy minded gaffes. When we checked into the hotel, I tried entering the wrong room. The card key didn�t work, but I did hear some frantic scurrying on the other side of the door. Dawn and I beat feet down the hall and found the proper room. Once inside, I plopped down in an armchair and sighed from exhaustion. �Why don�t you kick your feet up?� Dawn suggested. I felt on the side of the chair and found no activating arm. �Um, because this isn�t a recliner,� I replied, a little derisively. Then adding, just in case the inflection was missed, �Duh.� Dawn pulled me out of the chair and sat down. Then she pushed forward on the arms and leaned back. The chair reclined and the leg rest popped out. She smiled at me and I could see something evil brewing inside her head. But before she could say anything I beat her to the punch. �I know, I know...Duh!� That showed her. Score one for Bill! Instead of going out to eat or even ordering room service, we pulled out the bag of bagels I had packed and lunchmeat from the cooler. Dawn made sandwiches while I soaked in the Jacuzzi and tried to work out the knots in my legs. There was nothing I could do about the knot in my head though. That would only heal with a good night's rest. NOTE: The holistic doctor whom Dawn credits with saving her life is Dr. Philip Bonnet. His office is in Washington Crossing, Pennsylvania. You can read more about him on his website: The Healing Partnership. If you know anyone who is fighting cancer, please pass this information along. A Walk Through Lynchburg I woke at 3 a.m. feeling mightily refreshed, yesterday�s mental fog having dissipated. Dawn was snoring away in her bed, so I grabbed the car keys and went out to scout today�s walk. Good thing too. The planned route to Thomas Jefferson�s Poplar Forest would not have worked because road construction blocked off all the entrances. Instead, I found a roller-coaster of a road that went from the hotel to downtown Lynchburg. Any hills I missed on my previous walks, I would cover today. As I drove, the car engine groaned from the effort and I felt like I was in an episode of The Streets of San Francisco. All I needed to do was launch up one side and land on the other in a shower of sparks. Reentering the hotel, the scents of continental breakfast pulled me into the dining room. I fixed 2 fairly healthy plates and carried them upstairs. Dawn was still snoozing so I shook her shoulder. She turned over to the other side so I held her plate under her nose and said, �Breakfast in bed.� This time she opened her eyes, but only for a moment. Setting the plate aside, I grabbed her by the arms and lifted her into a sitting position. But while I grabbed the pillows so she could sit more comfortably, she rolled over again and tucked into the covers. Needless to say, Dawn is NOT a morning person. I filled Dawn in on my change of plans and told her she had an hour to pull herself together before I�d need her to drive out to downtown to meet me on Main Street. I�d programmed the destination in the GPS system, which Dawn had fallen in love with over the weekend. She even made up a little song of praise for it: �Garmin�s great, Garmin�s perfection, let us thank him for direction.� This morning�s walk was only going to be 5 miles, so I left my rucksack in the car and only carried a quart bottle of water. It was hard to maintain a steady pace on the hilly streets. The slopes were just so steep. When I was going down, it was hard not to jog; and when I was going up, it was hard not to cry. But my legs were holding up, unlike yesterday, I was still of sound mind. At least until my cell phone rang about a half-mile from my destination. �Hey, Bill,� Dawn said, �I�m sorry, but I fell back asleep.� I stopped on the hill I was climbing and almost fell over backwards. �Wha�?� The evil cackle on the other end firmed up the supposition I made yesterday: she is related to a certain somebody from Oz. �Just kidding,� she said.
Revenge is a dish best served cold. Or on a hilly slope. It was time for Dawn to discover firsthand how Lynchburg got its nickname. We turned onto Ninth Street and lumbered up the hill toward one of the most spectacular displays I�ve ever seen: Monument Terrace, which straddles Church Street and Court Street. A set of brick steps rises up the hill and levels off at eight different terraces, each of which contains a war memorial. Each memorial is dedicated to the sons of Lynchburg who gave their lives in different wars. The first monument is dedicated to the doughboys of World War I and the final monument is dedicated to Lynchburg�s Confederate dead. We hiked the steps and paused on each terrace to take it all in. As Isaac Newton said, what goes up must come down, so we made our way down the steps and continued across several more streets and down several more hills toward the river. A corollary to Newton�s law: what goes down must go back up. When we reached the bottom, an area called �Amazement Park� that featured large sculptures and other displays, we turned and began the long climb. Dawn was huffing before we�d made it one block. �Oh my God,� she said, �there�s no way I would have survived on that walk you did yesterday. You would have had to carry me up the hill.� As it was I had to help her get up this hill by getting behind her and pushing. Well, I didn�t have to, but it gave me the opportunity to get in a few kidney shots. Revenge, it turns out, is even sweeter dish when there�s blood in your victim�s urine. The Monsoon My healthy weekend came to a crashing halt in the afternoon. I'd been so good up to this point, staying away from restaurants and roadside convenience stores. But, I wanted my experience of the City of Seven Hills to include a Taste of Lynchburg. I asked around and three different people said that the best place to eat was a 24-hour diner named The Texas Inn but called The T Room by locals. Not only did we get the same recommendation from 3 different people, but they all suggested the same meal: a Cheesy Western with a bowl of chili. With that much hype, how could I pass it up? The recommendations also came with caveats. After suggesting The T Room, one person added, with a chuckle, "If you go, make sure you got all your tattoos and piercings exposed." Also, one of the hotel's front desk clerks said to avoid going there after dark because a lot of fights break out. "They have Hell's Angels and gangsters," she said. "But it's a nice blend of people." I figured I'd wait until daylight when the "blend" had less chance of causing facial disfigurement. So Dawn and I stopped at the T Room and each ordered a Cheesy Western with a bowl of chili. The Cheesy Western was a fried egg and sausage patty covered with a slice of cheese and served on a hamburger bun. I wish I could say it lived up to my expectations, especially after all the hype, but we both thought the chili was watery and the egg sandwich was bland. Maybe my taste buds have finally learned not to desire greasy foods any longer? Nah. The meal was just sub-par. Though the morning walk had been a dry one, the rain started up again in earnest around noon. We were going to be outside in a football stadium watching a game all afternoon, so we decided to stop at a K-Mart to purchase some rain gear. We found some heavy duty storm suits that were canary yellow, but they didn't have anything larger than XL. "It might fit you," Dawn suggested. But the way she wrinkled her face up said, "In your dreams." Turns out her face was right. I pulled one of the suits from its package and sat down on the floor. Kicking off my shoes, I tried to shimmy into the pants but they wouldn't get up over my thighs. I could button the jacket over my gut, but I could tell by the way Dawn covered her eyes that the gaps between buttons bulged out in a threatening manner. Dawn also grabbed a suit and had none of my troubles. "At least I don't look like the Gorton Fisherman," I said. We hit the road and headed to Blacksburg where #11 Virginia Tech was taking on #9 Miami. It was a huge game and I was thrilled to score tickets to it (Thank you Norm and Ray!). Not only that, but the seats, incredibly enough, were on the 50-yard line (Thank you, thank you, thank you). It was appropriate that the visiting team was the Miami Hurricanes because the storm didn't let up for a second through the entire game. I wore a poncho and Dawn wore the yellow pants from the store and a different rain jacket she had packed in her suitcase because it was a couple of inches longer than the yellow jacket (and also, I suspect, because she was tired of me calling her Gorton Girl). Unfortunately for her, the jacket she packed was as effective as a screen door. Water leaked through it and she wound up soaked. I fared no better in the poncho, as water coursed in through the sides every time I raised my arms to high five or clap or just jump around in jubilation, which was on almost every play. All of the Pundits had picked Miami to crush the Hokies, but VT dominated the game from beginning to end. The fans were going crazy, so no one could tell that was my usual state. When the game was over and the score stood at 31-7, euphoria turned to pandemonium as students ran onto the soggy field to congratulate players and turn the field into a mosh pit. "Come on," I said, grabbing Dawn's hand, "we're storming the field." Imagine if you will what a 300-pound, 43-year-old man in a poncho looks like running onto a grassy, rain-soaked field filled with thousands of screaming kids. Kind of reminds you of those scenes from the old Godzilla movies, huh? Then imagine Godzilla doing a running belly flop onto the turf and hydroplaning on the 10-yard line. 'Cause that's what I did. It was off-the-chart crazy out there and I figured, What the hell? I was already wet. Who I Used to Be While scouting out the road I'll be walking to Richmond, I drove through some long quiet stretches. It appeared as if the hike up Route 60 would be uneventful. But then I looked a little closer at the boutique shops on the side of the road and found some interesting stories. For example, the Saving Face Day Spa in Toano had a sign in their window listing among their services past life regressions. While this isn't something I�ve ever considered before, or even thought much about for that matter, I couldn't think of a reason why I shouldn't give it a try. After work today, I drove up to where I'd left off on my last leg on this route and walked from Norge to Toano. I'd called ahead for an appointment and arrived at the spa 10 minutes early. I went in hoping to see mystics dressed in clinging robes and clanging finger cymbols together; maybe even sacrificing a goat in the corner. What I found instead was a typical spa with areas for facials and an attached hair salon. Rebecca led me into an upstairs room whose walls were decorated with butterflies. A boom box in the corner played new age music, the soothing sounds of nature mixed in with a strumming harp. I lay down on a massage bed and stared up at a set of parallel bars bolted to the ceiling (these were for Ashiatsu massage, where the masseuse walks on your back). Rebecca placed a pillow under my knees then sat in a chair just behind my head. In the dimly lit room, she first explained what the session would be like and let me know that different people experience these sessions in different ways. I kind of thought it would work like a magic show, that she would profess to be a spiritualist who would read my aura and tell me I used to be Napoleon or something like that. But it was actually a rather professional session. First, Rebecca spoke quietly and talked me through a relaxation process. Then she directed my thoughts into situations and asked what I saw, essentially acting as a guide for my personal visualization. Some people believe when you do this you are looking back on experiences from a past life. Psychiatrists believe this visualization technique sheds light on your current self-image and exposes what concerns are on your mind. Whichever you believe, the process can be enlightening. Rebecca led me through two episodes. In the first, I was a worker in the cargo hold of a ship. I wound up getting married to an Irish gal and died a gray-haired man with my two boys and my lass at my side. In the second, I was an old-fashioned bank teller with a white shirt, arm bands, and a bow tie. I liked to dance and party, but then came the Depression and I wound up dying alone in a beggar's hospital. Near the end of this visualization, while I was lying there on my death bed among rows of other sickly indigent, something from the present intruded. The cell phone in my pocket rang. One of those long ring tones that plays a loud, obnoxious song. Rebecca tried to keep me focused, but I was laughing and it was impossible. The phone finally stopped ringing and beeped that a message had gone to voice mail (thank you, Ann!). With my mind firmly back in 2009, I left the spa and continued my walk north from Toano, reflecting all the while on what my visualizations meant. I was so lost in my thoughts that I hadn't noticed that black clouds now blotted out the sky. The spell was broken though when a few fat drops splashed on my face. I looked for a landmark where I could turn around, something I would be able to pick up again on a later walk. Up ahead was an antique store with an enormous, yellow, wooden chair standing out front. It must have been two stories tall. That would do. As I reached the chair, lightning flashed in the sky. The rain picked up its intensity, as did I. My walk turned into a run. I jogged the two-or-so miles back to the car and popped the trunk. Rifling through my ruck sack, I pulled out the large Ziplock containing my dry set of a clothes. I stripped off my shirt, shoes, and socks in the parking lot, threw a towel on the front seat, and hopped in. I hoped a cop didn't come along before I had a chance to dress. I could just imagine the explanation: "You see, officer, I was just getting a past life regression and discovered I used to be Lady Godiva. You don't have a horse I can borrow, do you?" |
