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Bumbling Bouts of Baffoonery Looking back at 2009, I see there have been plenty of highlights and lowlights in my walking adventure...okay, mostly lowlights. A few feelings were hurt, some spirits crushed, a few misdemeanors committed, and even a felony or two...but all in all, 2009 was a pretty rocking year. In January, I started walking again after slacking off at the end of 2008. In February, I was sidelined by the flu but by March I was back at it again. In April I started dieting (and dreaming about that sexy, syrupy woman, Aunt Jemima) then in May I started adding in some cross-training, such as my ill-fated canoe trip that started out with me taking a nose-dive. By June, my exercise was in high gear, and I logged 200 miles walking. July found me hobbled again, this time done in by a devilish groundhog. My twisted ankle kept me off the road for a couple of weeks, but I bounced back and walked 135 miles in August (and slept in a dog bed). September saw me going high (riding in a WWII open cockpit airplane) and low (hydroplaning on the turf at Lane Stadium after a Hokies win during a monsoon), and in October I was almost a fugitive (after nearly burning down a hotel). The end of October was my 100-Pound Party, where I celebrated losing 100 pounds (duh). But, I celebrated too much and gained 11 pounds in November. December was the month of many parties (where I mixed up people's names and dragged one well-dressed woman through a wet lawn), but after my gains in November I buckled down and worked out like a demon, shedding 16 pounds for the month. The end result: last year I hiked 1150 miles and lost 85 pounds; I feel fitter and happier than I have in years. 2009 set the bar high, but I have faith that 2010 will be even better. Why? Because I'm going to make it so. And that is my wish for you: that this be a happy and healthy year filled with wonderful surprises. May all your resolutions and dreams come true. And if you do happen to experience any bumbling bouts of buffoonery, I hope you're able to dust yourself and laugh. It is, after all, the best medicine of all. A Modest Hike Dawn and I had planned to do a walk out on the Eastern Shore today, but her leg has been hinky and she didn't think it wise. Even so, she came along to keep me company and drop me off at my starting point. That's a 2-hour drive up, 2 hours back, and then another few hours to scout the route and wait while I walked. Not many people would put themselves out like that. What can I say but Wow. My walk started out at a little place called Modest Town. As we approached the town, Dawn said, "I wonder if everyone will be all covered up, dressed in burkas and whatnot." I looked down at my sweats and checked the mirror to see if I had too much neck showing. Hard to tell, because once I got out on the road I never saw anyone outside. Could be that it was too cold. Could also be that being seen in public would be too immodest for residents of Modest Town. At least, that's my take on it.   I hoofed it through Nelsonia and finished up in Bloxom, where Dawn met me at a Mini-Mart. A handful of locals were chewing the fat inside, so I asked one of them if there was anything interesting to see around there. He pointed down at the floor then hooked his thumb toward the right, saying, "This store and the one next door. That's about all there is." Another man piped up. "Now you're halfway through your tour." They all had a good chuckle and then I asked about the best place in the area to eat. They debated amongst themselves, offering choices and shooting down each others' preferences, but finally came up with two options: Ray's and Wright's. "Nah," a woman said, "Ray's was closed when I went by yesterday." "Then I guess it's Wright's," a man said. "Now, it ain't nothing fancy. It ain't no Red Lobster or nothing, but the food is good." "Nope," the cashier chipped in. She had a phone in her hand and replaced it in the cradle. "Ray's is closed and Wright's don't open till 4." Next on their list was a restaurant called Bigs that they promised had good seafood at inexpensive prices. They told me to head out to the highway and go south until we passed a feed store and some silos and the restaurant would be right next to them. What they didn't say was that these landmarks were 21 miles down the road. As the miles kept rolling by, Dawn and I just laughed about it. I almost passed it by, but Dawn picked it up with her eagle eyes.
Driving down Route 13, we'd seen a couple of billboards advertising The Great Machipongo Clam Shack in Nassawadox. That was only 6 miles farther, so we figured what the heck. It might not have been the recommended choice, but it should have been. The Clam Shack was a great place, with delicious seafood dishes and an attached market selling frozen seafood to take home. The market also had some peculiar specialties that I couldn't pass up: Cajun spiced alligator tail and a can of "barnacles," which is a spicy snack mix of nuts, crackers, pretzels, and seeds all smothered with Chesapeake Bay Seasoning. Perhaps the best tasting snack mix I've ever had. Simply delicious. Our trip up the Eastern Shore might not have gone exactly according to plan, but that's perfectly fine. Sometimes the best things you discover on the road are the things you don't plan for. Ice Ain't Nice
My ego would soon be slapped back down to size. Dawn and I went from the warm and cozy confines of the library auditorium to the stark and windy plains of Jamestown. We were planning a 7-mile walk from the ferry dock site to Colonial Williamsburg. But before we braved the icy wind, first we would stuff our faces at the Jamestown Pie Company, whose motto is "Because round food is good food."
We studied the menus and looked around the empty lobby. The cook was busy in the kitchen, hidden around the corner, so Dawn held her arms out to the side and said, "You ready?" This would be a good time for me to give you a little back story. A while back, Dawn and I were watching a football game when one of the receivers made an awesome catch and ran back to his teammates. He and his teammate jumped up in the air and bumped chests in celebration. With a perplexed look on her face, Dawn asked, "Why do guys do that?" "It's a guy thing," I said, "You wouldn't understand." "Stupid. I mean, can you imagine if women did something like that." A big grin came over my face and I said, "All the time." Dawn wanted to try it out, so we went into the hall (didn't want to bust up the TV) and lined up for a chest bump. After several attempts where she backed off shrieking at the last moment, she finally went through with it and did a flying chest bump with me. This would be a good time for me to explain something about the laws of physics. Newton once proposed theories that suggested two equal and opposite forces would cancel each other out. "Opposite" Dawn and I may be; "equal," we are not. Needless to say, we proved Newtonian motion correct that day when Dawn bounced off of me and flew away like a pellet from a slingshot. Luckily there was a wall to stop her motion, otherwise she might still be in orbit. Champ that she is, Dawn dusted herself off, splinted her fractured arm, and said, "That was fun! Let's do that again!" "Any time, any place," I replied. Which brings us back to the front counter at the Jamestown Pie Company...also known as "any place, USA." When Dawn held her arms out to the side and asked if I was ready, I knew exactly what she meant. "Oh, yeah," I said. Then we did a quick chest bump that was far less exuberant than the one described above but still forceful enough to bounce Dawn off the wall. Of course, that was the moment when the proprietor walked around the corner to take our order. "Hey," he said, "watch the funny business. We got cameras out here that are on all the time." They didn't, of course, but he had a good chuckle when we scanned the ceiling. I ordered a chicken pot pie and Dawn got the Creole pot pie. We also eyed the dessert pies and thought about getting a couple of slices but decided to wait until after we'd finished the main course. Good thing, too. The pies were delicious and filling. Dawn wrapped half of hers up to bring home, and even I didn't even finish mine. Satiated and warmed, we headed out into the howling wind...though, to say the day was "windy" does not do it justice. I was wearing six layers of clothing, including two thick sweatshirts, and the wind was knifing its cold fingers through me as if I were clad in a toga made of Kleenex (Note to self: suggest this for next party get together with my female friends). Dawn was wearing ski bibs and her heavy jacket, and she wasn't faring much better.   Good thing we'd gotten the chest bump out of the way earlier. If we'd tried it after our walk, we might have shattered. Colder than a Dead Rat A good friend of mine, Jill Winkowski, has been saying that she and her daughter Sarah would go on a walk with me one of these days. Today just happened to be one of these days. Our plan was to meet at her house at 6 a.m. and head out to the Eastern Shore. I expected to see lights on or something like that when I pulled up in front of her house but it was deathly still. It'd been a while since I'd been there, so I double-checked the address and wondered if I should ring the bell. Whipping out my cell, I gave her a buzz instead. Good thing, too. Turns out Jill had moved. I could just imagine the new occupants calling the police when they heard me scratching around their front door. If this was a sign, things did not bode well for today's walk. Luckily for me, Jill had only moved a few blocks away and we connected up a few minutes later. We drove south and crossed through the HRBT just as the sun was rising. The wind was gusting so hard that our cars were being pushed sideways in our lanes. Not only that, the digital alert signs on the Interstate warned that traffic through the Chesapeake Bay Bridge tunnel was "restricted." We weren't sure exactly what that meant, but as long as the warning didn't read "closed," we weren't turning back. As we crossed the Bay, the sun rose behind clouds and cast down visible rays that glowed liked amber streamers. Seagulls, carried on the breeze, knifed along beside traffic while the surf's white foam splashed in every direction. The view was enough to gawk at, and that was without considering the magnificence of the structure we were traversing. The Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel is known as one of the Seven Engineering Wonders of the Modern World. Its 23 miles of roads make it the world's largest bridge-tunnel complex. We drove up Route 13, passing the various galleries, farms, and fireworks stands. Each time we passed by an open field, dust clouds would roar across the road and the car doors would be peppered with grit. We dropped Jill's car off in Parksley then turned around and went back to the quaint town of Onancock, situated about halfway up the peninsula. This is the site on the western shore where ferries cross over to Tangier Island, a place I plan to visit in the spring. I parked at the wharf, strapped on my rucksack, and we started off on our 9-mile hike back to Jill's car. We walked up the main drag through town and started to question our sanity. The temperature was below freezing, and that was without the wind chill. Jill and Sarah had been smart enough to bring scarves to cover their faces. I, on the other hand, had to improvise, tucking two corners of a small towel into my wool cap and letting it drape across my face like a Middle Eastern woman's face covering. At least the half-mile or so in Onancock wasn't too bad. Buildings shielded us from the wind and we were able to stop at a gas station to use the restroom. Jill tanked up with a steaming cup of coffee, and while I wanted to poke fun at her for that, I was shivering too much to do so. Soon, we stepped out from the cover of town and wind blasted us with grit, in its own way saying, "Go home, Mainlander. You don't belong here." But we were too determined (or too dumb) to listen. Each time the wind gusted, we shrunk into ourselves, leaning into it. At one point, Sarah said something about the cold and I told her, "Just don't think about it. Pretend you're in Tahiti!" "My imagination's not that good," she replied.   But this was no mirage. It was a roadhouse-style bar with a backyard sand volleyball court. One of the balls was sitting outside the fence, so we picked it up and posed for pictures like we were serving or spiking the ball over the nets. Jill took it one step further, pulling a palm frond from the sand, sticking it in her mouth, and doing a hula dance in front of the trees. Now THAT takes imagination. Being able to stick that dead, disgusting, dried-up thing in her mouth like that without worrying about hepatitis or whatever. So concerned was I for her safety that as soon as she took it out I said, "Wait a sec, Jill. Put it back in so I can get another picture."
About 3 miles into our walk, we stopped for a snack-and-water break, and when Sarah was about to drink the wind made a whistling sound in the mouth of her bottle. Cool, I thought. But for some reason, Jill started freaking out. I thought it might have been a fast-acting version of West Nile Virus from the disease-ridden frond, but no, it was something much worse. "I think I left my keys back in the car," she said. She frantically patted pockets and fretted until Sarah reminded her to check the pockets of the layer underneath. We were each decked out like Eskimos with multiple layers. Jill heaved a sigh of relief. "Oh, there they are." "Even so," I said with a wicked smirk, "I'm still going to bust you for it on the blog." Then, after a pause, I added, "I would never do that. I'm far too kind." Trusting soul that she is, she might have even believed me. We marched on, praising the protection of trees whenever we passed by woods and cursing to ourselves whenever we passed by a farmer's field or some other open space. The problem was that most of the Eastern Shore was open space. Each time we'd come out from the cover of trees, the wind would slice through us and the feels-like temperature would drop 20 degrees in a matter of a few steps. "I'll never look at fields the same way again," Sarah said. "Look on the bright side," I said. "From now on, whenever you experience a cold day you can always say, 'Yeah, well, at least it's not as cold as it was that one day out on the Eastern Shore.'" In the making-the-most-of-it spirit, Jill turned our walk into a treasure hunt...though what qualifies as "treasure" in her mind most of us call "garbage." The only requirement was that it be made of metal. She picked up rusty hinges, nails, anything. "It's for my metal collection," she said. When I gave her that did-you-just-sneeze-in-my-soup look, she added, "What? Haven't you ever collected anything?" "Sure," I said, "I collected stamps, coins, and baseball cards. But that was when I was younger." She elbowed Sarah and said, "Now he just collects women." Jill went on to tell me about some of the other odd collections and projects she'd undertaken. For example, when she lived in Holland, she bemoaned the fact that the elementary school didn't recycle. Everything just went into the garbage. So, for 2 months, Jill stopped by the school, collected their garbage, and separated the recyclable material from the trash. "I'm sure they're still talking about me," Jill said. "They must've thought I was crazy." Now it was my turn to elbow Sarah. "We both know the answer to that question," I said. "We've seen the crap she's collecting on the side of the road."
Back in Jill's car with the heater running full blast, we started to feel that tingly sensation in our hands and ears and noses that told us we were warming up. Returning to Onancock, we saw a couple of people out walking (see, we weren't the only crazies out that day!) and pulled alongside to ask them where would be a good place to eat. "Tammy and Johhny's," they said without hesitation. "They've got the best fried chicken anywhere." No way we could pass up a recommendation like that. We drove to the restaurant and ordered up some vittles. I was still planning to do another 4-mile leg after lunch and was wondering if Jill and Sarah were interested in another hour out in the cold. They were on the fence, partly because Sarah had a European history exam to study for. "Oh," I said, "I can help with that. I know all about Europe. And everything else. For example, the reason whey Prussia was called Prussia is because there used to be penguins in Russia and they just merged the two." For some strange reason, my offer of help was rebuffed. They did, however, follow me back to Parksley to park my car and then drop me off 4 miles up the road at a gas station in Bloxom. I had to use the restroom and when I walked in wearing my towel across my face one of the good 'ol boys jokingly raised his hands and said, "Don't shoot." I hiked the last leg as fast as I could. Without the company and the constant joking around, the temperature seemed even colder than before. We'd had quite the adventure out on the Eastern Shore, somehow surviving the wind, the cold, and ratcicles. Well, at least Sarah and I survived. The jury's still out on Jill. From what I hear, disease-ridden palm fronds have a gestation period of 24 hours. I'll have to check back tomorrow to see if she's still alive. If not, I've got dibs on her scarf. NOTE: Jill wrote up her own version of the day's events and agreed to let me share them with you. Thanks, Jill! Good Eats and an Errant Peek My hike through Fredericksburg included a few interesting places I hadn't previously mentioned in the blog. Why not? Well, I was saving them to mention in Virginia Living.  Walking These Hampton Roads  Hampton Roads Magazine included a feature in this month's issue about my walk across Hampton Roads. The magazine can be found on newsstands throughout the Hampton Roads area. Eastern Shore's Southern Tip Already this week, I've done a couple of chilly hikes on the Eastern Shore. But those walks were disjointed, points I picked out simply because they sounded interesting and, I hoped, would fit into my route once I connected the dots up to those points. Today, however, I was picking up at Kiptopeke, the southern tip of the Eastern Shore and my "actual starting point" for walking the 75 miles up to the Maryland border.
I donned my winter gear, hefted my pack, and trekked northward to Capeville, stopping at a lovely seafood restaurant called Stingrays. I'd walked 5.7 miles and it seemed like a good spot to recharge my batteries. After chowing down on a catfish sandwich, I turned around to walk the 5.7 miles back to my car. But I didn't get too far before stopping. Less than a half-mile from Stingray's, I stopped in at a place called the Windsor House. I'd seen the place when I passed before and made note that in addition to selling local art, antiques, and furniture, they crafted handmade Windsor chairs in a workshop on the premises. Pretty interesting, if you asked me. Pretty interesting even if you didn't ask. But what I hadn't noticed on the first half of my walk was a smaller sign planted in their yard stating that they offered chair-building classes. Now that was VERY interesting. No way I could pass that up.
"She bites," Kurt warned me. I eyed the teensy creature and figured, What the heck? I scratched her behind the ears and her shaking became the delirious tremors of a detoxing Courtney Love. I chatted with Kurt about his business and found out that all of the Windsor chairs he offered for sale were handcrafted in his workshop using the same types of tools and methods as the original chair makers around the time of the Revolutionary War. Wow. Not only that, but for the same price that I could purchase one of the chairs, I could take a 5-day class and build a chair for myself. Double Wow. There was a class scheduled to begin next week, so, without hesitation, I told him to count me in. Well, there was a slight hesitation. "I'm really not the handiest person in the world," I said, which was the understatement of the year. "Is this class just for people who already know woodworking or is it for beginners too?" "You don't need to know anything," Kurt said. "I'll show you what to do every step of the way." "Great," I said. "'Not knowing anything' is my middle name." And, so, just like that, I signed on for yet another surprise adventure discovered along my walk. As Tom Hanks said in Cast Away, "Tomorrow the sun will rise. Who knows what the tide will bring?" For Tom's character (yes, Tom Hanks and I are on a first name basis...as far as you know), the tide brought him a lavatory door that saved his life. For me, next week's tide is bringing me a chair. I don't think it's going to save my life...but you never know. Maybe there's some situation where all of a sudden an alligator will come into my room and I'll step up onto my chair and it'll be unable to spring up to get me. Let's hope it doesn't realize it can bite through the wooden legs and drop me to the floor. For its sake, I mean. 'Cause then I'd have to break bad and go all Crocodile Dundee on his prehistoric butt. Running for Baby Seren Recently, I discovered another reason to meet Rich for my weekly Wednesday morning runs. A high school classmate of mine, Lance Windley, has an infant daughter who was born with several debilitating conditions. She's already beaten the amount of time the doctors guessed she would live. Lance's wife, Jennifer, maintains a blog where she talks about their baby, named Seren. In the blog, she mentions how a friend of hers who had heard a good way to ensure a "good" run was to run for someone else went out running one morning and dedicated her run for Seren. Thus inspired, Jennifer also went out running and came up with the idea to run 1,000 miles for her daughter, combining her miles with those of others who dedicate their miles to Seren. So, today I joined the cause. It's only 4 miles, but knowing it was for Baby Seren, I ran them harder today then I have the past couple of weeks. If you want to also run for Baby Seren, read about her story, or send a supportive message, check out the blog: Only God Counts the Stars. Double the Endorphins Icy conditions on the roads have kept me from logging any "official walks," but I've still been getting outside whenever possible to keep my legs from flabbing out. Thursday, I met an old high school friend, Angie Harrington, just a couple of miles from my house and we did a short hike around Poquoson. We commiserated about our similar see-sawing weight loss and gain stories and knocked off an hour's worth of walking in what seemed like 10 minutes. She had a busy day planned and couldn't walk any longer than that; I, on the other hand, had no excuse. So, after we parted and I drove back home, I drank some water and then went back out on the road for another 5 miles, alternately running and walking for about an even split. Great way to get the day started. Suitably impressed with myself, I took my big head out for another double-workout the next morning. This time, I started off with a 5-mile walk and finished up running some interval sprints. You heard me right: sprints. My street is a quarter-mile long, so I started out on one end and sprinted to the other. Then I walked back and repeated the process 3 more times. A mile's worth of sprints and a mile's worth of walking back to the starting line. I was feeling froggy when I started but I was a limp noodle when I finished. Not only that, the next day my legs were so sore I didn't walk at all. Just bitched and moaned all day. You'd think I'd learn from all that, but no. After a day of rest, I drove over to Terry's house and we took her blind dog out for a 2.5-mile stroll around her neighborhood. So what did I do next? Drove over to the Noland Trail for a 5-mile hike on the hilly path. My butt was seriously dragging by the time I finished, but for the third time in four days I'd logged 8 miles. Bill Walsh has been telling me about endorphin highs and saying that I'm addicted to the exercise. Maybe so. But if you're going to have an addiction, I guess this is one of the better ones to have, ranking right up there with sex addiction. Just ask Tiger. Dancing Down the Road My nephew Mike is home for his winter break from college. I visited him up at UVA in the fall and he gave me a tour of the campus. Now that he's home, he said he'd like to go out on one of my walks with me. Before he could change his mind, I took him up on it. We started out today in an Eastern Shore town called Nelsonia and hiked the 5.8 miles past the Tyson Chicken Plant up to Temperanceville, where we turned around and walked the same 5.8 miles back to my car. Well, I "walked." Mike, rubbing my face in his youthful energy, danced his way down the road. Not all the way; but every now and then he would break out of cadence and start doing some snappy step-step-steppity-step on the shoulder�fox-trotting, box-stepping, or some other such step that all looks the same to me.
Not wanting him to show me up, I showed him a few moves of my own. By his shocked expression, I think he was about to call 911 to medevac his uncle who was having some sort of seizure. Spent from the nearly 12-mile danceathon, I drove us out to a little joint in Parksley called the Club Car Cafe. It was a cute little place with post-style stools lined up along the counter and signs behind the grill reading "Club Car Cafe: Where the men are strong...and the women are good looking!" They also had something on the menu that was decidedly Southern that neither of us had ever tasted before: gizzards. So, along with our meals, I ordered us a side dish of gizzards and we both gave them a shot. Gizzards, for those of you who don't know, are thick-walled, muscular pouches in the lower stomach of many birds and reptiles that grinds food, often with the aid of ingested stones or grit. Sounds appetizing, huh? Be forewarned that they taste even worse than they sound. You know that gristle that you cut off of something to make it palatable? Well, if you want to know what it's like to eat gizzards, the next time you cut off a blob of that nasty, disgusting, gritty gristle, instead of throwing it away, plop it in your mouth and start chewing. Ignore that gag reflex and chow down. Mmm. Mike did better than I did...or, worse, depending on how you look at it. I ate one the grit blobs and started chewing on a second before spitting it out. Mike actually downed three of them. It wasn't enough he showed me up on the walk, he had to do it in the cafe too. The next day, Mike gave me a call. Though full of energy & used to hours-long dance rehearsals, his muscles weren't used to that kind of workout. "My shins are killing me," he confessed. Kind uncle that I am, I only allowed my devilish laughter to go on for about 15 seconds. A Week at the Windsor House
Kurt was a great teacher and the experience was wonderful. It takes 5 full days to build a chair in this manner, but anyone who has the available time and would like to give it a try should give Kurt a call (757-331-4848) or email ([email protected]). You won't regret it. If I can do it, rest assured, anyone can. As long as I was driving out to the Eastern Shore each day to work on my chair, I figured I would also get in some walks. My previous two walks had been out-and-back ventures, where only half the miles counted on my official tally for the Walk Across Virginia. However, Kurt agreed to drive me out and drop me off each day after class so all my miles would count. He's not just a skilled craftsman and a great teacher, but a good Samaritan as well. In the week I spent building my chair, I humped 28 miles from Capeville to Exmore, passing through Cheriton, Eastville, Birdsnest, Weirwood, and Nassawadox along the way. Mostly, the walks were unremarkable. I was merely slogging along the wide shoulder of Highway 13 in the early evening hours, my body already sore from a long day working muscles that hadn't been used in a while. I did get to see some splendid sunsets, but mostly I just kept my head down and knocked out the miles. At least until the last day. On the last day, Kurt dropped me off in Exmore for what was to be my longest walk of the week, a 9-mile jaunt to Weirwood. It had been a wet day but the rain had let up shortly before he dropped me off. Even so, I wore my poncho and a safety vest and brought along a flashlight since dusk was upon me before I started. Kurt dropped me off at a restaurant that was closed for the night and after he drove off I went around the back to relieve myself. As I started walking down the road, I realized I didn't have my flashlight. I called Kurt, figuring I had left it in his truck, but he couldn't find it there. Later, I wouldn't find it in my car either, so I'm guessing I set it down when I stepped behind the restaurant to water their lawn. Guess it serves me right for killing their grass. I had only been hiking for 20-or-so minutes when the rain started up again. No problem, I thought, I've walked in the rain many times before. But then lightning started flashing in the sky and that jolted me into action. I started jogging, my sneakers squish-squish-squishing as I slogged through the downpour. I was miserable for a while then I just told myself, Hey, you can't get any wetter than you already are. I don't know why, but for some reason that made me feel better. Alternately, I would jog for a while then walk a little bit while I caught my breath. Then I'd jog some more. I made good time, but I was soaked through when I got to my car, which was parked at a gas station that was, thankfully, also closed for the night. The rain had temporarily let up, so I grabbed the change of clothes I keep in Ziploc bags in my ruck sack and stepped behind my car. There I stripped down to my birthday suit (hey, easy on the catcalls, you!), toweled off, and changed into something dry. On the drive home, I admired my chair, which was seat-belted into the passenger seat. Dawn wanted to be the first one to see it, so she met me at my house and carried my pile of wet laundry while I brought in the chair. After an appropriate amount of "Oohs" and "Ahs," Dawn headed back to her car. But I saw her double over with laughter when she saw something on the road. She picked it up and brought it over to me. "Here," she said, handing me my sodden underwear. "If some kid found these he'd have nightmares for a week." Quite the inglorious end to a glorious week. Oh, well. I may have lost my dignity, but at least I have a cool chair! Intemperant in Temperanceville Every summer, Chincoteague hosts one of the most incredible events in Virginia: the annual "Pony Swim," which was popularized in 1947 by the book Misty of Chincoteague. Spectators have come in the thousands ever since. Last July, Dawn and I drove up to Chincoteague, plopped down at the end of Pony Swim Lane right at the shore's edge, and watched the ponies swim the channel and cavorted in the marsh grass just a few feet from our position. Quite the breathtaking sight. Afterwards, we hiked back to our car, weaving our way through town and visiting a couple of the boutique stores along the way. We were thrilled with our little adventure. But then, days later, I learned about something we'd missed, and that "something" has weighed on me ever since. In the same fashion as the concrete forecourt of Grauman's Chinese Theatre in Hollywood, the Roxy memorialized Chincoteague's biggest celebrity by pressing her footprints�or, hoofprints in this case�into the sidewalk under the theater's marquee. That's right, Misty has her own "Walk of Fame," and somehow Dawn and I had missed it. Today would be the day we rectified that situation. I didn't tell Dawn what we were doing. She knew we were walking the northernmost section of Virginia's Eastern Shore today, but she didn't know about the detour I had planned. I told her we were going up to Chincoteague merely to eat at the restaurant that bore my name�Bill's Seafood. I parked across the street and we wandered up the sidewalk. As we passed beneath the Roxy's marquee, I said, trying to sound surprised but probably coming off smug, "Well, will you look at this!" We each squatted down next to the hoofprints and the scrawled name of Misty to pose for the camera. "You should lie down next to it," Dawn said. "That would be a better picture."
We celebrated our good fortune with a big breakfast, then it was back in the car to get to our starting point. Today's walk would take us up to the Maryland border, but it wasn't going to be a straight shot. Dawn's knee was still a little gimpy and we didn't know how much she'd be able to take, so we planned to do our hike in stages. Our first leg would take us the 3.7 miles from Oak Hall to Temperanceville; then we would have to turn around and hump back to the car, so it was really a 7.4 mile jaunt. "You ready for this?" I said. "Yep," Dawn replied, sounding chipper. "Just let me get geared up first." It was a chilly day and Dawn had brought along her ski bibs. I'd learned from my previous icy strolls and brought along my makeshift scarf...what you commoners might call a towel. Within minutes of starting out, Dawn (also known as "she of the tiny bladder") had to stop for a restroom break. Never mind that she'd just used the facilities at Bill's Seafood. I pointed to a Sonic up ahead. "I don't know," Dawn said, "I don't think Sonic has public restrooms. It's a drive-thru only." We made a pinky bet as to whether or not they would and (applause please) I won. Or, I should say, Dawn lost. In more ways than one. A short while after she entered the ladie's room, I heard a muffled yelling and pounding. I was otherwise occupied in the men's room and couldn't rush to see what was the matter. Then the yelling got louder. It was Dawn saying, "Help me! I'm stuck!" I had visions of her wedged into the bowl but she was merely referring to the entry door, which was jammed tight. She managed to free herself just before I reached her. "Let me modify my earlier statement," she said. "Sonic might have restrooms...but they shouldn't!" About 30 minutes into our walk, Dawn's knee started throbbing. "You have any Ibuprofen?" she asked. "Sure," I said. "In the car." She gave me that look that conveys words without having to say them: What are you, some kind of jackass? We turned around and walked back to the car, making note of our turnaround point so we could connect back with it on our next leg. Back in the car, Dawn grabbed a handful of pills and I told her, "I've got something you can wash that down with."
Thus armed, Dawn and I drove down to the green sign welcoming visitors to Temperanceville. There, we hopped out of the car and posed by the sign, hoisting our brown-bagged bottles. Then we parked and popped the top on the Golden Ale for a little pre-walk carbo loading. Dawn's knee was feeling much better, and we debated whether it was the booze or the pills that was helping it. Though we couldn't agree on that, one thing we did agree on: we would make horrible spokespeople for any type of addictive support group. Dawn noticed some miniature houses outside a hardware store. "These would be great for the dogs," she said, cutting through the parking lot and making a beeline for them. Without pause, she got down on all fours and crawled inside. "Yep, these would be perfect." Needless to say, Dawn doesn't worry about what other people think either.
"What's that for?" Dawn asked, indicating the Dr Pepper I held in my other hand. "That's my chaser." "Wimp." I downed my shot and was surprised at how smooth it tasted. It's been many years since I've had whiskey, and I remembered it being much harsher. Of course, that might be because I always used to buy the rotgut version instead of this much finer version. Dawn followed suit, swigging a finger's worth. "Wow," she said, then reached for my soda. "Uh uh," I said, holding tight. "This is only for wimps." She socked me in the arm and wrenched it from my grip. "Hey," she said, "these are really complementary together." "You should try it this way," I said, pouring another two fingers into the Dr Pepper bottle. We each tried a swig and were duly impressed. Dawn drank a little more and when I suggested she hold off, she said, "You're the one driving." We'd just agreed a few moments before that I would walk most of the last leg by myself and that she would link back up with me at Worchester House Antiques, which was right near the Maryland border. She wanted to walk that last portion and step across the boundary line with me. "Uh, hello?" I said. "You've got to drive up to the antique store." "Oh, yeah. Here, you finish this." I still had a little more than 4 miles to go...but what the heck. If I was going to be intemperant in Temperanceville, why not go all the way? In truth, we'd only consumed a tiny amount of booze and, although I may be "incredibly shrinking," I am not yet "incredibly shrunk." Other than a little tingling, the booze wasn't really affecting me. In fact, I felt good enough on this last leg than I decided to run. I hoofed it at a double-time the 3-� miles up to the Worchester House and was a sweaty mess when I arrived. I searched for Dawn and she appeared from around a corner wearing a full-length fur coat. "It was only $20," she said. "I'd be a chump not to buy it!"
We walked back to the store and chatted with the owner, regaling her with our fun-filled day. We told her about how we posed with booze at the Temperanceville sign and how we were considering some sort of immodest post at the Modest Town sign. "If you make your way out to Assawoman," she laughed, "I can't wait to see what you do there!" Last Leg on the Eastern Shore I've already walked most of the 75-mile journey up Virginia's Eastern Shore, but I had one last leg to go and today I would be walking it with Tom Hipple. He's spent some time out on the Eastern Shore (and everywhere else in Virginia, it seems) and shared some interesting stories on the road. Good thing, too, because we had a long way to go and conversation helped the miles zip right by. The forecast gave a 30% possibility of rain, so we stowed ponchos in my rucksack and began our hike in the seaport of Onancock, heading south for 11.4M through the towns of Onley, Melfa, and Keller until we reached our destination: Painter. Shortly after we left Onancock, an ambulance streaked down the highway with its lights blazing. This quickly became a recurring theme as two more ambulances raced past over the next hour. "Wonder what all that's about," Tom said. "It's from all the women seeing us walk by and fainting on the side of the road," I said. "In that case, I'm surprised they didn't call out more ambulances. Heck, they should've gotten a school bus to carry them all." Somewhere around the halfway point, we halted for a break on the railroad berm that runs alongside Route 13. I�d made sandwiches using �insanely delicious� honey mustard I bought at Bill�s Seafood the day before. Munching sandwiches on the side of the road like a couple of hobos, it's hard to imagine why no women actually fainted at the sight of us. Just one of those mysteries of life, I guess.
"No," said Tom, trying hard to keep a mocking tone out of his voice, "it's the frogs." Sure enough, the wallows beside us reverberated with their song. And my skull reverberated with numb. The rain held off long enough for us to get back to Tom's car and actually didn't start up until we were sitting in the Great Machipongo Clam Shack eating our lunches. We made great time (3 hours, 11 minutes), had a great time on the road, and didn't get soaked...great timing all around! A Lift from a Mud Bogger On my first trip out to the Scottsville area, Dawn and I chatted with Dr. Margaret Emanuelson, a former OSS agent during WWII. She was quite interesting but I hadn't brought my interview gear along because we weren't really planning to stop anywhere; no tape recorder, no camera, no notebook, nothing�how dumb am I? (No need to answer). Anyway, I wanted to get back up there soon as possible to conduct a proper interview and today was the first chance I'd had. Another snowstorm was on its way, so Dawn and I drove out to Scottsville in the early morning hours so we could complete a hike before sitting down with 008. We made it to Scottsville around 8 a.m. and then scouted out our route for the day. Then it was back to town to get started. We figured on walking 8 miles, going out 4 then turning around to come back to the car. But after driving all that way, we didn't want to just log 4 official miles, so Dawn entered a few businesses and started asking around to see if someone would give us a ride. She struck out the first two places she entered then hit a home run on her third try.
We didn't mind. I sat in front and Dawn wedged herself into the jump seat behind Blake. He drove us up to the neighboring township of Keene and along the way received a phone call asking what was taking him so long, and we listened in to the one-sided conversation: "Giving a couple of strangers a ride up the road a bit...nowhere, just the side of the road...nah, they seem safe..." When he hung up, Dawn said, "Well, I'm safe. Not so sure about him." "I'm not all that worried," Blake said. "If y'all did abduct me, you'd be doing me a favor." Blake is a contractor with Herndon Paint & Remodeling, but for fun he operates a mud bog for racing trucks called Poor Boys Mud Bog Racing (YouTube Video). Their next race day is going to be on March 27, and Dawn and I will do all we can to be there on that day! I won't be taking my Hyundai into the bog, but maybe I can ride along for a trip through the slop with someone else. When Blake dropped us off, Dawn called out meekly from the jump seat. "Help, I'm stuck!" Blake reached into the back and hefted her out with what seemed the same effort as carrying the bag of diapers. "Omigosh," Dawn exclaimed, "You're better than the jaws of life!" As Blake drove off and Dawn started buckling up her ski bibs, I leaned over onto the side of the road and plunged my hands into a mound of snow. "You better not!" she warned. But I was never one to heed warnings. As she buckled and snapped, I pelted her with snowballs. Lucky for her, I was also never one to have much of a good aim. The white missiles exploded harmlessly around her. Fully geared up, she packed a snowball herself, wound up, and hurled. POW! Right in the kisser. Don't know why she warned Blake that I was the dangerous one. I turned to start walking, but Dawn said, "Wait." Then she handed me a tissue, which I just stared at dumbly, waiting for the punch line telling me to go ahead and cry like a little girl. "If someone hands you a tissue, use it," she said. "Same thing as when someone hands you a breath mint." "You want me to eat this?" "No, dummy, you've got a bat in the cave."
"What are you doing?" "You go ahead. I'm going to stay here and film the whole debacle." "I'm not dumb enough to go in there," she said. "Oh, but I am?" "Well..." As the hike wore on, the hills took their toll on us. The 8-� miles felt more like double that. Triple that according to Dawn. But we finished our walk and got to sit down and chat with our favorite spy one more time. This time I brought my recorder and did a proper interview. But I'm saving the spicy nuggets she fed me for the book. Sorry to be such a tease. At least I didn't pelt you with a snowball. |
Dawn tries to suck down some pepper juice while waiting for her pie
We survived!
Grab a seat and stay a while
Fierce beast!
Mike's got the Boogie-Woogie Blues
Working on the greatest chair in the world!
Hamming it up in Horse-town
Expressing our thoughts on Prohibition
Dawn getting comfy in her new digs
Maryland welcomes us and says, "Please don't stay too long."
Blake the Mud Bogger
Move it along...nothing to see here