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200 Pink Bicycles After nine days without walking, my knee was feeling STRONG! It was still not 100% and stairs were still difficult to climb, but I felt good about my prospects and planned to knock out a 7-� mile hike today. Not only would this distance be longer than any I'd tried since injuring my knee, I would be walking it in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Sure hope I was right about the knee. As Dawn and I rode in a cab to our starting point at Sweet Briar College, we wheeled up a flag-lined path to the center of campus. The flags sported either artful designs or inspirational sayings such as �Flourish.� Our cab driver dropped us off at the bookstore and we popped in to check it out. The actual book-selling section of the store was barely large enough to hold my personal collection of books. True, I do own a load of books, but I expected more from a college, even an all-girls� private college with less than 800 students. One thing that stood out was a stack of books by Carrie Brown. I�d written a review of one of her books, Confinement, several years ago for Virginia Living. I�d known it was a great book at the time and was pleased to see it win the Virginia Literary Award for Fiction later that year. However, I�d conducted our interview over the phone and never actually gotten to sit down with Carrie. Now, I thought, would be an opportunity for me to rectify that. We lined up at the bookstore�s caf� to order up a couple of sandwiches, and while we waited for our orders I asked the two girls behind the counter if either of them knew the location of Carrie Brown�s office. I explained why I wanted to speak with her and they pulled out a campus directory and let me use their phone. Unfortunately, Carrie wasn�t in her office at the time. That�s when another guy in line�Rich from the college�s power plant�offered to look up her home phone number. I tried that number as well and left a message on her machine. Though I never got to sit down with Carrie, I was thoroughly impressed with everyone�s helpfulness. To a person, they were not only helpful, but also courteous and kind. Which would later make me feel bad after I made a mean joke. But not bad enough to keep it to myself. Sometimes I just can�t help myself. After lunch, we roamed the hilly, bucolic campus. The brick buildings were mostly in the colonial revival style with columned entrances and arched windows. Sidewalks spooled out over the hills and connected the buildings. Dawn pointed down one of them and I saw, far away, an unattended dog loping along and sniffing the ground. �You should whistle and call him over,� she said. �Nah,� I said. �Too loud. Classes are in session right now.� A devilish smirk crossed my face and, I added, �Then again, they�re probably just studying Home-Ec or something.� Dawn promptly slugged me and said, �You deserved that. You�re horrible.� True, and after they had been so nice to me. Like I said, sometimes I just can�t help myself. Though this might fall in the too-little-too-late category, I would like to point out that not only was the campus beautiful and its people exemplary, but the 2010 version of Princeton Review�s Best 361 Colleges ranked Sweet Briar College No. 3 for "Most Accessible Professors," No. 8 for "Best Classroom Experience,� and No. 8 for "Best Career Services."
Everything we encountered on campus was just as one might expect to find at a private school in the South. Except for one thing: the pink bikes we kept finding everywhere. Many of them were parked in bike racks at building entrances, but just as many lay haphazardly in the grass or on the dirt paths at the edge of campus. Dawn and I figured they were assigned to various students and faculty, but when we saw two of them lying next to a sidewalk like losing lottery tickets, we couldn�t help ourselves. A cool breeze, rolling hills, unguarded pink bicycles, and a big, sweaty man loose on an all-girls� campus...it was time to make a scene. I grabbed a bike and discovered its tires were flat, explaining why it had been tossed aside. Even so, I hopped on and rode it down the sidewalk, looking something like a trained bear in a circus sideshow. After recovering from a fit of laughter, Dawn grabbed the other bike. This one had broken handlebars, which made her ride just as precarious as mine.
A short while later, we found ourselves walking down a dirt road toward some barns, silos, and other farm buildings. These belong to Sweet Briar's rather illustrious equestrian program. The school�s seven competitive riding teams have won nine Affiliated National Riding Commission (ANRC) Team National Championships. And one of those team�s riders was walking up the path behind us. �Omigosh,� Dawn said, glancing behind her then turning back with wide eyes. Soon, a young blonde came up next to us, and then Dawn expelled her breath and started laughing. She told the woman, �Sorry, but for a second there, I thought you weren�t wearing any pants!� �I get that a lot. They�re riding pants,� she said, slapping the thigh of her skin-tight, tan-toned pants.
Brie filled us in on school traditions such as the Lantern Procession and The Riding Circle, which is made up of senior students that, on one particular day, get to ride their horses anywhere they want to on campus. She also explained the mystery of the bikes. �The school bought 200 of them,� she said. �They�re not assigned to anyone. People ride them wherever and drop them off anywhere they want. Someone will be riding one of them up a hill and when the pedaling starts to get a little hard, she�ll just step off and leave it right there." At the top of one of the steep hills, we parted ways with Brie as her path headed toward the barns and ours toward the highway. We had to pause to catch our breaths�we�d worn ourselves out trying to keep up with the energetic youngster�and after we could breathe again, we turned onto Business Route 29 and hoofed it along the boring roadside. We trekked through the tiny towns of Falconerville and Monroe and finally came to our hotel in Madison Heights, 7-� miles away. Neither Dawn nor I were conditioned for the hilly hike, and we were both feeling a little bedraggled at the end. But the good news is that the knee held up. It was clicking some throughout the walk and there were a couple of �Whoa!� moments where my knee hyperflexed, but overall I was feeling pretty good about what we'd accomplished. As I sat down and tried to remove my sweatpants, I discovered they were coated with thorns. Dawn had pointed out the thistly plants on the roadside. They looked like dandelions except instead of fluffy tops they were capped with thorny cluster bombs. She�d tried several times to warn me that I was walking too close to them, but each time I yelled out, �Stop with all the Patchouli!� Now, I looked over at Dawn and saw she had a smirk on her face. �You deserved that, too.� Karma. It catches up with you every time. Soup on the Line Yesterday's hike was my first hilly walk in over a month and I'd expected to wake up with wobbly legs this morning. But when I awoke feeling strong, I decided to get in an early morning walk. Didn't matter that the sun hadn't risen yet; I would walk out from our hotel in Madison Heights and Dawn would later pick me up in Elon, 7 miles away. At least, she would if she read the instructions on my note. This was a d�j� vu moment, seeing as the burnt-out husk of a gas station I was walking to was the first-ever place Dawn had dropped me off. It had been a rainy day almost one year ago when I walked from Elon to the outskirts of Lynchburg. And today we were finally filling in the last portions of our southwest passage down from Shenandoah. It was a dark, Saturday morning and there was little to see. I was really just logging miles. But then, about two miles before the finish line, I passed by a Brunswick Stew sale being thrown by the local Ruritan Club. Knowing Dawn's affinity for the stuff, I whipped out my phone and told her what was in her future as long as she picked me up on time. It's always good to bribe her with food. With soup on the line, I figured Dawn would beat me to Elon, and sure enough, she did. We drove back to the Ruritan and asked about the prices. "$7 for a quart," said a man in an apron, "or 3 quarts for $30." Now that is a salesman! Dawn and I sat down and split a quart, since we were planning to go on a 4-mile walk in just a little bit. The soup was so delicious I bought six more quarts: two to go home with Dawn, two to go home with me, one for Dawn's co-worker, Dave, and one for yesterday's cab driver, Lewis, who'd been pleasant and engaging yesterday and who had made plans to pick us up and drop us off for today's walk. 
This walk would take us from Sweet Briar College to the center of town in Amherst. As we drove to our starting point, I kept musing how Lewis would react when we gave him the soup. "If he wants to eat right now," I told Dawn, "we might have to open up one of our other tubs and join him."But then a funny thing happened. Lewis stiffed us. When I called him up he said that he already had a fare he was taking to the airport and wouldn't be able to get to us for another 45 minutes. I wanted to do my best Seinfeld Soup Nazi impression and yell into the phone, "No soup for you!" But I just hung up the phone and looked forlornly at Dawn. Her eyes were half-lidded and she said, "Why don't you go ahead and I'll pick you up. That way I can catch a nap. I've got soup belly." I tried to convince her to come with, saying we could to an out-and-back loop. Luckily, she won out, because I don't think I could've done another 4 miles. I'd held up very well this weekend,
It's a pity I was so worn out because Amherst really was a beautiful little town. It was celebrating its centennial and decorative flags lined the main drag. I noticed several kitschy stores and that all of the parking meters had been painted by local artists. But I was too beat to really investigate. I just snapped a few photos and kept plodding on to the car. The car was parked in a McDonald's parking lot and Dawn was napping inside. I rapped on the window to wake her up, but she didn't budge. The window was cracked, so I called out to her, "Hey, Dawn, wake up!" Still nothing. Finally, I yelled out the one thing I knew would get through to her subconsciousness: "If you don't get up now, I'm keeping all the quarts for myself. NO SOUP FOR YOU!" Works every time. Rolling Out the Red Carpet This evening, Hampton Roads Magazine celebrated its 10th anniversary and the publisher spared no expenses in throwing a semi-formal gala in downtown Norfolk. The good news for me, since I've been a contributing writer with them nearly from the beginning, is that the publisher sent me a couple of tickets to the swanky event held at Norfolk�s Half Moone Cruise and Celebration Center. And the good news for Dawn is that she knows me. Just in general, I mean, but sure, also because she scored my second ticket. As we approached the Celebration Center�don't you just love the name�we saw a few limos dropping off attendees in tuxes and gowns. I elbowed Dawn, "Glad you convinced me to wear a jacket and tie." "Heck," she said, "I'm just glad you didn't come in a tee shirt and flip flops."
And she was worried about me! Retrospective magazine covers from the past ten years were posted in windows around the foyer. I was having a blast pointing at each one and reminiscing about which article I had in which particular issue. When I saw the cover of the January 2007 issue, a smile crept over my face. That was the issue where I'd written about my artist friend, Terry Cox-Joseph. Terry's work not only appears in various galleries in the area, it can also be viewed throughout my site as she is the person I turn to whenever I need help with graphic art. This particular article focused on her as a muralist and included several photos I shot of her painting scenes of Italy on the walls of a local restaurant. "Hey," I said, "this is the issue with that article about Terry." "Yeah," she said, pouting, "but where's the one where you wrote about me? Who cares about Terry!" Okay, so she didn't say that last part. I was just reading between the lines. Making our way into the main hall, the first thing we saw were large, felt-covered tables set up for blackjack, roulette, and craps. Premier Events provided the tables, chips, dealers and croupiers, creating a fun gaming atmosphere where it was impossible to lose. Vegas eat your heart out. We sauntered up to the blackjack table and the dealer said, "Would you like $500?" She slid a stack of chips across the table and informed me of the denominations. "$500, huh? Can I cash out now?" Unfortunately, the chips were just play money. Fortunately, we could get more anytime we went broke. Which, was often. Of course, the enticing smells of the catered meal might have had something to do with that. As our stomachs started rumbling, the whole stack of chips was bet each hand until I lost. Ten of the region's finest restaurants were catering the event, with chefs preparing some of their finest specialties and dishing them out to the slavering hoard. We made a circuit of the room, sampling something from every table. Each time, Dawn would moan in ecstasy and proclaim whatever saut�ed appetizer or glazed dessert she was eating at the time to be even better than any that had come before. It was gustatory Nirvana. Somehow we managed enough restraint to keep ourselves to a single lap around the food tables. The main reason we didn't pig out, other than our room full of well-dressed and well-heeled companions, was that there was too much to do. There was, of course, a certain amount of hobbing and nobbing that had to be done. But then there were the magazine covers to ogle, the casino games to play, the celebrities to rub elbows with, the green screen to pose in front of (you didn't think that magazine cover was real, did you?), and the valuable door prizes to win. Every time I'd ever gone to an event that had door prizes, the prizes handed out had been the types of things you couldn't get rid of in a yard sale even when you marked them down to two bits. Tonight, though, each of the door prizes were glamorous vacation packages, shows, dinners, and so on, with each of the ten prizes valued in the $200-$400 range. Wow. Dawn and I fished out our tickets and stood there as other numbers were called out and the happy winners bounced up to collect their prizes. We did our best to clap and congratulate them, but both of us whispered in the other's ears barbed insults about the lucky gits. Twice, people whose numbers were called had left early, and I could hear in the Aww's that went up from the gathered crowd that they weren't really sorry either. You snooze, you lose. We were down to the last prize, which was actually being awarded to the twelfth ticket drawn thanks to those two absentees. And whose number should be called but mine. "Yes!" I screamed, pointing at the stunned crowd around me. "Yes! Take that you losers! In your face!" Okay, so I didn't actually scream that, or even say it. But you should have seen me after I'd gotten back to the car with my gift basket of fine wine and gift certificates for a spa treatment, an overnight stay at a local resort, and a dinner for two. Then I was unbearable, bouncing around in my seat like a teenager on Red Bull and singing Queen's We Are The Champions at the top of my lungs. And I wasn't the only one singing. Nor was I the only one taking home a prize. "This is going to look great in my office," Dawn said, running the plush ostrich feather across her cheek and smiling. I can't wait until Hampton Roads Magazine's 20th celebration rolls around. By that time, maybe they'll have forgotten what horrible guest we were. With Christmas right around the corner, you can help offset my and Dawn's grinchiness by buying a gift subscription to HRM, the perfect gift for anyone interested in Hampton Roads. As a sampler, here's a PDF version of that article about Terry I mentioned above. Just click here for Page 1 and here for Page 2. ♪ You've Lost That Nagging Feeling ♪♪ You know that nagging feeling you get when you almost complete something and you say, "Eh, I'll get to it later," but then later keeps pushing back until, well, more later? Well, that's the feeling I've had ever since September 2nd when I cut my walk short by 4 miles because I was feeling sick. The portion I left out was a small segment of my route that connected up to the West Virginia border. Once I crossed under the "Welcome to West Virginia" sign, I could essentially say I had walked across Virginia...except I hadn't. I had almost walked across Virginia. I had walked across Virginia except for a four-mile stretch. And I don't know about you, but when something like that keeps nagging at me there's only one thing I can do about it: nag my friends until they get just as ticked off as I am. After Dawn got off work today, we drove out to Christiansburg so we could get an early start on tomorrow's walk. Our planned hike was from Christiansburg to Radford, but all I could talk about on the four-hour drive was that one thing bouncing around in the back of my brain. "You know," I said, "that stretch of road from Maybrook to Pembroke is just another hour west of where we're walking tomorrow. Maybe we drive out there early and knock it out before going to Radford. Or we could stop by afterwards, you know, after lunch. We could even do it the next day. Ah, but who knows how we'll be feeling then. What do you think?" "That's it," Dawn said. "I've had enough. Let's go out there right now. I'm going to drop you off and you're going to walk it right tonight. And then you're going to shut up about it. Okay?" "Sure, we can do that. I was just saying�" "ZIIIIPP IT!" Since the hotel in Christiansburg was on the way, we stopped there first so I could change into my walking clothes. We were both beat, Dawn especially; she'd had to put in an 8-hour day at the office followed by a 4-hour drive across the state with a nagging motor mouth�I mean, a wonderful traveling companion. As I changed in the bathroom, I called through the wall, "I'm kind of beat from the long drive, aren't you? And it's already dark out." "If you don't shut up and get your gear on..." "All right, all right," I said, cutting off whatever threat was sure to follow. Boy, she sure can be a nag sometimes. It was pitch black when Dawn dropped me off on the side of the road in Pembroke. I put on my reflective vest, grabbed a flashlight and a bottle of water, and stepped out of the car. I leaned toward the window to say some final word to Dawn but she stomped on the gas and sped away. Guess she was serious about that "not another word" comment. The walk itself was pretty uneventful. Traffic wasn't bad. I had to step off the shoulder a few times for inattentive drivers, but that's become standard fare. It was kind of neat seeing lit wreaths were attached to the sides of telephone poles�the first holiday lights I've seen this year�and I was feeling festive by the time I made it to the gas station where Dawn was parked. The gas station was closed up for the night and as I approached, Dawn got out of the car and started adjusting the seat for me. She even spread a towel across it to save the fabric from my stink. How sweet. As I was making final adjustments to the mirrors and steering wheel, a sheriff's car pulled up and the driver got out. "Evening folks. Mind if I ask what you're doing?" I blathered through an explanation and Dawn even told him she was a retired deputy. He took it all in with a non-committal look on his face. "Uh huh. Can I see your driver's license?" He ran me through the box and then cleared us to leave. Turned out this closed-for-the-night gas station had been the target of some recent vandalism. Boy, do we know how to pick our spots or what? Driving back to the hotel, I turned to Dawn and said, "Sure am glad I convinced you to come out here tonight." She was too tired to even argue. High Times at Radford During our taxi ride to Radford, I told Dawn how Radford University was the nearby school that Tech students would visit to get their party on. Not me, of course. I was always in the library or the study hall, you know, studying. Anyone who told you I spent all my nights boozing it up at frat parties was lying! I swear it. I'm the only one who can be trusted in matters such as this. Anyway, the taxi dropped us off and we stop in a convenience store to buy a Gatorade for our walk that will take us through campus and 9 miles down the road to the neighboring town of Christiansburg.
We began our walk up Tyler Avenue, which was pitched at an incredibly steep angle, and before we'd gone a single block we were both out of breath. This was just the first of many hills we'd be climbing during our trek. We struggled up the hill, huffing, and between breaths I said, "This doesn't bode well." "Ya think?" Dawn replied. We wound through the heart of campus and passed by red-brick buildings that looked more suited to a prison facility than a college. But architectural aesthetics weren't why students came here, not judging by the reading material stocked in the magazine racks and the booze bottles, beer cans, and discarded underwear we'd found on the roadside were any indication. It seemed the school hadn't changed all that much since I'd visited 20 years ago�I mean, since other students on my hall visited 20 years ago.
Well, maybe she said something kinder than that, something akin to, "Is there anything I can do to help you?" I couldn't really tell with the blood thrumming in my ears. We'd planned to stop at the halfway point of our walk at a little diner called the Plum Creek Restaurant, but the place was shuttered and out of business. Instead, we went another half-mile farther to a gas station where we stopped to grab lunch. They had TV dinners in a freezer and a microwave on a counter. The cashier even let me borrow a stool so I could recoup some strength. What more could you ask for? Thus fortified, we continued our long, slow trek toward Christiansburg. We paused yet again when we came across some beautiful horses grazing in a field next to the road. I sometimes carry a bag of carrots for such instances but didn't have my ruck with me for today's walk. I was traveling as light as possible (makes all my whining about the walk even worse). What I did have, though, were two small bags of trail mix in my front pockets. I showed Dawn and asked whether or not she thought the horses would like them.
The horses ate it up (hehe), but it turned out chocolate wasn't the only thing we should have worried about. Nuts from the mix got stuck in one of the horse's teeth and he was scrunching up his face as he tried to dislodge them with his tongue. Dawn and I felt bad about doing that to the beautiful creature, but not so much so that we didn't film it. It looked so much like a kid trying to get peanut butter of the top of his mouth, we couldn't help ourselves. With this last diversion out of the way, we marched on for the last couple of miles. By the time we reached my car at Christiansburg's Town Hall, I felt like I'd been beaten with a bag of hammers. I couldn't believe how out of shape I'd gotten. Guess I deserved today's pain. That was the price for slacking off. And Dawn deserved the pain of listening to me. Just because. Back in our hotel, Dawn suggested I use the hot tub down by the pool. I kept arguing about it, saying I didn't really think it would do anything for me, but, eventually, I begrudgingly went along. Only two of the dozen-or-so jets in the tub were functioning, and neither of them was located at a seat. "Great idea," I said. "Just shut up and hold your legs out against the jets." She can be so bossy sometimes. Turns out she can also be right sometimes, as she was in this instance. My legs felt great when I woke up the following morning. We had another mountainous, 9-mile walk planned for tomorrow and this time Dawn and my roles would be reversed. And I would shower her with as much comfort and empathy as she showed me on today's walk. At least, that's my version of events. Don't believe anything she tells you about it. As I mentioned earlier, I'm the only one who can be trusted in matters such as this. Pausing for Photo Ops At the outset of this morning's 9-mile hike, both Dawn and I were feeling great. We'd gotten a good night's sleep and were sauntering down Radford's quite interesting main street, which was filled with distractions aplenty. There was, of course, the typical mix of rustic and majestic buildings one finds in a downtown area. But we were held up by little things that caught our fancy. First, we stopped at a pet store where the owner was wrangling three big dogs and preparing to take them for a walk. We simply had to stop and play with them. Then there was the bike store where Alex was setting some of the bikes out on the sidewalk. One of them was a bike made for two and we asked Alex if we could climb aboard and have him take our picture. Then we saw a billboard beside the road that was barely above street level. The shoulders dropped off into a valley though, so the sign still stood amongst the treetops. How could we pass up a picture-taking opportunity like that? We took turns climbing aboard the catwalk and framing the pics so it appeared as if we'd climbed atop a towering billboard. And just as we were crossing the bridge out of town, a bald eagle glided right over our heads and came to rest on a tree a hundred yards away. So more pics and more gawking. When we finally made it out of town, we were ready to churn out some miles. But first I wanted to stop at the "Welcome to Pulaski" sign. It seemed low enough for me to climb up on to pose for a picture, at least, until I got closer.
"There are some hay bales across the street," Dawn said. "You could use one of them to step up." I don't know if she was trying to helpful or was just hoping I'd get arrested for petty theft, but I did as she suggested. I hoisted one of the hay bales from an autumn display at the entrance of an apartment complex and toted it across the highway. Dawn doubled over with laughter when I thumped it down beside the sign and the front of my shirt was covered with hay. But it did the trick. And, yes, I carried it back and put the display back together. We were lollygagging, not vandalizing. So, about an hour-and-a-half, we'd barely walked a mile. At this rate it would be midnight before we finished. But the roadside distractions disappeared after that point. From that point on, there wasn't much to see. All of our distractions would be self-supplied, and I was more than up to the task. Earlier today, I had bought a bag of Mary Janes, which a type of toffee candy, and was carrying them in my pocket. Since it was chilly out, I was wearing a black, wool watch cap on my head. "I've got Ma-Hat-Ma-Candy," I told Dawn, enunciating so it sounded like "Mahatma Gandhi." Both of us were so loopy from yesterday's walk that we found this hilarious. At first, anyway. Dawn kind of got tired of it after the 50th repetition. But the biggest hold-up came from Dawn's new boots, which were rubbing her the wrong way. And that's my job! Her feet had fared well in them yesterday, but today the left boot was digging into the top of her foot. She limped along as best she could, but after a few miles had to stop.
On the other side of the highway atop a steep hill stood a pentacostal church. Posted on their sign were the words, Let the healing begin. "How's that for a sign?" I said. So Dawn hobbled up the hill and I raced ahead to finish the last five miles. When I drove back to pick her up, I had a tough time finding her. The church doors were closed and she wasn't sitting out front. I circled the church and yelled her name in every direction but heard nothing in reply. I was just starting to imagine Tommy Lee Jones organizing a search party�"What I want out of each and every one of you is a hard target search of every gas station, residence, warehouse, farmhouse, henhouse, outhouse, and dog house in that area"�when I thought, Hey, Dummy, why don't you take a look down the hill? Sure enough, there she was, snoozing away without a care in the world. She was lying in the sun with the tail of her shirt pulled up across her eyes. I was too relieved from my brief moment of panic to mess with her appropriately. I simply woke her and helped her up the hill to the car. It wasn't until we were driving back down the hill that I realized what a great photo op I had just missed. "Hey, would you mind going back out there so I could get a picture of you sleeping on the side of the hill?" Though her reply didn't have any words in it, it did include a hand gesture. And even though I didn't snap a photo, I think you can visualize that picture on your own. Worst Tour Guides Ever During my trek across the state, I've visited many of the Commonwealth�s finest universities. Being the dank that I am, I have joked, jabbed, and gibed the traditions and scholarly aspects of each while walking through campus. You want examples? Okay, here goes: When I wrote about my tour of the University of Virginia in the company of my nephew Mike, a student at UVA, I made fun of its prestigious reputation and the pretentious names that went along with it, such as �grounds� instead of �campus� and �first years� instead of freshmen. When I walked through Sweet Briar College, I made sexist jokes about what types of classes the all-female student body studied. And when I walked through Radford University, I made numerous jokes about their party reputation and the prison-like appearance of campus. I know, I know, I'm a meanie. So, before I belittle the campus I visited today, let me first share a few positive facts about Christopher Newport University: CNU became a four-year college in 1971, and a university in 1992. Former United States Senator Paul S. Trible, Jr., became President of CNU in 1996 and he has revitalized not only the school, but the entire surrounding area as well. Scores of modern buildings have been erected, with the crown jewel being the Ferguson Center for the Arts, a 1,700-seat, Broadway-style theater. In recent years, applications have gone up by more than 700 percent and students' SAT averages have increased by more than 240 points.
In the same spirit of revisionist history, my walking companions and I decided to narrate our hike through campus as if we were tour guides. None of us had ever taken a class at CNU, but we weren�t going to let that stand in our way. It just meant we were going to have to wing it. As we passed by the statue of Leifr, I said, "This statue was actually discovered here by John Smith. He meant to cart it away with the rest of his plunder, but went insane and forgot about it, leaving us a record of Iceland's discovery of the New World." "Historians were later able to learn a lot about Vikings from this statue, like what they wore," Hunter added. "Vikings really loved capes." "Superman was a Viking," Mike said.
Pointing at the library's ornate cupola, the top of which is painted gold, Hunter said with a wave of her hand, "The gold dome you see here copied Notre Dame's, but they couldn't afford to paint all of it." "True," I chipped in, "they had to use gold foil wrappers from Hershey dark chocolate bars to finish the job." "Mmm," Mike added, "chocolate." The rest of our trip through campus was filled with similar nonsense. We weaved a couple of miles through campus and made up silly things about the buildings, the statues, and even the plants ("To create the corkscrew pattern in these trees, the gardener has to twist the trunk every few days so that a different portion faces toward the sun."). Afterwards, we hiked out on the Noland Trail for a while before turning around to head back home. The annual Virginia-Virginia Tech football game was today and we had to get home before kickoff so the victorious fans (Ryan, Beth and me) could sufficiently taunt the losers (Mike and Hunter). But before we left campus, we first paused on a grassy spot on campus to make a spoof CNU promotional video. Luckily, CNU was also on Thanksgiving break so we escaped without anyone beating us up. Globetrotters Today, Dawn and I were planning to walk all the way from Dublin to Beijing.
Sometimes the towns we've come across bore names of other recognizable cities or states, such as New Baltimore, California Crossroads, Scotland, and Washington (the town, not the District of Columbia). So it was no real surprise when our path took us through the tiny town of Dublin. But as we scouted the route we would be walking to Pulaski, I was surprised when we came across the Beijing Motel on the outskirts of town. Needless to say, I marked that as our stopping point. So now that you know I'm not crazy (at least, not more than my usual state of mind), let me take you back to the beginning of the day. We'd stayed in a Christiansburg hotel last night and, wouldn't you know it, we picked the town that would suffer a burst water main overnight. Dawn would have to suffer not only my stinky fragrance but also the arctic weather. The temperature was in the 20's when we departed and I had to scrape a thin layer of snow and ice from the car. "It's colder than a bum's balls out here!" she exclaimed. "Sack Le Blue!" It was cold, but at least we were prepared. Dawn was decked out in ski-bibs and I wore four layers of clothing. I was also carrying my rucksack for the first time since reinjuring my knee, so we had water and snacks and even some chemical hand-warmers that had been Christmas gift last year (thanks Susie!). The low temps were bad enough, but the wind was doing all it could to suck the warmth from our bones. It would lull us into complacent plodding and then whip us with a gust, almost knocking Dawn on her keister a couple of times. Once, we were approaching a car lot that had an inflatable Santa staked to the turf near the entrance. Saint Nick was halfway deflated though, folded over on himself. "Ah, look," I said, "Santa's taking a nap." Just as we were passing by, the wind gusted and Santa jumped up to his full fifteen feet with a loud Thwock! Dawn and I each jumped out of our skins, screaming. I won't say which of us sounded more girly, but I will say that at least the shot of adrenaline warmed us up.  
Finally we reached the motel and took pictures of the building's garish, yellow paint job and the golden dragons bracketing the office. The lovely Chinese couple who owned the motel came out and offered to take a picture of us. They snapped and we shivered, then we all chatted in the parking lot. When we told them what we were doing, their shaking heads and restrained laughs said it all: crazy Americans. See, I told you that was my regular state of mind. Pulaski�s Christmas Spirit The highway running between Pulaski and Fort Chiswell goes straight up and over Draper�s Mountain. It�s an awesomely steep climb, so when I scouted out this section of the walk I decided (for once) to do something smart. I parked my car at a convenience store in Fort Chiswell and had a taxi drop me off at the mountain�s peak. Then I could return and do the same thing on the other side. Just because there�s a mountain in your way, doesn�t mean you have to climb up it to get past. Especially when you can walk down both sides. Yea brain! You�ve still got some cells left!
The temperature was chilly and the sky was ominous, but the walk down Draper Mountain was uneventful. Along the way my mind kept wandering back to the story of Draper women�s abduction. I imagined living back in the days of Daniel Boone and wondered what I would have done if Dawn were captured by Indians and I had to trade my prize donkey to get her back. I got so sad thinking about it, imagining myself on top of Eeyore riding off into the sunset and saying how much I was going to miss Dawn. Of course, I didn�t share these musings with Dawn. She was my chauffeur on this second trip up the mountain, electing to stay in the warm car while I raced the stormfront, and if I�d told her the story she�d probably have dropped me off while the car was still doing 55. This walk down Draper Mountain was just as quiet and serene as the first. As usual, all the action was going on where Dawn was. It was early evening and she was parked in a run-down section of town. Some drunk came stumbling through the lot and used a pay phone (yes, there still are a few of those left) to call the cops. Not to report a crime. In a scene straight out of Andy Griffith, he was calling the cops to ask for a ride home. Three patrol cars pulled up and one of them said, �How you doing, Wayne?� Wayne, it turned out, was a regular. But he was harmless and, after chatting with him for a little bit, one of them actually radioed for a taxi. After witnessing this bit of charity, Dawn and I parked the car in Pulaski and took a stroll through the historic downtown area. It contained the usual smattering of churches, impressive courthouse, and Confederate memorials that we�d ogled in so many Virginia towns, but Pulaski�s storefronts were one-of-a-kind. Strolling down the streets we noticed All of their windows were decorated with original paintings of Christmas scenes. There were dancing elves, smiling santas and even a Picasso-styled nativity scene. The artwork had been painted by the Pulaski High School Art League and left both of us feeling jolly as can be. And so, to share my good mood with you, here�s a link to some yuletide photos I've shot during my travels. Happy Holidays! Staying Ahead of the Snow...Almost For days, gray clouds have been lurking overhead and TV weathermen, giddy with anticipation, have been dancing about in front of maps festooned with loopy lines with triangles jutting from them. Everyone knew snow was coming; it was just a question of when. So when I woke at 3 a.m. and didn�t see white blanketing the parking lot, I threw on several layers of clothes, grabbed my flashlight and safety gear, and left Dawn a note asking her to call my cell phone when she woke so I could tell her where to pick me up. I was wearing my Thinsulite gloves, which were great for keeping my hands warm but horrible for maintaining my dexterity. I couldn�t unscrew the cap to my water bottle or push the button on my flashlight without first taking the gloves off. Off with the gloves, on with the gloves; off, on; off, on; spaz out and heave them into the woods, climb through thicket to retrieve them. A couple of hours later, my phone rang and I gave instructions to a fuzzy headed Dawn. And, just like the gloves, I had to repeat myself several times. Back at the hotel, we filled up on continental breakfast then peeked outside to see if it was snowing yet. The ground was still clear. �Well,� I said, �you want to chance a short walk?� A half-hour later, a taxi dropped us off at a gas station three miles up the road. Along the way, we passed by horses grazing on farm pasture, so Dawn suggested we buy some apples at the convenience store to feed the horses on the walk back. I just hoped they faired better than the Mentos I�d left in my car overnight, which had morphed into little frozen pebbles. Armed with a bag of apples and a bottle of Gatorade, we exited the store and aimed ourselves east toward the hotel. And that�s when the first flakes started falling. At first they were just wispy, white gnats fluttering past our eyes, but soon they grew into fat bumblebees and then multiplied into a swarm. We weren�t really concerned about the snow affecting our walk�the hotel was just an hour away�we were, however, worried about it affecting the football game we were going to that evening. But there was nothing we could do about it then. We just marched along until we got to the horses, who greedily chomped on the apples while we held them in our hands.
We passed some magical line of demarcation and about a half-hour outside of Charlotte the snow stopped and everything was clear. We parked about six blocks away from the stadium at the NASCAR museum and stopped in at a Buffalo Wild Wings next door. It was pandemonium inside, with hundreds of hungry Hokies filling every seat and barstool and standing in overflow clusters around every table. Someone walked past us with a to-go bag and we decided to take the same route, bringing a bag of vittles back to the car and having out own little tailgate in the parking lot.
The rain finally came down about 10 minutes after kickoff. As we threw up our hoods and double-checked to make sure all our buttons were snapped, we noticed an odd thing. A few rows in front of us, the spectators were getting soaked. But not here. Looking up, I noticed a tiny lip sticking out between the stadium�s bottom and middle tiers with just enough overhang to keep the back six rows dry. Not only that, the Hokies won the game convincingly and a nearby skyscraper lit up with dancing lights they scored. I�m going to have to cross my fingers more often! |
Bill & his sweet ride
Stop defacing stop signs!
Dawn & I-swear-I'm-wearing-pants Brie
If Monet had been a meter maid...
With this view, wouldn't you stay inside drinking?
Radford U: clothing optional since 1910
Always stop to smell the roses...and feed the horses
Don't mind me
Maybe not King of the World, but at least Prince of Pulaski!
If ever there was a time for Dr. Scholls...
My walking partners experience a moment of befuddled silence
A library as distinguished as this shouldn't have to put up with the likes of us
Expressing our thoughts on Prohibition
Storm clouds rolling in
Look, Ma, no hands!
Happy & dry in the back row