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Death of the Art District Richmond is the heart of Virginia. Monuments to the state's history stand on islands in the middle of streets and its neighborhoods exhibit every type of architecture you can find in the Commonwealth. I'd already trekked through many of these neighborhoods, including Church Hill, Shockoe Bottom, the Fan, Ginter Park, and even some of the gangland neighborhoods in the East End. And today I planned to link up to my previous route and add on an ambling walk through one of my favorite Richmond locales: Carytown. Carytown is one of my favorites because it is an artist's haven. When I'm feeling in an artsy mood, I park my car at the western edge of the neighborhood and stroll east on Cary Street. Today's plan was for Dawn and me to do exactly that: slowly saunter and stop in at one of the numerous galleries whenever a display caught our eye. However, the only displays catching our eye today were shuttered windows, For Rent signs, and gang graffiti spray-painted on every mailbox and utility fixture we passed. It'd only been a few years since I last marveled at the rich collection of galleries and artistic boutiques gathered in this one place, and now, it seemed, they were all gone, victims to the economic woes of the past couple of years.  
What used to be Richmond's Art Walk There were still a few boutiques and we did see one gallery, although it wasn't open while we were there. But mostly what we saw were hair salons, tattoo parlors, and things of that nature. Too depressed for words, we adjusted our plan and turned north to hike through Richmond's Museum District. We passed by the Virginia Museum of Fine Art, which was featuring an extensive Faberge exhibit, and then stopped at the Virginia Historical Society.
"Wow," I said, "I never thought about that side of the Civil War." Inside the VHS Museum, we journeyed through Virginia's history, beginning thousands of years ago with our Stone Age forebears and winding through the Revolutionary, Civil War, and other eras until we reached the Modern. There were interactive displays, movies, and even headsets that you could wear to give yourself a self-guided tour. By the end of our visit, we'd lost the sour taste from this morning and were thoroughly enjoying ourselves. We stopped at a booth to play a free interactive history trivia game. Judging by the cartoon figures dancing on the screen, I didn't expect the questions to be too difficult. Even so, when the screen asked whether I wanted to try "Advanced or beginner?" I tapped the elementary choice. I'm glad Jeff Foxworthy wasn't here to witness Dawn and me butchering that quiz. I would have hated to announce, "No, Jeff, I'm not "smarter than a fifth grader. But I am as happy as one." Culinary Frights and Delights On a recent walk, I stopped in at the Barn Restaurant in Groseclose. From the outside it looked like, well, like a big red barn. That alone was enough to snag my attention. The rustic theme continued inside with tablecloths featuring a blue gingham pattern. Unfortunately, the tablecloths were plastic or vinyl or some rubbery substance that bled onto my sleeves when I leaned on them. Undeterred, Dawn and I got down to the serious business of ordering up some serious vittles. I ordered up the "Hillbilly burger" along with three veggies and a piece of cornbread. The burger and veggies were delicious, but when I bit into the cornbread I thought to myself, "So, this is what drywall tastes like." Dawn hadn't noticed my look of consternation, so, after taking a swig of water so I could talk again, I offered her a bite, saying, "Mmm mmm, you've got to try this!" She bit into it and I saw her lips purse together like the drawstring on a change purse. She mumbled something and I could only understand the last couple of words ("Mumble mumble mumble I'd kill you!"), but that was enough to catch her gist. After a long pull from her glass of water, she added, "I think they got their muffins at Lowe's." So, the muffins weren't great; everything else at the Barn was delightful. And if we had slathered the cornbread with, say, an entire stick of butter, that might have been delicious, too. Another recent experience was at an Indian place called Taj Mahal that had a Grand Opening banner in the window. I'll grant them the "opening" portion of their announcement, but not the "grand." Our dining experience at this establishment had no silver lining; it was all cloud...literally. When we entered the restaurant, there was a layer of smoke hovering like fog over the dining area. Although this was a smoke-free establishment, that only applied to people puffing on cancer sticks not to the cooks creating grease fires in the kitchen. We stood in the entrance waiting for someone to show us to our seats, but no one came to help us. Perhaps because they were busy trying to chase down the owner's children, a couple of three-foot tall terrors who were racing around and screaming at the tops of their lungs. "Should we go somewhere else?" Dawn asked. "I don't know. I kind of like a good disaster story." After we got tired of waiting, we finally seated ourselves. A waitress brought us a couple of waters with straws poking out that were twice as long as the glasses. We told her we were going to have the buffet and moseyed over to choose from slim pickings. Returning to our table, we discovered that our water and silverware had been bussed away. We flagged down the waitress and she brought us more water and utensils. Just as we were preparing to take our first bites, that's when the fire alarm began its blaring concert. No one else seemed particularly bothered, not even when the firemen showed up, so we just kept chewing on our tepid chow. "Look," Dawn said, "they're bringing out some more. Maybe this batch will be hot." Everyone else must have had the same thought, because there was a mad rush to the food bar. Unfortunately, the server had only brought out a tray that barely had any food in it. The customers ahead of us were generous though, and each only took a little bit. I wanted to dump the remains on my plate when I got up there, but Dawn wouldn't let me. Party pooper. And when we got back to our seats, our table had been bussed again. We were glad to see our dirty plates gone, but not our water and silverware. Again. We were never given a check, but I informed the cashier what we had and paid up instead of doing a dine-and-dash. While I was paying, a young couple was entering and Dawn gave them the low-down about the place. They must've been looking for a good disaster story too, because her warnings did nothing to dissuade them.
However, our favorite restaurant is�dare I say it�part of a chain. FATZ has dozens of locations spread throughout the South  but only one in Virginia�4586 Alexander Farm Road in Dublin, to be more specific. We discovered this restaurant last year just after snow brought about a sabbatical from the Walk. We were wowed by the food and have been impressed with every return visit. So much so that a stop at FATZ on the ride home is how we end every trip out to Virginia's western reaches. Some of the out-of-this-world dishes we've feasted on include Calabash Chicken, Cajun firecracker sticks, Carolina stacked chicken, Southern gold ribs, and the no-bean chili, which Dawn says is the best soup she's ever eaten.In fact, she's been so impressed that after our last trip she sent a postcard to Roger the cook to let him know how much she lusted for him. Well, at least for his cooking. So, if you ever find yourself going down I-81 toward the North Carolina border, pull off on exit 98 and get fat on some FATZ. Tell them Dawn sent you. That'll make Roger sweat! Give a Little, Get a Little Today, Dawn and I picked up our walking route where we left it off just west of Wythe County. Since there was no taxi service in this area, we were hoping to find a Good Samaritan from whom we could beg a ride; however, the opposite happened. As we pulled into the gas station parking lot where I was going to leave my car,
His name was Zak Schafer and he had been hiking the Appalachian Trail up from its trailhead at Springer Mountain in Georgia. He�d gotten off here needing to go a couple of miles up the road to the post office. �Thanks,� he said, �I�ve got these postal money orders but none of the stores I tried would cash them. Not even Wal-Mart.� While he went inside the post office, I turned to Dawn and waved my hand in front of my nose and she raised her eyebrows and nodded in agreement. Zak, friendly as can be, was also a whirlwind of stink. A month in the woods will do that to you. Less in my case. �Is that what it�s like for others when they give me a ride after one of our walks?� I asked. Instead of the comforting �Not at all� that I was hoping for, Dawn raised her eyebrows and nodded again. �Now you know,� She said. The post office cashed his money orders and Zak got back in the car, much relieved. We drove back to the gas station, shook hands, and parted ways. He used his money to buy milk from the convenience store then headed over to a picnic table to chow down on a Ziploc bag of granola cereal while I plopped down on the curb to powder my feet in preparation for our walk. While I was lacing up my boots, Dawn came running out of the convenience store waving her hands. �Hurry up,� she said, �I got us a ride.� Ah, Karma. I came clopping into the store where Dawn was chatting with a smiling woman wearing a nurse�s smock. As I approached, her smile disappeared and the two young girls standing beside her grasped her legs and hid behind them. And to think, I wasn�t even stinky yet! I stayed as quiet and small as I could while Crystal the nurse drove us up the road to Rural Retreat. Dawn kept up a friendly patter all the way and we thanked her for the lift. As Crystal drove away, Dawn laughed about her initial reaction to seeing me. �You looked like a great, big, wooly Sasquatch coming in the store,� she said. �She probably thought you were going to eat her kids.� Karma works both ways, which Dawn didn�t have to wait long to discover. As we hiked the six miles back to the town of Groseclose, we noticed a peculiar sign hanging by a driveway. It was a giant saw blade with a mountain scene painted on it. Lining the driveway were painted rocks and closer to the house were another couple of painted buzz saws. �We�ve got to check this out,� I said.  
The saw is actually the least dangerous thing shown here No one answered when I knocked on the door, but there was an old-fashioned, wrought-iron bell hanging near the stoop, so Dawn gave the chain a tug. The clapper gave a muffled sound and then a shotgun blast of wasps fired out of the bell. They flew right past me, knowing who the real culprit was, and chased a high-stepping Dawn down the gravel driveway. Ah, Karma. We got a little bit of rain along the walk, just the misty sort of spray that is actually comfortable when you�re outside working up a sweat. As we neared the end of our walk, though, the sky began to gather wads of black wool so we picked up the pace to beat the �isolated thunderstorms� that had been predicted. Dawn used to work in a nursery and knows enough about plants to star in her own gardening show on HGTV. Her proclivity is to stop several times during any one of our walks to admire and comment on the colorful flora we pass along the way. �Oh,� she�ll say, �look at this beautiful Zamsee flooticus,� or whatever this particular species happens to be. It will, indeed, be beautiful and I�ll nod appreciatively, but then try to get us moving down the road again. At this point she�ll usually say, �Did you know�� and tell me some story about how the flower got its name, or how it grows to an incredibly tall height, or how space aliens brought it here from the planet Zorgon-5. I�m not really sure. By this time I�m usually zoning out and thinking about football. So, needless to say, when we saw a trim woman in a blue dress working in a lush garden, she simply had to stop and ask her about the various plants she was working. Even I appreciated how wonderful the yard looked. In addition to the vegetable garden, there was a koi pond, rows of apple trees, and a row of beehives. Dawn got chatting with the woman, Kathy Kegley, and I knew we were going to be there for a while. I nudged Dawn several times to try disengaging her from conversation, but she kept shrugging me off or saying yet again, �Oh, just one more thing.� It wasn�t just that we were trying to beat the storm, my plantar fasciitis was also flaring up. When we�re moving, the pain subsides to a nagging, throbbing sensation, but we stop and stand still it feels like a nail is being hammered into the center of my foot. Finally, we got moving again, and I wondered if this had been my payback. You see, ever since we left the buzz saw artist�s home, I�d been needling Dawn about the wasps chasing her down the road. Of course, if I thought that was all Karma had in store for me, I was sadly mistaken. When we finally finished up, we grabbed lunch in a diner and I started kvetching about how worn out I felt. I�d been up since 3 a.m. and drove across the state before even beginning our walk, but still, it had just been six miles. Although thick humidity had sapped our strength, I thought that had been counterbalanced by the overcast skies. I�d left the rucksack in the car and I hadn�t carried anything on my back except for my hat, which dangled from my neck by its chinstrap. It had been cloudy all day and the breeze across my face felt welcome. Of course, since I normally wore the hat there was one thing I forgot to do. �Did you put any sunscreen on your face?� Dawn asked. �You�re all red. You look like a tomato. A big, fat, Sasquatch tomato.� Ah, Karma. What's the Buzz? We�d intended to walk 12 miles yesterday but wound up doing half, from Rural Retreat to Groseclose. Today�s plan was to do the other 6, from Rural Retreat to Wythe County. We backwards planned from our noon checkout time (the latest the hotel would allow), gave ourselves 2 hours for the walk, and added in an extra hour so I could decompress (i.e., stop sweating) and take a shower. That meant we needed to start walking at 9 a.m. I called the taxi service beforehand and they said it would take 15 minutes for them to arrive, so at 8:45 a.m. there we were at the start point (yet another convenience store). I called for the cab, figuring it would roll up by 9 and we�d be on our way. We chatted with the store clerk, stretched, and drank water. Every now and then I�d check my watch. 9:00. 9:10. 9:20. When I called the cab company, the dispatcher apologized and said that they�d gotten tied up. Meaning they either lied to me about the ETA or somebody else called that they thought was more important than me. Impossible, I know. We sat and stewed. 9:45. 10:00. It was now too late to complete the walk and get back to the hotel, and there was no way Dawn was going to drive across the state with my stinky derriere. �I�ll spot you,� Dawn offered. �You walk and I�ll pick you up in the car.� So off I went. The new plan was for me to walk until 11:00 and wherever I was at that time, Dawn would pick me up and bring me back for delousing. Everything went as planned and we checked out of the hotel room with just a couple of minutes to spare. Back in the car, I figured out how far I had gone: 3.3 miles. What a wimp. But a clean wimp. Good thing, too, because we were headed over to the Kegley�s home to take a tour of their yard.
Their yard was an oasis, filled with dozens of different types of trees and festooned with flowering plants of every color. They had as many varieties of plants, trees, and flowers as a botanical garden. And everything was so well kept. All of which was more impressive once we found out that the whole plot of land had been a thicket when they�d moved here 20 years ago. Not only that, but Reed had also cultivated and grafted each of the tree varieties in his yard. There were pear trees, and oaks, and so on, but most of their trees in their yard were apple trees, and as we walked through the yard we heard the occasional thump of an apple hitting the ground. �We gather them up and feed them to the cows over in the hollow,� Kathy said, pointing to a dip in the ridge to the south where they own a plot of land. On it grazed a dozen head of cattle along with a few other animals (even llamas!). They kept creatures in this yard as well. Birdhouses were all around and in one of the trees Kathy pointed out a hummingbird nest, which blended in with the tree limb and felt spongy to the touch. There were also a few bunnies in cages near the house and giant koi in a pond the size of my entire yard. And then there were the swarms of bees filling a row of hives beside a grassy berm. Dawn held back when they led us to the hives, still feeling shy after yesterday�s incident at the saw artist�s house. As it turned out, that wasp scare had just been the warm-up for today�s act. �You don�t need to worry much about them,� Reed said, �unless they start flying around your head. Then you�re probably going to get stung.� He told me how he mowed right next to the hives and pointed out the shaved grass. As I got nearer still, the bees started buzzing about my head. I remembered Reed's warning and backed off, swatting them from my face. But they still kept coming. Now, I know what you must be thinking, but don�t worry. I didn�t get stung. Dawn did. �Aaaargh!� I heard from behind me, as Dawn danced away, high-stepping just like the day before. �They got me right in the eye!� �Better get the bee kit,� Reed said, matter-of-factly. Kathy hurried to the house and returned with a tiny tube about the length of a paper clip. On one end was a sponge. �Just dab that on the sting,� she said.
As Dawn made her escape, I hung around the bee shed where Reed showed me some of the contraptions he�d made. Each hive contained five or ten �frames,� each of which looked like the air filter on an air-conditioning unit. On these frames, the bees would build honeycomb. But back when he was in the honey-selling business, Reed had come up with the idea to drill holes in a board and place mason jars beneath it. Sure enough, the bees filled the jars with honey and he just had to remove them and screw on a lid. Ingenious! We caught up with Kathy and Dawn at one of the gardens and ogled the various flowers. It contained hellebores, rudbeckia, coreopsis, poppies, clematis, six different colors of day lily, and too many other flowers to mention. �This is perhaps the most beautiful yard I�ve ever seen,� Dawn said. �And I even feel that way after being stung in the eye!� I didn�t know the names but I, too, thought the plants were gorgeous. And since I had my camera with me, I thought I would share this part of our visit with you. Just click HERE to enjoy a montage of shots from their garden and other Virginia plants and flowers seen on the walk. Just Keep Going The first day of walking during the last two weekends had been hampered by my feeling tired from the long drive across the state. To combat that, I did the driving last night and Dawn and I slept in a hotel in Christiansburg. We didn�t get to sleep until 1 a.m., though, because we had a party to attend before leaving Newport News. Since my birthday is on July 15 (woo hoo) and a good friend of mine, Susie, has a birthday on July 13 (woo hoo), our friends always get us together on the 14th to celebrate. Because of the impending drive, I skipped the usual alcohol, but the rest of the festivities remained: opening presents, dining on delicious food, breaking plates on the floor when we�re done with them, and smashing chairs over the heads of whoever is sitting at the table beside us. Hey, that�s just how we roll. Okay, maybe I exaggerated a little bit. But I did get a nice gel-pack seat cushion for the car that I used on the drive that made my legs feel less tired when we arrived in C-burg (Thank you, Ann!). The next morning, Dawn realized she forgot to pack additional compression garments in her bag. It�s the first time that had ever happened. Forgetting her garments is something akin to me forgetting to wear clothes before stepping out the door. Although the neighborhood children�s screams would soon alert me. The downside of her omission was that she wouldn�t be able to walk this weekend, so just like that July 9th walk, she was going to be spotting me again. I started out knocking out the half of the walk that I�d missed out on last weekend due to getting stiffed by the taxi: the three-mile stretch on the route from Rural Retreat to Wythe County. That took about an hour, then we drove down the road to the ten-mile gap in my route just before Abingdon. With Dawn spotting me, I figured I could walk that long stretch and she could check on me now and then, and as long as I was feeling good I would just keep on going. I didn�t think I�d knock out the whole ten miles, especially not after doing another three, but I would give it my best shot. Of course, all that wishful thinking was before the rain. The rain began shortly after I hopped out of the car and continued throughout the afternoon. It wasn�t thundering, but it was steadily falling, and I was so soaked that even my boots were squishing while I walked. Dawn was waiting for me one mile up the road. She rolled down the window and asked if I wanted to get in, but I said, �I�m wet already, I might as well keep going.� Every mile, or sometimes less, there she would be, parked on the side of the road, like a siren offering me shelter from the storm. And I wanted to stop, BELIEVE ME, I wanted to stop, but each time I just told myself, �You�re already miserable. Just keep going.� A little after five miles into my wet, sloppy hike, it started storming hard. I made a little tent out of my safety vest and stood far off on the shoulder while I waited for it to pass. Willpower was one thing; safety was another. This time when Dawn greeted me with raised eyebrows, I was all out of �keep going.� I opened the trunk and changed into a dry shirt, then spread a towel out on the seat, and I was finally out of the rain. I had only hoofed six miles from the town of Seven Mile Ford to Chilhowie. Adding that to my morning walk, I had done nine miles for the day. It wasn�t like I�d completed a marathon or anything, but I felt like I had given it all I had and I felt like a winner. And that�s the best birthday present of all. Benedict Arnold�s B-day
By that same token, my second impression of Bristol couldn�t have been any worse. Last night, Dawn and I arrived at the Bristol Howard Johnson, where we were planning to spend the night, but when I pulled into the parking lot I had to swerve to avoid potholes. The hotel�s fa�ade was in equally poor condition, with gutters dangling from the roof, mattresses stacked against the glass wall in the foyer, and shredded drapes hanging in several of the rooms� windows. As if that weren�t enough to tell customers, �Find someplace else,� a trio of droopy-eyed stoners in wife-beaters sat on the front steps eyeballing us. �Oh my God,� Dawn said, �this place looks like a crack house.� �Yeah,� I replied, �the Ho Jo is full of hobos.� We�d had some bad experiences recently with hotels, so I told her we could stay somewhere else. Checking my Garmin, I found that Bristol also had a Days Inn. However, this hotel was across the border in the Tennessee portion of Bristol. We checked in and found it well kept, but I felt like such a traitor. Then we decided to celebrate my birthday�on the Virginia side of the border, of course. Easier said than done. Every place my Garmin directed us to was no longer in business. So we just winged it and drove around. But still we couldn�t find any place that looked decent. It wasn�t that our standards were so high; we just didn�t feel like getting knifed. We passed by abandoned factories crumbling to ruin, a parole office, signs posted on the grassy shoulder reading, �Get your GED.� All indications were that we were in the wrong part of town. This part of town had all the welcoming warmth of a gutted fish left out in the sun. As happens in many cities, a right turn on one street can send you to gangland territory while a left turn puts you in the middle of an affluent neighborhood. That�s where we found ourselves after we�d expanded our search from the downtown area. But these streets, just two blocks over, were filled with regal homes, still no restaurants. So, being the traitor that I am, I drove back to the Tennessee side of town. Wouldn�t you know it: we found several eateries right away. As I ate my dinner and sipped on a nice, cold, birthday beer, I wondered if this was how it had all happened with Benedict Arnold, if he had been lured to the Dark Side merely because he was hungry and needed a place to sleep. Maybe, I thought, maybe. Although tonight I may give in to your sweet caress, Tennessee, tomorrow I will be back in Virginia�s arms, sweating out my beer in the boiling sun, paying penance for my sins like all wandering cheats must do. Beginning the Rat Tail I started off today unhappy and ended it feeling ecstatic. I woke up around 4 a.m. in a room that looked like a rock star had been partying in it. The early hour wasn�t the cause of my foul mood; I�m just an early riser. I woke feeling lousy because my butt cheeks were raw. Hmm, rock star, raw butt cheeks...before your disgusting mind hops into the gutter, let me go ahead and clear things up. Since I�d hiked through a rainstorm yesterday, the wet clothes had clung to me and chafed all over. The insides of my legs were raw, my feet had minor blisters, and I was saddled with a bad case of what we used to call in the Army, Monkey Butt. I�d poured liberal amounts of baby powder into my briefs last night and though my derriere wasn�t as smooth as a baby�s behind this morning it was no longer the glowing red ember of a gibbon�s. Standing before the bathroom mirror, I discovered mounds of powder on the floor that had missed its target, looking like a mountain of cocaine...hence the rock star reference. Adding to that image was the fact that Dawn had had a bad stomach last night and picked up a box of baking soda from the store. After she�d swallowed a dose, I�d sealed the open container in the dry cleaning bag and taped it up. Seeing it now, it looked like a brick of cocaine.
That suggestion, however, was still a couple of hours away. For now, Dawn was still sleeping and I was trying to figure out my walking options for the day. Yesterday�s rain prevented me from finishing the walk from Rural Retreat to Glade Springs; I�d only made it as far as Chilhowie and still had another 4 miles to go. So I was pretty sure I�d knock out that piece of road. But I wanted to do more than 4 miles this morning. My legs felt good, except for the red welts, and I wanted more�mileage, not welts. I wanted to chew off a piece of the Rat Tail. Before your disgusting mind goes off on yet another tangent, let me, once more, explain. On the map of Virginia, the westernmost portion is a tiny wedge that presses itself between Kentucky and Tennessee. Though it could be called many things, it is often referred to as the Rat Tail. Which means, I guess, that all of us Virginians not living in that portion of the state are living on the Rat. To the east of Bristol, only two blank spots remained on my zig-zagging route across the state: the 4-mile stretch I planned to fill in this morning and an 8-mile stretch near the town of Marion. To the west of Bristol was the Rat Tail, 115 miles of mountainous terrain. And although it would surely kick my butt, it also signaled that I was nearing the end and I looked forward to the challenge. More than anything, I wanted to get started on it. Since the countryside was still clothed in black and Dawn was quietly snuffling in her bed, I decided to go out to the car and take my first peek at the tip of the Rat Tail.
Back in the room, I excitedly tried to wake Dawn and tell her of my plan. But she just kept mumbling sleepy talk, which morphed to R-rated, sleepy talk when I yanked the covers from her and forced her to sit up. When I let go she started burrowing back into the blankets, so I grabbed a magic potion that I had bought last night while Dawn was getting her baking soda: a tiny bottle of 5-Hour Energy. She was groggy when I handed her the bottle and only drank it because I promised to stop pestering her if she did. In just a couple of minutes she was bouncing around the room as if starring in one of those Keystone Cop movies where everyone races about at twice normal speed. It was amazing. �We can�t go until I do my makeup and brush my teeth,� she said. After a brief pause, she added, �There! Done! Hahahaha!� And then she continued her Keystone routine. While she was zipping around the room and yipping like a chipmunk, I bandaged up my toes and popped a few Ibuprofens. Then we were off. Dawn dropped me at the top of Walker Mountain in the town of Three Springs and I ambled back down toward Bristol. When I reached the car, we drove east for twenty minutes to get to Glade Springs and then I knocked off that little stretch as well. I was smiling like a fool when I reached the car. �Well,� Dawn said, �you seem happy. Something interesting happen on your walk?� �Not really. A dog came out into the street after me and I thought we were going to get into it, but he finally left off.� �What kind was it?� �A standard poodle, one of those big ones like what we saw on the back of that motorcycle that one time.� Dawn smirked and said, �Oh, you must be especially glad he didn�t bite you. There�s no way you�d admit being taken down by a poodle!� Together the two walks had only totaled 7-� miles, but I couldn�t stop thinking about how I�d finally gotten started on the Rat Tail. I was so thrilled that I hopped out of the car and decided to give Dawn a show. I ran up the nearby hill, turned around, and came skipping back toward the car. A scary sight, let me tell you, but if you think your stomach can handle it, click HERE to view my jiggly awesomeness. You can always chug some baking soda afterwards. No Cheating! Almost all of the mileage remaining on the Walk Across Virginia lies in the steep Appalachian Mountains west of Bristol. Since Dawn and I live in Hampton Roads, we�ve spent countless hours driving across the state to pick up The Route where we left it off last. Often it seems our weekend adventures barely begin when we have to pack up and return home. For yet another drive across the state. This weekend, however, Dawn took a day�s vacation from work so we wouldn�t be as rushed. Her normal workweek is from Sunday to Thursday, so after she clocked out on Wednesday we loaded up the car and drove out to an Econo Lodge in Marion, which, if you consult a map, you�ll notice is long before you reach the Appalachians. That�s because this 8-mile stretch of road between Marion and Groseclose was the last unfilled gap in my route leading to Bristol and the reason I had to start the above rant by saying, �Almost all of the mileage remaining...� In other words, today�s walk was going to be a milestone moment. As such, it seemed appropriate that the walk would be fraught with hardship. We began the walk with an obstacle, one of those road improvements that screws up traffic for months (or years) by leaving only one passable lane while the work is going on. Normally, this wouldn�t be a problem for pedestrians, except this roadwork involved a bridge. When we had scouted out the route the night before, I noticed a hill beside the bridge that I thought we could traverse. As we drove over the bridge, Dawn asked, �Can you still see any ground or does it drop off?� I craned my neck but couldn�t see past the protective Jersey walls. But after we crossed to the other side, I said, �Okay, now I can see it. The hill continues on this side as well. I can see it in the rear view mirror.� �You sure? It goes all the way across?� �Oh, yeah. How else are the workers going to get from side to side? I�m sure.� But I wasn�t. And it didn�t. There was a big gap between the two hills, bigger than the freeway gap that Keanu Reeves jumped with a bus in the movie Speed�a scene that almost ruined that adrenalin-drenched movie; I mean, sure, the rest of the scenes were implausible, but this one was the type of ludicrously idiotic thing that belongs in a Batman movie. But I digress. Anyhow, since we weren�t being threatened by a nine-fingered, maniacal bomber this morning, we didn�t need to jump the chasm. We climbed the near hill as far as we could and then waited for a break in traffic to hop over the Jersey walls. It was only about 100 yards from where we hopped over to the other side where we could climb back to safety, but the Jersey walls encroached into the lane�s space, crossing over the white line and leaving us with zero shoulder. There was only one thing to do. I pushed Dawn over the wall and clambered over after her. As I did so, I yelled, �Run, Forrest, run!� And boy did it work. You should have seen her book over that bridge. For about 50 yards. Then she halted and shuffled forward as if she�d been shot. I caught up with her over the crest of the bridge and saw that at this early hour there was no traffic lined up on the other side waiting its turn for this one-lane passage.
Making matters worse, Dawn�s hip was giving her trouble and every hill we faced was a struggle for her to climb. She�d downed a handful of Ibuprofen on the taxi ride out to our starting point, but after a mile of walking she had a noticeable limp. We continued, slowly, halting to stretch and kvetch, until we reached the halfway point in the town of Atkins. On the side of the road stood a restaurant called the Atkins Tank Diner that had a wraparound porch filled with rockers and Adirondack chairs. �Listen,� I said, �why don�t you just plop down here? I�ll do the last 4 miles to the hotel and come back to get you.� She hated the suggestion but agreed it was wise. It�d taken us two hours to do the first 4 miles, but I raced the second half and got back to the hotel in a little over an hour. On our last walk to Marion we�d stayed at a hotel across the street, so I meant to walk to that hotel�s entrance so I could step on one of the exact points our previous route had crossed, but I was in a rush to get back to Dawn and told myself I�d add that missing section, all 50 yards of it, once we got back to the hotel. But after I got back to Dawn we had breakfast at the diner, and when we got back to the hotel I had to hurry to get a shower before checkout time. We drove off and it wasn�t until we reached our next destination, 100 miles to the west, that I finally remembered that omitted slice of blacktop running from one hotel�s parking lot to the other�s. This wasn�t the first time that had happened. Once, when Dawn and I returned to the same parking lot that had been an endpoint for a previous leg, she�d said, �Hey, didn�t we park on the other side last time?� Indeed we had, and so before we started that day�s walk going in the opposite direction, we crossed the lot and stepped on the parking spot where my car had been before. Many people have asked me, �What difference does it make if you skip a little bit?� and, �Who will know if you do?� Well, I will, for one. It may sound anal retentive, but I won�t cheat nor take any shortcuts, not even from one side of the street to the other. All of the legs I walk have to connect together like links in a chain otherwise I can�t truly say I walked across the Virginia. At the end I will have walked about 1,500 miles through every region in the state. Why on Earth would I cheat just to cut out 50 flat yards? Which explains why, two days later, on the long drive across the state to get back home, we would detour off the Interstate to return to the town of Marion. I would get out at the Econo Lodge and Dawn would drive across the street to the driveway leading up to the Virginia House Inn. After crossing the street and getting back in the car, I�ll turn to find Dawn shaking her head. She�ll scan the area to see how many people caught the show and then say, �Do you have any idea how ridiculous that looked?� It might not be on par with jumping a bus over a freeway, though maybe stupid enough for the caped crusader. And all I can say about that is, �Holy obsessive compulsive behavior, Batman!� Marking the Side, Middle, and End of the Road Mountains lie to the west of Bristol. Mountains stacked upon mountains followed by more mountains. The road claws its way up the backs of those mountains before lurching down the other side like the tracks of a roller coaster. And after each short dip is another long climb up. That�s what lies ahead. And that�s what is in store for my poor feet. Dawn and I got our first views of these peaks this afternoon. After this morning�s walk, we drove westward through to Pennington Gap, which would be our home for the next couple of days. Along the way we took in the rugged beauty and made note of the few points of interest we could find. It�s my habit to scout out the walks beforehand so I know what to expect and can be prepared for any problem areas. Dawn rides shotgun and whenever we pass a notable marker I call out the mileage from the trip-o-meter. She jots down the mileage and the particular point of interest on notepaper that will later serve as our �map� when we come back to walk that stretch of road. But there were so few easy-to-recall landmarks along this route that she had to write down things like �really sharp turn� and �house with a blue roof.� Our first notable marker came after twenty miles when we found a little country store. We went inside and surfed the shelves for some food with local flavor. We trolled the store�s two aisles under the watchful gaze of a doughy woman wedged into a white rocking chair next to the counter. Her housedress had once been purple or some other dark hue, but the color had been wrung from it and patches of fabric were as pale as she was. Beside her stood an ancient-looking rail of a man, nodding and smiling without showing his teeth, his hands in well-worn denim pockets. �Hey,� I said, �Amish bread. Got to try some of that.� That brought a cackle from the woman. �You ain�t from �round here, is you?� �No,� Dawn said, �we�re from Hampton Roads.� �Was waitin t�hear ya voice. �Thought evvyone �round there says house and mouse like hose and mose.� With that, she rippled in her chair with laughter. �Funny way you�s talk.� Dawn tried explaining how neither of us was from Hampton Roads originally, that she was a transplant from Chicago and I had grown up on various Air Force bases overseas. But her explanations just amused the twosome more. The woman reacted to every sentence like a punch line and the thin man just kept nodding and smiling. A peculiar encounter, for sure, but at least their food was good. The loaf of Amish bread made for a delicious picnic dinner later that night. We planned to drive straight through to our hotel but wound up stopping one more time along the way. As we were going through Gate City we came across perhaps the silliest looking restaurant I�d ever seen, and I had no choice but to stop and order something to eat. I couldn�t help myself. This is just something I do. Back when we were hiking through Wytheville, I saw painted on the side of a brick building �Home of the World Famous Skeeter Dog!� The diner had been closed at the time, but ever since seeing that sign I pestered Dawn on each following trip telling her how this time we would get ourselves some Skeeter Dogs. Finally, just a few weeks ago, I succeeded in my quest. We plopped down at the counter and bit into a couple of Skeeter Dogs, and, mmm mmm, they were everything Dawn expected. Which is to say, they were lousy. Another time more than a year ago, I�d heard about another kitschy restaurant in Chilhowie called the Dip Dog Stand. First-time customers were given bumper stickers that proclaimed �Gotta have my Dip Dog,� and then they would pose with those bumper stickers at interesting locations all over the world. In the Dip Dog lobby and the picnic-style dining area outside are photo collages of happy customers holding their bumper stickers in front of the Golden Gate Bridge, the Grand Canyon, the Eiffel Tower. There was even one of a white-robed Bedouin holding a bumper sticker in front of a camel in a Middle Eastern desert. With a story like that, I HAD to try one. So when our path crossed through Chilhowie, Dawn and I ordered up and bit into a couple of dip dogs, which were essentially batter-coated hot dogs on sticks. Mmm mmm, they were lousy too.
�Oh, no,� Dawn said, �not again.� �C�mon,� I said, �how can I pass up a building that looks like a burger?� Pal�s was a drive-through only establishment, so after placing our orders we munched our grub in the parking lot. Both of us had a �sauceburger with frenchie fries� and I also got a Mr. Pibb, which I set in the middle console. Mmm, mmm, mmm. Turns out third time was a charm. The food at Pal�s was terrific. Phew, finally! Dawn grabbed a sip of my Pibb and when she returned it to the cup holder I heard a squeaking sound but didn�t think much of it. Until I grabbed the cup to take a sip myself and noticed the gash in the cup�s Styrofoam side. Half the drink had leaked out into the cup holder. Normally, that wouldn�t be a problem, except I had been storing a �good-luck-charm� cookie in one of the cup holders, which, when mixed with the soda, created a gooey mess. And a gooey good-luck charm means only one thing: bad luck. We still had 35 more miles to map out before we reached our hotel, and so, as soon as we cleaned up all the goo (and by �we,� I mean �Dawn�), we were on our way zipping along the curvy road. But not for long. A few miles outside of Gate City we got stuck behind a truck going 5 MPH. A sign propped up in its bed announced �Line painting in progress. Stay back 50 feet.� Although a line quickly built up behind us, when we arrived we were only the second car behind the truck. Had we gotten there just a few minutes sooner, we might have gotten ahead of this automotive conga line. �Well,� Dawn said, �at least now you know.� �Know what?� I said. �What people mean whenever they say, �As much fun as watching paint dry.�� Twenty-five minutes, and only two miles, later, the painting operation pulled off the side of the road to let traffic pass and we were once again zipping merrily down the road. We dropped off our bags at the hotel and then hopped back into the car. From here it was a mere 43 miles to the Virginia-Tennessee border, marking the end�THE END!�of this long Walk.
Closer to the Cumberland Gap the road finally flattened out, and we drove the last miles in silence. We were both excited, but somber at the same time. After we�d crossed the border and pulled to a stop at a gas station, I picked up the legal pad on which Dawn had been writing down mileage and points of interest and held it as if it were a great weight. �Do you realize,� I said, �that the rest of the walk is on this pad.� �I�m sad,� she replied. �I don�t want it to end.� I flipped through the pages and added it all up. 101 miles. That was it. That's all that was left. Of course, as steep as the roads we�d covered today had been, it was going to feel more like 501. But that�s fine. That just means it�ll take longer to complete, and I agree with Dawn. I don�t want it to end either. Bluegrass Death March Just before heading out the door at 6 this morning, I tried waking up Dawn. She was supposed to drive out to meet me down the road in 1� hours, but all she wanted right now was to lay her head back down on her pillow. �C�mon,� I said, flicking the lights on and off, poking her with my finger, and pressing an ice-cold soda can against her neck. This accomplished nothing more than a few mumbled curses, so it was time for the big guns. I threw the covers off, hauled her out of bed, and pressed a bottle of Five Hour Energy to her mouth. She squeezed her lips tight, making a mewling sound, but finally acquiesced. �I hate you so much right now,� she said. But in just a few moments, the potion did its magic. She was bouncing around the room like a child with ADHD and I was able to leave for my walk feeling slightly more certain that she�d drive out to the pre-designated spot to meet me instead of just dreaming about it. As I walked down the stairs from our second-floor room and my muscles screamed in agony from yesterday�s walk, I realized that my fears might have been aimed at the wrong person this morning. If I was already gimpy at the outset, how would I fare hiking the seven miles in the mountains to our meeting point? Worse yet, the humidity was Panama thick and my tee shirt was a sopping rag before I�d gone a half-mile. I trudged along, stopping twice at convenience stores to trade my empty bottle of water for a fresh, cold bottle of Gatorade. At the second one, the Black Diamond Market, a friendly cashier, noticing how poorly I was faring, offered to give me a lift up the mountain to my destination, which was still four miles away. Never before had I been this tempted to skip a leg, but there was no way I�d sully the more than 1,300 miles I�d already logged by cheating. After leaving the Black Diamond, a gurgling river was sole companion, at least until I got to an short, concrete dam that created a whitewater cascade from the water funneling through the gates. A streamer of smoke rose from the dam, but I couldn�t see its origin and went to investigate. As I stepped into a spot that wasn�t screened by trees, I saw two homeless men curled beside the dregs of a campfire. A third man, who had been standing on the edge of the concrete, started when he saw my approach. He raced over to his companions and woke them. Huddled in frayed clothes smeared with dirt and soot, the three of them glared at me with looks of either contempt or mistrust. Then I remembered I was wearing a police-issue reflective vest and figured they thought I was some official come to roust them. Either that or they were building up their courage to roll me. In either case, I gave a finger salute and continued on my way. Many people think kudzu is a fairly new plague to the Southeast, but the plant was actually introduced to the United States from Asia in 1876 at the Centennial Exposition in Philadelphia. Originally marketed throughout the South as an ornamental shade plant, the quickly growing vine was thought to be a wise choice for erosion control. In the pre-WWII era, the government distributed 85 million kudzu seedlings and paid for their planting. Unfortunately, they didn�t give any thought for how to care for them afterwards and the ground cover was allowed to grow unchecked. Today, the vine is listed on the Federal Noxious Weed List and is costing Southeastern states millions of dollars annually to battle the creeping crud with mowing and herbicide spraying. But if this mountain is any indication, kudzu appears to have already won the war. Though the vine fascinated me in the early goings of this morning�s painful hike, I worried less and less about it as the steep climbs and oppressive humidity sapped my strength. I�ve made no secret of the fact that I�m a very sweaty guy, but even I was surprised at how wet I was right now. My shirt and shorts were drenched�no surprise there�but so were my socks and sneakers, which squished and squelched with every step. I�d placed the scouting map I�d made yesterday with Dawn in the pocket of my safety vest,
By the time I reached the seven-mile mark and found Dawn waiting for me with the car, I was a shambling wreck. But there was only two more miles to hike: one mile up to the Kentucky border and then one mile back down to the car. I may have been whipped, but my excitement fueled my desire to get up this last hill. Dawn could feel it too. Dawn had been with me when I dipped my toe into the Chesapeake Bay and she�d by my side as I stepped into Maryland, North Carolina, and West Virginia. The only Virginia borders she hadn�t crossed with me on this walk had been the Virginia-Washington D.C. border, which I crossed with another pal, Terry Cox-Joseph, and the Tennessee border, which I crossed with a British fellow who was hiking across the country. And she was planning to make that one up when I crossed into Tennessee again at the Cumberland Gap. And now, up ahead, almost within sight, was another milestone: the Kentucky border. This last mile was an upward climb the entire way. There wasn�t a single piece of road that crested or even flattened out. Excited or not, I had to rest my wobbly legs, and we stopped every couple of hundred yards to sit on a guardrail and take a pull from the cold quart of water I�d grabbed from the car. After what felt like an eternity, we stepped foot into Kentucky, posed by the Welcome Sign, and turned around to head back with gravity finally on our side. We plodded on, feeling victorious, and when a car came along and offered us a ride (Thank you, Jason!), I didn�t feel guilty at all for accepting. Just like the kudzu, we�d already beaten this mountain. Uphill to boot. 
Catch Me If You Can A thick blanket of fog lay over everything this morning. Not a problem. Compared to the scorching hot days we�d been experiencing, an added layer between 
me and the sun was a welcome addition.I hoped to walk nine miles from Pennington Gap to Jonesville this morning but didn�t know how much my legs could take. So the plan was for Dawn to meet me at a little caf� in the town of Ben Hur, which was roughly the halfway to Jonesville. At that point I would decide whether to push on depending upon how I felt. Every previous time that Dawn has acted as my support crew on one of these walks, she�s always arrived at the endpoint before me. Usually she�ll pull over long before the end just to check how I�m doing and to see if I need to freshen up my water. But not this time. This time, I arrived at the caf� before her. I hadn�t been going particularly fast�I�d been dawdling, to tell the truth, stopping to snap pictures of foggy graveyards, train tracks, a litter of kittens huddled in a doorway, and anything else that caught my eye. Even so, I still beat her to the destination. I sat on the caf�s front steps and started turning it over in my head. What could be keeping her? Had she lost her key? Had the car broken down? Did she get in an accident? Or maybe she was just paying me back for the rude way I�d woken her by going back to sleep. But the most important question was what should I do about it? Keep going? What if I hoofed it to Jonesville and she followed the plan, waiting here at the Ben Hur Caf�? After I�d been waiting about 15 minutes, a beat-up, pickup truck pulled into the gas station across the street. My fears had gotten the best of me, so I went across to beg a ride. But just as I was explaining my situation to the grizzled driver named Randy, I saw my car zipping up to the caf�. I had been shielded from view by the truck and the gas pumps, not to mention the heavy fog, so I started running across the street waving my arms and calling out to grab Dawn�s attention. The car hitched as the brake lights briefly glowed and then it continued streaking down the road. I stood there with my mouth agape, no idea what to do now. But then the pickup pulled around the pumps and jerked to a halt next to me. Randy threw the passenger door open and called out, �Hop on in!� And just like an episode of the Dukes of Hazard, we were off on a backwoods car chase in the mountains. Yee Haw! We raced after her. The slowly inched upwards from 35 to 45 to 55, at which point the pickup started shaking and shimmying. But just as we were closing in, Dawn hit the afterburners and pulled away again. �Flash your lights at her,� I said. Randy flipped the headlights on and off several times and pushed his ancient vehicle up to 65. The truck rattled so hard I thought I was going to lose a filling. But Dawn still wouldn�t slow. I cranked my window down and stuck my head out, waving my towel wildly at her. That must have done the trick because just as we reached the outskirts of Jonesville, four miles down the road from Ben Hur, she pulled over to the side. That�s when I found out what had happened. I don�t know if it had been the fog or what, but the GPS in my car had acted up and it never locked in a position fix for Dawn. She drove all over mountain roads searching for the Ben Hur Caf� while the Garmin kept flashing a notice that it was still trying to �acquire satellites.� �Then after I reached it and you weren�t there,� she said, �I figured you had just kept going. I was looking for you walking down the side of the road, when all of sudden this truck starts tailgating me. I�m out here in the mountains, a woman all by herself; I�m thinking, �Where is Bill when I need him?� So I sped up and the truck just kept chasing me and the music to Deliverance started playing in my head.� I thanked Randy profusely for the exciting chase then hopped in the car with Dawn. �How are your legs?� she asked. �You good enough to do the rest of the walk?� �Yeah,� I said, �why don�t you drop me off in the center of town and I�ll walk back and meet you at the Ben Hur Caf�. I�m feeling great.� And I was, too�for about fifteen more minutes. Remember that fog I told you about? That thick blanket of protection from the blazing sun? Well, just as I was leaving Jonesville�s town limits, escaping the shade-providing buildings and trees that lined its roads, the fog burned off and the star of our solar system made his presence known. He beat down upon my head with what felt like red-hot sledgehammers. Worse yet, I had foregone my hat because of the fog, and my head was a boiling Thanksgiving ham. I quickly polished off the lone quart of water I�d taken from the car and as the blacktop in front of me climbed up a long, steep, shadeless hill I realized I might have made a big mistake. I passed by one store that had gone out of business, so I couldn�t replenish there. But up ahead I saw two figures working in a yard atop a hill. I tromped up to them to ask if I could refill my water bottle, only to discover they
The owners weren�t home so he couldn�t fill up my bottle in the sink, but he did have a cold thermos of water sitting in the shade of a tree. �Here,� he said, �why don�t you take this?� I told him I couldn�t take the last of their water, but he wouldn�t take no for an answer. �Can�t let a man be out in this heat with no water,� he said. �It just wouldn�t be right.� So, for the second time today, one of the locals came to my rescue. Dawn also drove back to check on me, giving me more cold water and my hat. As soon as I made it to the end, we picked up a couple of cold bottles of Powerade from a convenience store and drove back to see Charles and Daniel again. �Here you go,� I said. �I can�t let you two work out here in this heat without something cold to drink. It just wouldn�t be right.� See? I�m not always horrible. No matter what Dawn says. An Addendum on Blending In
Yesterday morning�s walk took me straight through the town of Ben Hur and I couldn�t help but stare in the face of every grizzled man I encountered to see if any of them was Charleton Heston. There was one guy I thought might be him, but when I tapped him on the shoulder so I could get a look at his face he turned around and yelled, "Get your hands off me you damn dirty ape!" Okay, so that was a bunch of silly nonsense with just a bit of truth sprinkled in. And, no, I won�t tell you which of the above parts were the �true� ones, but I will promise you that everything that follows is absolutely true. At least for this blog entry. It appears I haven�t been blending in with the locals as much as I�d hoped. At least, not unless the populace is filled with axe murderers. Two weeks ago, for example, when Dawn was begging rides for us, a friendly nurse had agreed to give her and �her friend� a lift down the road. And she seemed happy to do so, at least until I came walking into the convenience store and her face turned ashen. Her two young girls picked up on the vibe and hid behind her legs, shivering as if the boogey man had come to life. And it�s not just people that have reacted that way. Animals have been giving me the stink eye for months now. A while back, when I was walking near Marion, Virginia, I passed by a herd of cows wallowing in a water-filled depression. The day had been too hot for me to mess with them in my usual way (yelling out, �Moo, cow, moo!�), yet they had the same Eek-I�ve-just-seen-Sasquatch reaction as the nurse and her two children. As I passed by the water hole, they stampeded out of it and didn�t stop running till they had put a field between us. Of course, none of these experiences will bring Dawn as much sheer joy as being able to recount what happened yesterday when we stopped in at the Rooster Pub for lunch. It was another hot day and I was beat from the morning walk. We sat at a table by the front window and Dawn noticed a hapless creature across the street. "Oh, look," she said, "a three-legged dog." The mutt was hobbling through a gravel parking lot, sniffing around. It looked like a stray, a thirsty one at that. "I�m going to get it something to eat and drink," I said, hopping up from my seat and heading to the car. A few pieces of Amish bread were stashed in one of my coolers along with plenty of ice-cold water. Also, since Dawn has three big rottweilers that we sometimes take to parks near our homes, I always keep a collapsible doggie water bowl in the car. Gathering up the bowl, a quart of water, and a slice of bread, I walked over to the dog and said in my friendliest voice, "Hey there fella. Who�s a good boy? You are. Yes you are." Apparently he didn�t have the same opinion of me. That three-legged pooch shot across the lot like a greyhound chasing a rabbit at the track. You could practically see a vapor trail appearing in his wake. When I reentered the restaurant, it took Dawn several minutes before her howls of laughter stopped and she could speak again. Oh, well, I might not fit in with the locals, but at least I�m entertaining. Hung Up in Horse Country Turns out I was a little premature when I said the Walk�s only remaining miles were in the western tip of the state. An opportunity arose to add a chunk of mileage to my route up in Northern Virginia, and I was taking advantage of it. What kind of opportunity? Two article assignments, each requiring face-to-face interviews. The first article assignment was actually in the Baltimore area, but it would force me to drive through NOVA to get there (duh), and the second was with someone who lived on a farm in Upperville, which is about 30 miles north of Warrenton. I�d already walked through the Warrenton area on my trek from DC to Shenandoah National Park, so it would be easy enough to walk up to Upperville over the course of a couple of weekends. Dawn came with me to Baltimore. She�s tagged along on plenty of interviews before. The first couple of times were disastrous, but then I explained to her that these sessions were not to be treated like a gabfest where each person tells half the stories. My job, and therefore Dawn�s as well, was to ask open-ended questions and then sit quietly while the interview subject responded and my microcassette player recorded his story. Sitting quietly is a hard thing for Dawn to do. She loves engaging conversation. But Dawn likes to oblige. Not only does she clam up, she also performs a beneficial task; she takes notes on everything from what the subject is wearing and what the office looks like to the feel and sense of style of a place. When I get back home, I pick through her notes and use her insights to add a bit of color to my stories. Works out pretty well. So we finished up in Baltimore and then headed to a hotel in Warrenton. Warrenton is smack dab in the heart of horse country, which is about as Virginia as you can get. Free copies of In & Around Horse Country are arranged at the entrances to dozens of shops in this area, the local bookstore is called Horse Country Booksellers, and their idea of a designer shop is a store where you can purchase tartan patterned bridles for your pony. Now you see why I was so jazzed. I mean, what better place for a vagabond like me to explore than the upper-crust, blue-blooded, well-manicured land of horse country. It was a match made for heathens�I mean, in heaven.
But before I get into that, let me tell you about our walk. We had a taxi drop us off at one of the entrance gates to Great Meadows in The Plains, VA. Great Meadows annually hosts the Gold Cup. WEBSITE: Run in Fauquier County since 1922 and attended by over 50,000 spectators, race day features multiple steeplechase races, and even a cut little Jack Russell Terrier race. Virginia Living gave me a couple of tickets to attend a few years back, so Dawn and I went up there and rubbed our not-so-upper-crusty elbows with everyone else. The wine was flowing, the horses were romping, and the women were parading around in hats the size of chandeliers. Had I known, I would�ve tried to fit in better and worn my purple, zebra-striped pimp hat. Maybe another time. When the taxi dropped us off at Great Meadows, we noticed a banner sign on the grounds announcing a polo race that night. �That looks like fun,� Dawn said. I read the banner�s small print and saw that parking would be $30. I could only imagine how much the tickets would be. It was so much easier pretending not to be cheap when the magazine was giving me free tickets and a parking pass. Now, I had to pretend to be deaf. I turned south and began the 8-� mile trek toward Warrenton. We chugged along without much happening. There were no businesses along this stretch of road. All we saw were multi-million-dollar mansions situated a half-mile back from the road with an expanse of well-tended lawn between us. Dawn gabbed the whole way (she had a build-up to say since being forced to zip her lip for the interview), time flew by, and before we knew it we were ambling up to our hotel. It seemed a successful, but uneventful, day was coming to a close. Oh, no. I showered and we were loading up the car when Dawn paused by the passenger door, dropped what she was carrying, and held onto the door to keep from falling over. �I�m getting them again,� she said. �And they�re worse this time.� What she was referring to was something that first occurred when we were having breakfast before the interview. She�d been sitting at a table, doing nothing stressful at all, when all of a sudden her heart started fluttering and a wave of weakness washed through her body. It was kind of like a burst of adrenalin coursing through your veins but with the opposite effect. Now, I stood by helplessly as she clutched the car door and waited for the episode to pass. When it did, we got in the car and began the three-hour drive for home. But before we could make it out of Warrenton, she had a couple more episodes. �I think I need to go to the hospital,� she said. And once again, I was praising Garmin. I punched the screen and then sped for the nearest hospital.
We passed the time as millions of nervous patients have before, talking about inconsequential things and playing silly games to keep our minds occupied, to do anything other than worry about worst possibilities. I got us some food from the cafeteria. I brought back a pad of paper and we played pictionary. The only thing more pathetic than Dawn's drawings were mine, which looked like I'd made them while clutching the pen in my mouth.
At one point, Dawn asked me to paint her toenails. "Okay," I said. "But I've never done this before, so if you wind up looking like a tramp don't blame me!" Morning finally came and the cardiac specialist put her through a stress test, which essentially meant walking on a treadmill whose slope steadily inclined while she was hooked up to a monitor. �There,� she said, while huffing up the fake hill, �I�m having one now.� The doctor read the slip of paper pumping out of the machine and made some notes. �Aha,� he said. Then it happened a second time and he jotted on the paper again, nodding to himself. When Dawn flopped off the machine, he said, �What you are experiencing is something called Premature Atrial Contractions, or PACs. These are not uncommon. What normally happens when your heart pumps blood is that one atrium contracts and it flows through another one and out into your arteries. What at is happening here is that just before this pumping process occurs, the other atrium is contracting as well, giving you this double-heartbeat or flutter. This happens to many people and most don�t even feel them.� However, there are rare cases where some people experience continual palpitations (rapid heartbeats), chest pain, shortness of breath, and/or fainting. Dawn, of course, was a rare one. Over the course of the next few days, she charted the PAC occurences and counted upwards of 80 in a single day. Each time left her feeling deblitated, unable to move or do anything else for several moments. But, fear not, she went to the doctor and got some beta blockers, which seem to be doing the trick. All this because she wanted to oblige me with making sure I had something to write about from our walk. What a trooper. |
Soldiers were not the only casualties
Nothing sweeter than sweet potato pie!
The sweet and sweaty scent of the wild!
Reed & Kathy Kegley & rows of cultivated trees
I think I need to shave
Welcome to Bristol!
Man, what'd we do last night?
I'm NOT walking UP Walker Mountain!
Dawn feels as burned out as the hotel behind her
How can you pass this up?
Talk about having your head in the clouds!
Sweaty Bill's sodden map
The Hays save the day!
Oh yeah, you blend
A scary time...and not just 'cause the lack of makeup
Lemme slop this on here