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Part 9 of the solo cycle across America series relayed as it happened day by day, exactly ten years later. (You can read from the start in Boston)

This excerpt is from the handwritten sections of the journal. Ten years ago today this happened:

Facing a trip of as much as 120 miles, and over 90 to the Bridge Tunnel, air conditioning and a good night’s sleep would’ve been nice. Instead a restless night had me leaving late without breakfast.

Rolled through downtown Princess Anne which was nicer than the corporate centre but there was nothing there. And it wasn’t that nice.

Annoyed with myself for not fully checking distances on the Delmarva (DElaware, MAryland, VirginiA) peninsula once I changed my route to take it in. Have unneccessarily left myself with an almost impossible trip to Virginia Beach.

Rejoined Route 13 and upped the speed to fourteen mph for an hour on a very comfortable wide shoulder on a road with little traffic. Here was Pocomoke City where I should’ve gone to last night to keep today’s mileage down. Came off the main road to have a look at the centre and it was lovely.

Plenty of shops but no food so came out of town the far side and decided on McDonalds for the first time on the whole trip. Ordering my food I spotted ‘Hot Tea’ on the menu, and had to find out. I was given a huge cup of hot water and a Lipton’s tea bag. I asked could I get some milk for the tea.
-For the hot tea?
-Yes
The teenage kid shook his head and went off and got a small carton.
-You want to put milk in the hot tea? In the hot tea?
He was about to pour some milk into the hot water when I told him I’d buy the carton and put it in myself. As I walked away with my tray he just kept shaking his head and saying
-I ain’t ever seen anybody put milk in a hot tea.
The next cup of tea I had was in hospital.

Back on the dual-carriageway with the huge shoulder lined by trees, I entered the Commonwealth of Virginia, reflecting once again on the lack of photographs I’d taken of the state I was leaving. I’d just cycled through hundreds of miles of beautiful landscapes of corn and soya bean crops with woods all around, dotted with wonderful houses and gardens, and the odd pretty village. Good-bye Maryland, now I was entering the Eastern Shore of Virginia.

As I was fighting time to get to the end of the peninsula so I could cross Chesapeake Bay to Virginia Beach in daylight, I didn’t have time to indulge myself in the Welcome Centre for tourist information.

All the traffic going past seemed to be holiday bound. R.V’s, cars with roof packs, boats lots of bicycles on the back of vehicles. Thirty miles after breakfast, according to a sign, was a joint Taco Bell and Kentucky Fried Chicken. I reckoned 45 to 50 miles into the day was perfect for the lunch break, leaving me with 45 to the Bridge-Tunnel.

Enjoyed reading all the big signs. Seems the Ward brothers are the most famous decoy painters in this part of the world. I’d seen a few by now, indeed some people specialise in paintings of decoys (paintings of painted carvings of water fowl, seemed strange when you can paint real things). Many people had decoys in their gardens.

Passed a sculpture factory with familiar figures of cowboys and lone Indians on a horse. Passed the Christmas Shop. It was huge like everything else - but this is early August and it was open. Trees and billboards. Hot but pleasant.

Very much a holiday atmosphere kind of day. I suppose that comes mostly from the traffic. There wasn’t much in the way of traffic lights but when there was, I enjoyed being stopped at them in holiday mode like everyone else.

Good names on Route 13. Temperanceville and Mapsville. For miles I looked for the right angle for a photograph that would capture this landscape. I didn’t find it. What looked like a satellite dish was in fact a sculpture of a spider on a web.

Thirteen miles after lunch at that Taco Bell and I was at Exmoor. Time to find State Highway 600 - a Virginia by-way. A beautiful laneway really, called Seaside Road I think. There wasn’t too many villages but they were nice.

South of Nassawadox near Birdsnest I saw my first Confederate Flag. It was there proudly in the centre of someone’s garden. I haven’t seen any more since. I was still seeing the odd U.S. flag too but nothing like on the scale of previous states, and usually accompanied by the Virginia state flag.

Very little traffic. Every third or fourth vehicle waved an acknowledgement at me as if I were in Cavan. It would’ve been easier if everyone waved or everyone didn’t. Instead I had to concentrate on every windscreen and see if a wave was coming. No black people waved. A white woman putting her trash out about fifty metres from the road waved.

Very little corn here compared with Maryland - otherwise the landscapes were similar. There were also some fields of tomatoes. Hundreds of acres of rows and rows of them with supporting sticks the same height. Frequently there were old school buses - the yellow ones - parked in the fields with workers out in them in the distance.

The houses were different here. Pretty much what I expected of the South. I was becoming very fond of the Eastern Shore. I knew the ocean was only a mile away to my left - the east, and Route 13 seemed very far away out of range of sound a couple of miles away. And I knew I was heading down a funnel-like peninsula where my road, the ocean, Route 13, and Chesapeake Bay would all meet soon enough.

Kids playing on swings or on trampolines. Sometimes miles between houses. Often woods which were nice and cool on the road. Bends in the road, curves, slopes - the kind of features on a road I hadn’t come across since upstate Connecticut. The Eastern Shore of Virginia was becoming idyllic and perfect for cyclists.

Finally I was staring at the entrance to a wildlife preserve and knew it was nearly over. I had gone over 90 miles. Highway 600 turned west towards Route 13. The nature reserve had closed at 4.00 p.m. It was now after five sometime I reckoned looking at my shadow (honest!). It was all so quiet, still and peaceful.

Signs said 1′500 feet to the toll booth for the Bridge-Tunnel. The admin office was closed. The police office had a no entry sign on the back entrance. An officer came out. He was unfriendly and said there was no facilities for getting a bicycle across.

This Bridge-Tunnel complex spans 17.6 miles of the bay and including the lead-up roads is 23 miles long from toll to toll booth. This is the reason I didn’t want to come this way originally.

Lots of waterways cause problems in trying to cross them, but most of them are relatively short so a taxi or money thrown at somebody with a vehicle can sort them out But this was just so big. Hitched for about an hour. Only three pick-ups went past but nothing looked remotely like it would consider giving me a lift.

At an expensive looking pink motel called the Sunset Beach the staff rang the bridge police who said I should sit tight and wait for them. Hours later the receptionist told me the police now said they would do nothing but a friend was coming to take me across. It was maybe 8:45 and pitch black when we put the bike in the pick-up.

I was dropped at the toll booth on the far side, and gave him my driver fifty dollars for tolls, petrol and time. I don’t think it was enough.

I put my reflective belt, my lights, and my helmet on. A big big road but there was no traffic. The first chance to get off it was Shore Drive. Had I not turned off I would’ve ended up on an interstate. I turned left on Shore Drive towards the coast. The hostel was about eight miles away on 24th Street but I would go to the first place I found.

Shore Drive was big and it was busy. Worse it had no shoulder and it frightened me. After a couple of hundred metres I laughed at myself - I had just put my helmet on because I was expecting to take a spill, no not a spill I corrected myself, I’m going to get knocked down. Americans aren’t used to seeing cyclists at night so I’m just going to get knocked down.

And then it happened, this terrifying violent impact which was such an horrific rush. From behind. This incredible frightening rush of pain and movement as I seemed to go forwards uncontrollably through the air flipping over backwards. Somewhere in the pain, and the movement, and the violence, and then the confusion, was the understanding that I was dead.

Read the Next Entry (#10) in My Bicycle Trip Across America

Read from the beginning of the Cycle Across America

This entry was posted on Thursday, August 10th, 2006 at 11:48 am and is filed under Cycle Across America. You can follow responses via my RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response or trackback from your site.