After relaxing for the rest of the afternoon and evening, we joined the others for dinner and a chat around the fireplace in the main lodge. The miles began to take their toll, and about 9:00 it was definitely bedtime. As we walked back from the dining hall to our cabin, we became aware that a fog had begun to blow up from the valley on the gentle evening zephyr, and was settling in for the night. It was sufficiently thick that we could have missed the cabin, had we not left the porch lights on. When we got up the next morning, our scenic vista had been replaced by an absolutely impenetrable gray-white wall of mist. We stalled around for a while, waiting to see whether it would show any signs of thinning, but if anything it got thicker. Finally, we abandoned the idea of riding during the morning, and everyone scattered to be alone with their thoughts for a time. About 11:30 we checked out and departed, in fog so thick we wondered about our sanity and good sense.

Our hope was that farther south, where the Drive is a little lower, the weather would be better, but to no avail. After about ten miles we stopped at the Big Meadows wayside, groped about for a parking spot (you still couldn’t see more than 75 or 100 feet), and had lunch. As we were finishing, we realized that the fog had thinned, only to be replaced by light drizzle. Since that was still not a very appealing atmosphere for a ride we continued south in the van, dodging in and out of the fog as we crossed back and forth over the ridgeline.

At mile 81, we stopped to take a hike down to two lovely waterfalls, having more or less completely abandoned the notion of riding. I brought the idea up, offering to ride with Terri the final 25 miles to the motel in Waynesboro while Alice and Jeff did the hike, but she opted to bail since the weather was still uncertain. So, she stayed in the van and read (one knee was troubling her) while we three went off hiking. We hiked for two or hours or so, then returned to the van and finished the trip to Waynesboro. By the time we arrived, the weather had definitely improved, and showed signs of promise for the next day.

During the planning and preparation stages of the trip we had been in contact with the Kymberlee and Jay Hightman, a couple from a town fifteen or twenty miles from Waynesboro. They had initially planned to accompany us on the ride, but had been forced by events to cancel a couple of weeks prior. They told us about a local eatery that had an all-you-care-to-eat shrimp buffet, which certainly sounded good to us. We called them when we got to the motel, and arranged to have them swing by and guide us to the restaurant. As promised, the shrimp were plentiful and tasty, and the six of us had a thoroughly enjoyable evening talking tandems, computers, swapping stories, and generally visiting. We finally ended the evening standing in the parking lot, showing our new friends our cherished tandems.

The next morning dawned mostly cloudy and somewhat breezy, but not unpleasantly. The four of us had a nice breakfast and then prepared to separate once again- Terri and me on my bike, Jeff and Alice in the van. We were either to meet them in Shenandoah, a town slightly less than halfway back to Front Royal, or catch them somewhere on the road past there. They were to leave the van, affording us the opportunity of ending our ride at that point or at least picking up or dropping equipment, as weather conditions required. They planned to ride from there; the only question would be whether they would get out of town before we arrived.

The breeze we felt at the motel was from the north, more or less directly in our faces as we began our ride. The motel is sited at the top of a long downhill grade into town so we had a good beginning to the day. Things deteriorated slightly, though, when the very first turn on the cue sheet failed to materialize as expected. After a moment of hunting around we stopped and got the needed information from a local fireman, and were on our way.

We slipped along, not really pushing hard, just enjoying the countryside and the lack of precipitation. After a period of time, the van went by and words of encouragement and friendship passed between us. Periodically we would give ourselves a quick standing stretch, keeping our knees supple and our bottoms comfortable. Some time later, following an uneventful 40 miles, we arrived in Shenandoah and were hailed by our companions, who had been longer in their departure preparations than they had planned. We took a brief lunch break (it being just about noon by this time), and then set out to catch our friends. They had left a few minutes before us, knowing that we would likely catch up to them eventually.

Time and miles passed with no sign of them, but the arithmetic made me expect that. Even if we were averaging two miles an hour faster than they were (an unlikely situation, since they were fresh and we had forty miles in already, plus Friday’s mileage), it would be at least twenty five or thirty miles before we caught them. We pressed on, taking a few very short breaks to relieve saddle stress.

Some twenty or so miles from Shenandoah we passed through the town of Luray, and headed west out of town to make our first crossing of the river. It lies about three miles west of town, at the end of a long downhill approach. Immediately upon crossing the river we turned north to parallel the stream, taking note of the "Road Ends 14.0 miles" sign as we did so. That happened to be just about the exact distance we expected to travel to our next crossing point, so I speculated that the bridge may have been closed to traffic but still in existence. Eight more miles along the road made a vee, and the surface changed from asphalt to dirt and gravel. Thinking (wishfully) that it was possible this was simply a section under repair, and that the asphalt would return shortly, I forged ahead. In the dirt I could see what were unmistakably bicycle tire marks, made by road tires such as Jeff and Alice use. This was good- they had made it this far, though we had no means of telling how long before the tracks had been made. Even better, there was only one set of tire marks, so they hadn’t turned around and come back (yet). This was the beginning of the area where I expected that we might perhaps catch up to them, if we were going to.

As the road rose and fell, I began to believe that we were definitely gaining on them- their uphill track was slightly wobblier than our own, which meant that they were going more slowly. This was the section where we could really exploit a 2 mph speed differential, if it existed. Finally, we rounded a curve and crested a rise and there they were- just heading down the back side, on foot. The gravel in combination with a steeper drop than previously encountered had made them decide to be cautious, and guarantee their safe arrival at the bottom. Being more confident in my ability to ride to the bottom (or perhaps just more reckless) I decided to ride down, and so we did, without incident.

A bit further on, we stopped and asked a local fisherman whether there was any means of crossing the river at the end of the road. He assured us that there was not, and I wasn’t enthusiastic about putting any more miles behind us to prove him right, if it meant we would have to backtrack when it turned out to be as he said. Naturally, we were now at the bottom of the hill and were faced with the emotionally difficult but intellectually simple decision of what to do next. Fording the river wasn’t an option- it was too deep and swift with all the rain from the previous week. In the end, we decided to head back whence we had just come, despite the mental pall that cast on the group. It was already pushing 3:00 by then, and the 15-mile backtrack would take another hour and a half or two hours, leaving us still 20 miles from Shenandoah and the van or 30 from Front Royal and my car.

Glumly, we began the climb back away from the river, focusing on the moment at hand and little else. We were tired and dirty, and facing the realization that we had just lost at least three hours of progress on what was our now-futile side trip. The gravel seemed to suck at our wheels, and the light sprinkles we’d experienced on the way down had turned the road surface from dirt to a thin film of mud. Jeff and Alice had taken a bit longer of a breather at the bottom, so we were soon separated and out of touch again, but planned to regroup at the place we had first crossed the river. Terri was very encouraging, and helped keep my spirits up all along the retreat.

Before we reached the paved section, six long miles back, I had realized that I would need a break before we could make it to the bridge. Terri extracted a promise from me not to stop before we at least made the pavement, if at all possible. We did make it, and as we stood there resting and rekindling our heavily depleted internal fires a gal drove up and started a conversation. We were sitting in her son’s driveway, and she was certain he would let us refill our water bottles (which were nearly empty). I gratefully headed up the gravel driveway, leaving Terri to keep watch for the other tandem. A few minutes later they caught up, we rested a bit, and set off for the bridge. Thankfully, most of that eight miles were downhill!

On further reflection about the situation, Alice had concluded that the best thing to do would be for them to return to their van in Shenandoah while we headed for Front Royal via the main highway (which is also the only viable route north through that part of the world). It became something of a race, though not really a very even contest: could we get back to Luray and then to Front Royal, a total of about thirty miles, before they got back to Shenandoah, picked up the van, and drove it to Front Royal? We all believed that it was almost a certainty. They set off a moment before we finished our energy bars, and were out of our field of view before we mounted up in "pursuit".

Once in Luray, our job was simple: find US 340 North, get on it, and go. After a bit of hunting around we concluded that we had somehow missed it, and had to backtrack (again!) and ask directions. Our error this time actually only cost us about a half mile, so there was no real harm done. We got onto 340 just at 6:00, and I put the challenge to Terri to see whether we could make Front Royal, 24 miles distant according to the sign, by 7:30. I didn’t want to be out much later, as the clouds would hasten the sunset, as would the mountains to our west. 340 is a busy, two-lane highway with no real shoulder, and the cars are all whizzing by at 55 mph or faster.

We progressed steadily north, ticking off the miles. It soon became apparent that we wouldn’t make the required 16 mph average needed to hit our goal, despite the fact that we were gradually slipping off altitude. Terri began to labor on the climbs, and I had long since used the last of my zip. We could both cruise comfortably, but any kind of grade or hill brought us almost immediately to the granny gear. In addition, we were both thoroughly saddle weary and had to take increasingly frequent relief breaks. All along, I had been half-expecting the van to come alongside, and confessed to Terri that if it should do so I was planning on getting in. About eight miles from town we stopped at the local volunteer fire hall, visiting with the friendly young firefighters and telling our story. We downed the last of our energy bars, took a deep breath, and pressed on. Leaving the fire station, I resolved to finish the ride, even if the van did catch us.

I began to fantasize about getting to the entrance to the park, where we had started our odyssey two days previously. From there it was only a mile or two back into town to the car, the motel, a hot shower, and dinner. Terri told me that, if we did more than 120 miles, it would beat her longest ever ride, as it would mine. Since that’s also approximately a double metric, it seemed a good goal, though we also agreed not to extend the ride just to get to a specific distance. Finally, we began to see the unmistakable signs that we were nearing journey’s end: the road widened to four lanes and divided, we passed a couple of motor courts and motels, etc. Then, there it was: the city limits sign, and just a short way beyond it the north entrance to Skyline Drive. We had made it!

The final two miles fairly flew by, with the aches and pains of our long toil diminished by the anticipation of being off the bike for good. I threatened to take a victory lap around the motel parking lot, an idea immediately and emphatically vetoed by Terri. We pulled up to my car at two minutes before eight, tired, a bit dazed, and happy to be finally done- 11 � hours and 122 miles after setting out from Waynesboro.

After stowing our gear and getting the bike racked up, we began our vigil awaiting the van. We made arrangements to rent a room for showering, called home to let our spouses know we had finished riding but weren’t quite yet headed home, and waited for Jeff and Alice. Time passed, and they didn’t show. I tried their cell phone, but couldn’t get anything but a busy signal. Finally, about 9:00 I ordered pizza, thinking how nice it would be to have hot food waiting if I were in their place. After all they had done for us over the course of the weekend, it seemed an inadequate means of expressing our thanks, but one I knew they’d appreciate. While we waited, Terri finally began to show signs of mental as well as physical fatigue- something she’d not done until then. About the time we began to have more than casual concern as to the whereabouts of our friends, they arrived. They had been preceded by the pizza, but by no more than five minutes- pretty good timing! We all pitched in while they filled us in on the details of their southbound journey.

Jeff had bonked just about the time they made Luray, so they stopped for about half an hour to fill him full of banana split (and to recharge Alice as well). The ride south turned out to be rather hilly, with some very steep and nasty little climbs that more than canceled out the gentle following breeze. But they eventually made it, changed clothes, and did the hour’s drive north along 340, scanning the roadside the whole time to make certain we weren’t sitting there waiting for them to rescue us.

Following our showers, we loaded up and set sail for home, one very tired bunch of campers! Despite the weather, we all enjoyed ourselves thoroughly. Same time next year?

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� 1998, Keith Adams
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