VIRGINIA: TUESDAY, APRIL 6
I last an hour on the Parkway. Thin drizzle mists my safety spectacles. I take a left down to the foothills and ride a further hour before pulling in at a gas station. A woman serving coffee directs me to an upright heating unit. I wear wet-suit gloves under leather gloves. I put both pairs on top of the heater. I unzip my bomber jacket, press my chest against the heater and sip coffee. I am in a small town. Asking the woman serving coffee which town seems impolite. A weather man on TV points to bands of downpour sweeping south from the Great Lakes. The rain won't hit till late evening. I could find a motel. Or I could ride a further couple of hours. Riding gets me closer to the end, to my daughter. I ride.
This is Virginia horse country. Route 42 crosses a land of hills and lush pastures, white farm houses, white stables and white fences. Goshen and Staunton are red brick. Drizzle turns to light rain. Trees drip. I drip.