TOWARDS WASHINGTON, DC: APRIL 8
I leave the comforts of the Ramada Inn, Harrisonburg, soon after first light.
I ride the Interstate north towards Harrisburg. I am riding through a gently up-and-down horse country of green meadows, white fences and woods. The sun shines – less watery as the morning progresses. Washington, DC, is over to the West. I intend stopping a night in DC. I want to visit the Vietnam Memorial. I also want to be safe at my daughter's, to have this ride done with. To survive.
Showing posts with label Harrisonburg. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Harrisonburg. Show all posts
Monday, July 28, 2008
PRAWN DETOX
HARRISONBURG: APRIL 8
Evening: the wind has dropped. Rain continues. Tomorrow will be dry - and cold. I am suffering a head cold. I am scared that the infection will move down to my chest. I am scared of United States medical bills. So are most citizens of this country.
Should I hole up here in Harrisonburg until the cold front passes through?
Or should I make a dash for my daughter's in upstate New York?
Cogitating such weighty matters requires energy.
I call the Thai restaurant and order spicy prawns.
Eleven months on the road - I'll be in need of a prawn detox.
Evening: the wind has dropped. Rain continues. Tomorrow will be dry - and cold. I am suffering a head cold. I am scared that the infection will move down to my chest. I am scared of United States medical bills. So are most citizens of this country.
Should I hole up here in Harrisonburg until the cold front passes through?
Or should I make a dash for my daughter's in upstate New York?
Cogitating such weighty matters requires energy.
I call the Thai restaurant and order spicy prawns.
Eleven months on the road - I'll be in need of a prawn detox.
SENATOR OBAMA IS ELITIST
HARRISONBURG: APRIL 7
Wind and rain batter Harrisonburg, Virginia. I watch Primary Election coverage on TV. Both Senators Clinton and McCain attack Senator Obama for describing working class men of the Pennsylvania Valleys as bitter. According to Senator Obama the cause of their bitterness is the closure of the mills and mines in the Pennsylvania valleys. The men have lost their jobs. However, bitter is an insult, it is un-American. Describing the unemployed as bitter proves Senator Obama an elitist (according to Senators Clinton and McCain).
I am an outsider.
What would I know?
Wind and rain batter Harrisonburg, Virginia. I watch Primary Election coverage on TV. Both Senators Clinton and McCain attack Senator Obama for describing working class men of the Pennsylvania Valleys as bitter. According to Senator Obama the cause of their bitterness is the closure of the mills and mines in the Pennsylvania valleys. The men have lost their jobs. However, bitter is an insult, it is un-American. Describing the unemployed as bitter proves Senator Obama an elitist (according to Senators Clinton and McCain).
I am an outsider.
What would I know?
VILE WEATHER
HARRISONBURG, VIRGINIA: APRIL 7
Fierce squalls thrash rain against the windows of my room at the Ramada Inn. The Honda is parked outside between a massive RV and an equally massive double-cab pick-up truck. The Honda seems very small and somewhat bedraggled – even a mite reproachful. It is accustomed to overnighting in hotel lobbies and 17th century Spanish Colonial patios. The Ramada Inn is a come-down for a bike. The king size bed is a sybarite's delight.
I suffer a twinge of guilt – and worry that the Honda will avenge its self; worry that the chain won't hold up or that a worn tooth or teeth on the sprockets will offer insufficient purchase for the chain.
However, this is not a biker day. It is a day for catching up on correspondence and my journal, for planning the final stage of the ride and for watching the election reports on TV.
And for sprinting (slowly) for free breakfast across the parking lot to the main building.
Fierce squalls thrash rain against the windows of my room at the Ramada Inn. The Honda is parked outside between a massive RV and an equally massive double-cab pick-up truck. The Honda seems very small and somewhat bedraggled – even a mite reproachful. It is accustomed to overnighting in hotel lobbies and 17th century Spanish Colonial patios. The Ramada Inn is a come-down for a bike. The king size bed is a sybarite's delight.
I suffer a twinge of guilt – and worry that the Honda will avenge its self; worry that the chain won't hold up or that a worn tooth or teeth on the sprockets will offer insufficient purchase for the chain.
However, this is not a biker day. It is a day for catching up on correspondence and my journal, for planning the final stage of the ride and for watching the election reports on TV.
And for sprinting (slowly) for free breakfast across the parking lot to the main building.
WET CLOTHES AND HOT SHRIMP
HARRISONBURG: APRIL 6
Management, Reception and cleaners at the Ramada Inn, Harrisonburg, are Gujarati. I long for a curry made with fresh spices. I negotiate a small discount on the room rate. I have ridden through steady drizzle for the past three hours. Now the TV weather channel shows heavy rain moving southward towards Harrisonburg. Rain will be followed by a cold front. Is a cold front colder than the cold I have already suffered up on the Blue Ridge Parkway?
I strip, turn the heating up and drape wet clothes over chair backs and over the air conditioner. Bliss is basking in a hot bath and contemplating the menu of a newly opened Thai restaurant. Spicy shrimp with fresh coriander...
Management, Reception and cleaners at the Ramada Inn, Harrisonburg, are Gujarati. I long for a curry made with fresh spices. I negotiate a small discount on the room rate. I have ridden through steady drizzle for the past three hours. Now the TV weather channel shows heavy rain moving southward towards Harrisonburg. Rain will be followed by a cold front. Is a cold front colder than the cold I have already suffered up on the Blue Ridge Parkway?
I strip, turn the heating up and drape wet clothes over chair backs and over the air conditioner. Bliss is basking in a hot bath and contemplating the menu of a newly opened Thai restaurant. Spicy shrimp with fresh coriander...
Friday, July 25, 2008
KINDLY PEOPLE
HARRISONBURG: APRIL 6
Most cities have an obvious geographical purpose. The lesser inland US cities often confuse the foreigner. Why were they founded in this particular stretch of emptiness? Where is the center? What logic propels developers to clump forty story buildings wall to wall in a country of unlimited space? Why these few city blocks rather than the next? And where do I find a hotel? I enter Harrisonburg on a minor road. For a motel I need the Interstate. Rain mists my spectacles. Dusk settles. I am wet, cold, miserable and lost.
I pull in at a gas station beside a black Buick sedan. The driver is a Black woman dressed (that bit that I can see of her) in artificial furs. She owns four teenagers - surely sufficient Hell in an automobile without instructing a fat old Brit on a bike seeking a bed.
The teenagers compete with her in directions. My younger sons might understand the teen-speak. The mother recognizes my bewilderment and accepts the impossibility of keeping the teens hushed long enough for a sensible conversation – even if the drenched old Brit on the Bike is capable of rational communication (doubtful). “Follow,” she says, “I'll drive slow.”
She makes a U out of the gas station and heads right across town to a Ramada Inn.
Many people have aided me on this journey. Few will read this account – and expressions of gratitude come easy. Yet I know of a future. I will sit on a bench in our Herefordshire garden, enjoy those few days of sun offered by our English summers and be better warmed by remembered evidence of so much kindness in a troubled World.
Most cities have an obvious geographical purpose. The lesser inland US cities often confuse the foreigner. Why were they founded in this particular stretch of emptiness? Where is the center? What logic propels developers to clump forty story buildings wall to wall in a country of unlimited space? Why these few city blocks rather than the next? And where do I find a hotel? I enter Harrisonburg on a minor road. For a motel I need the Interstate. Rain mists my spectacles. Dusk settles. I am wet, cold, miserable and lost.
I pull in at a gas station beside a black Buick sedan. The driver is a Black woman dressed (that bit that I can see of her) in artificial furs. She owns four teenagers - surely sufficient Hell in an automobile without instructing a fat old Brit on a bike seeking a bed.
The teenagers compete with her in directions. My younger sons might understand the teen-speak. The mother recognizes my bewilderment and accepts the impossibility of keeping the teens hushed long enough for a sensible conversation – even if the drenched old Brit on the Bike is capable of rational communication (doubtful). “Follow,” she says, “I'll drive slow.”
She makes a U out of the gas station and heads right across town to a Ramada Inn.
Many people have aided me on this journey. Few will read this account – and expressions of gratitude come easy. Yet I know of a future. I will sit on a bench in our Herefordshire garden, enjoy those few days of sun offered by our English summers and be better warmed by remembered evidence of so much kindness in a troubled World.
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