Having been in SUV jail for the better part of the month, I decided I had to get away from home for a ride. So I put Little Nellie in the trunk of the car and drove to The Plains, a quaint town in Virginia hunt country. We did a 46 mile ride up and down hills, around curves, past acres and acres of beautiful farmland. We saw an awesome eagle swoop low over the roof of a one-story house as I took a snack break. We also had a nice talk with a member of DC Randonneurs, a group that takes distance riding pretty darn far. 600 kilometers in one weekend would probably kill me but these blokes revel in it. One of the big rando ides in America is Boston-Montreal-Boston. Just thinking about that distance and the mountains is enough to send me to the nervous hospital. (I love French fried p’taters.)
Of course, if they were riding through this area I could see why they’d want to ride forever. One beautiful vista follows the next. Little stucco houses alongside the road. Humongous mansions set back a quarter mile on a hill. Even a private airport (owned by the Mellon family). Mocking birds chirp constantly and cattle and horses graze without a care. Little Nellie took one steep and bumpy downhill too fast and jettisoned a water bottle just before the bottom of the hill. I could have used that momentum to get up the next rise but I never abandon a full bottle. (A carry over from my college days.)
At the end of the ride, Little Nellie stopped to contemplate a sign. Where to next?