Susan's Travelogue

UK

Tue, 01 Sep 2026 00:00:00 -0600

Days 1-2: May 11-12

The plane lands in Schipol and after a few formalities, it’s on! This bike tour par excellence will be set in the United Kingdom. Great things have happened there so I have heard. What is there really to say? Rolling green hills and sheep are all the better if set against some stone Abbey ruins or Roman relics for contrast. Gothic scenes scattered amongst the fells, sipping on tea and scones. The Wild Moorlands are the destination, and if there was ever an original seed for the trip it was the desire to witness the landscape so enlivened by the Bronte sisters and the endless BBC adaptations of their works. I imagine myself among the sheep under the same grey sky, sinking into the earth. It starts to rain.…

The first two days are a mere prelude to the main occasion. We move our way through the lowlands, bypass most of Holland and Zeeland by taking a train to Vlissingen, and soon we are in Belgium. It all blurs and registers in fragments. Pass seaside towns with a little tram line that runs along a concrete multiuse path, views of the North Sea and the continuous commercial front during the off season avail our senses for most of the day. It is tedious riding at times. I can hardly remember it all clearly, what with the time zone adjustment and the monotony of the flatness. The seaside gradually shifts to forested surrounds as we follow a canal for several hours, one flat path exchanged for another. Images of still water, green mossy film, locks and tree-lined on either side. Pastoral scenes are gleaned in the distance between the boughs. I like riding in such a setting, it has a softness and painterly beauty. In the middle of it all, we stop in Bruges and sit on a bench in the medieval square, admire the 13th century bell clock tower (‘the belfry’) before moving along into Normandy on the second day.

In the evening of the second day we take a late ferry from Dunkirk over to Dover. It’s cold outside but even in darkness one can still see some of the white cliffs on approach.

Day 3: May 13

Leaving Dover from our compact hotel room we adjust to the weekday morning bustle of town. Fine lilts and accents are heard all around and confusion ensues looking right or left before turning onto narrow roadways. Dodge the double decker speeding by, make it to an old fashioned diner for breakfast. Afterwards, we make our way faithfully in a northeasterly direction and quickly emerge in the Kent Downs National Landscape, a large designated area, though the towns and hamlets look about the same as anywhere else. The only difference from what I can see seems to be the relative sparseness of the land and lack of motorways. We ride along through it and into the High Weald.

In Tenterden, in the early afternoon we stop for a rest in the park. Stylish schoolchildren walk past on their way home in distinctive British uniforms. It’s happening! Confrontation with British culture. Then continuing on to the grounds of Bodiom castle where we stop and have a look in the early evening.

Gradual slopes and hedge lined single lane roads dot the landscape, narrowed and maze like with only an occasional view of the expanse as you can see. A great first day’s ride.

Day 4: May 14

We camp in a forest of green and set off in the morning under blue skies. Well wishes for good weather seem to be the default response whenever the UK and bicycle touring are mentioned together.

The riding across the High Weald is pleasant because the roads are quiet, though the towns are somewhat forgettable. It’s sparsely populated and we see few inhabitants save for the occasional journeymen or person dashing in and out of a shop. Novelty is all around for us though in these British middle-class townhomes and streetscapes. Royal mail trucks in their bright red insignia pull over to the side, red telephone booths are haphazardly encountered in the hedge forest, and old fashioned wayfinding signs are placed at random crossroads to indicate the names of hamlets too small to be recognizable on any map. It all seems like something from another era. But it is difficult to get a sense of how old these places are as we pass them by. There are no features of central planning here nor relics and living effigies. The road network through the National Landscape is dense and odd, suggesting some degree of inheritance. The single lane paths or roads seem to wind and intersect at strange angles like a web and we find ourselves wayfinding at frequent intersections with the aim of heading in a general Westerly direction which proves to be more difficult than one would have imagined.

By the mid-afternoon we pass the threshold of the National Landscape and take a break in Uckfield, ostensibly the first town of the day. In British pubs there is always tea or coffee, or maybe it’s the other way around and in any cafe-restaurant at the counter there is also a bar. Either way, and since we are good sports, we ask for Tea, in the High Afternoon, and we are served it in due course seated on a pair of leather Chestfield sofas, complete with a tray, tea pot, saucers, and milk in a petite pitcher. This will be the first of many such breaks for tea and the white ceramic tea set will become a cherished visual staple.

We ride some more into the evening and have dinner in the town of Horsham, on traffic-free ‘Middle St’, which is lined with restaurants. More immersion into British culture for me as I have a serving of Steak Pie with Peas and Mash. It’s a nice hearty meal (I don’t really know what that means but it seems to be a descriptor one often encounters to describe British food). At the very least it gets me going the last few kilometers out of town. It’s always a dangerous prospect to find oneself in a larger town with sunset encroaching, having had a cooked restaurant meal, civilized and all. One is at risk of giving over to the temptation to stop and find accommodation for the night rather than ride on. But we encourage each other, our bodies not so used to being back on the saddle full time as of yet, so it goes at the beginning of every trip emerging from a sedentary working life. We make our humble camp along a forest path next to a creek, and as you can see it’s not such a bad life either.

Day 5: May 15

And how marvellous it is to wake up to green all around with the light of dawn. Reinier is always up and out of the tent before me (it’s chilly in the morning) but somehow I am faster with my camp chores and am usually ready before him to get going. It is an overcast day and I am wearing all of my layers to fend off the cold. It is sometime before we encounter a place which can sell us our morning coffees and at the first opportunity we stop at a tiny hamlet where there is supposed to be a store. We ask a cheerful looking lady wearing thick rimmed glasses and short grey hair where the convenience store is (the waypoint on our map labels it as such) and she promptly corrects us and points the way to the Village Shop in a friendly accented manner. Cheerio! What an embarrassing Americanism, convenience! It is a cute little thing, we have multiple coffees to warm ourselves up. For its size it is busy and multiple villagers ‘drop by’ in a steady stream to post mail or pick up small grocery items, linger, exchange pleasantries with one another, stand with their dogs, chat with the personable lady of the shop (who also takes an interest in our trip, she was incredulous we rode all the way from Dover).

It’s all so quaint I could die.

We ride on past green fields under a smooth grey sky, the surrounding land all the more lovely for the contrast. It’s a long and full day on the saddle as we have booked an Airbnb in the town of King’s Sombourne, with our sights on Salisbury and a visit to Stonehenge the next day. Before long we find ourselves across the South Downs National Park on its western edge, and by the time we arrive in King’s Sombourne for the night we can hardly muster the appropriate enthusiasm to greet and chat with our hosts, who are a very nice old British couple, for all the physical exhaustion of the day.

They have a sign in their front yard and they refer to their place in the listing as “The Virginia”. I wonder if it is a nod to Virginia Woolf with perhaps some distant relation to the town but I forget to ask. The room is secluded on the top floor under a steeply pitched roof. I get the best night of sleep on the pillowy mattress with the cool air. Such is the art of British hosting and hospitality, even the towels seemed to be top notch in absorbency. We devour the offerings of the complementary breakfast in our room which include fresh strawberries yogurt muesli hot cross buns from the supermarket and coffee made with a french press. Before we depart, Reinier makes small talk in the morning with them about their vintage stove which also functions as a heater and hot water tank. I do not contribute to this exchange.

Day 6: May 16

We set off in the morning for Stonehenge which to approach on a bicycle in order to avoid the large and busy A303 highway that otherwise services the site is not a trivial task. Some creative route finding and riding on overgrown tracks is necessary. Progress is slow going such that it is not until the early afternoon before we arrive. There is a small cafe and museum separated from the stones themselves where we have our obligatory visit, but otherwise there is little to do but visit the stones themselves. I have nothing to say about it that has probably not been said before. Standing there they look like things outside of time. It is quite a moving experience to go and look at them and all the mystery they invoke, to imagine life on the plains two thousand years ago. Their origins are a matter of debate and speculation, as much as their engineering feat. I remember two distinct facts from the exhibit precisely because they came as a surprise. Experts now believe that the purpose of Stonehenge for the prehistoric people was one of celebration or ritual, to mark a sacred place that they would regularly return to, rather than any astronomical or time keeping function as had been believed in the past. The stones were also carved by these prehistoric people with ball and socket type joints where a horizontal stone abuts two vertical slabs. Neat!

It’s easy riding in the late afternoon heading West. In Tytherington we take a short break on a park bench facing a small stone chapel whose doors are open before turning off a small gravel road into a densely seeded conifer forest to find a campsite. Rhododendrons abound!

Day 7: May 17

Today we head on the tourist trail into the city of Bath. I have vague notions of this place mostly because it is the setting of Jane Austen’s Persuasion and is referenced in passing in some of her other works. Indeed there is a Jane Austen Centre in the town in addition to the famous Roman Baths. In the morning I look at the map and make a rudimentary plan for the day. Sometimes it is nice to ride for half a day and stop early if one anticipates spending time in town to sightsee. Bath is evidently an overtouristed place with extortionist prices to stay in the city proper. No matter, we decide to spend the night in Bristol instead in the private room of someone’s apartment, called “the Red Room” on lodging sites.

Sustrans has built bike paths leading into Bath then connecting it to Bristol using old railway and tunnels. Residents of the city enjoy the spoils and so do we. The hours pass by enjoying these simple pleasures and soon enough we are in Bristol where arrangements have been made to see a play at the local theatre. It was rather moving and it would be too difficult to describe here, but it was about climate change, a tripartite of three narratives set hundreds of years apart in an imagined future present and past which intersect at the end. Why it was moving I cannot say for sure, that is how it is with these things generally. It had little to do with climate change itself, more so the inherent dignity of the characters as they simply went on in the face of struggles both big and small.

Our “Red Room” is fairly nice in the end, painted a crimson red and furnished tastefully, nothing weird.

Day 8: May 18

From Bristol it’s across the Severn bridge over the Bristol channel into Wales. Before that we make a stop over at a local bike shop to purchase a new helmet for me. Somewhere along the way yesterday, before Bath, someone stole my white helmet off my bike while we were having breakfast in a pub. There was a homeless man panhandling nearby who told us as much when it was obvious we were looking for it to no avail. My poor defenseless head for the rest of the day! It’s a Sunday morning in Bristol and there are even a few local bike shops open, where they have a limited stock of helmets. I end up with the same boring black model as Reinier, and the loss feels even more pronounced.

We make a morning stop over in Chepstow before continuing on over the undulating foothills on our approach towards the Brecon Beacon. The Welsh language barely registers for me and despite its prevalence around us. My inability to process the strange letter combinations make it so that I cannot recall any thing of Welsh, save for the fact that consonants cluster in ungodly proportions with excessive use of ‘y’ and ‘w’.

It feels like a short day. Already the landscape seems more remote in contrast to the bustling corridor between Bath and Bristol in the days before. In short succession we go from the coast to the River Wye, over to Usk, then finally in the evening light in search of nourishment we stop at a town called Blaenavon, which has a World Hertiage Centre for its historic setting of the early Industrial Revolution. There is a blast furnace building perched on its hillside as these things go.

Today it is rather all non-descript. The world has moved on and the town looks at once frozen in time and neglected. We manage to find ourselves an Indian Restaurant where we buy some “take away” and eat it sitting on a nearby bench. Such are the operations in the era of food delivery apps and tiny take away restaurants in the UK. We are even unable to pay at the counter and have to purchase our selections on Reinier’s phone using his data bundle. I watch the bikes while he waits inside.

Day 9: May 19

What strange foreign land have I stumbled upon? The earth opens up. Combinations of vivid colour along the rising expanse and the strange tongue that is spoken give it the appearance of a place borne out of ancient fairy tales where mythical creatures rule. From Brynmawr to Merthyr Tydfil and over the Brecon Beacon in the course of the day, taking the road that passes the Pontsticill reservoir.

It’s a slow day of meandering. Hardly any people around and only minimal signs of civilization to encounter. Weaving in and out of the forest with expansive views around the corner. Sheep abound in the distance in their God given pastureland. We take our enjoyment and leisurely pace as far as to ride along some gravel paths, where Reinier gets a flat tire, to add to the lack of urgency about the day. It’s not a big geographical area for a National Park, and there are no towering cliffs nor snow peaks, nor a sense of true remoteness at stake, but the pastoral quality is nice all the same. We make it beyond its borders shortly and rejoin at the upper extent of the River Wye. In the evening we stay overnight at a pub and inn in the old market town of Bulith Wells.

Day 10: May 20

The next morning we happen to be present for the Wednesday weekly market, a tradition that has carried on since Medieval times. Indeed it is vibrant and lively to rival any as I have seen. It is hard to believe in this kind of continuity for such a small community. One has to admire the will and stubbornness. It’s a slow start out of Builth Wells as Reinier has made some tasty purchases from a stand run by a stout and large bellied fellow. We supplement the baked goods with fine coffee from the Coop.

We cross the Welsh expanse heading towards Snowdonia. From Rhayader we branch off the main road and go forth on a single lane track cut through the rolling hills. Fenced off sheep meadows and patches of forest line the Way which continues for some time at elevation before dropping into small clusters of homes, villages along this B road. Hours pass by in such a way and I am delirious with exhaustion and joy. The road intersects with the main fare in the town of Llanidloes, and eventually we end up somewhere here in the highlands towards the evening, past Dylife. Where we camp I do not now remember.

Day 11: May 21

A fine descent awaits in the morning into Machynellth where we have breakfast and coffee at an old coaching inn, the White Lion Hotel, next to the clock tower in the town centre.

Then it really is a monumental day as we cross the expanse of Snowdonia, or Eryri in Welsh. Truly so much climbing on steeper grades than I can comfortably sustain on narrow paved paths. We gain our vantage point little by little. The exhaustion of the day renders it all a piecemeal blur. Perhaps the photos will make up for it.

It all ends near the Cwm Cynfal viewpoint towards the evening. If one looks out into the distance a thin sliver of blue distinct from the outline of hill ridges is visible - it’s the sea looking west down the valley where the streams and trickles of the surround drain as the Afon Dwyryd.

The day is not over yet despite the faded light on these highlands. It is frost cold and we want to descend a bit into the valley in lieu of camping on the plateau. I am wearing all of my layers. It’s getting dark by the time we near the rapid drop off, and for a while we ride on like this in the open vista; the hues of the landscape unreal and unyielding. Every now and then an oncoming car becomes visible in the far distance growing ever larger as it heads straight on towards us/ I resist the absurd automatic thought that they might intentionally swerve at the last moment and run us over, there would be not a single witness.

We drop precipitously into the green valley. It’s a fast and cold descent in the dusk and we find ourselves riding easily along for some time as it narrows, and familiar sights of forest cover, gently sloping hillside, creek beds and signs of land management return.

It’s difficult to find a suitable camping place tonight. Sheep are around and the surrounding land is fenced off with animal gates. Eventually there is a sharp turn off onto a forested track that leads into the local woods which features a mountain biking trail network. By the entrance there is a lean-to with a bench, a display board and a rudimentary map. We pitch our tent next to the lean-to, very conspicuous!

Day 12: May 22

 The day starts without any particular fanfare but I seem to be nagged by some mental inertia that just gets worse as we ride on. In the morning we pass through the small village of Penmacho where the unassuming shop there has a selection of fat bike tires and other cycling gear, a nod to our place of rest last night.

We descend further and reach the River Conwy, which we follow as we leave Snowdonia proper and head towards Conwy along the North Coast of Wales and the Irish Sea. To my surprise and confusion I am not enjoying myself. There is nothing wrong with our route and the riding is mostly flat and non-strenuous with light traffic. I am increasingly irritable as the day goes on, apathetic, sluggish, almost ridiculously so, like this is my first bike tour and I had no choice in the matter, wanting neither to ride nor to stop and rest for long. I am not craving or wanting for anything exactly. Physically there are no areas of discomfort nor a desire to eat copious amounts of food. And maybe therein lies the problem. I am just overcome with a sense of malaise on that day, a fatigue that never really lifts, past the point where I can reliably tell what is the problem and into early shutdown. By midday I have enough observational awareness of my self-pitying state that I can comment on it with some strange bemusement, but towards the afternoon, despite generous breaks for lunch in Conwy, where there is a towering medieval castle and flocks of tourists, and a nap on the beach, my mood is worse and inseparable from my embodied state. I am snappy and I think we get into a little fight about nothing, or something, about how the trip is “over” in my mind, because it “sucks now”. I think it’s because we are now out of Snowdonia and we have re-emerged in a corridor of endless commercial seaside development, which is not enjoyable. It does not occur to me entirely that I am probably just physically exhausted by the climbing and need a break physically.

We stay overnight at the Travelodge in Colwyn Bay. Ever learning lessons about one’s bodily rhythms on a bike tour no matter how many trips have come to pass.

Day 13: May 23

We are in the Midlands now, seat of the Industrial Revolution. Several hundred years ago this place would have had all kinds of hazardous and cramped living and working conditions on display. I picture a waifish and soot covered child, winding spools and crawling into tight fitting spaces to adjust a piece of machinery in some factory in one of these towns. Our general plan is to head directly east towards York and the North York moors, which necessitates passing through this highly developed area. Liverpool, Manchester, Sheffield, Leeds, and Birmingham are all clustered closely together, and the surrounding towns and villages feel like one continuous residential corridor.

I do not know where we are all day, it all looks vaguely the same with no obvious physical demarcation for any of it to easily register. We ride along a bike path of sorts next to a highway joining the commuters. There is a sense of let’s just hurry up already, to cover ground, especially with the poor results yesterday on account of me and our premature stop. There is no sense of place nor of progress here, no scenery to immerse oneself in and witness its gradual evolution with time and distance elapsing. In other words my mood remains so bad that we stay overnight again in a hotel in Warrington for no reason other than convenience in this densely populated area and the need for a morale boost. The only memorable part of the day was the traditional fish & chips shop we ordered from for dinner.

Day 14-15: May 24-25

All of it comes to a head on this day of utmost stupidity. We effectively spent the day meandering and trying to make our way through the outer ring of Manchester in the most unenjoyable way possible, with constant route finding along our piecemeal track, negotiating with residents out on their local recreational paths. Psychologically there is little sense of any progress and it may physically also be true as we remain in Manchester by mid-afternoon still trapped in its suburban vortex. I find myself incensed at the stupidity of the day. It would be better spent sight seeing in Manchester proper or on a road somewhere where one can get into the flow of riding but it is constant commotion and divided attention today. At some point we have a little eruption, Reinier is not enjoying himself either but is determined to see his plan for the day through. We have a small argument at the entrance of a grocery store, we look very out of place as shoppers entering and exiting the automatic doors with their bags and trolleys, as we intensely speak to one another and consult our phones to come up with a way to salvage the remainder of the day. My tolerance has eroded and I essentially take over the planning.

After some resistance we are on a train, heading from some distant peripheral suburban platform, effectively reversing direction to Manchester central. It’s actually neat to see the city centre; there is a distinct look with the British red brick, and the locals have an interesting sense of fashion. In Manchester Central we take an intercity train bound for Bradford, and stay overnight again in another hotel. I am resolved to have a day which feels meaningful tomorrow. Sometimes these trips are about tradeoffs. Had we continued we would have skipped the regional attraction here that I was hoping to see. Bradford used to be an important centre for the textile industry and therein lies a museum about the Industrial Revolution showcasing the old steam powered machinery for the textile making, all matter of old things, from early steam powered engines and locomotives and automobiles, to printing presses with manual type faces adapted from lithographs. It is truly an overwhelming experience and we spend most of the next day there before riding over to York.

Day 16-17: May 26-27

It is a day of more sightseeing and we spend the remainder of the afternoon by the time we get to York at the British Railway Museum. I am not a railway or train enthusiast by any means and am only a casual appreciator of this mode of transportation. I can understand and recognize a certain nostalgic appeal. Seeing the land transform from high above, overgrown tracks weaving in and out along the wild untrodden horizon, where roads are not to be found. All the stature and mechanical workings of a train car or engine up close are certainly a sight to behold. The British Railway Museum lives up to its reputation. It achieves something beyond itself, and is full of surprises, despite the simple and modest setup with a bunch of old train cars in a garage. What did I learn exactly? I am not entirely sure, I do not know much more about trains, and only small fragments of the visit remain. The experience is one that can only be appreciated by being there, in the presence of the train cars stored in the roundhouse, each one a beacon for the ages, entering them, feeling their size and weight and physicality, looking upon the slight shifts in design across the ages, and weaving it all into the broader social context from which they came. The appeal is undoubtedly tied to a sense of progress that one attains as one moves chronologically about the room, not only in technological or aesthetic terms, but in simple human terms. A sliver of history has been witnessed! How very nice and expansive!

Tourists abound in the old medieval city centre, old York, and it is an unpleasant experience attempting to walk with our bicycles around the narrow stone alleyways. It’s also raining. It does not seem a good idea to lock them with the crowds and professional thievery. So we are unable to enjoy ourselves much. We end up spending most of the rest of the day first in a small cafe drinking tea and then at a restaurant on the outskirts of the old town. Initially the plan is to ride out of York, and camp somewhere as the daylight fades. But my mood does not cooperate. By now we are hardly on a bike tour anyway! It has been multiple days riding in residential areas, consecutive hotel stays, even a train ride in order to make way for museum-going. Why wouldn’t we simply stay in York at this point, and tomorrow morning continue the sightseeing that was not done today? I convince Reinier that my reasoning is sound. He agrees, since leaving Wales the bike tour ended in a way; we are merely city hopping with our bicycles in tow. Ridding ourselves of any purist notions about what a bicycle tour should be, including ideal ratios of camping and hotel staying (3:1), we spend another night in paid accommodation. The options are plentiful.

Riding away in the early afternoon it’s a grey sky with intermittent light rain. The North York Moors are not far away now at all. We leave the tourist trail soon enough. Only visual splendor awaits, made all the more beautiful from the fallen rain, the air itself infused with a fragrant earthliness that can only be felt when it is drenched and more porous. We ride for hours on end, no person in sight, the undulating hills have us work up a sweat. We are so back! On a descent I wipe out on a bend, slowly and definitively sliding sideways then crashing into the cut-away hillside. Heather fields, all kinds of colourful undergrowth, forests, sheep abound (so sweet the sound)… Old abbey ruins by the roadside with no fanfare in sight. Reinier explains why Heather exists in these lands in relation to the composition of the soil. I have forgotten the explanation. To say more I feel would spoil the penetrating directness of the beauty of the landscape… Here are some photos….

Day 18: May 28

The last full day of riding towards our scheduled ferry from Newcastle Upon Tyne, which departs at 6 pm. It is a day of flat riding at a leisurely pace. We emerge from our tent. It’s always bittersweet on the last day of riding. The beauty and serene emptiness of the Moors will carry us through. Hooray for one last true bike touring day!

Our pace is too leisurely and by the early afternoon we have taken too long of a lunch break, waiting for our sandwiches at a small restaurant where they also serve cream scones and tea. As it turns out we are more pressed for time to make it to the ferry than we had anticipated, as the way into Newcastle requires a small ferry crossing on the Tyne which only operates every 30 minutes. So we need to make that and by the time we leave the lunch restaurant time is tight but still manageable. We are riding in the vicinity of the built up area along the coast, leading to Newcastle now, and it still remains easy and pleasant riding with recreational bike paths. Very soon after leaving town Reinier unfortunately gets a flat tire and there are issues with changing it and then suddenly we are in a rush to make the ferry. It’s a frantic scene! A failed attempt or two, tire levers and bags strewn about near a park bench on the coastal boulevard.

We do not relent for the next hour of riding and maintain a steady pace to the ferry crossing on the Tyne. We are both very stressed. For a while it is not clear if we are going to make it. We are very lucky, extremely so. The automated barrier gate that goes down before the loading platform lifts up and separates the ferry from the dock, is actively closing on us when we roll onto the loading dock. When the operator sees us there he reverses the gate to allow us through onto the ferry. I think we startled people with how out of breath and ecstatic we appeared. The operator indifferently tells us where to put the bikes and indicates the fare. The ferry is already moving across the River before we are able to sit down.

On the other side now, giddy and too pleased with ourselves, a short ride to where the overnight ship to Amsterdam is loading. We head over in due course, pass several check points in succession where we are asked for our tickets and our passports. After all of this the large lot where cars typically wait and line up before allowed passage into the cargo ferry is surprisingly empty. The attendant tells us that we are late and that they have been waiting for us, apparently it was necessary to check in 1 hour before departure time, and it is by now perhaps 20 minutes after the hour. No matter, we are allowed on board, everyone is already there. Our bicycles do not take up much space anyway.

Goodbye!

By The Bayou

Tue, 01 Sep 2026 00:00:00 -0600

April 28 London-Gladstone-Tillsonburg-Delhi-simcoe motel 115 km

Day 1. What a strange April cold spell. Reinier has gone to see the remnants of a tobacco farm where his father spent some time as a young man and I am waiting for him on a bench in Delhi. Overnight it will be three degrees below freezing so we hope to get a motel room in lieu of testing the limits of our gear. Pickup trucks go by here on empty main street and in the background the ticks and hoots of Southwestern Ontario sound as daylight fades.

On the road again and it quickly becomes a familiar feeling of escape. This time we are headed to the high summer of the Deep South, drawn as so many have been before us to the myth of New Orleans as a site of pilgrimage. The allure of the Southern Antebellum is wrapped up in my mind with straw hats and swampy bayous, gothic associations of nocturnal creatures and mystics so mysteriously formed.

This will be the first trip leaving home from London proper. It’s a cold and bright Thursday with biting air as we leave from the driveway of my parents’ house. The road stays nicely flat through sparse woodland and fields throughout the day. We see skunk cabbage occasionally in the undergrowth but otherwise there is little in the way of green in our dry bare surroundings. Farmhouses and tractors and big yards and old ramshackle vestiges of another time pass us by. Perhaps Southwestern Ontario feels too familiar now and I cannot appreciate it. To me it’s looking like the same nondescript lines, land for fodder between dilapidated small towns and hamlets. All the forests that would have stood have been cleared to make way for this grid, only interrupted by those rare glimpses into the past, looking down from the bridge at a small creek where its banks are flanked with trees taller and older than the rest.

The motels in Delhi are all leasing on a monthly basis these days. We decide to ride to Simcoe some 16 km away in the encroaching dark and check-in at the Travelodge there instead.

April 29 Delhi-Port Dover-Port Colbourne motel 95 km

Day 2. Port Dover is a short ride away in the morning along a nice forested path. We can see Lake Erie and the distant outline of New York state from main street. Again it is deceptively cold. We stop for coffee and cranberry scones in the chilly shadow of a cafe.

Past the port along New Lakeshore Rd the lake stays visible below the bluff. Further on the road meets a long encampment of factories enclosed by a chain linked fence. Houses are gone now and there are more trees again as large plumes rise from the columns.

In Haldimand County we pass the town of Selkirk where we stop for another coffee and share a slice of pecan pie. The town was founded in the late 1700s and besides the LCBO and Canada Post its face has perhaps changed little. Riding through I see children’s playgrounds, a small wooden chapel, and scattered gravestones on a plot.

Everything is hurting today. Flat landscape, clip-less pedals, and I am not wearing any chamois. There is no shoulder on the road but the cars are few. We move between towns that barely register on the map. Rainham, Sweets Corner, then South Cayuga, all with the same far removed feeling as we ride through, but still different from yesterday and the hour before, and so we go on.

In the evening the riding from Dunnville to Port Colbourne is nice along a canal road that cut across some farm fields. We are on the Niagara peninsula between the lakes looking toward the border.

April 30 Port Colbourne-Buffalo-Hamburg-Zoar Valley camp 105 km

Day 3. We leave Port Colbourne in the morning for the border at Fort Erie along the friendship rail trail. Buffalo’s skyline wanders over the Niagara River and we cross the Peace Bridge into the thick of it before noon. The customs officer is annoyed by our bohemian plans but the tension dissipates as we show ourselves to be well meaning with jobs to return to.

Already in Buffalo we see more Black and Hispanic people. We’re in a prewar neighborhood with colourful homes fitted with large porches where the residents linger and chat with one another. I can see all of this from the picnic table across the street where we’re drinking coffee and having pie.

In downtown we make our way from one traffic stop to the next. Bridges or roads are closed without warning necessitating some re-routing and backtracking. All around the signs of the industrial rust belt are present in this city. The ugliness stands in such contrast to the grounds of the city’s botanical gardens and basilica, which we pass on our way on a straight line on South Park Ave.

It is a busy road with many intersections as we move beyond corporate city limits. The shoulder is decent but the road is weathered and the smell of car exhaust and ugly drive-by services are quickly tiresome. Not too long later we stop in Hamburg, drawn by the signs for the downtown then the line at the ice cream shack which has a red and white striped awning. Rows of parked cars and pickup trucks hug the winding curb next to the plaza and seem to outnumber us even while stopped. One ice cream later, as we navigate busy main street, we meet a friendly well wisher on commuting on his fixie bike. He’s home for the summer and works at a local bicycle shop. He shares in his plans to bike pack the great divide this summer. Rad!

Leaving again. Away from the busy road and back into wild country. Suburbs transition into scattered country houses and ever larger farmsteads then just forest. Thin ones in the vicinity with views of more splendour in the distance. Gentle hills and valleys begin to impress as we approach the Zoar Valley Unique Area and the banks of Cattaraugus Creek.

May 1 Zoar valley-Cattaraugus-Salamenca-Bradford-Kane inn 120 km

Day 4. The forecast calls for rain all day. Not that it really benefits us to know as we take down camp and start the climb out of the valley. Then begins the slog on backroads through the forest. The quiet of the bare trees and sparse cabins is a counterpoint to the incessant climbing and descending that makes such places difficult for cars to reach. We’re kind of low on water this morning which catches us both by surprise. Our hopes for morning coffee in Otto, a ghostly little hamlet marked on the map, proves fruitless and we are resigned to another half hour of minor misery until Cattaraugus.

We arrive in somewhat of a fugue and seek shelter in the first plausible facility, an open diner that also functions as a general store. Feasting commences. Omelets, pancakes, french toast. I down a gatorade. We sing the collective glory of Jenny Lee’s Feedmill which is open on a Sunday.

Back on the road again. More rain. Stopping feels gross as the slimy quality from the dampness of my hardshell and rain pants registers in full force. Well away from the industrial flats of Erie County, the winding road follows the shallow creek valleys and the rich forests of the Allegheny Plateau. Campgrounds, RV resorts, and state forests have replaced the subdivided plots of farmland. Small and concentrated towns between the hills and forests along runs and creeks. Valleys mark them with isolation and for us they demarcate the day.

We break at the Tim Hortons in Salamenca on the Allegheny River of the Ohio/Mississippi River system. The rain does not relent and remains a steady drizzle over the valley. In no time we glide past rows of houses to the McDonalds in Bradford. It’s all we can do to freshen up in the washrooms there and enjoy the sterile indifference of America’s most iconic fast food chain. Maybe we also had an ice cream cone or a decaf coffee with one of their strawberry and cream danishes… It’s hard to remember exactly. We linger and find ourselves absorbed in a layered conversation, one that evokes dialogues of the past on other continents and enters the realm of memory fragments neither of us have fully explicated.

When the time comes to set out again the sky has cleared. We embark on what feels like an endless but well graded climb in the national forest. When we arrive in Lantz Corner it is nothing more than a few gas stations.

It’s dark now, past 830 pm, but we’re not yet done. There is a room waiting for us at the Kane Manor Inn where we will have a proper rest and a chance to dry our things. We ride to Kane on a local highway like grifting ghosts in the dark forest. The sound of the night critters are a cacophony of such haunt and the impossible figures cast by the beams of moving headlights play at the sense of a warped reality.

May 2 Kane-Brockway-Dubois motel 80 km

Day 5. In the morning we are greeted by friendly hosts who are curious about our travel plans. We leave Kane on a rail trail and forest service roads in succession. Oil rigs in the forest are visible now at close range every hundred meters and I can smell the oil in the brisk air.

It’s a fun filled morning in the forest pretending we are equipped for off road cycling and enjoying the unobstructed sightline. Then at some point I fall sideways into a muddy pothole as I brake to a standstill before unclipping and it seems less fun. Near the Clarion River, I wash my socks and bicycle shoes free of the mud at a canoe launch. From here we head east toward another rail trail that runs along Little Toby Creek to the town of Brockway.

The rail trail is well graded and draws attention to every sore and ache that has accumulated which is then immediately ignored. The valley of the creek is narrow with steep hills on either side. Wooden signs with the names of former settlements along the long defunct track look on the brink of rot. Walls of exposed bedrock are overgrown with mulch and moss, forged apart some time ago by dynamite so that we might pass through someday.

In Brockway we shop for goods and have a long break. Then it is back on the 219 to Dubois. Here it’s hard to remember why but I start to feel as though the life of the day has gone. It’s nearing sundown. It makes little sense to ride through Dubois or find camping so close to its vicinity. We stay another night in a motel. This one proves to be the worst of the trip as it is a smoking room and reeks with the tar perfume of all its ghostly inhabitants.

May 3 Dubois-McGees Mills-Cherry Tree-Johnstown econolodge 115 km

Day 6. In the morning we leave Dubois and the adjacent town of Sandy for good and trade them for nicely paved roads through sleepy forests and expressions of rural life in Trump’s Pennsylvania. We ride past cabins and hunting sheds adorned with lone stars and signs calling “Doug for governor” and “Trump-pence 2020” and other variations of the same. Even the ones that are meant to be offensive are so banal as to erode the initial intent to offend. There are no confederate flags nor anything really alarming. Only yards littered with old equipment, cars for sale, and other miscellaneous junk, as is the right of any property owner to display in America.

At the junction with the 219 near McGee Mills we stop at the convenience store for coffee and gas station snacks. Visible is the curious American phenomenon of state run lotteries as a means of generating revenue.

We cross the continental divide again. We are riding along the West branch of the Susquehanna now, a river system that forms the embankment of some of the region’s oldest colonial settlements past the Atlantic fall line. We can see the adjacent valleys and ridges as the road weaves above the river.

Soon the highway becomes the main street of Cherry Tree. Wood siding homes line the streets, some looking old and rot, neglected in the middle American way of decay that seems to plague this region. Churches, fire halls, cemeteries on an unmarked field. Perhaps a legion or veterans monument. Seldom people, schools, or active signs of civic life.

There is a cafe in Cherry Tree attached to the general store with slot machines of different heights and chairs to match so you can work up a gambling habit while you chow down on your meat loaf. As expected the food is nicely filling and we leave well rested.

The sky is grey in the afternoon and the forecast threatens rain by 7 pm. We continue on the 219 until Northern Cambria. Leaving again we break away from the main highway onto secondary roads through the hills. There is less farming here and much of the surrounding land remains forested or residential. Amish homes are scattered inconspicuously amongst the less divine and less devout; nondescript save for the all-white wooden exterior, a buggy parked out front, and an immaculate kept yard. A woman in a bonnet and blue prairie dress stands on her porch and I feel her gaze following us as we speed by on the road side, disturbing for a moment the quietude which must be so familiar to her.

Evening is approaching. When we enter the city limits of Johnstown the feeling of isolation and displacement is stark. We are in the narrow valley of the Conemaugh and Stony Creek rivers, part of the Allegheny tributary system. All around the tree lined hills darken the grey sky above. Some kind of industrial wasteland is evoked by the town in the eerie light. The railroad runs along the valley and there stands carts with open tops for coal next to a grisly processing facility. Over the concrete and steel truss bridge that blends into the industrial backdrop, the ghostly hills feel like they are encroaching.

As we enter the town proper the rain starts to pour. We take shelter with our backs pressed against the porch of some random bungalow under the eave of the roof. Three old men in firefighter uniforms are sitting on the stoop across the street smoking cigarettes and they look over in our direction and say something unintelligible. The rain continues and we take shelter under the entranceway of an ornate Ukrainian church with golden domes. We have dinner against the columns while looking out at the road awash in the darkening light and discuss our options.

May 4 Johnstown-Somerset-Garrett-Meyersdale camp 96 km

Day 7. We leave Johnstown on the 985 never fully escaping the valley nor the rain clouds above. Light showers fall and the air feels humid now. All the trees hang low from their perch above the road and appear as wet and green as they must always do here in a place like this.

In Somerset our road picks up traffic as cars navigate to the town’s big box stores. We stop for lunch at the Summit diner which lives up to its name as best in the tri-county area with its fun retro theme and hearty portions.

The road stays well graded as we follow the contours of the lively countryside. Auto repair shops stand among bungalows and small acre farms. All around the valley below is green and the creeks are swelling from yesterday’s rain.

Leaving Somerset I have a flat tire. Onto the sidewalk to change the tube. But the new one does not inflate properly so now do it again and patch them both. The culprit is a tiny rock inside the rim. We have been on the sidewalk by the busy road for some time now and already a passerby bicycle enthusiast has approached us and inquired as to whether we need help. It starts to rain again just as we are cleaning up to get going.

Riding out of Somerset, finally, and the air reeks of some kind of natural gas along busy highway 31 before we turn onto the old highway to Garrett. The stench soon disappears a few kilometers on the shortcut road, which starts as an annoying climb. I am having a terrible time now with the flat tire on the side of the busy road, the headache inducing smell, the ugly rust belt views, now the climb and the intermittent drizzle. As it goes, we soon descend, away from Somerset, and past the underpass for the interstate. The clouds even break for pockets of sunshine and views of the hills as wind turbines start to appear.

In Garrett we get onto the well maintained Pittsburgh to Washington rail trail and ride over converted iron truss bridges spanning the length of creeks and roads several hundred meters below in the valley. We visit Meyersdale and pass tunnels traversing under steep hills with wind turbines on the perch above.

At the Mason-Dixon line we cross into Maryland and, by some accounts, into the nominal American South. Dusk settles. We make camp in a little clearing by the trail. Dixieland here we come!

May 5 Frostburg-Peidmont-Keyser camp

Day 8. It’s a chilly morning in Frostburg outside of the McDonalds. We’ve done our morning chores at the grocery store and now we’re having hot McCafes on the lone picnic table next to the parking lot.

We leave along a scenic byway following George Creek. In Lonaconing there is a 50 foot tall smelting furnace built into a hill in town. It’s an impressive structure and wholly anachronistic. Soon we are at the junction where the creek flows into the mighty Potomac River, which eventually drains into Chesapeake Bay in the Atlantic. The river also forms the wandering state border and so we leave the panhandle and enter West Virginia.

The Potomac valley is surrounded by tree covered hills. We ride along a short stretch of a road from Piedmont to Keyser. Below us railroad tracks parallel the river and the rail yard expands at the town’s outskirts.

In the afternoon we leave Keyser on the 93 with busy traffic again. It dies down soon and we ride in a straight line in the valley of New Creek, two ridges of billowy rolling hills standing on either side. There is only the forest on our shoulder now and the swampy valley is overgrown with weeds and brush. Slate and granite visible in the cut bedrock of the ridge system. Traffic is okay with the narrow shoulder but occasionally a transport truck will pass us on an incline and it’s discomforting.

After an hour we cross a saddle and we emerge on some other side. New Creek is no more and now here we are in the drainage basin of the south branch of the Potomac. By now the afternoon is all but gone and the sleepy feeling that comes with the change in daylight and the endless green valley leads to a nap by the side of an old road. Reinier’s bike has some problems with broken spokes which are improperly installed and he attends to this elsewhere. From the junction we take Buckbee Hollow Rd, a narrow paved road that runs parallel to the main highway in the crevice of a small valley. A stretch of homes in various conditions of disrepair line the road and it is a wonder why they are here. Back on the main highway, we head to Petersburg along a broad valley, rolling along its contours past small acre plots, the cattle roaming in their pastures, the large country houses on the hill overlooking the land, the silos and churches and fields. We have dinner in an American diner with red check tablecloths and hearty carnivorous specials before wild camping somewhere on a side road outside of town. Tomorrow it calls for rain all day starting in the early hours.

May 6 Petersburg-Franklin-Monterrey-Warm Springs inn 120 km

Day 9. Cold and wet and the threat of downpour all day. We eat in the tent and break camp for a long day to Warm Springs, a resort town in Bath County where there are beds. Something to look forward to after a day such as this one.

The riding on the 220 is fine in the morning drizzle. The traffic is not as busy as yesterday on the approach to Petersburg and the freight trucks carrying logs or petrol pass us safely. Farmland for grazing cattle is all around with barns and pastures on the green slopes. Their colour gleans in the light, blessed by the rainfall that makes this state as wild and wonderful as they say.

Town stops are for rest and food. There is a diner to be expected in every town serving homestyle plates with endless coffee refills. We enjoy such a thing in Franklin, West Virginia, and then cross state lines into Monterey, Virginia for more coffee and lemon meringue pie. We sit and look at the TV mounted in the corner and it starts to rain outside again, pouring now so that you can hear it over the low hum of the television. The weather channel shows flood warnings for towns along the Ohio river and thunderstorms in Eastern Tennessee. The rain gear is on and I want to get this over with.

It is all the same eventually. Wet and cold with drops on my glasses and a dampness from the inside, not quite wet but an uncomfortable suggestion that is not easily remedied. The rain lingers over the valley and in WarmSprings it settles and insists on a low fog on the forested road instead. It is dusk now and I am exhausted. The road has been quiet for a while with the threat of the storm. Between the trees and undergrowth you can see horse stables and long paths through the grounds behind pearly white fences. We must be in Bath County.

We climb and descend through the forest in the dim blue light reflected by the wet road. A car stalls behind us for a long while as the road bends. His headlight and the sound of his engine reverberate on the quiet road. Only when he finally passes us do we see that the vehicle belongs to the sheriff, perhaps wondering why two bicycles are on this lonesome road in the evening with a storm to come.

Later we pass the car parked on the side of the road in the foggy light. It is too dark to see if there is anyone inside or what he is doing.

We finally reach the manor where we are staying. The torrential downpour is just beginning with flashes of lightning. All the valley must be awash with the little humans hiding in their homes or their cars. Darkness and wetness obscuring all until morning.

May 7 Warm Springs-Hot Springs-Covington-Paint Bank camp 102 km

Day 10. Another day of rain awaits. In the morning it is a brisk 5 degrees as we leave our warm bed in the decadent Warm Springs Inn. We ride through resort towns and residential streets before a more familiar sparse landscape takes hold again. Pasture land, stables and silos, and sinusoidal green hills.

It’s a long ride to Covington with a windy descent to the Jackson River. In town we are the wet dogs at a local diner in an old estate house. It is full for Mothers day celebrations. The unpretentious menu has something for everyone, including peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for two dollars. We have another slice of lemon meringue. Hot coffee is the local turn of phrase. Hot tea or sweet tea? Y’all have a wonderful day. Honey, dear. More coffee? Yes, please.

Motivation is scarce today if not for all the rain but the inadequate rest. I am in sore need for an extended period of convalescence to just lie down and not move and think about where we’ve been. The moment and the ever present feeling is just a blur captured by the phone camera without any greater narrative or context. Flashes of torrential weather, strange climbing vines, lonely farms and stables, and so much green and rain. Unfortunately we are on a bit of a schedule if we want to make it to New Orleans and rest days are not built into the program.

Summers in Appalachia are hot and even greener than in springtime according to the locals. American Wisteria hang from trees and viney kudzus encroach on train yards, road signs, and chain linked fences. Dug out ponds and ancient willows against white porches with hanging flower baskets. Sleepy, slow moving creeks, their embankments level with the road, keep hidden that which festers in the stillness… Is this the American gothic of the Southern variety that I’ve been dreaming about?

In the settlement of Paint Bank we emerge from our sense of isolation. Not since the town of Covington has there been anything. Here there is a little hot spot of tourist activity with a brightly painted hotel, signs for creekside glamping, and a glamorous camp store for local goods with an attached restaurant. We buy some delicious fudge amongst other things and cook dinner at the picnic table.

There is something very cloistered about this place. Something about the people here that strikes me as unable to stay in step with the times, a kind of unwillingness to embrace a broader belonging in the modern world and where it’s heading, and would indeed rather retreat. Indeed, retreat to their shack in the woods or their small plot of land, the things they can take as constants. Why? Perhaps this is what they’ve always known and it works for them. Maybe there is a kind of wisdom in placing such constraints around one’s expectations of life.

We do not dwell long and continue along Potts Creek. On this road inhabitants are few and for once wild camping spots are in easy abundance.

May 8 Paint Bank-Pembrooke-Bland camp 110 km

Day 11. The morning passes quickly to Pembrooke. There is nothing here but forest so there are no cars on the road. We pass an access trail for the Appalachian trail and meet a section hiker with colourful gaiters.

In Pembrooke we have a long break at the Cascades Cafe, a popular spot attached to the outfitter store. We climb out of the valley of the New River and take an amalgamation of small county roads with pointless elevation gain and loss.

The day is so far unremarkable and the scenery doesn’t change very much. The annoying road consists of poorly sorted gravel and seems to drag on. Eventually we get on the Blue Grass highway to Bland. It’s a narrow road with light traffic surrounded by the usual overgrown shrubs and ash or birch trees. I’m tired. All I want to do is lie down and do nothing and so we do that for a while under the shade.

The days are blending together. A patchwork of this place is forming with each encounter. The nondescript towns, stables, and ghostly farmhouses. A man wearing a baseball hat stopping us in his roaring F150 to tell us about a hidden pipe spring down the road and whose accent is like nothing I’ve ever heard. A horse drawn buggy in an open carriage carrying an Amish family of five sitting side by side dressed in slacks and button ups.

We reach Bland and there is not much to the town. Nominal determinism? The grocery store has closed for the day and we make do with the gas station and the provisions we have. On the outskirts of town near where the Interstate Highway 77 overpass dominates the valley, we buy ourselves some subway sandwiches to pack out. Tomorrow we will make a push to Damascus, a trail town where Reinier can fix the problems with his wheel.

May 9 Bland-Saltville-Damascus bnb 105 km

Day 12. Morning light opens the world again at 6 am. After our subway stop we were riding in the dark in search of a campsite with all the dogs barking in the distant yards on our approach. It was several kilometers before I spotted a set of jeep tracks on the outskirts of a large clearing with houses on distant hills and an inviting patch of trees.

Now in the morning the cluster of bare trees where we are camped looks thinner in the light. The mysterious shadow on the horizon from last night is an abandoned pickup truck standing too close for comfort.

Rolling onto the empty highway I’m half asleep. The cold is unbearable and strangely wet with the dew. Gloves and down jacket go on. We follow the west blue grass trail through a series of indecipherable hamlets through the valley.

There is a small gas station which on closer inspection sits long abandoned on the roadside. The owner never bothered to remove the outside facing “be back soon” sign and left a picnic table for us to eat our sandwiches in the cold bright daylight.

Several boring and decaffinated hours later we reach Saltville. No farms nor rivers in this flat valley to speak of. It’s the first real village with amenities and the sight of locals. Saltville makes explicit what seems self-evident with the lack of agriculture and abandoned services. Some salt mining boom once upon a time now sadly outgrown the engine that initially sustained it.

I miss the frontier feeling attached to previous trips. The immersive wilderness between isolated spots of refuge. Here people own their land and resign themselves to an existence of complacent aimlessness. What would have once been a frontier for American westward expansion is transformed by time into this. Industries come and gone. Find some land and make a home on it and then what?

We sit in the shade of a convenience store. Reinier downs a coke and I have an ice cream. Now out of the cover of the forest it gets too hot for comfort. From Saltville we make a direct line south to Damascus via Glade Spring and make ourselves at home in the hiker friendly bed and breakfast.

May 10 Damascus camp

Day 13. We stay in Damascus overnight and make multiple trips to the town diner (big portions, 24 oz drinks with ice and a straw, giant brownies and cookies in jars). The town is a strange place that boasts nine or ten churches but otherwise completely caters to outdoor recreation with its bicycle shops and b&bs. From AT thruhikers to cyclists riding the trans america trail or day users of the virginia creeper trail, everybody makes a mandatory stop in Damascus. Odd folk are seen walking around the town with beards or down jackets in funny crocs or obvious loaner clothes. There is nothing remarkable about this place aside from a happy coincidence of geography that has paid dividends, one that has revitalized what would have otherwise been a small mill town on the Virginia and Tennessee border.

May 11 Shady Valley-Elizabethton-Johnson City-Greeneville camp 130 km

Day 14. The further south we go the larger the portions become and the flatter the horizon. Gone are the distinct ridge and valley corridors here in East Tennessee while the greenery remains. It’s a welcome tradeoff as we hope for more daily mileage on flatter terrain. I know little about Tennessee, about the vast swath of land that awaits our passage, aside from vague associations with Americana and country music and drawls cooed under church roofs.

With the flatness comes a dense county road network and land that has seen its days of development.

Interestingly enough East Tennessee has more in common culturally with the Northern Appalachian states having had a pro-union stronghold during the Confederate War. Uptake of the cotton plantation and domestic slave trade was somewhat tempered by the region’s undulating geography and distance from the Mississippi River. From historic Elizabethon we ride along a nice rail trail to Johnson City then quickly make our way to Greeneville, an old town which boasts the Andrew Johnston National Historic Site. The wall of the Great Smoky Mountains stands visible as an addendum on the flat horizon.

From Greeneville there are more backroads to take. Away now from the series of historic towns the rural landscape unfolds in its dilapidated glory. Maybe it is the imagination but I think there are more four wheelers on the road now. More baptist churches and ugly shacks. There are no nice pastures like in Virginia here. All the vestiges of a rural setting with the decay of a place whose productive days are long over. Posted-private property. No trespassing. Junkyard. Automotive repair garages. Dogs on guard. Feral and deranged beasts growling at the sight of any human on the old tarmac.

We have dinner by the side of some abandoned looking building which offers shade in this confusing maze of rural homes. Then we ride on in search of a place to camp. It’s getting dark and there seems to be nothing viable along the streets where people are still out on their lawn or else having demarcated their land as property. Down a creepy road with potholes there is a brief stretch of forest on a small slope and when we drag our bicycles to where the shrubbery seems less dense, it levels out to a clearing where someone has been chopping wood.

We are missing our tent poles. By now the sun has all but set and the low sky is a faint orange. Reinier decides to ride back to where we had dinner some 10 km ago as there is a chance that he accidentally left them there when tinkering with his wheel. I wait in the little clearing and listen to a podcast to pass the time. Our stuff is splayed on the ground around me. I tell him to leave a branch by the road so he can find the clearing again and we agree I’ll go looking for him if he’s not back in two hours. The sky darkens properly as I lay there and to my surprise there are fireflies in the air floating as tiny orbs of light.

He comes back with the poles in hand one hour later. I imagine him passing the same gas station and the same hill and the same junkyard house with the deranged dog that likes to chase (truly the stuff of nightmares, stuck in some eternal time loop where you ride and ride but never reach your destination and the same eerie rural Tennessee landscape simulation replays itself).

May 12 Greeneville-Knoxville-Lenoir City econolodge 137 km

Day 15. This was one of the worst days. Until the actual worst day in Georgia. In the morning I’m eager to ride away from this strange and creepy place and soon enough we reach the service stop near the interstate where there are fast food joints. We have breakfast at the Hardee’s with their tasty biscuits and talk about the route. Today we’ll be passing through Knoxville.

It’s a clear day and by the early afternoon once we are going again the unobstructed sun casts everything in its harsh intense light. We take a piecemeal route into the city and break at a restaurant overlooking the river. When we are ready to leave it is close to 5 pm. It is mad rush hour in Knoxville as everyone is trying to get home to their suburb from the city centre. Routing options are scarce and the small two lane road we have chosen is backed up with cars. With no shoulder we try to edge around them and we receive the frustration of these poor commuters in the form of angry honks and aggressive passing maneuvers.

I am not having a good time. The road stays like this for an hour and gets worse near Concord where we have to ride in the traffic over two bridges. I have never hated the suburbs and North American city design more.

The day ends as it began at a corridor servicing the Interstate highway. The road there is lined with motels and fast food restaurants and traffic. We check into an Econolodge and I forget about the mess of a day.

May 13 Lenoir City-Loudon-Athens-Cleveland-Red Clay camp 130 km

Day 16. Another long day of riding awaits us. Like the morning before we start the day, diner style, at a fast food chain called Krystal where they serve eggs, biscuits, grits or hash browns, and coffee with free refills. All in styrofoam.

From Lenoir city we brace ourselves for crossing the Tennessee River on highway 11 which has necessitated this particular route. As it happens, the highway has a decent shoulder and the traffic is low that morning so it was all okay. Now for a day of nice riding through the Knoxville-Chattanooga corridor, again on the extensive and paved backroads of this populated state.

We ride through the quiet countryside. In town we make our way to the grocery store for resupply and lunch and extend it further by having a banana split at Maddi Mae’s cafe.

While we are enjoying the Neapolitan ice cream it starts to rain outside. Nothing can quite go right for us in Tennessee. Even as the sky is blue it does not completely die down as we ride out. Oh, to think we could outride the rain. It starts to come down like a torrent and for several kilometres we are riding on road puddles and I can barely see with the sheets of rain distorting the shapes of things and the water on my glasses and in my eyes. The kind of rain that stops people in their tracks and forces them off the road to seek shelter or else wait it out but there we were.

Eventually the sky clears. The sun helps to dry our stuff as Reinier changes a flat. The next few hours are more of the same as we ride toward state lines. Red Clay State Historic Park, a day use area in the middle of nowhere that stands on a ceremonial gathering place for the Cherokee. They were expelled to Oklahoma by the US government on what has become known as the trail of tears. It was a surprise to learn that the Indian Removal Act of 1830 that ultimately led to the loss of their ancestral lands was deemed unconstitutional by the supreme court but the ruling was ignored by Andrew Johnson and his government for the sake of economic migration into the area by the settlers.

The gate is open when we get there and there is nobody around. The facility building is unlocked and we are even able to use the washrooms and get water. The manicured grounds make for luxurious camping and we sleep undisturbed.

May 14 Cohutta-Little hill-Trion-Summerville-Little River Canyon

Day 17. Church bells ring in Cohutta town centre at 0800. We’re waiting for the general store to open so we can grab a coffee or two. A friendly local who spots our bicycles mentions their revitalization efforts.

A nice morning in the state of Georgia turns into a terrible time on our way to Trion on paved backroads through the hills. I am descending on the road when a deranged dog chases after me as I’m speeding along forcing me to slow down whereupon it continues to act feral and bark and bites my ankle. We assess the damage further down the road and it looks fine with a superficial wound and some spotting of blood. Otherwise I can only barely feel it and moving is fine. The neighbour has come out now to yell at the dog and assures me all the dogs have their shots because when the county veterinarian comes she gives one shot for the cows then goes right around and gives one for the dogs. Great.

The rest of the day I don’t remember much. The day was punctuated by the sound of barking or growling trailing the road throughout ugly northwest Georgia. All the junk littered trailer parks we passed. Dogs running along the yard clanging at the wire-meshed fences when the owner had the sense to install one, like some conditioned killer-beast foaming at the sight of us pedalling along the road. Dogs on long fixed leashes that bark and chase us but flail about when they are at the end of their tether at the edge of the property. For once along this trip I feel uneasy and somewhat disgusted at what I’m seeing. Dogs are more common here, and like this, because of the cattle raising legacy of the region. Yeah, he says, that dog is always causing trouble, chasing cars, biting people. I did not anticipate having to worry about getting rabies in America.

May 15 Little Canyon-Gadsden-Springville-Clay-Trussville hampton inn 146 km

Day 18. We’re in Alabama now having crossed state lines again. Today we head west toward Birmingham where there are bicycle shops for the problems with Reinier’s bicycle that keep following us. In the early morning we ride to Gadsden relishing in the first few hours when the sun is low but very quickly the riding becomes unpleasant with the humidity towards solar noon. By the time we reach the town and navigate ourselves to Broad street in search of cold drinks and sugary food, the light is blinding and the first waft of the air conditioning in the pub feels like stepping into a dark crevasse.

The Alabama countryside has its share of rolling hills situated at the tail end of the ridge and valley system. There is no shortage of forests, a mix of longleaf pines as we approach a region with wildfires and dry summer creek beds. As always the kudzu vines lurk in unsuspecting corners. Deranged dogs guarding unkempt yards still bark as we pass. The roadkill count and the smell of the rot baking in the sun is ungodly next to the white spires of all the Baptist Churches or Church of Christ or Church of God, strange Southern institutions their own fixture in the landscape. But other hints of a new distinctly place start to emerge.

Memory serves me poorly except to remark at the idea of us leaving the restaurant in the afternoon heat and riding along the country roads for hours through the Alabama valleys. What celestial force propelled us to go forth in such conditions, into the primordial soup formed by the heat…Who knows what came over us. Some kind of New Orleans fever dream?

May 16 Clay-Trussville-Birmingham-Bessemer best western 55 km

Day 19. We ride from our nice hotel room at the Hampton’s Inn in Trussville to the suburb of Homewood in the Greater Birmingham area where there are bicycle shops. The city is sprawling and the roads, even as we wind through residential neighbourhoods on our way up and over the ridge that runs across the city, are busy. The hill is the main organizing feature of the city. It has no river running through it. Indeed, Birmingham is the city of small neighbourhoods, bridged by the steel and ironworks that keep it one recognizable whole. It’s a day of contrasts as we spend most of the day in Homewood, where Reinier’s bike is attended to next to cafes and boutiques, then end in Bessemer, one of the poorest areas, where the convenience store sells fried chicken and we have fried catfish and fried okra in the shade of a budget grocery store.

May 17 Bessemer-Green Pond-Eoline-Pondville-Greensboro farm camp 140 km

Another never ending ride through the Alabama countryside and the innumerable churches. What tree cover exists makes the midday heat only barely tolerable, and if it were up to me the hours between 10 am to 4 pm when the sun rages on would be quiet hours devoted to summer convalescence. Beneath the bough of some large oak tree with its sheet of hanging vines forming a curtain to block out the blinding light, maybe a nap by some swampy slow moving creek. But we have to do with the shade of the Dollar General next to the parking lot, where people evidently smoke and discard their trash, where we drink the cold drinks we have just bought and try to motivate ourselves to make it to the next one.

Alabama, of the deep south proper, is so much greener than I would have imagined. Strange associations with plantations and cotton fields and endless stretches of barren dry land are misplaced. Most of Alabama between the rolling uplands and Mobile delta if not for land cleared for settlement is tree-covered and often with a dense undergrowth. Indeed timber is an important industry for the counties.

The riding at least is easier now along the flats and in the late afternoon we both get soul food plates at Nick’s Crispy Chicken in Greensboro. Here the Po-Boy makes its first appearance on the menu. I have not said enough about all the food we ate I think. At the risk of seeming impolite and uncouth to focus on something so earthly, but to leave it out would be wholly dishonest. After all it’s the sweet teas and collard greens and fried green tomatoes that I remember most distinctly, the morning coffees and those diner breakfasts with biscuits and grits, providing daily happiness as intense as the moment is brief. All the styrofoam destined for landfills and my situated apathy. The hours spent on the road are exchanged for that and landscapes meld together in the eternal memory of heat and brightness and greenness.

At Nick’s we savour our cold drink and peach cobbler before another hour of lovely riding on state highway 69 past the catfish hatcheries, an apparent staple of this region, and the cattle lounging by their dugout ponds in the evening sunset.

May 18 Linden-Pennington-Butler-lost in woods-Waynesboro Traveler’s inn 118 km

Day 21. Today is another unfortunate day of several on this trip. Perhaps worse than the dog bite which at the time was not fun. We have to make it to New Orleans by a deadline as Reinier is flying out on the 22nd of May.

All is fine riding through the Alabama landscape until state highway 11 becomes unnervingly busy with speeding logging trucks and we get lost in the woods after a change of route to avoid them. By then we had already seen a lot without incident. The Pennington paper mill and the tall plumes of smoke emanating from the steel elevators, the rail containers from which their paper products were loaded and shipped along the adjacent Tombigbee River. Then leaving Butler, after lunch and cold drinks, a collision site where a trucker lost control spilling the logs from its flatbed onto the road.

Surely an omen for us to get off of that highway. If not for that then when the logging trucks continued to speed at 40 miles per hour past us on the narrow two lane highway with barely a shoulder to ride on or perhaps when a sheriff’s vehicle appeared and pulled us over. Someone had called about two cyclists they were terrified of hitting because we not visible on the shoulder with the shrubs and the bends in the road and gave her a serious fright. Initially guarded and suspicious then concerned when he saw we were well meaning and trying to contend with the unexpectedly terrible routing options in this under-resourced county.

In Mississippi we take a wrong turn and realize several kilometres into the local road network near the hamlet of Hurricane, where instead of backtracking we decide to reroute the way to Waynesboro through unpaved jeep tracks in the woods thinking they would quickly materialize on the other side to something rideable. Even at the thought of this memory I want to yell nooooo in protest at the two of us from above, the blind folly of it as we wandered on muddy tracks in the forest with no landmarks to speak of except a creepy oil rig that emitted a low frequency hum, which could be heard from a distance. All that only for us to emerge in the pitch dark, sweaty and gross, back at the very same spot after two hours of blind wandering, defeated and on the brink of tears after each exit path was a dead end.

May 19 Waynesboro-Richton- New Augusta-Janice-Wiggins motel 130 km

Day 22. If not for the kindness of a Christian man who lived on the street and who saw us there in the dark with our bicycles, just as we happened to have re-emerged from the tracks, we would have had an even worse night. A benefit of being in America is the ease of hitching a ride with your bicycles when everyone owns a pickup truck. He quickly offered us a ride to our motel in Waynesboro. Those trails belong to a hunting club, he says, they wouldn’t have liked for you guys to be roaming around there. The bridge across the creek has been out for years!

So goes another day. An easy flat ride on state highway 63 and road camp 8 through the forest to Richton where we stop for lunch: the usual southern delights. We continue several hours through De Soto National Forest making good time to the quaint town of Wiggins, of Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe fame, where we have a nice dinner at said cafe before riding to the store then our motel to rest before a big push to New Orleans tomorrow.

May 20 Wiggins-Necaise-Kiln-Stennis Space Centre New orleans 120 km

Day 23. With a long day in sight we leave our hotel room at 5 am for a quick breakfast at McDonalds before heading west on highway 26 at first light. New Orleans feels like a mirage in the distance, for so many days on endless forested roads, first in the cool hills then the sweltering flats, all dotted with the same thread of decay and disquiet that is difficult to understand, it is hard to believe that this is the end and at long last we might see something of the Gulf of Mexico.

Strange, enigmatic Dixieland! At once isolated from the rest of the country culturally, yet enmeshed within a broader history about human survival and conflict the traces of which can only be seen indirectly now and call out to be appreciated. What can I really say as an outside observer? I know little about the factual history of slavery in America but its legacy is far-ranging. Even now, the Mississippi River calls forth some vague imagery of song and dance, poor lost souls in a strange new homeland, forced to make the best of a bleak life in a harsh landscape.

We make good time in the morning and get to a gas station in Necaise as the midday heat rolls in. Then it is on the unsuspecting highway 603 south to the coast where the plan is to get on highway 90 and ride into the city. Riding into any metropolitan area by bicycle is always a challenge which requires some amount of planning and approaching New Orleans from the north, on this side of the Pearl River, was not in our favour on that day.

Near Kiln traffic picks up to an uncomfortable level as cars are rank and file in both directions. No one is passing us very safely. There is no shoulder to speak of so it is all very uncomfortable as they are honking. After some discussion, we decide to take the remote and circuitous Texas Flat Road to avoid the madness. It adds considerable distance but traffic is light and there is even a half-convincing sign that calls it a scenic byway to the NASA Science Centre.

NASA operates the John C Stennis Space Center here and it becomes our trip-ending obstacle as one needs approval to ride through the facility to rejoin the highway on the other side. That’s it. We have come a long way off route and the US government says we cannot continue. The idea of turning around and riding all the way back for more than an hour in the heat to the busy 603 again is wholly unappealing.

So the trip ends like this, waiting for a taxi to take us to New Orleans on our final day, at the Space Centre, with all the finality and absurdity baked into it. Arranging the taxi is an endeavour in itself and it takes a while to find a driver whose van can accommodate the two of us and our bikes, then it becomes a farce as he gets turned around by NASA security at the south gates and is told to take the long Texas Flat detour to navigate to our location, which is some north entrance to the space centre which has no actual address that can be entered on a GPS. All of this takes at least a few hours and by the time we are in the van and crossing Lake Pontchartrain on the I-10 into the city proper, and we get dropped off at our host Regina’s house, where we have made arrangements to stay, it is already evening and I am tired.

Somehow when I look back it feels as though the spirit that carried the trip dissipated some time ago, so that to end in such a way was not so disappointing or anti-climactic. If not in Tennessee when my daily journal entries became sparse as we were focused on making our daily mileage with the heat, then when we were pulled over by the sheriff on that busy highway in Alabama. What are we even doing here? Is a dangerous question to be asking yourself on a bicycle tour as it signifies that things have not been going well for a long time. Notions of adventure can quickly become foolish when unnecessary risks are taken, neither person is enjoying themselves in the traditional sense, and others are inconvenienced or disconcerted. Would I have thought this way before? Possibly not. For the rest I won’t say much. We’re in New Orleans after all, maybe we can still salvage it.