Nuts

{Prompt: Write about your trip from Murphy to Manteo during special projects week at NCSSM.}

The sun was setting behind us on Highway 64 as we struggled to climb up to the gap in the mountains. It was called Glade Gap, but in March of 1982, it was just an unnamed obstacle on our bicycle route from Murphy to Manteo.

We knew it would be hard… but not this hard. And we were prepared for it to be cold… but not this cold.

With no end to the climb in sight, and far from the distance we had expected to cover, we huddled by the side of the road to discuss our options.

We could keep going to the top of the climb, still in front of us, and descend in the dark, our way down meagerly lit by headlamps. Or we could look for a place to pitch a tent and camp until morning.

We were tired and cold from riding, so we decided to look for a place to set up camp. The side of the road was a non-starter. We mounted up to ride a bit farther, looking for a church or school or… well… anything. Ironically we found a campground, not yet open for the summer. It was abandoned.

So we pulled our bikes into the campground, away from the highway, somewhere near Bruce Ridge, 30 miles east of Murphy, North Carolina. I pulled a nylon tent from the aluminum cage baskets on the rear of my bicycle, and began to pitch it in a grassy field.

As the temperature fell, we built a fire and baked some beans. We ate in silence, still sore from riding, as the temperature of the night mountain air started to plunge. Pretty soon we were shifting in our seats, alternately warming our toes, knees, and hands in the front… alternately turning around to warm our backs and our buns.

John Armitage, baking beans by the fire.

Pretty soon we pulled out our sleeping bags and crawled inside fully dressed, hoping to capture a little bit of body heat between the layers of apparel, and the insulated stuffing of the sleeping bags.

I curled up in a scrawny little ball, hugging my knees as I shivered, my head lying on a makeshift pillow made from a spare pair of rolled-up pants. I had my head outside the top of the sleeping bag for fresh air, but as the mercury fell, I ducked even my head inside the bag for warmth and self-preservation.

It was a restless, bone-chillingly cold, uncomfortable night’s sleep.

It was dark and silent the first four times that I woke, but on the fifth awakening, a glimmer of light danced across the frosty tent. I could see the vapor of my breath in the air, when I exhaled. It must have been early — 7 in the morning.

It was freezing cold… inside and out.

We slowly crawled out of our cocoons, like zombies, into the light of day. Fern patterned frost glistened on every blade of grass, crunching beneath our feet as we assembled to prepare for the day.

I reached for my water bottle to take a sip, but the water was frozen solid. I looked at it in disbelief.

So we built a new fire, trying to warm our bones, our fingers, and our toes. We stood there letting the folly of our plan sink in — the folly of biking from Murphy to Manteo — from one end of the state to the other.

Robert and John - cold and tired.

As we stood, numb and bitterly cold, we waited to see if the sun would bring any relief.

It slowly ascended and daylight returned, but there was no perceptible warming. The air was still frigidly cold, warmth slipping away from us with the slightest movement.

I put my bottle near the fire, hoping to melt some of the ice, but the plastic bottle started to warp and melt instead. It was the sort of calamity one could only imagine on a polar expedition. There was no quenching my thirst in this Arctic zone.

So we had a bite to eat and decided to move on. At least there was a chance we would warm up by climbing the road, exerting ourselves on our bikes.

And we did warm up a bit. But we reached the mountain pass in less than half an hour. It was still freezing cold when we began going down the other side. It was the coldest descent I’ve ever made in my life — hand-numbingly cold — following the coldest night of my life, camping near the alpine tree line.

We had no idea what we were doing.

John— checking the map to see where to turn next.

Special Projects Week

We were supposed to be doing a “special project” for the NC School of Science and Math. The school had a week set aside for the academically gifted, to work on an extracurricular project of special interest — something like an engineering project or a lab endeavor.

John Armitage, our ringleader, had pitched the idea of cycling from Murphy to Manteo, using the NC DOT bicycle maps that had a route crossing the state that was about 700 miles long. I have no idea what scientific merit this had, because I never saw the project proposal. I didn’t see the writeup either. John put out a call for participants and I simply jumped at the chance.

You see, I wasn’t interested in studying the properties of photovoltaic cells or building a microcomputer. I didn’t want to do soil testing or relativity research. I didn’t even want to look at molecules using a spectrophotometer.

And I didn’t want to sign up for the microcourses, like I had the year before — taking a crash course in symbolic logic and in non-Euclidean geometry.

Cycling across the state sounded like much more fun.

Sidebar: It’s sad that I didn’t do something more academic with my special projects week. There were so many cool things that I could have done — so many resources at our fingertips. But the reality was, unless you had a very focused scientific interest, there was no one at school specifically assigned to help you narrow your focus. You kind of had to brainstorm and find a project that excited you, all by yourself, or with a teacher’s assistance. I just wasn’t there yet. I didn’t like asking for help.

So John had a proposal for special projects week — to bike across the state, and fashion a report from the experience. My roommate, Robert Lee, signed up, and a freshman named Simon Verghese also signed up. Parental permission was required, so each of us got our parents to sign on the bottom line, allowing our participation.

There must have been some discussion with the parents regarding the way this trek would take place — how we were going to get from point A to point B. I don’t remember how my mom was convinced to allow it. I guess I told her that John had a plan — he had maps of a bike route from the NC DOT. Our state department of transportation was complicit, and our guardians granted approval.

We simply had to bike about 80 miles a day (on average) for 9 days to make it happen. What could go wrong?

John, Simon, and Robert at a break-stop.

The Mountains

With virtually no training, we headed for Murphy—only 20 miles from the Tennessee border—about as far west as you can go in the state of North Carolina.

Somehow the four of us squeezed into the car with John’s Dad, who dropped us off with our bikes and our gear in a grocery store parking lot somewhere in Murphy.

We consulted our maps and headed east. It was pretty simple. We followed a couple of back roads out of town and then headed up Highway 64, up to the mountain pass.

Riding, with a bike loaded with gear, was a little different than riding across campus. And riding up the mountainside was harder than a ride on flat city streets. At one point the road was so steep, I had to get off my bicycle and push it up the side of the highway. Some old-timer in a pickup slowed down to see what I was doing. He said, “Aren’t you supposed to be pedaling that thing?” I gave him a pitiful smile, and he said, “Good luck!” as he drove away.

We didn’t do 80 miles that day… not even 60. We ended up at the top of that freezing mountain pass at mile 30, baked our beans, and shivered through a restless night.

After an equally chilling descent, we took the back roads of the Appalachians and made our way towards Waynesville and Morganton.

Somewhere along the way we got split up, but we regrouped from time to time. At one point Robert lost control and fell going down a mountain road. Fortunately, his injuries were minor. I didn’t see it, but he scraped his knee, and he was in a foul mood. We tried to stay a bit closer together, so no one was struggling, or hurrying, to keep up.

Robert headed down a road, wearing goggles.

We spent a night in a hotel in one of the towns. John had his dad’s credit card, and approval to spend it, if necessary, in case of emergency. It wasn’t an emergency. But we needed a good night’s rest, heat, and a hot shower.

We fell behind schedule, making slow progress on the mountain terrain. At some point, we all agreed we had to take a more direct route.

So we passed by Asheville, and we headed down from Black Mountain, to the foot of the mountains at Old Fort, taking the outside (slow truck lane) of Interstate 40. We were passing 18 wheelers all the way down.

From there we took secondary roads again until we reached Lexington. By that time, we were at least a day behind schedule. We decided to abandon the DOT cycling route and take Highway 64, which went straight to Manteo, about 300 miles away.

Simon Verghese - wearing a helmet and striking a pose.

The Piedmont

So we got on highway 64 and we headed for Manteo. We rode on the shoulder, which varied from as wide as two feet to as narrow as four inches. We ignored the cars and trucks and Mack trucks passing on our left and we headed due east.

Every now and then we stopped to fuel up. Untoasted brown sugar cinnamon Pop-tarts were my fuel of choice.

We were out of the mountains and making good time. We thought we had it made.

And then we crossed the roller coaster hills of Uwharrie National Forest. Backroads were twisty and tortuous in the mountains, but here the road took a straight line, down one hill and straight up the next. One after another… after another. Although the real mountains of the Uwharries, including Mount Morrow, were a ways off to the south, the unrelenting hills we climbed were just as difficult. I’ll never forget them.

One of a million hills in the Uwharrie Mountains.

We approached Durham feeling much fitter… more confident in our skills. And the weather was much nicer… more aligned with out initial clothing choices. We spun past the courthouse in Pittsboro with ease, and sped up 751 towards our school.

We agreed to bike into campus like the four musketeers — all for one, and one for all. We were practically flying as we entered the roundabout in front of the 1908 building. We were exhilarated and proud. We weren’t doing no stinkin’ scientific paper. We were biking the state of North Carolina.

We slept well that night, back in our dorm rooms.

Robert— probably stopped for a “wardrobe adjustment”.

The Coastal Plain

With another night of sleep in a bed, we were feeling good. From Durham we headed east, keeping to the north of Raleigh, staying well away from city traffic.

At some point we went back onto the DOT bicycle route. We were back on schedule. We were doing over 100 miles a day. We were feeling good as we passed Rocky Mount. It seemed like smooth sailing.

But then we learned about cross-winds… first hand. Out on the coastal plain, there were acres of open tobacco fields. We met steady crosswinds, slowing us down to a crawl.

At one point, while we were covered in sweat, we passed a field being plowed for the spring, soil particles floating in the air, and coming down to stick to our skin. At the end of the day, we were brown — covered with dirt.

We headed past Swan Quarter and on towards the Albemarle Sound. We took directions to the house of a fellow student, living in Manteo, Eric Roush. We got one last photo near the end of our ride.

My bike and I somewhere near Manteo.

We recounted our adventures and then loaded up the car to return to school. Mr. Pate (a friend of the family) packed us all into his car, and drove us back to campus.

Epilogue

And that was it.

We went back to class and finished the final semester of 1982.

I didn’t write a lick of analysis or assessment for the final report. John must have done it all.

But we accomplished our goals. We had the most epic and memorable special project in the entire student body. We won the unofficial bragging rights for best project, and we had the muscles, the stories, and the suntans to prove it.

We just had to deal with steep mountain climbs, treacherous descents, the buffeting of passing semis, an infinite number of rolling hills, and unexpectedly dusty and constant crosswinds.

And we had to freeze our nuts off at the top of a mountain pass.

But we did it.

*****

Appendix - Subsequent epic bike rides:

DC to Shenandoah to Raleigh between 1983 and 1985.

New Bern Ride for MS (plus a 130 mile ride to the ride (three times)).

Double Down to the Beach—200 miles - Burlington to New Bern.

Bridge to Bridge - Lenoir to Grandfather Mountain at age 50.

Assault on Mt Mitchell - Greenville, SC to Mt. Mitchell at age 60.

Haleakalā - nearly 10,000 feet of elevation.

Assault on the Carolinas, Blue Ridge Brutal, Beech Mountain Metric, Little Switzerland rides, etc.

Winter Rides circa 2015.