Appalachian Gravel Goodness (Part III)

Read Part II: Appalachian Gravel Grumble

Day 4

Four-thirty a.m. I had oatmeal and coffee and the hint of nausea I always feel when I’m up too early and am about to go do something that’s part fun and part stupid. (Does everyone else get that feeling too?) By five, we were saying goodbye to the roof over our heads and making our way down to the river to follow a greenway out of town, then to an old overpass converted into a skate park, then to a short section of highway before ducking into a neighborhood. From there, we found a trail that would lead us to Bent Creek Gap Road. I found great joy in the absurdity of pedaling up root-covered singletrack illuminated only by my headlight. My 55mm tires had probably been overkill for everything up to this point, but they best explain why I liked this part more than Frank did. The singletrack turned into an old road grade around the time the sun began to peek through the trees and we picked up the pace slightly. Then the rain started.

We passed a trailhead parking lot and rolled into the shelter of a bathroom to don our rain jackets. I stuffed my camera in the handlebar bag beneath a couple layers and we rode on. The climb up Bent Creek Gap Road was gradual and generally lovely. The rain accentuated the lushness of the forest surrounding us and for a moment, I could have been pedaling along a coastal backroad in the Pacific Northwest. Soon, we reached the Blue Ridge Parkway and I was reminded of exactly where we were. I knew better—I’d scouted the elevation on Strava the night before—but I’d let myself think the climbing was mostly behind us once we reached the parkway. That was, of course, not the case. We had covered about two-thirds of the distance to the inn, but only close to a third of the elevation gain. My legs seemed to quickly forget the rest I’d graciously granted them just one day earlier and I slowed to a sluggish pace. Frank did her best to continue with encouragement, but her words of motivation understandably morphed into reminders of the importance of beating the worst of the storm. Heavy mist limited our visibility, meaning each new hill was a sneaky surprise. I kept slowing. My legs didn’t ache or strain as much as they simply felt empty while I willed them to keep cranking. At one point, the headwind in a tunnel felt like it might be holding me at a complete standstill. I kept looking ahead to Frank, knowing this ride wasn’t easy for either of us and marveling at how she made it look easy still. Eventually (and I mean that in the truest sense of the word), we passed the first sign for the inn ahead. The next sign came more quickly and then, finally, we were there. We booked a room for the night. It was 10:30, hours before we could check in, but we didn’t care. 

We had lunch in the inn’s wood-clad dining room featuring floor-to-ceiling windows along its western wall. Most days, they provide a view of undulating mountain ranges that turn lighter and lighter shades of blue until they fade into the sky. But now, they were a solid rectangle of gray as we sat inside a cloud. The static “view” obscured any visual indications of the wind, but the intermittent gusts against the building were audible. When we got to our room, we repurposed most of the furniture into drying racks for our gear and set about planning the next day, as we’d become accustomed to doing. We’d need to check the radar again in the morning, but the forecast suggested the rain could subside early in the day and provide a good opportunity to finish out our ride. From the inn, I calculated that we’d have just 18 miles to return to our car—the same final stretch I’d planned when Tropical Storm Fred necessitated the initial route adjustments. As a result of high winds, the National Park Service ended up closing the parkway south of the exit we’d take to descend to Brevard and our car, but our route remained open and clear. We just needed the weather to cooperate.

Day 5

Morning came and the view from our balcony looked the same as it had the day before, but the forecast still promised a window in a couple hours. We skipped out on breakfast at the restaurant to enjoy instant oatmeal on our balcony as the rain splashed in, perhaps pining a bit for the camping we hadn’t done much of that week. Knowing it was our best chance, we strapped our bags to our bikes one more time and prepared to leave when the rain let up. Pedaling away from the inn when the weather was still pretty ominous felt odd, but we had a short way to go and it was nearly all downhill this time.

The ride was every bit as easy as the elevation profile had promised, but it was also more beautiful than I’d expected. Visibility improved gradually as we descended and the foggy haze gave way to the vibrantly saturated rain-soaked colors of the forest. We chased each other around switchbacks through the trees. We made a couple brief stops at some overlooks, including the one over Looking Glass Falls. You can typically walk down to the base of the roadside waterfall, but Fred had damaged some of the lower viewing platform and it was taped off. Even from a distance, it was awesome to watch the storm-swollen falls raging. We continued on, stopping once more to walk down to the river. We were within a couple miles of the car at this point and I knew we’d soon be done. So it was there, beside a mess of logs piled up on the bank weeks prior by a storm—not by a secluded waterfall on a forest road just miles away that was now closed and not at one of the dozens of other places we could’ve been before we changed our plans many times over—that I asked Frank to marry me. I don’t know what adventure we’ll plan next, but I know there’s no one else I want beside me when things don’t go according to plan.

As for the Appalachian Gravel Growler? Time will tell if we ever go back to complete the proper route.