Author: Mark

Princeton is a small town with a large, prestigious university and it is a pretty place, made all the more so by the present displays of cherry blossom in today’s sunshine. It is trying, quite effectively, to look like Oxford. Ornate stone buildings with fancy towers surround grassy quadrangles, and the high street is full of upmarket shops selling brands like Barbour. It is only a few miles distant, but well heeled Princeton felt like a world away from its downtrodden neighbour, Trenton. They are two separate microcosms of a deeply divided society.

I try to be nothing if not open minded, and so Princeton was an ideal place to enjoy green eggs and ham, a brunch option I selected in the trendy little cafe where I stopped. And, yes, it turns out that I do like green eggs and ham, Sam I am, alongside a good cup of tea. It felt like Princeton, of all places, would be able to provide that, and the results were more than acceptable.

After Princeton I was treated to a couple of hours following a well made path along the side of the D&R canal, no longer operational but still full of water and ideal for canoes and the like. It made for a long and cycle friendly green corridor that advanced me towards the edge of the New Jersey overspill of the New York urban sprawl. Long, residential streets finally gave way to a modern suspension bridge that took me across onto Staten Island, the most suburban of New York city’s five boroughs.

From the bridge, across the container port, I caught my first distant view of the Manhattan skyline. It seemed rather incongruous when viewed through wire mesh, a gaggle of crane derricks and piles of shipping containers, but that is unmistakably what I saw. New York’s hinterland is not the prettiest.

Several miles later, I also saw the towers of the Verrazano Narrows Bridge rising above the horizon at the entrance to New York bay. It remains the United States’ longest single span suspension bridge and marks the entrance to the open sea. My nearby Airbnb was in the basement of a house on an unassuming residential street. I was about a fifteen minute cycle from the Staten Island to Manhattan ferry terminal, but it felt out of reach for me tonight. That treat – and a day off in New York City – lay in wait for me tomorrow.

The sun returned in a timely fashion just as I set out again – after three cold and damp days off – to cycle the first of two days that would take me to within a short ferry ride of New York City. Today I would be riding right into, and then out of, the huge urban sprawl that is the city of Philadelphia. In truth, that would be almost a full day in itself from where I began, and I would just about have time to press on a little further into New Jersey and stop a few miles short of the university town of Princeton.

I said my goodbyes and thank yous to my family and enjoyed an hour of quiet roads and bike paths that took me some of the way in. The earlier suburbs were pleasant enough. Then I reached Woodland Avenue, a very long, very straight road that led all the way in to the city centre, by way of countless traffic lights and intersections. For most of the way it was pretty run down. I certainly saw no woodland. There was a lot of starting and stopping and trying to arrive at each set of lights when they were green, but that is not easy. Eventually the distant skyscrapers began to loom much larger and I crossed some kind of invisible line that meant everything suddenly felt like the middle of a big, important city.

Philadelphia really is huge. The first area of large buildings was a group of modern hospitals, which then merged into the somewhat older and more genteel surroundings of The University of Pennsylvania. But I wasn’t yet in the middle of the city. I crossed the Schuylkill River by the huge and lovely 30th Street train station with its massive Greek columns, and then cycled the length of Market Street, the main commercial artery. It led me between impressive buildings of increasing height until l reached the elaborate clock tower and central landmark of Philadelphia City Hall, with the statue of William Penn perched on top. This building is a late nineteenth century architectural masterpiece, and one day I would like to return and take a tour up to the observation deck, high up the clock tower. From here you would be able to look across to the spires and towers of the nearby modern skyscrapers. There seem to be more of them every time I visit.

But today I satisfied myself with lunch outdoors in the square next to the many dancing fountains that emerge from the floor and squirt water to different heights. Delighted children were running about in between, and sometimes through, the jets and inevitably getting quite wet. It wasn’t really warm enough to be wearing wet clothes, so I hope they came prepared. An hour somehow slipped past without me getting very much further, and I knew that I would have a similarly disrupted journey away from the city, so I felt it was time to move. I paid my respects to Independence Hall and then set out along a cycle path that showed some promise of following the bank of the Delaware River. But things got rather industrial quite soon, so I found myself on another long, straight road with endless traffic lights. At one point I had the option of following a road that contained what looked like miles of elevated railway above it. It filled the street and stretched away like an endless metal bunk bed. But the road underneath was very congested, so I found another option and pressed on until a small roadside ice cream shop caught my attention. Cyclists need fuel.

The rest of the day was spent on quiet roads that took me along, and at times within sight of, the Delaware River, once known as the workshop of the world. There were some more attractive stretches and I was particularly taken with the small riverside town of Bristol, PA. But eventually I reached the point where the river had to be crossed,. I did so as I entered the city of Trenton and the state of New Jersey by passing gingerly over a metal grilled bridge surface. Trenton is the state capital of New Jersey and I could see the small gold dome of the Capitol shining in the late sunshine. I like to tick these off as I reach them, and there were a collection of large, official looking buildings all grouped together on raised ground. However, just one street away a very different Trenton presented itself, and I began to see why people had been encouraging me to give it a miss. It was truly a depressing place with little to restore any feeling of hope or enthusiasm. I have possibly not seen anywhere so completely run down and depressing in all my travels throughout this country, and I was ultimately glad to leave it behind. It felt like a place on its knees, where everyone had more or less given up. Some of the worst deprivation was right in the centre of town, within a stone’s throw of the seat of government. I wonder how much time the state lawmakers spend looking beyond their own polished front door. Not much, based on the evidence before me.

My final excitement for the day was to discover that my hotel room had been cancelled. The hotel was right on busy route one and Vanessa, the receptionist, told me that they were overbooked. I wasn’t having this. No one had informed me and, in any case, I had nowhere else to go and only a bicycle for transport, a fact which I made clear. Vanessa then found me a room – a lucky recent cancellation by another guest she said – and all was well that ended well. She even rang Expedia for me to complain, but I wasn’t in the mood for a long argument with them. No one wanted to claim responsibility, each party blaming the other, but I pointed out that their arguments between themselves were of no interest to me. I got a refund and an apology. Hmm.

There is no getting away from the fact that hills make a difference, and big hills make a big difference. When you add in 92 miles of cycling, that’s a full working day on a loaded bicycle. Tough, but just about within range on a cold, cloudy day like today. Critically, it didn’t rain. With bad weather just ahead in the forecast, it was important to get this ride completed.

The journey from Baltimore to Philadelphia was always going to involve time on bigger roads because about half way there you have to cross the very broad Susquahanna River, and there are few bridges. Realistically, there was only one serious option and that was on route 30, which skirts as close as it can to the edge of Chesapeake Bay. The next bridge upstream, on route one, would be making the ride too long. And so my best way to a few days rest with my American family more or less chose itself. Route 30 is always at lest two lanes of fast moving traffic in each direction, but it also has a very wide shoulder to ride on, and it is signed as a bike route. It feels safe enough, but it isn’t much fun. There are huge trucks and constant, noisy traffic. So it was with some relief that I spotted the old Highway to Philadelphia, now Maryland route 7, running parallel to it for about 25 miles. This much smaller road runs through a series of forgettable towns, and while not an ideal cycling option, was the best thing on offer. So I took it as soon as I had threaded my way for an hour out of the clutches of Baltimore.

Baltimore is a gritty story of place. My Airbnb host Tyler, a Baltimore native, had told me that you wanted to be in either the north or south part of the city (his lovely home was to the south), and definitely not in the east or the west. My journey today took me north east, so I saw a mixed bag; but plenty of places that I would not want to live myself. There were several blocks where all the housing seemed to be boarded up as if awaiting demolition. Some other areas were not a great deal better. The high rise downtown area was large and seemed prosperous enough, and the inner harbour was very pleasant, with tall ships, a luxury yacht, and water taxis. A nice area for strolling around in warmer weather, no doubt. But today a chill breeze made it somewhere not to get delayed for too long.

None of the roads I followed today were flat. The hills were not tall, but they were relentlessly rolling and at times quite long and fairly steep. I don’t mind hills, but it inevitably affected my average speed, making today’s already long journey that much longer. Nevertheless, a cyclist needs fuel, and I had to take time out three times to eat, drink and rest. My first two stops were in gas station convenience stores, and my final stop came after about fifty miles in the quaint small town of North East. An hour before that I reached the Susquahanna River, whose crossing turned out to be more of a challenge than I expected.

I reached the approach to the long route 30 bridge from a side road, having detoured briefly to see Havre de Grace, a small town on Chesapeake Bay that claimed to have been named America’s Best Small Town. Obviously I couldn’t miss that. And it was nice enough, despite its Main Street being dug up as part of a facelift. I think I have seen nicer places, though, and was reflecting on this when I pulled up behind two police cars on the bridge ramp, their lights flashing, each blocking one of the two lanes of traffic. A sizeable queue was already starting to form. We seemed to be waiting for a group of construction workers to clear the road of cones and other equipment. While we waited, I noticed a sign saying no bicycles on the bridge Monday to Friday. If that was true, I was trapped here. So much for signed cycle routes! I pretended I hadn’t seen it.

After maybe ten minutes the road was clear and the two police cars pulled away in parallel, leading the convoy of traffic across. I decided this was the best escort over the bridge I could ever wish for, and followed, at a distance. It was a little hairy because there was no shoulder, but the traffic, including a series of big trucks, was respectful and kept to the left lane until it was past me. The bridge was long, perhaps a mile, but I kept moving. Regular signs told the traffic to share the road with bikes. No days of the week were mentioned. And then I was across, the police cars had gone, the wide shoulder was restored, and everything was back to its normal self.

The final forty miles of my journey were a fairly direct diagonal line away from the coast to my final destination of Glen Mills, PA, an old village which now marks the western edge of the Philadelphia urban sprawl. This is the home of my wife Jenni’s family: my bother and sister in law, and – down the road – my mother in law. I was looking forward to three days off cycling there, where I know I am always very welcome. It was approaching 4pm on a grey day, and I was hoping I wouldn’t need my lights. I was wrong. The landscape did not allow rapid progress to be made except on the downhill sections. Despite the dull, cold weather, this whole rural section of the ride was delightful and the small roads passed through some very pretty sections of Maryland, Delaware and Pennsylvania, which were impossible to tell apart. For the first time, I was coming into contact with old rural buildings like stone churches and old mills that seemed to have been here more than 200 years. I even crossed a covered bridge, which is something I have only ever seen in this part of America. My rural roads took me straight across its wooden planks, under the long, red painted wooden arch.

The hills continued right to the end, and it was getting towards the wrong side of dusk when I finally rolled in to my relatives’ driveway a little after 8pm, flashing like a lit up Christmas tree. An hour later the rain began, and I think it lasted a full night and day. But I was able to watch it safely from inside a warm house. Timing is everything.

I allowed myself the whole morning to take in the spectacular sights of Washington DC. Anything less would have been an injustice. And there is enough of that taking place in this town already right now. Nevertheless, it remains a stupendous piece of town planning and a capital worthy of the distinction. The national mall is huge. It is an elongated cross shape with the magnificently domed Capitol raised up at one end and the Parthenon-like Lincoln Memorial facing it at the opposite end, far, far away. In between, at the crossing point sits the tall white obelisk that is the Washington Monument, dwarfing the circle of American flags that ring its base. At the ends of the crossing pieces are the White House – which you can’t get near – and the Jefferson Memorial, which stands across the water of the tidal basin.

The scale of all this is epic. All down both sides of the grass covered mall between the Capitol and the crossing piece are a series of grand buildings housing a variety of world class museums, making up the Smithsonian Institution. There are Art Museums, a museum of space, the strikingly modern museum of African American History, and several others each in its own palatial building with gardens around them. My favourite was the national archive, whose garden contained a lake with fountains and sculptures, including a mick up of a Parisian metro station. And at various intervals in the spaces in between were a collection of elaborate memorials to wars fought by US military personnel (Korea, Vietnam, etc) whee all the soldiers names are carved in to the stone walls. Facing the Jefferson Memorial across the water is a larger than life statue of Rev Martin Luther King Jr, emerging from a huge block of roughly hewn stone, alongside a series of quotes from his speeches. It was as if so much American history had been gathered together to be commemorated in one single place.

As huge as they individually are, many of these monuments are still lost in the vastness of the whole space. A bicycle was therefore ideal for exploring all of this, which you can easily do without worrying about traffic. You do have to stay on the lookout for large school parties and oblivious tourists, but they are mostly benign. In the time I had available I was able to get around to everything I wanted to see and take many photos on this crisp, bright, clear sunny day. Walking it would have taken a very long time. The famous cherry blossom seemed to be over for the year, which was a slight disappointment to me, since it was a special memory from my very first visit here at Easter 1986, when I was in the early throes of a trans continental love affair, that later became a marriage of decades (and still counting). But that – like the scaffolding on the Lincoln Memorial – was a minor blemish on an otherwise fantastic morning. I felt privileged to be here in these exceptional surroundings.

But the trans continental adventure cyclist’s work is seldom done, so after lunch in the French metro station I returned to collect my bags, change my shoes and start the second part of my day, which involved cycling 50 miles to Baltimore. This began really well with a good 90 minutes of riding along dedicated cycle paths by a river on the “north east branch”. Despite adding a couple of extra miles through poor navigation, I finally broke into Maryland and followed a rather mixed route for the remaining thirty miles or so into downtown Baltimore. If I am honest I wasn’t terribly taken with this part of the day, finding a combination of dodgy road surfaces, narrow roads, busy traffic and scruffy neighbourhoods less to my liking. But my Airbnb was in a delightful and the historic part of central Baltimore, close to the new looking baseball stadium and walking distance to excellent food and drink options. I felt I had used this beautiful day well.

I awoke to heavy rain and high winds over breakfast in Thornburg, with more of the same forecast for the rest of the day. There was no fun to be had out in this. Instead, I wisely elected for an extra night in my very comfortable hotel room. Sometimes decisions are easy. I passed the day in a restful way, mindful that an early start would be required if I wanted to see Washington DC now. I would ride with the sunrise. It would be cold, clear and sunny. That would be better. For now, I watched a movie and caught up on some admin.

I got up at first light, which is always an achievement for me. But the promised sun was late to arrive and outside it was freezing cold. I put on all my warm cycling gear, so far unused, and was very glad of it. I was still in shorts, but I had sleeves, a gilet, a waterproof jacket, neoprene overshoes and full gloves, and I needed them. I set off into a stiff, cold wind and realised that my ears were painfully cold. So on went a buff, covering my ears for the first couple of hours until the sun broke through properly. This was a dramatic change in the weather, sun or no sun, and it just shows how important it is to be prepared.

My first section in the early morning took me further along busy route one as far as Fredericksburg, where I headed for the historic town centre and an inviting coffee shop. I was served by a young woman who didn’t sound at all local. When I heard her say “Ay Up” I thought I would ask where she came from. The answer was Cleethorpes. I often cycle there from home. It makes a great day ride of about 100 miles and you have a train home every hour when you reach the seaside. She was surprised that someone from so nearby (I grew up even closer) was here in Fredericksburg. I suppose it was fairly unlikely that either of us would be there, let alone cross paths in the same small cafe. These encounters do occur from time to time, and today it was to my advantage, because I knew that, for once, I could expect a really good cup of tea. And that is exactly what I got, in a large china mug. With cold milk. And boiling water. It was the best I’d had in weeks.

Buoyed by this experience, and the pleasant old tree-lined, brick streets of Fredericksburg, I crossed a bridge out of town and embarked on the most pleasant couple of hours of cycling that day. The small roads were quiet and pretty, and I avoided a lot of traffic elsewhere. My route took me close to the edges of the Potomac River, although I seldom saw it. At one point, I visited Government Island, just off the rather exclusive old residential streets of Aquia Harbor. It was purchased by the federal government to source freestone locally for the building of the new capital city.

Soon afterwards, however, I was back on the shoulder of big roads all the way into the city of Alexandria, which faces Washington across the water. I liked Alexandria. It was cycle friendly and developed so that none of the buildings were too tall. There was a big new area under development, almost a whole new quarter of the city, which was being built in brick around circles and courtyards. I thought it had an almost European feeling to it.

From there I picked up a cycle path that took me all the way to the National Mall across the Potomac. Despite the sun, I still had all my warm clothes on, and all the cyclists crossing the choppy Potomac by the long bridge were blasted by a strong, icy wind. It was a relief to get to the other side and spend the last hour or so of my ride being a tourist and riding slowly past the monuments and museums of this magnificent capital city. It’s scale is immense. There was clearly great foresight shown by the town planners of the late eighteenth century. I would return tomorrow to see everything again along the mall, but I took my time and drank it all in nonetheless. I think the last time I was here – and not in a car – would be Easter 1986. It was my very first trip to America, that I paid for from my very first job (selling kitchen design appointments by telephone in the evenings) in Nottingham when I was a student. Almost an adult lifetime ago in fact.

I was staying tonight in a house turned hostel in the Capitol Hill district, behind the hugely impressive Capitol building, whose dome shone in the late afternoon sunshine. It was remarkably good value for somewhere located so close to all the action. But after my exertions today, I only made it out this chilly evening in my wool hat to an Indian restaurant a few streets away, in a trendy area off Pennsylvania Avenue. It had been a long, cold day of cycling into the wind and I was feeling it. In the morning I would get up and be a cycle tourist, leaving my bags behind here until I had no more time to spare. Until then, sleep came easily.

What a difference a day makes. It was quite distinct from yesterday in a number of ways, all of which I enjoyed. Not that yesterday wasn’t also fun, because it was. But it is very nice to have a change, and there have been quite a few days recently where things have not been dramatically different from what came before.

The morning was not so different. It was hot and sunny and I found a combination of small rural roads and a big highway with some sections of bike lane to get me safely in to downtown Richmond, the state capital of Virginia. You enter over a bridge that crosses the James River, looking across the wide, shallow water at a fairly unremarkable collection of not especially high rise buildings of varying vintage.

But once I got amongst them, it got interesting. The Virginia State Capitol building is a Classical Greek style building painted in a resplendent white and surrounded by gardens, which included my first tulips of the year. It was very pleasant, if a little hemmed in and dwarfed by bigger, less attractive buildings.

But then I started to make my way through the other side of the city and found myself in a kind of arts district with lots of funky shops and studios. I had lunch here and was generally impressed by the whole neighbourhood. It had a good feel. The main road I followed, Broad St, was also home to a busway that occupied the two central lanes of the road, which was surfaced in a bright red colour of tarmac. Buses were few and far apart this Sunday and it was instead favoured by cyclists, so I gave it a go. It worked very well.

I was able to follow cycle route 1 all the way out of the city, through pleasant, leafy suburbs, and into the countryside along very pleasant small roads. Someone has clearly given this a lot of thought and it works. It was also really well signed all afternoon. I only passed though one other place of note all day on cycle route one, but the undulating roads contained plenty of interest. This was a different, more affluent Virginia unlike yesterday’s offering. Bigger homes, partly concealed by trees, and none of the mobile homes or countless abandoned vehicles in their yards. I was just getting ready for a break when the small and very pleasant town of Ashland came along.

Ashland is defined by its railway line, which effectively cuts it in two. My approach road ran either side of the unfenced tracks, each part a one way street, with periodic crossing points. For a mile before I reached the centre, it was flanked on both sides by the most gorgeous American style period homes, which are delightfully colourful and stylish, with porches and the odd turret. When I reached a row of businesses, I could see people gathered outside one in the sun, so I knew it must be good. It turned out to be a microbrewery and so, feeling thirsty, I stopped and went inside. After a good chat about beer with the man who served me, I was offered a second beer by a man waiting in line. I felt it would be rude to refuse, and then followed him outside to meet his wife and small children. We spoke at length about beer, football and – bizarrely – Swindon, where he has a friend. He knew of the infamous Magic Roundabout in Swindon (Google it), which led us to a conversation about the children’s TV programme Magic Roundabout, which I left him to watch on YouTube. Then another guy, in his seventies, showed interest in my bike and my trip, and got talking about walking the Appalachian Trail in sections with his grandchildren. I mentioned hiking the Pacific Crest Trail and we bonded. I was aware that I would now be struggling for daylight, but I didn’t want to leave this spot or these friendly people, either. He resolved the situation by getting a twenty dollar bill out and putting it in my hand, saying that tonight’s beer would be on him. How kind.

The rest of the ride was equally enjoyable, and I saw nowhere else to stop or get refreshment, so quiet were the country roads. I had the thrill of a passenger train coming in to Ashland as I left, but thereafter, as predicted, it was a race against the daylight. I won, but it was a very close run thing. I’m staying in a delightful modern hotel by an interstate junction, and it is everything that last night’s dive in a Petersburg wasn’t. If I could stay somewhere like this every night, I would. I relaxed my muscles with a dip in the small indoor pool and helped myself to lots of free coffee. Breakfast tomorrow morning is included, too. Excellent value.

Speaking of tomorrow, I’m expecting a significant change in the weather. The ride from Ashland onwards today took a sudden cooler turn – actually very refreshing, but a big change. The forecast is saying tomorrow could be pretty damp and cool. I have about seventy miles of cycling to reach Washington DC. I may need to use some of the cycling clothes that have so far not emerged from my panniers. Time will tell. Then the sun should return for my day off, albeit with much cooler temperatures, dipping to freezing overnight. It should at least clear the very high pollen count of the last few days. It hasn’t bothered me, but everything – including my clothes and bike – has been coated in a light green layer of dust the like of which I have never seem before. So I suppose I have been inadvertently helping nature’s reproduction process.

Today was another lovely day for cycling. I have yet to experience anything else. More blossom, more empty roads, more ice cream to revive me in the warm afternoon, more bottles of cold lemonade from gas stations.

I wasn’t expecting it to be quite so quiet today, because I spent most of the afternoon on Historic Route 1, which runs the length of the east coast. Previous encounters have been a mixed bag, with some busy stretches. But not here in Southside Virginia. Interstate 85 runs in parallel and takes almost all the traffic. There are very few small towns in these parts and I found myself alone on the broadest of highways.

One of the few towns, Alberta, was practically a ghost town. I turned off to see what was there. Once it had a bank, a coin laundromat and a small row of stores on its wide Main Street. Now there is a US post office, which every tiny community seems to posses, and nothing else. There was a lovely little square with a gazebo next to an old railroad engine and some swings. It was rather a sweet little place to sit and enjoy my sandwiches. But I saw not a soul the whole time I was there. Not even a car moved. I just had two huge, black bees for company.

The next town, another hour away, was McKenney. It had a bit more life, especially around a little ice cream cafe with a window to place your order and outside tables. I had a cherry sundae, which consisted of ice cream, walnuts and lots of maraschino cherries, which made me happy, and gave me enough energy to finish the day’s ride to the large town of Petersburg.

Traffic finally began to appear from the town of Dinwiddie onwards. This was an important battle site during the civil war. On March 31st 1865, the battle of Dinwiddie Courthouse was one of a series of encounters near Petersburg that, 2 days later, left the north victorious, cutting southern supply lines to under siege Petersburg by road (the very one I was riding along) and rail. Petersburg was evacuated on 2nd April and the Confederate army was pursued heading west. General Lee surrendered at the battle of Appomattox Courthouse a week later.

Petersburg has a historic centre, with cobbled streets and old brick buildings by the railway, including a handsome passenger train station. There were many notable church towers and spires and it had enough interest to make you glad you bothered to look. The areas leading in and away, however, seem very run down, including where I am staying. It’s very cheap, and it does the job, but you really do get what you pay for. I wouldn’t recommend this motel, except for the shower, which was excellent. I crossed the street to a nearby restaurant tonight and had a very pleasant pasta dish and a bottle of Guinness in the most bizarre surroundings. The music was not to my usual taste (I recognised Shaggy, but it all sounded similar) and was being played by a DJ in the corner of an otherwise empty room at ear splitting volume. It was so loud that I couldn’t speak to the lady who took my order from across the counter a foot away. Everyone was very nice to me, but I saw no-one else remotely like me inside all the time I was there. Big screens silently showed US college basketball games while I ate. I got there and back just fine; but to get inside the very friendly bouncer on the door first checked my ID and then frisked me for weapons. I offered to let him frisk me again when I left, which he found very amusing.

A long day of two pretty distinct parts. I spent all the morning and the early part of the afternoon trying to escape the clutches of Raleigh, a big and fast growing metropolitan area that I thought I had left more then once. Then, from early afternoon until I entered Virginia, my fifth state of this trip, the cycling was a most enjoyable experience along empty country roads that wound and gently undulated their way to the Roanoke River Valley, just over the state line. My final destination, Bracey, is a nothing sort of place. It’s the first junction up Interstate 95 from North Carolina, but the small road that it sits on seems inconsequential and the whole place is quiet. There are a couple of motels and gas stations, but only a fraction of the usual gaggle of tall signs, truck stops, fast food and so on. It’s quite a backwater.

Downtown Raleigh was easily reached from last night’s stop, and it turned out to be rather pleasing. I had forgotten that this is also the state capital of North Carolina, and the Capitol building sits proudly to the north side of the main downtown area, surrounded by a park with statues of presidents who came from these parts (James Knox Polk, 1845-49, who “enlarged the nation’s boundaries”, Andrew Jackson, 1829-37, who “revitalised American democracy”, and Andrew Johnson, 1865-69, who “defended the constitution”). Given current political events and the upheaval that tarriffs were having on world stock markets at the very moment I was there, one wondered what words might appear by statues of today’s president – should there ever be any – in years to come.

Despite the chaos being reported on the TV, things out in the real world of peoples daily lives looked quite normal. I stopped for tea and a cinnamon roll at a bakery, and then pushed on, knowing I had a long day still to tackle. The weather, once again, was pretty much perfect, and I thought everything was going well until I checked the map. I can’t blame anyone but myself, but I must have turned right when I should have turned left. Anyway, I managed to add on quite a few extra miles that I could have done without. It did give me the chance to use a fine looking bike trail up a pretty valley until, after a couple of miles, it turned into an unfinished construction zone and the trail turned to deep sand. My on the spot reroute required me to drag my bike across the grassy central median of a large divided Highway, but I got away with it.

It felt like wherever I went for the next couple of hours I was surrounded by recently built homes or large building sites for more. It was all around. Presumably there is demand for these suburban homes. They looked quite nice on the whole. It will add a lot more traffic on already quite busy roads, if this morning’s experience was anything to go by. But development seems to know no bounds here, and there is so much available land that they just keep on clearing trees and building.

Conscious of time and distance and the work still required of me to reach Bracey in daylight, I restricted my stops hereafter to a Publix supermarket, whose layout and freshly edible wares I have come to know quite well, and a couple of gas stations for drinks and ice cream. The rest of the time I basically just cycled. And just when I thought that every road would be busy like this all day, it all suddenly changed.

I took a side road out of the Main Street of a small town and found myself on the quietest of roads that basically stayed that way until I reached Virginia. I’m not sure why the transformation was so sudden and complete; but I was ready for it. The last forty miles or so were a delight. I passed a Cowboy Church, and a large lady who was trying to fasten her wheelie bin to the tow bar of her pickup truck. Otherwise things were unremarkable, in a good way. The blossom and flowers I had been enjoying these past days were still much in evidence. I even managed not to get lost again.

I reached Bracey around sunset. The state boundary on my small road was at a place that offered no obvious geographical barrier, unlike the broad Roanoke River that I crossed twenty minutes later. That is a much more obvious geographical dividing line. Who knows what they were thinking.

And so I have moved to within three days cycling of the nation’s capital, and the way things are going there may be no one left in a government job when I arrive. These are bizarre times indeed, especially here in this country. Today I passed a couple of very frayed and tattered US flags flying outside people’s homes, which is unusual in this patriotic land where the flag is such a potent symbol. You can’t help wondering whether it is a metaphor of some kind. Of course the flags can be replaced for newer, better ones. We live in hope.

I’m trying to get myself caught up so here are two days in one. I left Dillon after a morning at the local laundromat. All the machines are coin operated, which required a very large quantity of quarters. A lovely lady gave me some soap for the washing machine and now all my clothes are sweet smelling once again! There comes a point where this can’t be avoided any longer, and I was past that point.

That left half a day to cycle. As I left, I had a great conversation with one of the maids who wanted to clean my motel room. She was very curious about my trip and where I come from. Like many Americans, she wrongly placed my accent as Australian. This is a constant mystery to me. I am obviously not a local, and I dare say that in Dillon SC there are not a lot of foreign visitors; but every one watches movies, don’t they? Anyway, she asked me if the UK was like it is here in Dillon. The simple answer, obviously, was no. But then how do you start to explain why and how everything is so different to someone who has, for example, been to the coast (an hour away by car) just once in her life? I settled on everything here is much bigger. Which is true. Even the laundrette!

I found myself having a similar conversation with people working in the small family restaurant where I stopped for lunch in the middle of nowhere, after slipping unnoticed into North Carolina a few miles after Dillon. An empty road ran right along the state border between flat fields, and I took delight in weaving my way along the road crossing repeatedly from one state to the other. At no point in these back roads did I see a sign welcoming me to North Carolina. There were only signs for folks going the other way into South Carolina. Oh well.

I have made a habit these last three days of eating lunch in some very traditional, simple southern restaurants. You don’t get a menu to choose from, they just tell you what they have today. It is mostly things like fried chicken, yams, rice and gravy, cabbage, onion rings and so on, and it comes for a fixed price with a “beverage”. I always choose lemonade, which is sometimes pink. The other diners all seem to be simple, everyday folk and the staff are friendly and polite. And they always remark on my accent. Today, one waitress – who initially just asked me to talk – quizzed me at length and spoke about her dreams to see the world. But I couldn’t help thinking that these will likely remain dreams. For all the wealth in this rich country, there are a lot of people for whom life beyond their immediate jobs and surroundings is unfathomable. This lady, in her forties, spoke to me about her fear of dying, or being left alone when her family and friends were no longer around. It’s quite hard to know what to say, except to wish everyone luck and tell them anything is possible.

The cycling in North Carolina was a delight. I spent hours on deserted roads and passed through very few towns. It got a bit busier as I got close to Fayetteville, a big city, but my motel in the city centre was in a quiet area near the deserted train station, behind which was a small, modern baseball stadium where a game was taking place. Not wishing to miss out on a cultural experience, I walked down there and enjoyed the last five innings of a pre-season exhibition game between the Fayetteville Woodpeckers and the Asheville Tourists (both minor league affiliates of the Houston Astros, it turned out). I knew from previous experience that this would be a great way to spend the evening and enjoy food and drink in a relaxed, friendly setting, while not paying too much attention to the rather dull sport going on in front of me. And so it proved. You don’t really need to appreciate baseball too much, because they do this kind of sporting occasion very well in this country. It wasn’t a big crowd tonight but everyone was having a great time. I was even given a free pretzel, which partly compensated for the astronomical price of the surprisingly good beer on sale. And that is why I never wrote my blog last night. But I went to bed happy.

This morning I returned to start my journey in the city centre of Fayetteville and found it to my liking. There were murals, sculptures, a park being enjoyed by many school kids, a museum and some good old brick buildings that were now mostly bars and restaurants, just opening up for the day. At the main intersection, in the middle of a traffic circle, stood the old market hall with a red brick clock tower that faced in all four directions. All very pleasing, in a modest way.

It wasn’t really the city centre, because in minutes I was rolling through the countryside on rural roads past some very nice homes. I stopped after an hour for another traditional restaurant experience. The grandmotherly lady at the counter helped me decide what I would eat, wrote it down and gave me a slip to take to another lady at a serving hatch, who disappeared to cook my meal and then called my name when it was ready. I felt like I was in a bygone era. I don’t think they get too many visitors like me, but they were very kind and welcoming,

I still had perhaps fifty miles to go to reach Raleigh, and at about this point in the day, hills started to appear. Not big hills, but for the first time since Key West, the land was definitely no longer flat. I thought it was all the better for it, too. Things continued to be generally attractive for the rest of the way, with an ever increasing abundance of fruit blossom on the trees in peoples’ gardens, complemented by the continuing presence of azaleas and wisteria. I was also now in farming country, with large, open fields of crops all around. I rode in the slipstream of a JCB for a couple of miles on a quiet lane, much to the amusement of the driver. I reached speeds I can’t usually touch with almost no effort. But he wasn’t going my way, so we parted with a friendly wave and I went back to enjoying a following breeze to propel me along on this lovely warm sunny day – my twenty-second in a row in a row since landing in Miami in mid March.

I followed my nose though the countryside and crossed an area full of historical marker signs to commemorate the Civil War battle of Averasboro. The I stopped for an impromptu cup of Earl Grey in a coffee shop in a small town of a Buies Creek, which turned out to be dominated almost completely by the smart buildings of Campbell University, whose mascot is a fighting camel. They have a life size sculpture of one in the centre of town, Really.

Around this point in the afternoon I accidentally regained the route of the East Coast Greenway, and saw a smattering of cycle signs by the side of the road. But it didn’t last long, as it never seems to. Notwithstanding it was an excellent day of cycling. All of which brings me to roughly the half way point in my journey between Key West and Boston. I hope to reach Washington DC in four days from here; but that is a whole state and more away. After tonight’s huge Mexican meal, however, I may not need to eat again before I arrive!

I turned away from the coast today. It had to happen at some point. I decided that was now, in the hope of not adding unnecessary miles in my route to Washington DC. And so I took to the back roads of the interior and headed north through rural South Carolina. From a cycling perspective the day was what I would I have hoped for: 85 miles on very quiet roads and good alternatives to the main routes without adding miles. In between there were a handful of small, country towns to break up the trees and empty spaces, and provide refreshment when it was required.

The weather was again fabulous. The morning offered a little cloud cover, but the sun broke through around lunchtime and stayed until the end of the day. Temperatures were in the low seventies. That’s two weeks of nothing but sunshine and gentle breezes. Not bad.

The roadsides were regularly punctuated by small churches. There is even a warning sign you often pass that simply says ‘Church’ on it when one is approaching. Perhaps there is reason to apply extra caution. They were quite simple affairs from the outside. There were many versions of Baptist, Methodist, Anglican and Pentecostal to choose between, including a couple of African Methodist churches, which I didn’t expect. The towns were mostly quite run down, but an exception was Marion, which was actually rather pretty and had a good collection of beautiful homes either side of the town centre. But my general impression of this part of the state is that it is quite poor, and there was much evidence of people living in fairly basic housing, often not in the best repair.

I stopped for lunch on the edge of Johnsonville at the Shady Rest Family Restaurant, and walked into another decade. It was a large, simply furnished place with many diners, mostly older than me. I sat at the counter and chose from the daily specials board: fried chicken plus three sides (rice and gravy, string beans and corn), It was filling and good value. Around me various conversations could be overheard in southern drawls. At the end, I was momentarily thrown when I paid by credit card and included the tip on the merchant’s copy of the receipt, that you have to sign. That is standard practice. I was then handed that amount in cash from the till where I paid, as if they owed me change. This is not. The nice lady explained that I should now take that cash and place it where I had been seated. “We like to do things the old fashioned way here”, she said.

Everyone in the restaurant, expect for a couple of staff, was white. But most people I see as I cycle along, or when I stop in gas stations, are black. Many wave or nod as I go past. Tonight in a Japanese restaurant I was served by an a Indian looking waitress who spoke with as strong a southern accent as a I have heard. It’s good to have your expectations challenged. It was a mutual process, because she had just mopped the floor as I entered half an hour before closing time which, as I pointed out, left plenty of time for them to serve me a delicious meal. And, to be fair, after the initial reset, that’s exactly what they did. They had no beer, so I made do with Mr Pibb.