With apologies to E. L. James and to salivating readers anticipating a titillating expose, other than the caption this occasional piece bears as much resemblance to her mega-selling (twenty million worldwide if one includes the entire trilogy) tale of sexual obsession as my cycling prowess does to Lance Armstrong's.
Although I haven't read this post-adolescent Harry Potter -- nor do I intend to -- despite the enthusiastic endorsement of a male friend who, to protect the innocent, shall remain anonymous, and, when it comes to books, my own mindless proclivity for following the herd, I believe I have gleaned a sense of its content from a bemused scanning of online reviews and a surreptitious browsing in airport news stands. Simply put, if I'm going to waste my time mired in pornographic slime, dare I admit that I prefer more explicit material?
While the relevance of the title of Ms. James's initial volume to my convoluted ruminations will be disclosed in good time, that of its sequel, Fifty Shades Darker, will resonate immediately with sixty thousand Central Virginians (and millions of other recently afflicted souls throughout six mid-Atlantic states).
On the night of June 29, a devastating derecho -- a frontal windstorm generating gusts in excess of seventy miles per hour -- swept through Lynchburg, ripping trees from the ground, sawing off heavy branches, crippling power lines, and mangling homes and automobiles. Not only the lights went out; an oppressive grimness settled over an embattled populace struggling to cope with unrelenting one hundred degree temperatures, widespread food spoilage, and the uncharted waters of technology deprivation. During this most harrowing of weeks, humanity blossomed as thousands rallied in support of their ailing neighbors.
At 9:30 PM, as a wall of wind shrieks around my house and tree trunks shake and bend like slender reeds -- the two in my yard miraculously survive -- a curtain of darkness descends with a suddenness and certitude that portend no temporary interruption. I have just tossed my last shirt into my oversized duffle bag, a stroke of good fortune, since a perfunctory search of my bedroom nightstands fails to unearth from its usual hiding place my household flashlight, which seems to have vanished from the premises at the most inopportune time. A mini-light attached to my key chain provides just enough illumination for me to feel my way to the bed and bury myself beneath the still-cool sheets.
The extent of the havoc wreaked by this storm is a revelation to all but the most jaded war veteran. When I venture out at 6:30 the next morning for a five-mile jog (I don't run anymore) to Riverside Park and back, I gape at the large tree that has fallen onto my neighbor's driveway and battered his roof. I maneuver around a telephone pole leaning precariously across Langhorne Road and a fallen tree blocking Riverside Terrace. Every yard is littered with twigs, limbs, and verdant debris. A handful of curiosity-seekers, out for no ordinary stroll, are wandering around in shock and disbelief.
Feeling rather useless amidst all the confusion, I return home and spend an hour skimming a thousand leaves off the surface of my pool.
At this point, attentive readers may be wondering why I was packing a duffel bag at the exact moment the dolorous derecho passed overhead. Was I acting in accord with some supernatural premonition that indeed the misery index of the next seven days would soar to a stratospheric level and mandate my immediate escape to some distant location?
Having previously acknowledged on this website my abiding skepticism in the existence of a universal Prime Agent, I was somewhat amused to read of a local citizen's profound gratitude to the Almighty for sparing his family when a tree crashed through his kitchen. As for me, I admit that it is mere mundane coincidence -- pure blind luck -- that JSG and I have scheduled a cycling trip to Ireland from June 30 to July 8, departing Lynchburg the day after power expires and returning the day after it revives.
Not that we are able to avoid all of the collateral damage.
In an uncharacteristic flash of brilliance -- at least with regard to household matters -- I wisely dump the contents of my freezer -- one frozen pizza, a package of veggie burgers, and an ice bin -- but not of my refrigerator, wishfully thinking that my bread, soy milk, orange juice, and cottage cheese might outlast the blackout. (They don't.)
By the time I leave my house to pick up JSG one-half mile away, Langhorne Road has been barricaded by a repair crew. I make a u-turn, intending to approach her street by a circuitous route via Linkhorne Drive, Old Forest Road, Link Road, and Rivermont Avenue, which affords me yet another perspective on the scope of this disaster.
When I reach Oakwood Country Club, I am again stymied, by a huge tree which has fallen across the Avenue just before Virginia Baptist Hospital. Well, if we are planning to cycle forty miles a day, surely we can walk one. JSG sets out from her house with a rolling bag and two backpacks, while I hike down Oakwood Place to meet her halfway and help transport the luggage to my car, both of us sweltering in the early morning ninety degree heat, dressed as we are for the cooler clime of the Emerald Isle (fifty to sixty degrees, according to the Weather Channel).
Once safely aboard our trusty Hyundai Genesis, we manage to navigate our way around and through various orange cones and detours to the city limits and to our city of embarkation, Greensboro, North Carolina; having procrastinated several weeks before making our international reservations, we discovered it offered us a twenty per cent per ticket savings.
Have we been penny wise and pound foolish -- as the Irish might say? Once again, the most unfriendly airline in the skies, United, subjects us to agonizing suspense -- delaying our Greensboro departure one hour, narrowing our interterminal connection window in Newark to a scant forty-five minutes, and testing the patience of the normally imperturbable JSG, who, fearful of missing our overnight to Shannon, bemoans our impecunious decision not to leave a day early. Not to worry.
By the way, on our return, United's woeful reputation remains unblemished. After a four hour layover, not only does our flight from Newark to Greensboro leave the gate ninety minutes late, upon taxiing out on the runway, we abruptly reverse course, motor back to our starting point, and are politely informed that the porters neglected to load the transferred baggage (one reason I never check any). By the time we are again in line, twenty planes and thirty minutes are ahead of us. We land in Greensboro at 8:30 PM instead of 5:30 PM, a sad commentary on the United slogan imprinted on their courtesy napkins: Our planes may change but our priorities never do. To which I must cynically add: like never getting you to your destination on time.
A cursory examination indicates that our daily junkets will neither be as lengthy nor as demanding as those on our previous excursion to the Fruili region of Italy, which I documented on this website in July 2011 under the heading Pedaling Through a Postcard.
Having maintained a competent pace for the duration -- while generally outperforming my companions -- I am smugly dismissive of JSG's repeated exhortations that a rigorous training regimen is recommended. An occasional twenty-mile spin from her house along the Blackwater Creek Bike Trail to Percival's Isle and back will surely suffice, I insist, since, truthfully, no amount of time in the saddle will ever condition my nether parts to the persistent soreness that is endemic to this sport, nor will more expensive pants moderate it, as I have stepped up to the $110 iteration, with no noticeable palliative effect.
Besides, I remind her, we have already survived the worst -- a brutal fifty-miler along the Greenbrier River Trail near Lewisburg, West Virginia. When some friends of ours were the beneficiaries of a free night at the luxurious (and expensive) Greenbrier Resort, they invited us to come along -- at the full rate -- for a pleasant evening together and a scenic ride the next day.
We were advised it would be downhill all the way -- but a three per cent grade over fifty miles is inconsequential, especially along a cinder track, and required steady, strenuous, second-gear pedaling on our cumbersome mountain bikes from start to finish. Neglecting to bring along adequate provisions didn't help the situation. We passed only one rest stop, where we searched in vain for a vending machine and had to hand pump water from a well. Needless to say, after five hours of intense, numbing, throbbing pain, when the last mile marker was mercifully in sight, this novice was famished, parched, exhausted, and horribly bruised.
At least it didn't rain.
Like it does every day in Ireland.
How is it that my dear partner, JSG, a cycling devotee, is so intimidated by any hint of precipitation back home in Lynchburg, yet can't wait to brave the tempest (at least it's not a derecho) that inaugurates our vacation?
Standard operating procedure in these affairs (as a veteran, I speak with authority) is for all tourists to gather en masse outdoors to be introduced to their equipment by their guides; but so daunting is the downpour this afternoon that each of us must be fitted individually under a sheltering porch, while the others remain as warm and dry as possible huddling near a fire in the common room of our hotel.
Fortunately, we only ride twelve miles -- six out and six back -- but it's hardly the "warm up" advertised. The temperature is a chilly fifty-five degrees. The rain soaks my shoes, my socks, my pants, my shirt, and my brand new authentic water-resistant (but not water-proof) cycling jacket. A headwind continuously buffets us -- in both directions, inexplicably shifting one hundred eighty degrees in conjunction with our own turnaround. Clinging to the unfamiliar left edge of the road, we expect to see oncoming cars bearing down on us; instead they douse us from behind.
Casting a quizzical glance toward my new acquaintances, I believe I can read their minds: for this we paid thousands of dollars?
The next morning, after a hearty breakfast (which soon becomes the norm) of porridge (Irish oatmeal), eggs (poached, scrambled, fried, or boiled), yoghurt, scones, croissants, toast, Canadian bacon, sausage, fish, and gallons of rich, dark coffee, we set off on a gradual climb toward what some friends have described as Ireland's premier tourist attraction -- the Cliffs of Moher. This stunning natural wonder rises seven hundred feet from the Atlantic at its highest point, and is even more spectacular when seen from an off shore cruising vessel -- not part of our itinerary.
It wouldn't matter today, however. Because just as we are becoming acclimated -- or resigned -- to the incessant rain and wind, a third element of terror envelops us, dense fog, which would be distressing enough in itself, until a beastly tour bus creeps up behind me and rumbles by.
Since I can barely discern approaching headlights, I shudder at the thought of my own ghostly invisibility, until a fellow rider praises the luminescence of my lime green jacket, which apparently pierces the gloom like a signal flare.
When we reach the summit of the cliffs, we accept their magnificence as a matter of faith, since there's really nothing to see, so shrouded are we in this opaque cocoon. I suspect we are not the only gawkers to miss the show; some foresighted officials have established an elaborate Visitors' Center, which offers a bird's eye virtual exploration of the topography and a backlit image for photo opportunities so realistic no one back home will ever know the difference.
Actually, for a few lucky sightseers lingering at the observation station, the clouds part momentarily to reveal a breathtaking view -- or so I am told.
Then, as we lean into our descent, as if on cue, the veil lifts, the sun awakens, and gorgeous vistas open up -- rolling green hills crisscrossed by miles of rock walls delineating fields and farms, a landscape that slopes gradually toward a jagged waterfront sculpted by bays and rivers. We pedal past isolated homes, cozy bed and breakfasts, tiny villages displaying a single cafe or pub, at one of which, Vaughan's, beneath the brazen sign "Drink, feak (?), arse, girls," we have lunch: squash soup, beef stew flavored with Guinness, and raspberry cobbler with ice cream.
Some of the country roads are no wider than bike trails and barely able to accommodate one car, much less two passing in opposite directions. Fortunately, traffic is scarce.
Suddenly I am perspiring profusely beneath my all-weather jacket. I stop, take it off, consider stuffing it into my handlebar bag, and then naively tie it around my waist. A mile further on I hear a strange clicking sound -- probably some minor gear malfunction, I assume. It grows louder, and then I feel a slight tug against my shoulders, at first a mere inconvenience, but within a minute or so tight enough to compel me to dismount.
Well, my formerly pristine jacket has become entangled in a brake caliper; when I finally dislodge it, I see that it is coated in grease and ripped in several places, providing plenty of extra ventilation, in the words of more than one presumptive comedian. But the joke's on them; if this tattered windbreaker can stay intact five more days, I resolve to bequeath it to our final Irish hotelier.
The next morning we detour twice before tracking down the peripatetic farmer-philosopher, Shane, who is to be our resident professor as we explore the Burren. Clambering up, over, and around the protruding rocks is no easy undertaking for this crowd, even supported by the polished, wooden walking sticks Shane extracts from his duffel bag like a slick magician, while cautioning us to step carefully and scolding one indoors man for grasping the wrong end.
Speaking rapidly and in a brittle accent hardly English to me, Shane proves to be an inexhaustible resource on the history, geology, flora, and fauna of the region. We learn about four layers of rock (sandstone, limestone, shale, and granite) deposited three hundred million years ago; about clints and grimes (slabs and cracks); about rock wall construction (which is possible at a rate of three meters per hour, if one knows what he is doing); about medieval social mores (according to which women were responsible for providing fuel and shelter, and consequently for cutting down all the trees); and about winter and summer cattle grazing patterns.
He kneels to point out tiny spring gentians, geraniums, sandworts, orchids, and milkweed. He tells us to keep our eyes peeled for rabbits, hares, large lizards (but no snakes), and red squirrels (a wedding gift imported from the U. S. at the turn of the century), but we don't see any. Along the way he disparages organized religion (especially the bishops, all of them, going back a thousand years), marriage (no different from depression, he says), and spendthrifts (much better to invest, he counsels).
When it's all over, we concur that Shane's moniker as the Oracle of County Clare is well deserved.
The sky is overcast, the air misty, chilly, and damp, as we follow a snaking downhill course along the coast toward Doolin, where we will catch a late afternoon ferry to Inishmore, the largest of the Aran Islands. Gazing at the horizon, I am struck by the pervasive greyness of the scene -- the clouds, the water, the terrain, the walls, indeed, fifty shades of grey, each element blending into the others in lighter and darker gradations of non-color.
Even the natives -- the men in their grizzled beards and knitted beanies and the women in their dun woolens and all-weather wraps -- manifest a grey, grim resolve to persevere in the face of their harsh climate and faltering economy.
When I inquire of one seasoned cafe proprietor what his forecast is for the day ahead, his poignant witticism captures in three words the state of a nation and the fortitude of its citizenry: "Rain between showers."
In fairness, not all is bleak in the Emerald Isle. It takes only a brief burst of sunshine to illuminate the lush foliage that blankets the mountains and valleys in "fifty shades of green," and signifies all things Irish. Certainly that title would have been an appropriate one -- were your chronicler not so habitually pessimistic.
The next day -- July 4th -- our escort on the interesting island of Inishmore is an animated young woman named Fionola, as fluent, knowledgeable, and (to me) incomprehensible as Shane; as the mother of three, however, she is not so rough-hewn, and more charming, empathetic, and self-effacing.
Fionola leads us up Jacob's Ladder to the roofless remains of Teampall Chiarain, built in fourth or fifth century as a pastoral retreat. One of our techno-savvy fellow travelers uses an app on his i-phone to validate that one window in fact points due east. Outside, I am dubious of the utility of a sundial in a place where the sun rarely shines. JSG dutifully falls in line with a cohort circumambulating a fish-shaped well, tossing stones in the head cavity, seven times, we are told, the number necessary to assure the fulfillment of one's wish -- while I, ever the skeptic, stealthily retire after three leisurely loops.
Our second stop is the famous Dun Aengus, a massive ringed citadel composed of three semi-circular concentric rock wall enclosures -- at least one of which is five feet wide -- perched on the edge of a cliff -- half of which may have fallen into the ocean -- towering three hundred feet above the Atlantic. Its mythology is that it was built by a medieval ruler to pacify a younger son jealous of his older brother's fort.
The rocky path ascending to the peak is nearly impassable for those serious cyclists wearing cleated -- as opposed to my tennis -- shoes, one of whom makes the arduous trek in her stocking feet. I suppose it is a worthwhile effort, unless one's cowardly fear of heights keeps him yards away from the unprotected drop, like mine does. JSG, on the other hand, can barely restrain herself; she lies down flat on her stomach, sticks her head over the cliff edge, and, of course, takes a picture.
The third island attraction, the Worm Hole, an Olympic size pool carved out of rock by the ebb and flow of the sea, presents further obstacles for wimps like me. As if scaling walls wasn't difficult enough, halfway there the trail deteriorates into a treacherous expanse of broken, wet stones inviting me to slip, break an ankle, or plunge my foot into a shallow pit of water. I turn back, once again dependent upon JSG's digital images to experience a vicarious thrill.
Back on the mainland, the luck of the Irish turns our way. Having shadowed and showered us almost continuously since our arrival, having conditioned us to the rigors of this changeable climate, having denied us even a few hours of pleasurable cycling, the wind and rain decide to abate; suddenly the peaceful solitude and rugged beauty of West Ireland are wondrous to behold.
For three glorious days we wend our way through the gentle declivities and modest curves of the Connemara -- enchanted by the crystalline blue of scattered inland ponds, the felicitous harmony of grey-green rock-strewn fields, the unexpected sighting of craggy mountain peaks, the laced network of lakes and rivers flowing to the sea, and the steep ten-mile shoreline of Killarney Harbor, Ireland's only fjord.
When we regroup to refresh our palates and rest our aching body parts, a full menu of Irish delights awaits us:
*The picturesque market town of Clifden, also a dual historical oddity, the site where Guglielmo Marconi built the first long wave wireless telegraph station in 1907 and where Alcock and Brown crash landed in 1919 after completing the first trans-atlantic flight;
*In Roundstone, a visit to the world-renowned shop of the legendary Malachy Kearns, where he and his artisans handcraft Ireland's oldest product, the bodhran, a one-sided circular drum, which, when struck properly on its goatskin surface by a "tipper," emits a subtle, mystical sound;
*An amazing demonstration by sheep farmer Joe Joyce, whose trained border collie dashes up the side of a mountain, ferrets out a half dozen hidden blackface sheep, and, by bounding from side to side and nipping at their feet, directs them downhill through a gate and into a corral, whereupon Joe, wielding a pair of hand clippers, deftly proceeds to remove the fleece, in a single piece, no less, although the wool is worth only one euro per kilogram, compared to the three thousand euros Joe earns for selling one of his dogs;
*An introduction to the thousand-year-old sport of falconry, during which we learn that these noble birds can dive bomb their prey at speeds in excess of two hundred miles per hour, but in captivity are rather tame and skittish creatures, which, when launched by gentle swing of one's arm, will return promptly as if by command to an extended gloved wrist and probe the hand for a well-deserved treat;
*Accommodations at a bona fide castle, Ballynahinch, situated on four hundred fifty acres of private grounds, where our luxurious suite overlooks the Owenmore River and a idyllic walk through the forest allows us to immerse ourselves in the natural habitat and relax after a long day in the saddle;
*Our last night in Galway, along with a hundred thousand others, who swarm into the streets celebrating the last leg of the round-the-world Volvo Boat race, circulate through an ocean of dockside vendors hawking t-shirts, hoodies, hand puppets, sailor hats, jewelry, pizza, fish and chips, gelatin, and milk shakes, and party till the wee hours of the morning in the bar on the second floor of our hotel, negating our need for a wake-up call;
*As the proper complement to our daily consumption of such Irish staples as seafood chowder, salmon, mussels, mashed potatoes, fried potatoes, boiled potatoes, and brown potatoes, frequent and generous imbibing of Guinness stout, which, we learn, is dispensed in three stages, must be allowed to settle two minutes regardless of the intensity of one's thirst, and is often served with the tasty outline of a shamrock decorating the head.
For eight days our travels are enhanced by some very congenial company. The tone is set early on when our guide Henrick informs us that we will be passing through Joyce County, homeland of one of the ancient tribes of Ireland, and, coincidentally, we have a genuine Joyce among us, Ed Joyce, from Manhattan, looking for some long-lost cousins. Well, he tossed me a softball, and, ever the quipster, I can't let the opportunity slide. I profess membership in another tribe, not an Irish one.
And I'm not alone. Half our crowd is also Jewish.
There's Joel and Harriet, also from Manhattan. He's a former investment analyst who wearied of the Wall Street wars, enrolled in rabbinical school four years ago, and is now set to begin his new career teaching in a Jewish day school. When I casually mention that our Lynchburg congregation is looking for a new rabbi, Harriet -- herself an MBA with a resume in the health care industry -- is aghast at the thought, as if such a move would be as demented as cycling in a rain storm.
Then there are the four Dabs, the San Francisco Dabs, whose surname reminds me of a sixties rock group or a hair cream commercial -- Mike, a dentist, Sue, a pediatrician, and their two twenty-something daughters, Jaclyn (not JSG's Jacqueline) and Deb (Dab!). They all have beaming smiles and perfect teeth, which is not surprising, considering Mike's manual dexterity. If he handles his drill, extractor, scaler, and probe as skillfully as his i-phone/camera, sign me up for a root canal.
Ed Joyce, all six foot six inches, was raised a Catholic but converted to Judaism twenty years ago when he married his wife Linda. Maintaining their kosher diet on this trip is no easy task; shunning the ubiquitous stews and shellfish, they test the salmon salad at almost every dining establishment.
Boisterous yet sensitive, Ed reminds of my father, who never met a stranger. He's an attorney who represents Fortune 500 companies suing their insurance carriers for welching on claims -- like the one hundred fifty million dollar award he negotiated for U. S. Steel when two foundries blew up. Linda immediately earns my approbation by brandishing three novels she is reading simultaneously. Yet beneath her studied reserve lurks the flinty determination of a cancer survivor; also an attorney, she litigated a billion dollar life insurance settlement for Holocaust victims.
Poor Ed's accident prone; four years ago, when he was rowing on the Hudson River, a motorboat collision took the life of the friend seated beside him. True to form, our first day out he suffers a bad fall dodging a car pulling out of a driveway. But neither this, nor a burst tire, nor a broken gear cable can slow him down or dampen his good humor -- although the last incident requires our super fit guide Henrik to pedal the damaged bicycle three miles to the next village on basically the front wheel.
Rounding out the package are the Downes from Sacramento. Judy, the gritty seventy-two year old matriarch of the family, still works her son Jack's construction sites; this week, however, despite several valiant start-ups, the inclement weather and a nagging cough dispatch her to the sagwagon. Jack and his girl friend Kristen are high school sweethearts reconnecting for the third time, which, if their inseparability is any indication, should be the charm. Jack's sister Jody is a tall, willowy ob/gyn, as is her husband John, whose crooked gait is a stark reminder of his own horrific biking accident, when, twenty years ago, he flipped over the handlebars and broke his elbow and pelvic bone in two places. Their two teenage daughters, Jordan and Sidney, gamely keep up the pace, with hardly a grimace or complaint.
Keeping us en route, on schedule, and well-stocked with beverages and roadside snacks are our two expatriate guides. The Irishman Henrik is well-versed in his country's history, geography, and culture, and imparts his wisdom at opportune moments in a professional, unobtrusive manner. Several years ago he moved to Italy to race two-wheelers, but, as fate would have it, fell for a local beauty, and now, to support her and a prospective team of youngsters, is organizing an internet company to sell high-end bicycle equipment. His associate, Jessica, is no less adventuresome, having leaped from Kentucky to Italy, where she teaches English to elementary school students.
As JSG and I bid farewell to this land of grey and green -- our eagerly anticipated and seemingly endless vacation having come to an abrupt conclusion -- I reflect upon the remarkable changes that have overtaken my own life.
Three years ago I never thought my marriage, nor my running career, would fracture -- not to equate the two in significance; after all, as my doctor said, one can more easily divest himself of a wife than he can repair an arthritic knee.
Two years ago I never thought I would mount a bicycle, much less ride fifty miles a day in a foreign country. But now, thanks to JSG, I submit there is no better way to travel -- for exercise, sightseeing, education, camaraderie, and the joy of shared experiences.
