Author: Richard

Boosterism.

We all like to big ourselves up a bit. (Hell if it wasn’t for the photographic evidence to the contrary I’d probably claim to have crossed America on a unicycle – half the number of wheels equals double the achievement). And so it is with towns. Especially small towns. Places  like Vidalia where we’re staying on our final night before – all being well – crossing the finishing line and baptising our wheels in the Atlantic tomorrow, a mere 27 days and 3,000 miles after christening them in the Pacific. Vidalia, you see, is home to the “world famous” Vidalia sweet onion (Vidalia’s quotes not mine) . Now I’m not terribly well versed in culinary matters but have you heard of Vidalia sweet onions? Thought not. Talking up one’s town is called boosterism (thank you Conal) and it became endemic as America expanded westwards with new towns trying to outbid one another for residents and in doing so boost land prices.  Not so much supply and demand more lie and demand. But on balance I suppose it’s better to be famous for sweet onions than, say, Anaheim’s claim to fame. The Californian city is home to the inventor of the “world famous” pooper scooper (my quotes not Anaheim’s).

At the end of every day’s riding I take a shower. Get rid of the grit and the grime. Freshen up. Let the jets of water ease tired muscles. Well today I had three showers. It’s not that I’ve developed some cycling-induced obsessive compulsive disorder. It’s just that it rained on us for the first time. The rain showers were nearly as hot as the one in the hotel bathroom. In fact if I’d slipped a bar of soap into my cycling pants I could have saved a whole lot of time later and finished the ride squeaky clean. Or at least squeaky. I enjoyed riding in the rain. It reminded me of  home. Reduced the air temperature and increased the speed. The only down side? Prune fingers, prune toes and, though I didn’t look to check, prune cheeks.

Not many pictures, by the way, because I didn’t want prune iPhone.

No dogs today. Except one firmly on a leash, cast in bronze and, therefore, not chasing cyclists (though I swear I saw his nose twitch as I rode past). We saw the hound in question at the Fort Benning army base where he and his master are part of a memorial to the hundreds of “combat canines” killed in action – many of them in Vietnam. Just goes to prove that they can be man’s best friend – just not so much in Alabama.

Yesterday I was decrying the fact that riding across America at an average of 16 mph leaves little time for proper inquiry at the places we pass and that consequently our view of them is impressionistic – urban, hot and dry, windy and cold, dusty, hot and wet, green, very green, very hot, very wet…

Well a little inquiry into last night’s stopover – Columbus, Georgia – reveals a few interesting facts. The last battle of the American Civil War was fought there in 1865 after General Lee’s surrender and the assassination of Abraham Lincoln. Nobody had thought of  informing either the Confederate stronghold or a Union detachment sent to sack it.

The inventor of Coca-Cola, Dr. John Pemberton, was wounded in this battle. Had he died how different – and thinner – America might be. Apparently he developed the drink to try to wean himself off an addiction to morphine which he was taking to ease the pain of his sabre wounds. Little was he to know that a whole nation would become addicted to the stuff. Hell even I’m becoming addicted to it. I rarely if ever touch fizzy drinks (beer and sparkling wines excepted) back home but here I’m drinking a can of his brew every day. It’s refreshing in temperatures nudging the 90s (Fahrenheit) and the sugar “rush” keeps the legs spinning. With only two days of riding left I’m going to be getting cold turkey. Or getting fat.

One of the biggest differences between travelling by two wheels instead of four is that a bicycle journey can be enjoyed not only by the eyes but also by the ears, the skin and the nose.

As far as those last two senses are concerned Alabama feels like a wet blanket and smells like a wet blanket. Or, at the risk of sounding like some poncey wine connoisseur, at least the base notes are wet blanket. The top notes range from the cloying sweetness of honeysuckle through freshly cut grass (the Americans love their ride on mowers) to gut-wrenching road kill. Armadillos may have a tough exoskeleton but it’s no match for a 40 tonne semi-trailer (that’s juggernaut to non-Americans).

Little things remind you how bloody big this country is. And not the obvious little things like sitting on a bike for seven or eight hours a day to get from one reasonable sized town to another. Things like house numbers. Imagine living at 15,887 Vicious Dog Creek Road. Actually I made the road name up but not the number (see picture below). In the UK I’ve never lived in a house with a number greater than 75.

And it’s not just house numbers that are big. Everything’s big.  Including the people. Supersize humans waddle (and I mean waddle) around supersize malls that they’ve driven to in supersize cars. They eat supersize meals (which is, of course, a part of the problem). In fact people with an athletic build are so few and far between that they are the ones who turn heads. Fat is the new norm. Going large is easy and cheap. Or rather it’s cheap in the short term. The long term costs – for example in terms of public health – are huge. Or should I say supersized?

Crossed into Georgia today – the last state in our epic ride across America. Three days to go. Three hundred miles to go. Will I be glad it’s over? I’ll let you know…

Click on the music then look at the pictures.

The dogs here in Alabama are like doodlebugs. The ones that bark are the V1s that tormented London earlier in the Second World War.  You can hear them coming a long way off and take evasive action (not so much head for the Andersen shelter more pedal like crazy to outrun them). The ones that don’t bark are like the silent V2s that rained down on the capital towards the end of the conflict  – altogether more scary. Canine stealth bombers if you will. Pouncing from the undergrowth with barely a snarl until the saliva specked teeth are so close to your calf muscles that you can feel the wet heat. So far none has found its target but at the current rate – 7 or so dogs an hour – it can only be a matter of time before a “direct hit.” The Kiwis have suggested I send Rose up ahead. Not such a bad idea….