Rescued!

I am in the land of lush deciduous forests now. 

"Do you need help?"
"Umm, errr," I mumbled. Random guy in a pick-up truck, I'm supposed to be suspicious right?
"I saw you going off the road here and I thought you were looking for a place to get out of the rain under the bridge. I've got a car port you can set your tent up in if you want. I know I'm a stranger and all, but you look like you could use some help and I live just down the road. I'm Tim by the way."
"Well, uh, I guess," I managed., "my name is Sonya."

Lots of small roads

 It was pouring rain, I was soaked and freezing cold and the only thing I had to look forward to was a soggy patch of ground under some not-particularly-thick tree cover and a few carrots and celery for dinner. So we loaded my bike into the back of Tim's truck and he drove me a mile or so down the road to his house, dropped me off, and headed out to get dinner. And just like that, my situation reversed itself.

My nervousness about staying with someone I had no connection to gradually ebbed as Tim made every effort to make me feel at home. By the time I had taken a warm shower, washed and dried my clothes, eaten dinner and talked about my trip for a while, my nervousness was transformed to amazement at the generosity of my host. The evening I spent talking to Tim, his son and his son's girlfriend was truly wonderful, and when I went to sleep that night in a warm, dry bed out of the rain, I shook my head in wonder at a world in which someone would go so far out of their way to help a soggy biker get out of the rain and total strangers can become friends overnight.

Two days later, I found myself in a similar situation, and again, I was rescued without a moment's hesitation. On Saturday, I started to notice a slight unsteadiness in my bike when I was flying downhill, but I couldn't place the cause. It was another cold, rainy day, and I was freezing, so I didn't have much patience for checking over my bike. But after a quick stop at a convenience store, my bike started making a noise as if something were rubbing on the rear tire. I got off my bike and checked the fenders, but nothing seemed to be amiss. The noise continued, so I searched for something that was interfering with the tire several more times, but I couldn't find anything.

Finally, after I had already gone a few miles down the road, I realized that the noise was coming from a huge bump on the tire itself. My tire had ripped open completely along one seam, allowing the tube to bulge out like an angry black blister. Luckily, I had a thorn resistant tube in the back which had been able to maintain its integrity relatively well, so the tube was still holding air. But between the rubbing of the tire and the unsteadiness caused by its uneven surface, I knew I didn't have long to go before the tube would blow. So I made my way back to an abandoned building with a large awning I had passed, and commenced with the rather haphazard art of repairing the tire.

Notice the tree growing out of the silo!

It soon became apparent however, that I was not going to be able to go far on the broken tire, so I called up Dan, a warm showers host who lived thirty miles away, and asked if he knew of any bike shops in the area. I soon learned that the closest bike shops were in Chattanooga, more than 40 miles away, so I started planning out an emergency evacuation route, but Dan called me back and informed me that he was in Walmart buying a tire for my bike and that he would pick me up and take me back to his place for the night.

"Are you sure?" I asked, hesitant to cause such trouble.
"Yeah, don't worry about it," Dan replied, "it's a rainy day and I figured you'd rather sleep inside tonight. We can fix up your bike in my shop."

Such altruistic acts of kindness have followed me everywhere I have pedaled on this long journey. The first question people ask when I tell them that I started biking in San Francisco is: "Nobody's given you trouble?" Every time I can only say that I have not met a single person who has shown any ill intent toward me. Not one in well over 3,000 miles of biking and many nights camping in the strangest of places. Is that just luck? I cannot say, but I let it be a constant reminder that life is a gift and that people, no matter what their background, perspective, political stance or religious affiliation, are inherently kind, loving and thoughtful, and it is only through hiding from fear and trauma that hurtful behavior is manifested.

A proper tourist

Nevertheless, I am still careful, especially in these last few weeks when I know it will be easy to let down my guard in anticipation of being home. I have finally crossed back into my home time zone and I am near the border with North Carolina. I decided to change my route a little and bike Northeast to the Smoky Mountains Peace Pagoda (http://www.smokeymountainpeacepagoda.com/) where I will help build the peace pagoda, for I still have plenty of time before my departing train from Charlotte on June 2nd.

 It has been absolutely amazing to not feel any time pressure, and I have enjoyed taking easy days and stopping along the way like a proper tourist. No, not a bike tourist, a tourist, tourist, the kind that goes to historical sights and "points of interest" along the way. I even went to the Jack Daniel's Distillery and tromped around with a bus load of people from England, mostly retired couples, who were on a motor coach "tour of the South" and listened to our tour guide explain the process of whiskey making and the history of the distillery. It was hilarious, the tour guide had a Southern accent and the English folks had a terrible time understanding him. I have never had whiskey before, much less seen it made, so it was very interesting to learn how the corn, malted barley and rye mixture is ground, fermented, distilled, mellowed and aged in carefully hand made white oak barrels and hear stories about Jack Daniel and the history of his business. All in all, it was totally worthwhile to bike the extra twelve miles back into Lynchburg after camping outside of town, and my only regret is that I did not give the enthusiastic English gentleman from the tour a Kroka post card and a link to my blog. Sometimes I forget that even if I am a little tired of telling my story, they aren't tired of listening to it.

Love, peace, and gentle riding,
Sonya

PS. Sorry I haven't posted pictures in a while. I promise I will get some up as soon as I have access to a non-library computer. I have been taking some pictures, I just have not been able to upload them from my camera yet.

Blackberry winter they call it, a cold spell in May.  I was incredibly glad for the cool days that followed my stay in Pulaski, the temperature couldn't have been better for biking.