Running with Friends

The next day, Saturday, July 16, we ran Highway 19 with Greg and Deb.  I’m thinking there’s not a straight road in either Virginia or West Virginia, and I was having fun on them. 

There's a lot of green here.  Sure am enjoying it.  I've seen nearly no beetle kill trees like at home.

The New River Bridge, completed in 1977, is the world's longest single-arch steel span bridge.  At 876 feet above the river, it is America's second-highest bridge.  The Cor-ten steel used rusts slightly on the surface, inhibiting a deeper rust that protects the steel and eliminates the need to paint .  It also  provides the beautiful color that darkens over time.

Flat Rocky and Quackers, along with Deb, Rockin' Rita and me, all had to have a photo with the bridge.  Who knew that Quackers was mooning everyone.  Bad ducky.

Once again we worked to avoid the rain and did a good job of it.  But we saw the damage that had been caused by a flood that had come through here just a week or so ago when we’d been north and dealing with our own rain issues. There’d been 8 inches of rain in this area in just a few hours, and it had left a trail of destruction behind it.  Trees were tossed like matchsticks, you could see where the rivers had overflowed and there were remnants of mud on the road.  The top coat of asphalt had been stripped from the road and there were lots of patches, making the road a challenge. 

There were piles of debris.  It was a sad sight.

While we were watching, a truck pulled up and began unloading more debris.  I could see what appeared to be mattresses ... from someone's bed, their home.  It was a horrible reminder of what Mother Nature can do.

Our ride took us by houses in various states of repair; others appeared to have no damage at all.  People had piled debris neatly along the road for pick up in some places, and not-so-neatly in others.

While we were riding we saw a silver car passing to the left of a black one.  That wouldn’t have been so bad except he wasn’t passing in a lane.  He was on the far side of the road, on the rumble strip, and couldn’t hold it.  He ended up in the grass, fishtailing.  I figured we’d see him go end-over-end or something, but somehow he held onto it, and got back on the road in front of the black one.  That was the worst case of stupid I’d seen so far on this trip.

Almost got the perfect shot.

Got 'em all in this one.

We stopped for lunch, and Greg amused us with his fly catching talent.  Who knew someone could slap a menu shut and kill a fly?  Deb just rolled her eyes while we laughed.  Ick. 

Greg, the Flycatcher.  I wonder if he has a road name?  See the black spot, on the right side of the left-hand column?  That's the fly.  Ugh.  Not reading that menu.

 A small motel was our home for the night, and the pleasant part was having a porch swing.

Having a coffee pot, a Keurig no less, delivered to the room wasn't half bad either.

Rockin’ Rita and I spent a lot of time rocking that night, enjoying the evening, visiting with Deb and Greg, and watching the fireflies when they came out.  It was another great day of riding … and enjoying a friendship that was now cemented for life.