They call 'em Ole Ammonia Ankles

8/7/10 Catawba to Lexington

Rode with Eric towards Lexington today. Ran into an organized century called the Arty 11, which is spectacular because it means free Gatorade and peanut butter jelly sandwiches. It also means old as dirt couples on bicycles that want to talk turkey about Brooks saddles and long distance touring. This guy you see below cusses more in ten minutes than I have in my entire life.

"Listen, these @#$holes with their big stupid $-%9ing trucks, blowing their exhaust all over the damn place. I could kill em. I really could."

I loved every minute with this guy. He told me of an invention he was working on that would spray amonia from your ankles as dogs chased you. As far as I'm concerned, all that would do would do is make me more stinky.

His wife looked on, arms folded, with her Ronald McDonald perm peaking from under her helmet. "Sinister. Absolutely sinister".

Went to an authentic German joint for pretzels and beer at lunch time. Eric did crosswords outside until they opened the place. It was worth waiting for summer sausage and lemon beer. Yeah buddy.

With slow, beer filled legs, I watched Eric disappear on the horizon. There is no keeping up with a kid who takes the hills at 11 mph.

We were poured on once again. Our shoes and clothes have not recovered from the last few rains so funkyness has reached an all time high. I smell like some mixture of cat pee and the manager at a food co-op. Without our bodies in them, our clothes could get up and walk away.

Eric arrived at the hostel long before us, worried we would get lost he pulled a recon mission and came looking for us. We are so lucky that he did because google would have taken us ten miles in the wrong direction. Ten wrong miles after seventy soaking wet miles would be disasterous.

Another creepy crawly hostel. Completely unattended. Peanut butter that expired two years ago on the microwave. Bugs in the sheets. At least there were showers. Microwaved ham and cheeses, read my book and listened to Eric's terrible story of how his riding partner left him high and dry a week into the trip. He called his mom and went home. Lil Beasty was not deterred. He pressed on alone like the 16 year old blaze of fury he is.

I was tired enough to sleep through the maddening sticky heat. The morning brings Mount Vesuvius, the last mountain of the trip and a formidable oponent.