One of our favorite street signs

Usually, I’m the one moving slowly in the morning.  On most days, Mollie literally springs out of bed in fast forward mode (I, for the most part, try to politely ignore her until I’ve managed to have some coffee and shake the cobwebs from my brain).  On our last day of serious riding, however, Mollie was dragging her feet.  I’m not sure if it was the prospect of the 47-mile day ahead of us or the fact that we would be picking up our car–and that meant our adventure was nearly over.  Or perhaps it was just our aching legs:  In the past week, we had pedaled our way from Frederick, Maryland down to Charlottesville, Virginia and then made our way back north via Fredericksburg, Clifton and Middleburg.  We had traveled 260 miles or so on bikes that weighed nearly half as much as we do.

Ending things in style: French press coffee and ice cream sandwiches at Volt

It was a perfect day fall day for riding and during the second half of our route, heading from Purcellville back to Frederick, Maryland, we retraced roads that we had followed on our very first day on the trip.  Hills that had seemed nearly insurmountable seemed to fly by and I was able to take in the landscape that only a week earlier I had been too tired, wet, and grouchy to appreciate; for me, this was the first day where everything seemed to click into place.  The twinge in my knee had faded and while my body was sore, it had also adapted to my bike (which I have yet to name, but is feeling like it might be Gertie).

We stopped a few times to refuel with snacks–apples and fruit leathers in Purcellville, crackers and scones in Taylorstown–but otherwise rode uninterrupted over a neverending series of rolling hills.  My Garmin Edge told me we had climbed more than 2500 feet by the end of the day, and as we coasted into downtown Frederick, the computer burst into a mechanical song of congratulations: We had finished our route.

At Volt, our not so trusty gray station wagon was waiting for us–along with French press coffee and ice cream sandwiches, the perfect end to a near perfect day on the road.

My sister has always been something of an endurance fiend:  When she was a junior in high school, she rode her bike (fully loaded) across the United States, and a few years ago, she completed her first Ironman.  She also went through ten hours or so of natural childbirth.

She was instrumental in our packing process and has also provided some crucial words of advice along the way.  Most recently:  “It’s not a bike trip until someone throws a helmet.  Or her bike.”

Biking is tough and it’s as much about your mental state as it is about your physical fitness.

On this trip, I know for a fact that Mollie was better prepared from a physical perspective:  In the months leading up to the trip, she put in multiple 75-100 milers, went to spin, yoga, body buffing classes every morning, and kept right on exercising even after she strained her groin muscle in an epic crash.  My longest ride, on the other hand, was about 40 miles–and that was by accident.  I ran/walked with my dog Charlie a few days a week and put in about two 25-30 mile rides each week.

But I had done this sort of thing before–granted, it was years ago (so many, many years ago), but I could reach back and recall days on the road when I wanted to cry (or did cry), days when five miles more seemed impossible, and days when I questioned why oh why I wanted to be pedaling my way through Vermont of all places.  Couldn’t I have picked somewhere flatter?  I have also run a marathon–on a stress fracture.  And I’m not sure anything will ever top that experience from a mental toughness perspective.

On this trip, I was proud of Mollie.  She is, admittedly, not the most zen of people.  In fact, she recently went to Canyon Ranch to try to find inner peace–which lasted all of three minutes.  But on this trip–helmet throwing incident aside–Mollie persevered and, at times, transcended the hills.

Snacks are essential for keeping the grouch at bay

Mollie and I have known each other for about four years now.  We both started working for Conde Nast Traveler at around the same time.  For her, it was her first job out of a college and a natural continuation of her two loves:  food and glossy magazines.  For me, it was a career change (one of many)—and a welcome one.  Mollie and another co-worker literally adopted me on my first day of work, and I was resistant at first—Mollie talked a lot was always trying to force feed me.  In fact, it wasn’t until I left Traveler to go live with my now-husband in the deep South that Mollie and I became close friends.

Traveling with someone for two weeks is a little bit like being in a relationship: At some point, all your personality traits—good and bad—are going to come out.  On this trip, I’ve learned that Mollie needs to be fed.  Often and specifically.  So, while cookies and chocolate are delicious in theory, they are not okay for breakfast, lunch, or biking snacks (I’m much less discriminating and will each cookies and chocolate wherever and whenever).  For breakfast, Mollie wants yogurt and granola, fresh fruit, or multi-grain toast with peanut butter.  For lunch, she wants a hearty turkey sandwich, with an oatmeal raison cookie for dessert.  Animal crackers are generally good at all times, though if she hasn’t consumed any “real” food, they’re a poor substitute.

On my end, I can only guess, but these things I know:  I’m a grouch in the morning and generally don’t like to speak until I’ve had a cup of coffee.  And though I hide it fairly well, there’s a reason my nickname when I was growing up was the Uno girl.  It has to do with the sound I made when things didn’t go how I wanted them to go:  “ooooooh No!”

Still, Mollie and I have spent ten consecutive days together, sleeping in the same bed for eight of those nights, and have yet to kill each other.  I think that’s pretty impressive.

We like to call this the "Marking our territory" shot

You may have noticed but G and I have been much better about taking pictures of cows and food than ourselves on this trip. And with good reason: we just haven’t looked that cute. (You try slogging up hills in the rain and see how fresh and adorable you feel.) But the other day, when we stayed with friends in Clifton, they took it upon themselves to be our personal paparazzi, snapping away as we packed our panniers, strapped on our helmets, and clipped into our pedals. The results were, ahem, interesting. Our favorite, the “peeing” or “marking our territory” shot, is above – even more hilarity below.

Can you tell it's pouring?

We woke on Saturday to blustery winds and a forecast of rain and thunderstorms. As G finished mapping the ride, I wandered into town looking for coffee and found the excellent Hyperion Espresso, where they take their foam as seriously as the guys at 9th Street. A couple hours later, after a quick tune-up at Bike Works, we set off on quiet roads that took us past historic battlefields and quiet neighborhoods.

Perhaps it was residual stiffness from the previous day’s ride, or the fact that I stupidly hadn’t eaten a real breakfast, but the first fifteen miles felt hard. There were rolling hills, with a few steep inclines, and a brisk headwind.  We took a fun detour through Quantico, where we had our first ID check of the trip (we thought about asking the cute marine for a picture but he didn’t seem like the light-hearted type) and passed by the official commissary and officer’s headquarters.

We took a break at Dumfries Coffee, a clean and comfortable spot off the highway owned by a Vietnamese couple that has everything from banh mi to soft serve. G had planned the route around a scenic drive through Prince William Forest Park, but we were foiled when our road turned out to be owned by a redneck with bleach blonde hair, bad teeth, and a mean disposition.  G tried to charm him by turning on the Southern drawl, but to no avail.

From there, the riding deteriorated and so did the weather. It started with a trickle, which was a welcome break in the day’s humidity, progressed into a more steady rain, and finally turned into a full-blown downpour.  As G remarked, there’s a fine line between being hardcore and stupid, so about 12 miles from Clifton, we found a Starbucks, changed out of our wet spandex, and settled in with cups of hot coffee. Bronwyn and her wonderful husband Jose soon came to claim us, loading our bikes onto one of their cars and filling the other with our rain-soaked panniers (Ortlieb doesn’t lie – they really are waterproof!).

Check out my most recent blog on Virginia Living.

Crossing through Lake Anna state park

When G and I first came up with this idea, more than a few people asked us, So are you guys going to be like Forrest Gump? You, know with people running behind you and everything? In a word: No. But we did have the vague notion that local cycling clubs might want to join us on a leg, or that some of our guy friends might volunteer to act as our domestiques for the particularly hilly bits. Neither of those scenarios worked out, but yesterday we did have a guest rider for the first part of our 63-mile route to Fredericksburg.

We can’t quite remember how we first got in touch with Nick Evans, the head of the Charlottesville cycling club and a longtime bike tour-er, but he ended up being a great resource and one of our biggest fans. Not only did he help us map our ride from Barboursville to Fredericksburg, but he also came along with us for the first eight miles.

Nick Evans, bike tour expert, geologist, and friend of Bikes and Biscuits

Nick showed up at the 1804 Inn as we were still stuffing dirty spandex in our panniers, but we were soon on our way. As we rode, we chatted with him about everything from the zen of biking to how to transcend the hills. Nick started bike touring when he was still in college and has since gone just about everywhere, including across the country. He had plenty of advice, including Don’t make firm plans, and Listen to your body.

Our first stretch took us on back roads past farmhouses and cow pastures, toward Gordonsville, where we were planning on stopping at bike shop for a tune-up. Unfortunately Cycle Works turned out to be strictly for motorcycles. Who would have thought? Instead we stopped at the friendly Gordonsville Deli, where the sign outside advertised “Sandwiches, Soups, Salads – all served with a side of joy,” for coffee and some iPhone mapping. From there we took rural roads that passed through large tracts of forested land, with few cars and even fewer people. It was mostly flat so we kept a brisk pace, even hitting (gasp) 15 miles per hour for a bit.

After passing through Lake Anna state park, we had logged about 40 miles and decided it was time for a little lunch. G had guessed that we wouldn’t be coming across very many towns (in fact we saw none until right outside Fredericksburg) so had packed us croissant sandwiches made with leftover Surryano ham and cheese. Those, along with apples from Carter Mountain Orchard, Virginia peanuts, and cookies, made for a restorative roadside picnic.

We decided we needed more people pictures on our blog

Our last stretch into town required us to ride on a major highway in rush-hour traffic, past fast food restaurants and big box stores. It was a major relief when we rolled into historic Fredericksburg and saw the huge leafy trees and historic mansions. After some much needed showers at the Kenmore Inn, a 200-year old building within walking distance from downtown, we had an early dinner of charcuterie, salads, and ice cream at Bistro Bethem and called it a night.

Now, we know we aren’t technically traveling in West Virginia but we did make it over the border for about two miles on our first ride — so we feel entitled to use this song for our inaugural slideshow. Take a look and try to guess which picture each of us begged the other not to include.

At some point we started singing "This land is your land." The cows seemed to like it.

G was up at the crack of dawn tapping out her latest Virginia Living blog, while I stayed snuggled in our king size bed until 7:30. Then, like a dutiful wife, I tramped down the stairs of the apartment-style Suites 249 and across the street to the Raven’s Nest coffeeshop for cappuccinos and granola. At 9am sharp we rolled out of town.

We had mapped out a meandering route that avoided all the major byways and instead took us down country roads that paralleled railroad tracks, cow pastures, and golden wheat fields (and also included a few rocky dirt paths). The riding felt much easier than our first day, probably because the route was fairly flat, save for a few heroic uphills.  And because there was little or no traffic, G and I could coast along next to each other for much of it, chatting or not chatting, and pointing out particularly beautiful views. At one point we accidentally rode into a granite quarry (somehow the “Hazardous Materials” signs didn’t deter us) and had to backtrack.

By the time we reached the Barboursville Winery, we had logged just under 40 miles.

We stashed our bikes by a wooden fence overlooking the vines, and quickly pulled dresses on over our tank tops and swapped our cleats for flats. After we shimmied out of our oh-so-cute spandex and gave our faces a once-over with handiwipes, we weren’t looking too shabby — though our server did jokingly offer to get me a little degreaser for the spots on my calves.

The winery’s Palladio restaurant is a local favorite for long boozy lunches and we tried to do it justice: local beets layered with bright pesto, fennel, and chevre; seared scallops with parsnip puree; and a rich lobster tagliatelle. Plus the wines: all local and surprisingly good, especially a crisp rose and rich 2006 Cabernet Savignon.

The only problem came when it was time to leave: we had arranged for a rental car to be dropped off at the winery so we could do some off-bike exploring during our rest day.  The only snag: no car. We ended up camped out on the steps of the winery for a couple hours, enjoying the cool autumn weather and watching people parade in and out of the tasting room with cases of wine.

We finally arrived at the Clifton Inn at dusk and stumbled into the lobby dragging our dusty panniers. The receptionist didn’t bat an eye and immediately showed us to our lovely light-filled room upstairs. The inn, which dates to the early 19th century, sits on a huge parcel of land that was once owned by Peter Jefferson. It has been renovated to have a modern, fresh feel, with lots of white and light green, and architectural sketches and leather books scattered about. Showers and naps later, we were ready for dinner.

Chef Dean Maupin is known for his DIY tasting menu, which simply means that everything is appetizer-sized and you mix and match to create your own multi-course meal. We had trouble not eating the entire basket of warm, crusty bread (and we did go through two dishes of butter). For dinner: a thick chickpea pancake topped with goat cheese, smoked salmon, and avocado; braised artichokes on a white bean puree; and Maryland crabcake served in a rich seafood stew. But the highlight was G’s homemade pappardelle with fresh herbs, Virginia ham, and creme fraiche. Their bittersweet chocolate tart with peanut nougat ice cream and salted caramel put us over the top and we practically fell into bed. More pics after the jump. (more…)