When it comes to blogging, tweeting, and documenting this trip, Mollie and I have divided and conquered.  She’s definitely the more prolific tweeter, and has written up most of our daily recaps.  For my part, I’ve become a master (well, maybe not) at MapMyRide, and each morning I’ve churned out a 500-word post for Virginia Living.  Here, my latest recaps on our epic ride from Barboursville to Fredericksburg and on taking the easy route to Middleburg and living it up at the Goodstone Inn.  Stay tuned for my final post–on our last big ride and getting some well-deserved pampering in Alexandria.

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.

Nothing like a pile of fries to erase the memory of steep hills

Unsurprisingly, it took us awhile to get going the morning after our big, boozy dinner at Trummer’s on Main. Geraldine had been consulting with Rob about our route to Middleburg and it looked like the prettiest option would also be longer and take us over a mountain. Neither of us felt up to a seven-mile uphill climb so we opted for the shorter, more direct route that skirted the ridge and took us through less-than-scenic planned communities and flatlands. We don’t have to be heroes, G said.

The weather could not have been more different than the previous day: clear and crisp, with not a cloud in the sky. We pedaled along at a decent pace, taking a few dirt road detours and making a much-needed stop at a Baptist Church where the pastor graciously let us use the bathroom and even offered G a cigar for the road. Before we knew it we were just five miles from Middleburg. Spurred by the prospect of a real lunch we tackled the last stretch, which happened to be both the prettiest and the most rigorous, and up-and-down road that passed by wineries, historic mills, and blink-and-you’ll-miss-them towns.

We arrived in Middleburg at the peak of the Sunday afternoon ambling hour, and attracted plenty of funny looks from stately gentlemen in Barbour jackets and their well-coifed trophy wives. Navigating our bikes through the packs of European tourists and preppy teens, we made our way to the French Hound bistro, on a small side street. We settled in to a window table in the sunny yellow dining room for salads, lamb sandwiches, and lots of crisp frites (with a side of mayo, of course).

After lunch, we wandered into Cisco founder Sandy Lernor’s Home Farm Store, which is part butcher shop, part gourmet grocer, and picked up some essentials – oversized Virginia peanuts, ginger cookies, kombucha, and coffee. Neither of us were particularly excited to get back on our bikes (there is a reason we don’t stop for big lunches mid-ride – we’d never get going again) but the prospect of hot showers at the Goodstone Inn was good motivation.

The three-mile stretch from town to the Goodstone might have been our favorite of the entire trip. From Middleburg, the road passed by huge estates anchored by handsome stone mansions and shallow creeks with rocky embankments. We climbed up a sharp incline and were rewarded by a swooping downhill through the spindly trees crowned with yellow and orange leaves.

The Goodstone was built in the early 19th century and since then has been a dairy farm, a retreat for New York’s Warburg family, and now a luxurious country resort. The main house is a former stable that has been turned into a cozy sitting room where afternoon tea is served daily and a small dining room with tables looking out onto the fields.

We were staying up a dirt road in the French Cottage, which was set right next to a pasture filled with sheep and a single llama named “Legs.” G and I saw the fireplaces, the champagne and strawberries, and the cozy sitting room and immediately fell in love. Despite a particularly disappointing dinner that night – we decided the chef is still finding his footing – we remained in our blissful state until we had to leave the next morning.

For more on the Goodstone, read Love at First Llama.