A Typical Business Trip- Appalachian Style

A Typical Business Trip- Appalachian Style

From the intermittent flashing of the passing street lights on
Northbound Rt. 79, I found myself in silent recollection of the events leading up to my position in a pull-out motor home bed at 2:30 in the late September morning.

The onset of this adventure had long since faded into the recess of memory, a distant dream of anticipation from another lifetime when the trees were alive with budding leaves and the last signs of a long cold winter faded in strips of quickly melting slush.

Like so many prior incidents of personal disappointment, the full time job played a role in the initial motivation to plan a mountain bike trek of epic proportion; a trip many miles from the comfort and security of home and toward the legendary Appalachians. The journey began as an office related request; a bankers conference to be specific, that in addition to several meetings of varying degrees of torture, would require three nights stay in lovely West Virginia. Even more exciting was the fact that the hotel hosting the affair just so happened to be located in the shadow of the Appalachian Mountains.

Hours of banker conference related research via the internet revealed such bank-related information as the fact that the Appalachians just so happen to be oldest mountain range in the world. Born sharp, rocky, and jagged, they were gradually worn down by the elements by the slow hand of time. I should also remind you to keep in mind this request was made in early April, when the mere concept of late September seemed about as distant as hang-gliding to the moon. Like any enthusiast bordering on obsession, I found myself immediately immersed in research as to the average West Virginian Fall climate conditions, recommended trail loops, and best bike shops.

The proverbial wheels were immediately in motion as the possibility of using the trip as an excuse for a mountain bike getaway became alarmingly apparent. Rather than stay at the hotel, I could present (see: request) that my closest riding buddy and fellow local trail junkie, Matthew Stevenson, take a week off of work and prepare his 1998 35' Rockwood motor home for a south-bound road-trip. Aside from his participation, which was virtually a given, all we would require were a case of fine lager, the tools to prepare a steady week’s worth of sandwiches and a few other critical camping essentials: Honey roasted peanuts, pretzels, fresh meat to be cooked above an open flame, and those travel boxes of Froot Loops.

Upon listening to my overly-enthusiastic request, Matt debated it for several seconds of mock deliberation before responding.
"Yes," he said rubbing his chin to add to the effect, "I believe we must."

Having just picked up his brand new Marin Rift Zone in beautiful matte steel gray a day prior, I suspect the ease at which I convinced him to partake in such an endeavor likely had more to do with destiny and timing than my natural sales ability.

We set out just as gas prices managed to climb into the stratosphere, forcing us to reconfigure our budgets which resulted directly in several unplanned withdrawals from the bank and far fewer jars of peanuts than initially anticipated.
“So what kind of gas mileage did you say this thing gets on the highway?” I asked as an early morning conversation starter.
“Eleven miles per gallon with the wind to our back,”

Truly some things are better left unsaid.

The journey to lovely Virginia, unlike the ride back, seemed to pass in a blur of alternating between naps, meals at fast food drive-thru windows, gas fill-ups and shifts behind the wheel.

The Rockwood pulled into the lonely hard packed soil of the reserved camping spot shortly after midnight on Monday with the weight of spending the following morning at an eight hour corporate conference hampering what should have been precious moments devoted to the exciting mental prospect of exploring the colorful mountain-sides in the days ahead.

By the second day the routine was official, when I finished eight tedious hours of grim mortgage rate projections and amendments to lender policy, I hurried back to the base camp where Matt and I would begin the late afternoon/ early evening exploration sessions. I observed the reality that sitting around the fire with a beer and a good magazine throughout the day allotted much more energy than did attending long boring conferences.
“Kick it out of neutral,” Matt would call out during each excursion.

By the end of the trip, I would come to hate it when he said that.

Despite some brutally cool nights, the day time temperatures were surprisingly mild, almost too warm for anything other than shorts and a breathable jersey. We spent a good deal of the time burning our legs climbing up what appeared to be old logger trails that were occasionally kept tame by ATV's or daring Jeep enthusiasts. The elevation brought with it great changes as the warm dry air grew steadily cool and breezier with each yard of colorful accent. The forest covered hillsides appeared to have been engaged in battle with a painter's brush: the natural deep green being overtaken by shades of red, orange, and yellow.

We climbed until the dense birch trees and red oaks gave way to a subtle plateau of sparsely placed Pignut Hickories with leaves shimmering of gold in the breeze. The view from here took even my own breath away, providing a picture perfect panoramic of the color spectrum; trees alive with the shades of Autumn separating silver gullies and streams that looked as if they were lines drawn with a pencil. Potato gardens and cozy log cabins were scattered along the cubical patches of terrain in bright green clearings.

I looked over at Matt who shook his head while fastening his helmet strap with a click. Sometimes words simply aren't necessary in the complete agreement of nature's awe.

Matt's Marin Rift Zone had spent a majority of the onset of his stewardship in gentle break-in during the good weather back north on dusty single-track trails that join our adjacent properties yet still shimmered in the afternoon sun. Matt's bikes, regardless of the level of abuse he subjects them to; always appear as though they've just been rolled off the showroom floor. I, however, had to purchase my gray KHS AM2000 just before departure to duplicate the effect.

With a nod of the head, we pushed off resulting in a burst of gravity educed speed which immediately sent the trees blurring along the sides of the steady brown and green streaking trail ahead. The terrain's gradual twisting nature during our slow climb skyward revealed its true intention of tight switchbacks laced with rockers and wash outs during the acceleration of our decent. Conditions for play-racing were impressive enough to overrun any remaining desire to enjoy the crisp mountainous scenery in favor of the dark loam that rained in crumbling arcs from my friend's wildly spinning rear tire. I kept him close, perhaps even sneaking a front wheel in on his outside in a few of the tighter corners but ultimately ran out of real-estate before making a pass stick.

By the time we had leveled out onto the green flats at the base of the mountainside, a cool evening breeze rippled the sage bush that we weaved to avoid. Any thoughts of excuse-tailoring for having trailed my friend the entire length of the run were offset by the anticipation of having one more evening with which to make the most of the conditions before departing for the flat lands of home. All that separated this ride from the next were a few unconscious hours of darkness and a final day of the banking conference.

The final day's topic of lecture was Impounds and Escrows, which in case you aren't familiar with, (or even more appropriate, if you are) leaves plenty an opportunity to drift away into mountain bike related daydreaming. The large double-hungs of the hotel conference room revealed clouds of swirling gray atop a sky of purple hue, filtering the sun into a dimly glowing orb of white. A stiff breeze seemed to be working its way along the mountainside, knocking leaves free to twist in a suspended dance of gravity defiance. I debated acting on the feeling of urgency that accompanied the realization that we were undoubtedly in for rain. If I could duck out a little early (meaning immediately) we could probably get a decent run in before packing up the Rockwood to begin the return trip to New Jersey.

Not unlike the day I had first approached Matt with the plan several months prior, I found myself rubbing my own chin in mock deliberation. So as to avoid being fired, I will phrase the following very carefully: I never did make it to the conclusion of the banking conference. Once you attend enough of these things, you realize that it doesn't seem to make much of a difference whether or not you actually attend in person to get the gist of it. Besides, I convinced myself while dashing out the lobby door; I hadn’t been listening to a word they were saying anyway.

I hurried back to the campgrounds, a mere twelve minute hike complete with flailing tie and sports coat flung across the shoulder like a scene of Tom Cruise in "The Firm" to find our camping lot alarmingly tidy. The folding chairs that had surrounded the now smoldering fire pit were missing, the coolers absent, and even the electrical hookup disconnected from the RV. In fact, had the Rockwood itself not been planted firmly in its place, there would have been little to no evidence of our West Virginian presence.

Matt greeted me from the rear door of the motor home, hobbling on his right foot, his left ankle wrapped tightly.

"Rough day reading magazines,” I asked with the same kind of enthusiasm that only realizing your plans of riding are suddenly dashed can stimulate.

"I met up with some local hikers this morning after you left," he explained, "twisted my ankle scouting a new trail for us to ride tonight."

I shook my head.

"Guess this means it's sayonara to the Appalachians then?"

Matt nodded, shrugging his shoulders with a good dose of regret thrown in for good measure.

I took a final look at the massive formations all around and sighed in defeat. In part because we were leaving them behind but also because to be the in the presence of such geologic magnificence a feeling of overwhelming insignificance is inevitable. Ants must experience the same sensation when we meandering humans accidentally step down on their hills.

Matt turned and hobbled deeper into the RV.
“Kick it out of neutral, gimpy” I mumbled to myself just as the rain began to darken the powdered ground in tiny spots.

So here it was 2:30am and through the flashing of the passing street lights that I decided I would give my fat-ankled riding partner an opportunity to rest. In fact I had silently decided to drive out the remainder of the voyage home as an act of good will.

The rain showers continued their intermittent passing all through Pennsylvania for those who wonder and the mystique of the Appalachians remained long after the mountains themselves faded to shadow in the rear-view mirror of the Rockwood. Opportunity missed, perhaps but so long as the bankers continue to hold mandatory conferences, future opportunity exists.
I wonder what they would say to holding the next one in the Alps?