Louis Armstrong used to sing a beautiful ballade about days like yesterday.  He was a man who celebrated life and I think he might have understood why a pretty good size group of Tarheel Randonneurs gathered in a parking lot in Mooresville, North Carolina for another interpretation of a 300K brevet.  The brevet became a fitting celebration of the beautiful the day.  

    It was 7:00, the sun was just coming up, and I, who don’t like to be cold, was dressed in shorts and a jersey.  That would be my outfit for the duration.  The forecast was for sun, sun, sun, with maybe a thunderstorm in the evening and perhaps a ten mile an hour head wind on the way out that might be a ten mile an hour tail wind on the way back.  I have to say we weren’t all Tarheels.  There was a contingent down from DC to add some variety to the group;  as if a group of randonneurs needs variety.  

    Oh, and did I mention?  There were three, count ‘em, three Coho Randonneuses on the course.

    Mooresville is in the part of the state called the Research Triangle.  The triangle is defined somewhat by the cities of Raleigh, Durham, and Chapel Hill, but more importantly by three universities: Duke, Wake Forest, and the University of North Carolina Chapel Hill.  I guess that the “Research Triangle” part of the Research Triangle is actually a pretty well defined campus, but I don’t think you want to act dumb anywhere around there.   There are too many smart people.  Anyway, I was eager to head west before it became obvious that I was out of my natural environment.  

    And out of Morresville, we soon enough were.  There is quite a lot of development in North Carolina, but you don’t seem to have to go very far to get into the country where signs tell you you have entered a town you can’t see.  Perhaps it is just a spot where two quiet roads cross, or where a church has stood for 150 years, or maybe there is a gas station or feed store.  Maybe there was one some time in the past.  Anyway, it’s nice, soft country where people sit in the shade on warm, sunny Saturday afternoons and wave to whomever passes by their house or farm.  It’s a place where even car and pickup truck loads of teen age boys wave.  It’s a place of covered dish dinners and softball games; of fishing in farm ponds and drinking sweet tea in the shade;  it’s the place of summer parades and talk of how much hay the fields will make before the cash crops are planted later in the spring.  And it’s the place of absolutely outstanding roads for riding bicycles with friendly bicycling randonneurs.  

    What it isn’t is it isn’t the culinary capital of anywhere.  There was quite a bit of chatter about places to eat on the forum before the brevet and the consensus was that Ye Olde Country Kitchen in Snow Camp is the only real chance for decent food along the whole 300 kilometers with the other possible option being that you might find some good Mexican food in Silar City at one of the carnicerias that come and go.  But that’s a hit or miss option linked to the vagaries of the fortunes of very small entrepreneurs.  We did pass a church having a sit down dinner behind open doors.  I waved, some parishioners waved back, and I’m guessing that if anyone stopped and asked for a plate of food, they would have been welcomed.  I just chose not to eat very well yesterday.

    After pedaling 110 kilometers into the ride, we entered Randolph County.  This is my county and the roads I wear my tires out on.  Ed and Mary stopped at the store in Erect and told me the clerk, I’ve chatted with him before, calls Randolph County, God’s Country.  I assured them that many of the county residents do the same.  I’ve only lived here since August, but I’ve already become quite attached to the area.

    On the way into Seagrove, the pottery capital of pottery capitals, we passed some of the faster riders coming back already.  One fellow, I don’t know him, must have time trialed the whole route.  He had twenty minutes on the next group that included Mike on his Coho.  Victor came along behind them and asked if there was a group ahead.  Ed said there was and that they were attacking.  As Victor whizzed by, Ed added, “All the way back to Morresville.”  At the finish, I found out that Victor never caught them.

    Seagrove is a cool town and I would have loved to have moved there, but houses are hard to find because people just don’t leave once they get established.  There is a great pottery museum, a good hardware store, and not much in the way of restaurants.  The control was at a gas station with a Hardees where I had some french fries and a V-8.  I also filled my water bottles because there is only one other store for the next thirty miles and it’s too close to Seagrove to be of much help.

    Byron and John pulled away from me on the stretch from Seagrove to Silar City and Ed and Mary came on their tandem by while I was making a comfort stop.  It was pleasantly warm -- 80’s -- and I was content to keep to my own pace.  When I pulled into the control at Silar City, there was quite a group there.  I said, “I’m going as fast as I’m going and I ain’t going no faster than that.”

    They left just before I did, but John stayed and said he thought he might like my pace better.  We rode the last 100K together.  John had planned to stop for dinner at Snow Camp, but we rolled on past without a glance.  We thought we’d have about an hour of riding after dark and that turned out to be a good guess.  

    John has some ankle reflectors he bought from Rivendell and I am going to order a set of them.  They are quite prominent.  We were both easy to see and the traffic was light, but we did see two car loads of young studs at gas stations getting stocked up with beer and another two carloads having a confab on the side of the road.  (Randolph County is a dry county, but Chatham and Wake aren’t.)  The passengers in one car were pretty bleary eyed and very friendly telling us that we could find a lot better route back to Morresville if we would just listen to them.  We tried to explain that we had a set course, but I don’t think our explanation was penetrating the fog.  We were glad to move on while everyone was still smiling.

    There was a bit of lightening and a few drops of rain and some very wet roads, but we dodged the forecast thunder storms.  For about forty-five minutes, near Jordan Lake, we found ourselves in a very, very thick swarm of bugs that must have come up from the ground after the rain.  They flew into our eyes, mouths, ears, and noses.  I don’t know what kind of bugs they were, but maybe my nose knows.

    The bugs thinned to a trickle and disappeared, the evening was warm and sultry, and I began to sing, with a Louis Armstrong accompaniment  in my head:

    Summertime, when the living is easy.

    Fish are jumping, and the cotton is high.

    Your daddy’s rich, and your mamma’s good looking.

    So hush little baby, don’t you cry.