Pedaling with Paw Paws

Sunday was a humid but overcast day, a heavy fog pushing down on the mountain and hill tops, giving an impression that it would suddenly pour with rain at any moment. But the forecast was good, the sun was going to battle its way through the grey clouds, so a bike ride was my plan. I'd found a new route, a loop that would start in Leesburg and take me on trails and along quiet roads. The boys hadn't shown a lot of interest, more keen to hear about my report afterwards, so I went alone. I took the bike I'd bought cheaply from Jason, it was finally a comfortable ride now, a new handlebar stem and raising the saddle meant I could stretch out my legs while pedaling.
I set off from the center of Leesburg, immediately hitting the W&OD trail, and noticing after a short distance that this bike was going to be a much harder ride than my Bianchi. But I had started, so I'd finish, I was determined to do this loop.

The air was warming up but it was still very muggy as after about 7 miles I left the familiar trail and ventured into new cycling territory. I had a map and cue sheet so constant stops were necessary to ensure I was going the right way, especially as map reading skills are pretty poor unfortunately. Soon I was on a country lane riding towards Waterford, a pretty little town I'd last visited at Christmas 2015. It was a lot different today, quiet with nobody about, it seemed they were all still in bed or maybe at church.

I had to stop when I saw that the road in front of me was covered with smashed and flattened chestnuts. These trees aren't as widespread here in America as they are in England. I couldn't resist. The bike was dropped and I spent a good 15 minutes picking up the nuts from both sides of the road, and I have to confess I did walk a little ways up the driveway, fully expecting to be yelled at. But no one came out to berate me, and soon I had a sizeable hoard tucked inside my backpack. A tasty surprise for Sebastian and Suzie Squirrels when I get home.

I continued cycling through the village, which was still completely deserted, it felt weird, and soon I was pedaling uphill towards Taylorstown. The lanes were peaceful, very few cars passed by, leaving me free to fully take in the scenic views around me.

It did cross my mind that some of the vistas were very Kentish in their appearance. If there had been the accompanying rustic smells that are always noticeable in England, I could easily have closed my eyes and imagined myself to be back home again. But there were no earthy aromas of damp grass or leaves, very little bird song, and anyway, I wouldn't have got too far riding my bike with my eyes shut!
I stopped at a beautiful barn called Waterford Downs Show Bar, but found absolutely nothing about it on the internet, not even its correct address, which was odd. I submitted the name to Google maps, it was accepted, so my listing is now published here. By the gates were some Kousa Dogwood trees loaded with small fruits. I remembered trying these a few years ago in DC so stood pulling them off and sucking at the pulpy seed pods. I enjoyed the flavor but had to soon give up, the fruits were mostly over ripe and a huge swarm of fruit flies were constantly buzzing around my head, making me feel very itchy all of a sudden.

A couple of miles along I had to stop again, an expanse of colored mushrooms catching my eye on the side of the road. Blue Cortinarius and yellow Amanita Muscaria mushrooms were clustered in the long grass under a large tree. Beautifully vibrant on this dull and overcast day I had to take some photos. But I didn't pick any, I'm always mistrustful of being able to identify any fungi correctly. and they looked far prettier nestled in the emerald grass than on any plate.
Up and down  small hillocks I rode, really noticing how hard this bike was compared to my Green Genie. Even down the hills I had to continue pedaling to keep the bike going and I noticed a strange action, almost like see sawing when I finally did manage to freewheel down a hill. I realized my front brakes were perpetually on and rubbing against the wheel rim, not enough to make a lot of difference, but it made a noise and definitely contributed to my mental struggle. But as I approached Taylorstown, the downward hill became steeper and I was immensely satisfied to know I'd broken the speed limit of 20mph as I tore over the little bridge, up a short hill and slowed to a halt at the abandoned general store.

There was absolutely nothing here at Taylorstown, except a winery and a few houses. And once again it was deserted. I sat on the swing bench outside the old store to check my map and drink some water, while a dog barked at me as it tore back and forth along its yard fence across the road. I couldn't listen to too much of that so was soon on my way again. Just up the hill I turned on to a gravel road and made my way, mostly on foot, up the hill, my calf muscles stretching as I pushed the bike up the slope. There were a few houses, more barking dogs, and I actually felt a little uncomfortable being in such a desolate place on my own with nobody else to be seen. I was expecting to hear a banjo strumming in the steep valley below...
Eventually I crested the hill and started downwards very slowly on the gravel. I saw a lady sitting on her porch with her morning drink and greeted her with a 'good Morning!", happy to see someone. Then I realized that the trees on either side of me were paw paws. I dismounted and walked down the hill, looking into the foliage for those delicious fruits that I'd only tasted for the first time last year. But sadly I saw none. At the bottom of the hill I was back into civilization. Traffic whizzed past noisily and I had a very short ride before I was on the bridge crossing over The Potomac toward Point of Rocks.

I pedaled along this narrow sidewalk, which was a little unnerving, but my balance is good and I managed to stay upright, even though I knew that it would have been more sensible to have pushed my bike across. The Potomac looked peaceful and still, no kayaks or canoes on the water or fishermen on its banks. I dropped down towards the rail station on the other side and crossed the tracks where the last 12 miles of my ride would be on the C&O Canal trail. I've not been on this stretch before so was looking forward to seeing more new terrain.

The sun had burnt through the clouds by now and was building up its heat, but on the trail underneath the leafy canopy it was cool. Everywhere was so green and lush. The trail's surface was a little muddy in places but otherwise fine. I did notice that most other riders were on bikes with thin tires, more like my Bianchi, but I felt better riding the Raleigh, especially with the bumps and gravel. I noticed on the ground that there were dozens of mushy paw paws, brown and rotting, so assumed that because I hadn't seen any earlier, that the season was over. But then I spotted some on the ground that were still green so stopped immediately.

This beauty was a good 6" long without a blemish. I carefully wrapped it in paper napkins and tissues and placed it inside my backpack. I was delighted that I'd have my paw paw fix this year after all. Continuing my ride I was now on the look out for more and I wasn't disappointed. They were everywhere. I kept stopping and knowing they wouldn't transport well on my bike, because they're so soft, I would simply stand and eat them as I found them. I giggled when looking back along the trail I would see other cyclists doing the exact same thing. I lost count of how many times I stopped to eat the fruit but I did stuff another couple in my bag; one would be for Maggi, who I bet hadn't tasted one this year. I later found out that she'd never eaten one, so was glad she had the opportunity to try one.
Paw paws are highly nutritious but can be quite elusive. They tend to grow more where water is nearby, so seeing abundant fruit bearing trees wedged between the canal and the river was no surprise.

The Monocacy Aqueduct, built from 1829-33 and costing $127,000, the rock quarried from nearby Sugarloaf Mountain. I sat here for a while watching the water barely moved underneath. I had only munched a few mouthfuls of jerky before the mosquitoes became too numerous, buzzing in my face, and I moved on.

I passed Lock House 27 where, 'In September 1862, Thomas Walker, the lock tender at this lock, learned that Confederate troops under General A. P. Hill intended to blow up the Monocacy Aqueduct. He pleaded with General Hill not to destroy the aqueduct. Walker recommended that the Confederates cut through the towpath bank and drain the canal. Instead Hill's troops blew a hole in Lock 27. When they learned what Walker had done, the C&O Canal Company fired him. People from the area around Lock 27 petitioned the canal company, saying that Walker's actions had protected the Monocacy Aqueduct, and thus the whole canal. The canal company ultimately reinstated Walker.' - Quoted from www.canaltrust.org.

I carried on pedaling along the path, passing a few other cyclists, but for the most part riding alone. Around me I could hear the paw paws occasionally thudding to the ground. They drop as soon as they're ripened. The air was fragrant with their scent, a wonderful tropical, vanilla, banana aroma. When picking them up from the ground, many are bruised and covered with small ants who evidently adore the soft pudding textured fruit as much as us humans do.
The 12 miles passed quickly and I was surprised when I suddenly emerged from the tree covered trail on the road immediately next to White's Ferry.

I didn't even have to wait for the crossing. The ferry was empty and the gates open, waiting for passengers to board. I walked down last and stood by the railing as we slowly crossed the Potomac, leaving Maryland to step out into Virginia on the other side. The last leg of my ride was sharing the road with traffic as I approached Leesburg. The sun was blistering hot now and there was no shelter as I pedaled furiously along the shoulder, anxious to escape being so close to the exhaust fumes from the vehicles thundering past. I was soon back at Stanley and loaded the bike in the back. It hadn't performed as well as the Bianchi but I decided I'd work with it. If I can get the brakes fixed and lose that odd juddering motion when going downhill, then I'll keep it. Contented, I drove home, savoring the cool AC and the delicious aroma of paw paw perfume wafting about the car, my precious fruit cargo nestled on cushions of more soft napkins and tissues.

A Jungle of Juggalos

On Saturday, I drove down to DC to see a protest by the fans of the Insane Clown Posse band. I have little interest in their music and had never even heard of them until I saw they would be marching in DC. I hoped to get some great photos of clowns, as this is how the fans, known as Juggalos, dress, in imitation of the 2 band members. I was stoked to find a parking spot very close to The Lincoln Memorial, and walked across the grass, my camera out ready.
The Juggalos were on The Mall today to protest against being labelled as gang members by the FBI in 2011, more here. There's also an interesting read here. Since then they have struggled to have this label removed. Today they had a program lasting the full day, from meeting at 1pm in front of The Lincoln Memorial, marching peacefully down the Mall, and finishing back at the start where the band ICP, along with other bands would entertain the crowds into the evening. I wasn't planning on staying the whole day, but out of curiosity made sure I was there at 12:30 to see who, and how many, would show up. The fans had been told not to apply any make-up until 1pm, a request which I had been positive would be ignored, but was actually strictly adhered to. Until 1pm, there were a few fans wearing red shirts and holding up signs, but no masks or clown faces of any kind. Then after the hour they started to appear, black and white paint smeared across countenances, in the horrorcore fashion which they follow.

I spoke with a cyclist who was standing and watching them, who told me that they were the misfits of society, who felt they weren't fully accepted in our world, so they stuck together, calling themselves family. As they approached one another, they would cry out, "Whoop, whoop!" or all yell the call as a group. I asked one of them if I'd heard the sound right. "Yes. it's how we greet each other," he said. "But where did it originate from?" I asked. He had no answer to that, so I just looked around at them all, wondering why they would choose a salutation that sounded like a troop of monkeys in a jungle.

They were all friendly enough, which was just as well because some of them did look a little intimidating. Chains, body piercings, heavy make up or the black and white clown faces. I had been hoping to see some artistic renditions, or at least some color on their faces, but that's not how their scene works apparently. Everyone I asked was more than happy to pose for a photo and I soon relaxed when it was apparent there would be no aggression. I'd seen quite a heavy police presence on Constitution Avenue and assumed there might be some trouble, but there were other protests at the other end of The Mall which seemed to have their attention more than what was happening here.

Their message was apparent on signs held high and t-shirts that were paraded up and down. A large number were wearing scarlet red shirts, looking like a large Nationals baseball crowd. Tall piles of free pizza were stacked on a wall and their trademark Faygo soft drink started to appear, it featured in a few Insane Clown Posse songs. Their Hatchetman symbol, the group emblem, was everywhere, on clothing flags, faces, worn as jewelry or being handed out as stickers.

This guy had no qualms about proudly holding his shirt open so I could see his tattoo...

...while this dude walked up and down in front of the Reflecting Pool muttering some rap lyrics into a microphone which was connected to a speaker he pulled along on a cart.

I have no words. Really. Well maybe a few. God help us...Actually, these guys were quite entertaining. A reporter was asking them questions while holding out a microphone while his partner videoed them. Every question he asked was answered in rap style by the guy in white, accompanied by some footwork and arm action, it was quite riveting, I wished I'd recorded it myself. He explained that there was no gang here, just a huge family, folks who would help out any member, even if they were a stranger. He stated that gangs have colors and initiations, and told us to look around and see, there were no colors. He had a point. Apart from the red shirts, everyone was in black and white, which technically aren't colors.

I finally left when I realized that I wouldn't be seeing any of the outrageous clown make up that I'd been hoping to see. The crowd had certainly increased in size yet the ambience was friendly and sociable. They had no issues with boring-looking ordinary folks like me gawking and asking questions. I didn't see one expression of annoyance or impatience; they were all just trying to put their message across, and the Juggalos present certainly didn't give me any reasons to be concerned. They do seem to have some members who have tainted their name, with drug traffickers, burglaries and murders having been committed by a few, but hey, this happens in regular society too. They also have groups involved with charity fund raising and community clean ups. I left hoping they'd win their cause. It did seem rather an overkill to label them as a gang, they were simply a fan base, nothing more. I guess Jimmy Buffet's Parrotheads had better watch out, they're a raucous bunch when they had a few margaritas...

The Steam Scene at Somerset

On Sunday, Rob and I returned to the annual Pasture Party, an event held by the Steam and Gas Association in Somerset, VA. The last time we'd been here was 7 years ago; time flies by fast. It had been an excellent day, filled with machines I'd never seen before, the opportunity to get up close and personal with the engines and so many friendly people. Set in a large field, with all kinds of antique vehicles, old barns and men in denim coveralls tinkering with engines, it was easy to imagine that we were stepping back in time. No souped up V8 sports cars or snappy designer dressers here, I loved it.
We approached the field, already excited as we smelled the familiar coal smoke drifting across the road, whistles from the traction engines shrieking a welcome and motors chugging and chattering.

There were a few old cars and trucks lined up, the still immaculate old wooden spokes catching my eye, and a beautifully geometric Art Deco hood ornament. But my attention was soon diverted elsewhere, especially towards the old tractors.

There were the usual John Deere yellow and green monstrosities, I've never been a fan, and some gorgeous Farmall tricycles alongside a few Case gems. There were also some I hadn't seen, including the 2 above, especially the huge rusty hulk with double back wheels, which Rob dubbed The Beast. We never saw it running which was a shame, I'd have loved to hear the racket it must surely have emitted.

The traction engine wheels always draw me towards them, massive and strong, turning slowly under their giant weight. There were many gas engine combustion engines, or 'hit and miss' as they are also called. Loud thwacking noises, at different pitches, could be heard across the field as they pumped round and round, all of them with a constant audience of mainly men, who seemed to stand in hypnotic trances as they stared into the engines. It was kind of cool to watch the wheels go round, steam hissing from spouts and oil dripping from leaks, the constant pop, pop, and chugging drew people from all over the field.

 There were quite a few demonstrations going on, all of them very noisy, dirty, but always crowd pleasers. Machinery was run by gas or steam engines, or tractors, or traction engines, with long leather belts turning and supplying power to make cinder bricks, crush rocks into gravel, shuck corn and shred the husks into mulch, or cut tree trunks into planks.
Look and listen to some of them working here. We watched all of these, and as I got close with my camera, I was soon covered in coal dust or sawdust, Rob helping to pick pieces of corn husks from my hair as a cloud like confetti flew around me.

This huge engine is a Sears Handiman, built in 1929, and comes from Indiana, once used for ploughing, when it would have plodded steadily and solidly at 1.5mph, only able to travel forwards or backwards. A huge machine, apparently 2 thirds of its power was needed just to get it started moving.

There were a couple of blacksmiths working under a tent, one whose work caught my attention. He's on the left here, but I haven't shown a photo of him as he has no images on the internet and I guess that's intentional. I loved his work and bought a small knife with a bull head on the handle.

There were some unusual vehicles trundling about the field, some that we laughed at and one that I fell in love with, the Oliver tractor above won me over. The huge traction engines rumbled around the field as well as mini tractors, driven by kids. Old cars, with their passengers looking like they rolled right off The Beverly Hillbillies set, chugged b, their occupants smiling and waving at anyone who looked at them.You had to keep your wits about you, these vehicles came from all directions, some honking horns, while others made us aware of their presence just with their engine noise.

The small kids enjoyed the corn pit, way better than a sand pit, and likely loved by the parents too, who didn't have to worry about sand filled socks and shoes when they got home.
We wandered over to the main event of the afternoon, the Lawn and Garden Tractor Pull. This drew a large crowd and was serious business according to everyone here. Except me. I was constantly laughing at these tiny contraptions with their serious faced riders, machines that should be cutting grass were now hammering down a dusty track, but I could have outrun them all! But it was definitely entertaining.

With heavy weights on the front to stop them tipping up, the lawnmowers dragged the sled down the track, the drivers leaning back as far as possible, while the rest of us cheered and hollered. The announcer informed the crowd that we all needed to ensure we were behind the orange fence as, "The last 2 events are gonna be some serious horsepower, so y'all be on yer toes!" I burst out laughing at that. As the tiny tractors hauled the sled down the 100ft track, their engines strained and their wheels scrambled for traction, while we spectators coughed and wiped streaming eyes through the red dust clouds.

This dude had me laughing too, he obviously took his sport very seriously and posed for a while on his mean machine, likely dreaming of the day he'd eventually make the Daytona!

This guy was awesome, roaring with mirth when we complimented him on his cool ride. He looked exceptionally serious though once on the track. Unfortunately he didn't make the finals, I was really hoping he'd win.
A couple of traction engines were in the next field with ploughs attached so we made a beeline for them. They were about to start a ploughing demonstration and wanted a couple of volunteers, so my paw went up in the air immediately, and before I knew it, I was climbing up onto a wooden platform with 4 long handles and 3 other guys. Rob grabbed my camera and took over taking the photos.

We had to crouch down to keep our balance while the huge engine crawled and lurched across the field to the start point, finding every dip and rock in the ground.

Another engine came behind us, with a plough that needed only 1 operator, and we both lined up next to each other. Our driver shouted at us to lift, and he heaved our levers into the air. They were heavy and supposed to lock in once they were upright, but it took me a while to realize that, and my poor arms trembled as I struggled to keep my handle as far up in the air as possible.

We had to stop at the corner of the field while the blades were cleared of all the corn husks and stalks that had clogged the plough so we could thankfully lower our levers and rest. When we started off again, this time I knew what I was doing, shoved my handle up above my shoulders and locked it in, then stood, feet apart, my spare hand on my hip, like the other guys, and trying to look as casually confident as them, hopefully looking as though I did this every weekend!

I think I achieved the look, judging by Rob's photo of me! We finished our stretch of the field and came to a halt. This must have once been pretty tiring work to perform all day, especially in hot and humid conditions. I was glad to have experienced a little of 'the old days' and I'm sure the farmers of today are eternally grateful for their modern machinery, fast and efficient tractors with air cooled cabs and no need for additional human labor.

We left the old Sears Handiman and other traction engines posing in the field, looking strong and glorious with their black and charcoal plumes of smoke billowing from their chimneys. The traction name derives from the Latin tractus, meaning 'drawn', since the prime function of any traction engine is to draw a load behind it. The scene looked as though it was straight from the 1920's or 30's, with no new houses or cars anywhere in the picture, just these working behemoths and the freshly ploughed field.
Rob and I found the ice cream stall, the delicious frozen treat made on site with a tiny gas engine that chugged quietly next to the van. I remembered the peach ice cream being particularly tasty on my last visit, and was delighted to be able to have another bowl of it today. The perfect finale.
Below are photos of my new bull knife and also of a miniature axe, made by another blacksmith.