Day 11 Pulaski - Virginia

I was angry as i walked into the campsite office, tired, annoyed with myself and angry with people who post signs for camp sites, and don't mention how far it is to them. But i thought i wold try not to say anything to the guy who greeted me, for one thing he was about seven feet tall. But i guess, he could see it all in my face, plus the fact he had seen me coming down the mountain road to his hut. ''How did you find us?'' he asked, that was enough for me, and with a sigh said ''I saw the signs in town, but i wish you had an indication of just how far it is to the camp, if i had known it was going to be so far out of my way, i would have kept going, and could probably be in a motel now''. He gave me an understanding look, that told me simultaneously, that he knew it was a problem with the signage, and that we both knew, i shouldn't be here.

Those extra miles had come at the end of a 60 mile day, the first one into a head wind, and the signs that i was so cross about had caught my attention as i rolled into the town of Pulaski looking for somewhere to spend the night. At first i thought that i had landed on my feet, as i was not expecting to find a camp site in a town. It was an official brown tourist sign, with a picnic table, a boat, a poor chap with a walking stick and a tent, so i made a snap decision, and turning to the right went for it. Across a coupe of junctions, well signed with the name Gatewood Camp and arrows, then i came to another set of lights, and facing me was the climb from hell, ''not to worry'', i could see that it was a short one, and with the prospect of a rest soon, i dropped down through the gears, and gritting my teeth, i went for it. The road turned to the right and flattened out, passing through the usual collection of white clapboard homes with silver chain link fencing, and a menagerie of plastic pets standing to attention on the lawns, the road turned to the left, again nicely signed, and i swung around, into another 'wall', gears down, and up i go again, this time out of the saddle, a fresh wave of sweat running down my forehead and into my eyes. 'Not to worry, soon be there!' i thought as i kept my eyes peeled for some sign of an entrance to the site, that did not appear. Little did i know that this was to be the pattern for the next three miles, as the houses thinned and went slightly down market, with the plastic pets being replaced by old half dismantled cars, abandoned campers, and live dogs, that tested the strength of the, now rusting fences, by throwing themselves at them with fangs bared, in an attempt to have a piece of me, unnerving yes, but they also acted as a 'supercharger', as my legs spun up to a speed not previously attained,if only for a few seconds. And so it went on, another bend, another hill, is that the entrance? no it's a church or a graveyard or just occasionally the drive to a posh house. I hear the sound of engines straining behind me, and two lads on mopeds slowly crawl past, grinning at my discomfort. A old man with a long white beard, looking like he wouldn't be out of place in a Confederate uniform, gives me a smile and the 'thumbs up', as he carefully makes his way down the hill on his moped. By now the houses have been left behind, and i am riding through woodland, still repeating he pattern, of climbing, flattening out, then climbing some more, as i sweat and search for the relief of the campsite, and then, i see a sign, ''Gatewood camp – 6 miles'' !

To be continued