Sometimes it just takes a little luck and a good guide.

As we drove to the ride start of our gravel ride, my buddy Gary’s wife Barbara called.  Thanks to the car’s Bluetooth we were all talking to one another.  That’s when she issued a bit of a warning.

“Have you looked at the elevation for this ride?”  She asked. 

It was more of a caution than a question.  She had ridden this route before, and more or less wanted to let me know what I had signed up for.

I had looked at the route on Strava and didn’t see anything all that scary.  The course from Arcadia up toward Natural Bridge was a modest 31 miles with 3,028 feet of climbing. 

I consider a thousand feet for every ten miles a “climbing day,” but nothing too terrifying.

So, I set my concerns aside as we drove along North Creek, where Gary and I had done a fair amount of fly-fishing.  We’ve had good luck here, casting tiny flies with carbon fiber fly rods, that are stupidly expensive, but which we love nonetheless.

However, this day’s gear was our gravel bikes, which perhaps fall into the same category as the fly rods – both in terms of cost and endearment.

Gary had ridden this route many times, but it was my first.  I had fallen into a bit of a gravel rut, riding the two to three beautiful loops I enjoyed over and over. 

See some of my other rides on my Strava account. You might also be interested in my time at Gravel Camp this summer.

It was time for some fresh scenery.

And I would get it in spades.

Riding that gravel

We started on pavement and retraced some of the route we had driven in the car, crossing the James River near the Arcadia canoe launch where I had completed numerous fishing expeditions, trying my best against the smallmouth bass that call the James home.

Eventually, we came to a rural road that paralleled Interstate 81.  And while the cars and tractor-trailers roared past on the other side of a small buffer of trees, we cruised along with almost no traffic.

Eventually, we turned away from the Interstate and began to see some earnest countryside.  Pavement turned to gravel and my knobby tires were finally in their element.  I was beginning to feel lucky to have this day.

At eight miles, Barbara’s warning came racing back, as a series of short steep pitches challenged those knobbies, my legs, and my lungs.

I glanced down at the Garmin just long enough to see the grade at 17 percent. 

Still doable.  Unless the gravel gets loose and deep.

Which it did.

Don’t put your foot down!

When you’re only going three and a half miles an hour, there isn’t much room for error.  Any slower and it’s hard to keep the bike upright.

Determined not to dab, I leaned back for a bit of traction, redoubled my effort on the pedals, pulled out whatever was left of my meager mountain bike skills, and did my damnedest not to put a foot down.

The rear wheel spun a bit, and just as I thought the road would win, the knobbies grabbed.  A quick twitch of the handlebars brought my trusty Fuji into compliance – and I was over the rough spot. 

Catching my breath was another issue, but I got it under control.

This section of the ride offered a few more of these steep, short climbs, but they proved doable. My ego would leave this little section of the ride still intact.

The Scenery

After a bit more rolling and steep terrain the track broke into some of the best scenery you can take in from a bicycle. 

The now-flat gravel road paralleled the James River until well into mile 17.  Huge peaks rose in the distance, while the hard-packed surface allowed us to roll along as if we were on pavement.

Except the surface provided that crunchy resonance that only a dirt road provides.

The early fall morning air was crisp.  The season’s last leaves clung to the hardwoods, a few reds, and yellows – the mountains just past peak, not what they were, but short of the drab greys only a month down the road. 

Taking pictures.

We are on Gilmore Mills Road.  I try to grab some pictures of Gary with the mountains in the distance, he, and his bike in the foreground.  My belief as always – is that cycling in the mountains is more interesting than on flat land and that a good photo proves it. 

I lean down as I pedal trying to find a low angle that makes the ridge beyond Gary look as high as possible.  But he’s moving, as am I.  I click a few shots, but it’s a bit of a Hail Mary.  I can’t see the screen very well. But it’s difficult to take a bad picture here.  Anything with rider and background will do. 

The shots are fine and reinforce my conviction about riding amongst the peaks.  The landscape is gorgeous.

There’s a lot of livestock.  Horses, cows of course, but then we come to a pasture full of sheep.  Sheep feel like a bonus.  A bit of a rarity in this part of Virginia, less common than cows or horses. Seeing a huge flock feels like a bit of luck.   The ride, getting better and better. 

Riding Back in time

We pass a sign that says we have crossed into Rockbridge County.  Shortly we arrive at Natural Bridge Station.  Our luck, improving. 

As if this ride can’t get any better, we round the corner to find a relic from the nation’s pre-Interstate highway days.

If one can measure luck by the quality of the scenery, then this excursion just drew a royal flush.

Beside the road is an old gas station and country store, restored to the way it would have looked in its heyday.  Think 1950s or 60’s.  I’m not sure.  It’s not open, like where you can go inside.  More like a welcoming roadside oddity.  A museum viewed only from the outside.

We are the only ones there.  No cars even pass.

Gary and I sit at a weathered picnic table across the street.  The store-museum on one side.  The James River and the iconic railroad bridge on the other.

We drink our water, eat our snacks, and enjoy a few minutes in the sun that’s just a bit warmer than the November date would suggest.

This stop comes at about sixteen miles.  Call it halfway.

Back to the gravel

Back on our bikes, we cross the James and meander along Valley Road.  At 20 miles we divert onto Back Run Road, which is paved, but steep.  Then the pavement ends at Parker’s Gap Road.  I settle into my granny gear and spin.  The pitch goes between six percent to a bit over ten.  It stays on you, but it’s not unbearable.  There are signs to be aware of logging trucks.  I suppose they are there some of the time, but not this time.  I’m glad.  They would have screwed up a gorgeous day.  The luck continues.

Downhill is not always what it seems.

Just after 26 miles, we are still on gravel, but the downhill begins.  I’d been waiting for this.

I’m good at going downhill.  But the road doesn’t want to play.  It’s rough.  Gary and I get on the brakes and stay there.  The corners offer little opportunity to take chances. 

For the first time, I wish the bike had suspension.  My neck and back are angry. 

“It’s downhill,” I tell myself.  “How bad can it be?”

It’s not that bad.  I’m just complaining.  I have discovered the point where my skill is tapped out.  A better rider might have flown down that road.  But not me.  It’s a case of survive and advance.

Then suddenly the gravel turns back to pavement.  I’ve never been so happy to see chip seal. 

It’s a chance to sit up and let my aching traps relax.  I ride Gary’s wheel for the final couple of miles at an easy 23 miles an hour.  The creek beside us, the landscape still amazing.  Rhododendron hanging over the creek.  I see spots behind rocks in the current where I’m sure trout are hiding.  I want to come back and find out.

The ache in my neck subsides some.  But it’s just a pleasant reminder of the ride. Of the effort. 

Of the luck.

Scroll down for more pictures from the ride.