Waynesboro to Cherokee, Birmingham to Jackson

I have planned all the routes, side-routes, small hiking projects (gonna hike some trail-less mountain ridges and peaks), worked it south-going and north-going. I have listened to bluegrass radio non-stop today, and have done a good bit of listening to a compact I got in the mail. I just realized as I type this that I haven't bicycled big in an entire month. I will store the bicycle in the trunk of the car we are taking and use it whenever we stop for a long period of time. As you could guess, the fact that the trunk is that big makes it clear how much money this is going to take (about 80 dollars more because the car only gets 20 mpg. Oh well, it definitely roomy so sleeping in the car won't be uncomfortable). My friend does not have any money on him, so once again, I shall arrive in Charleston with mere pennies in pocket, tossing them on the side of the highway in the sun, free-hearted desperation.

Now in the post title, Waynesboro is the town that is noted as being the city at the end of the Blue Ridge Parkway, or the beginning. Jackson is the where the line runs out of track in Blue Highway's Through The Window Of A Train. Beautiful painting of a song. The older settings for bluegrass songs -- railroads, outlaws, coal mines, homesteaders -- always gets at my heart. I am going to update this when I get back with the link to the song, lyrics, and an excerpt from Kerouac's Dharma Bums -- all of it like a land exploding to view before you, showing a lifetime in a mere moment. Fayetteville is that town where I lost my favorite thrift-store flannel button-up shirt, that was with me all those weeks of bicycling the mountains in October, and where I will get it back on the way up. Florence is that town where it will all commence one more time.