Oasis: Not Just A Band

oasis (ō′ā•səs): (geography) An isolated fertile area, usually limited in extent and surrounded by desert, and marked by vegetation and a water supply.

I know an oasis when I see one. They have nothing to do with the water supply. They’re all about food.

An oasis is that general store with the grill in the back. The roadside stand or the freestanding restaurant which appears, like some genetic freak of nature, on a winding side road, miles from any village or town.

It’s a marvel that the establishment survives the change in seasons. One slow weekend could threaten its very existence. But there it is. Wrapped in the ethereal perfume of crisp bacon. Luring the famished cyclist with the siren song of the $4.95 Breakfast Platter. The $5.99 Cheeseburger Special.

I came across my first oasis on a winter cycling tour from North Carolina to the Deep Frozen South. The farther we rode into Dixie, the colder it got. I feared for the thermometers and the citrus crops. I feared for my toes.

The year was 1975. We’d spent a night on the frozen tundra of Alabama, shaking in flimsy tents and absurdly inadequate sleeping bags. Sweet Home Alabama. Where was Lynyrd when you needed em? Probably with their boots up on a roaring wood stove.

In the morning, after knocking a crust of frost from our bags and bikes, we got rolling. The only thing worse than the cold was the hunger.

Just five miles later, parked at a crossroads, we hit one of those places. I don’t recall the name, but to this day that simple meal of eggs, biscuits, grits and slab bacon ranks on my list of Top Five Culinary Delights. I’m certain the Big Guy in the Sky was lobbing the biscuits down to the fry cook. They were not of this Earth.

Every table had a mason jar filled with homemade blackberry jam. I loaded each biscuit down like a pack mule until it fairly collapsed from the weight of its syrupy cargo.

I left there with a warm belly and a new take on life.

Perhaps we only get to see the light on the road to Damascus once. But I’ve come close a few other times.

Last year on BMB, as I labored through the interminable hills between Ludlow and Brattleboro, I came upon a family dairy farm that operated a small ice cream stand.

For 15 minutes or so, I forgot all about my sore hand and my sorer legs. I was just the kid with a double scoop of vanilla, my only pressing worry whether I’d finish before the ice cream began its inevitable melt through the waffle cone.

The ice cream story brings me round to the point of this entry: the Mapleview Farm Store just north of Chapel Hill and Carrboro.

We’re talking about a store smack dab in the middle of nowhere -- and just one cow pasture away from the herd that contributes sweet cream to the cause.

Chapel Hill and Carrboro are arguably the epicenter of cycling in the Tar Heel state. Mapleview has helped clinch that reputation.

When Orange County cyclists are done for the day, chances are they’ll stop in for a shake or sundae, sit in one of a dozen rockers on Mapleview’s front porch and debate just how sweet life is.

Good ice cream knows no season. This picture shows a group of randonneurs enjoying a frozen treat following an icy December century in 2005.

As if the ice cream weren’t enough, there’s another reason to support Mapleview.

At a time when the land surrounding urban areas is being carved up into subdivision after subdivision, Mapleview stands as an oasis of enlightened land planning and conservation. In 1995, the owners of the farm granted a conservation easement to the Triangle Land Conservancy to insure continuation of the farming and dairy operations, and to help preserve the area’s open spaces.

Wouldn’t you know it? There’s a solid cycling connection here. Kate Dixon, the former head of TLC, helped make the Mapleview easement a reality. A cyclist herself, she has ridden across the state in the annual fall ride, Cycle North Carolina. Her husband Dan is a RUSA member and most recently completed the Morrisville 300K.