A big congratulations to N.C. RBA Al Johnson who is getting married in October to Dorothy Jones.
On Saturday best man Mike O’Connor organized a pre-nuptial bike ride.
I signed up under the mistaken belief we’d be heading to Hooters for a bucket of wings. Wrongo, Bucko. Our ultimate destination was Yanceyville’s annual Brightleaf Hoedown, a small street-fair named for a variety of North Carolina tobacco that was first cured in Caswell County in 1839.
Pre-ride, I put the Schmidt hub and rear lights on my bike -- you never know what time of night a bachelor event will wind down and you sure don't want to get caught sans reflective gear. I rolled out my door at 7:30 a.m. for the 15-mile ride to Al’s house in Morrisville.
Al, Mike and I struck out at 9 on the 63-mile course to Yanceyville. We followed a route Adrian stitched together, traveling first through RTP, then past the weekend’s Gay Pride celebration in Durham and north on a busy artery or two before we hit the rural roads.
Although we had a headwind most of the way up, nobody much cared or complained. The sun was out, temps were in the mid 70s and life was grand. There were several long flat stretches where Al and I swapped PBP stories.
The conversation trailed off as we hit a couple short, steep climbs.
“Who put up that wall back there?” Al asked as we chugged up from a creek bottom.
Fittingly, we rode past a dozen tobacco fields. Most of this year’s crop is already in the barns although we saw one farmer harvesting the top leaf.
Here’s a picture of a new-fangled curing barn near Gordonton. Not as picturesque as the old wooden structures, but you get the same heavenly sweet smell as the tobacco dries to a golden brown. If cigarettes tasted half as good as that aroma, everybody would smoke.
We stopped for Cokes and carbs at a corner store in Leasburg before the final 11-mile push into Yanceyville. The last mile up Hwys 86/158 featured a lung-busting ascent. Fun!
The Hoedown was in full swing when we arrived in Yanceyville and we made our way to the town square. It was roped off, with a central stage as the anchor point for dozens of craft booths and food stands.
We parked our bikes in the rack beside Gilbert Anderson’s shop. Here’s a picture of the storefront in the old A.H. Motz Building.
It's just across the street from the magnificent county courthouse.
Gilbert is a PBP ancien and the owner of one of the finest René Herse bikes on the planet. His shop is a randonneur’s delight. Out of the way, but well worth a visit.
We didn’t have to wander far to find the pork rinds. There they were, in the booth right in front of Gilbert’s shop. A dozen varieties, including the “whole wheat” bag for those who prefer a “heart healthy” label on their pig skin. Haha. Hehe. Hoho.
Beside Gilbert’s shop were a variety of antique farm devices: an old steam tractor, a 1920s hay baler, several “hit-miss” engines, toy tractors, and a Ford Model T or A converted into a “Hoover Tractor” through a unique gearing system.
Here's a video of A.C. Culpepper explaining how his hit-miss engines work. He had three on display, including the Moonshine Special, which ran on alcohol fumes.
I wondered the square and videotaped this tobacco auctioneer holding a mock sale. Those auctioneers and their singsong chants were once as common in the Tobacco Belt as late summer locusts.
Today there are two surviving traditional flue-cured tobacco auctions in the United States. Here’s an NPR story about that dying craft.
Meantime, Alan’s fiancé Dorothy and Mike’s wife arrived with a sheet cake to celebrate the upcoming nuptials. Gilbert rousted several riders -- Mike R, Adrian and Byron -- who’d ridden up the night before and were camping down the hill. Everyone crowded into Gilbert’s shop. We applauded Al and Dorothy and in true rando style nearly demolished the cake in 15 minutes flat. Only a small corner, I'd call it a cake edge really, remained. Byron vowed to polish it off at breakfast.
I decided I’d had too much bachelor cake to bike home (better safe than sorry!) and hitched a ride with Mike and Alan and their better halves. I crowded into the back seat, apologizing in advance for the smell, which was not at all like the sweet aroma of cured tobacco.
Congratulations, Al and Dorothy!
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