WHAT A BICYCLE CAN CARRY

LAURA MADELINE WISEMAN

BLAZEVOX[BOOKS]
Buffalo, New York

What a Bicycle Can Carry
by Laura Madeline Wiseman
Copyright © 2018

Published by BlazeVOX [books]

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without

the publisher’s written permission, except for brief quotations in reviews.

Printed in the United States of America

Interior design and typesetting by Geoffrey Gatza

First Edition
ISBN: 978-1-60964-328-7
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018952727

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Pre-Day: A Map for Things
Yorktown, VA
0 miles

Could you want that unknown destination,

the unmarked perimeter, the new night’s
bed somewhere at a primitive site where you ride
in one way, but leave another, pockets full?

If this is an atlas, to get to the next X, the map folds,

back-sided with history and details. What
should be north turns out west. The compass needle whirls
towards treasures. A pass is a climb, then a switchback

roll down a mountain along a river into a valley.

There’s a graveyard, a cave of once pirates. Then
the road again with a friend—you need to feel lost, to stop
for what’s been dropped by mistake and hold it,

to follow a different route towards the coast. Could you

have sought this key, these symbols, this path
across the country? States and rivers divide. Everywhere
are marked options to repair, eat, and sleep.

Yet there’s this new way to learn the upshifts of land

and continent, what is discarded or pitched
for someone like you to find. You get on your bicycle.
The wheel is the direction. At push off, the trail.

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 Virginia

After the town of Vesuvius, there is a very steep, switchback four-mile climb into the Blue Ridge
Parkway. Afton. A Mountain. American flag. Appalachian Trail. A unique touch has been the
addition of costumed hosts who live and work in the colonial era, even as the world around them
rushes into the future. Baptist Church of Troutdale Hostel for Bikers and Hikers. BBQ
sandwiches. Blue Ridge Parkway. Bonking. Charles City. Colonial Parkway. Cookie Lady’s
house. Damascus. Dragonfly wings. Early settlers were drawn to the valley region because of
stories of grass so high it could be tied over the saddle of a horse. Elk Garden United Methodist
Church. Every year you don’t do it, it’s less likely you ever will. Friendly dog. Grace Episcopal
Church. Headache. Headband. Heroines of Mercy Street. His body is buried nearby. Hold Still. In
each syllable that we speak, we tell where we’re from and who we are, and although we speak to
communicate, it is the very act of speaking that identifies our ethnicity and constructs our social
boundaries. In the Gap, you can get heavy fog. It is our goal to sleep outside every night of this trip, to
smell the night air, to hear America by night as well as by day. Jamestown River. Laser. Many of
the colonists soon began to realize they were not cut out for this kind of living. Mosquitoes. Most of
the roads through the Old Appalachians of central Virginia are narrow and have no shoulders.
Motorcyclist. Natural Bridge. Northern Arizona University ball cap with lumberjack mascot.
Palmyra United Methodist Church. Part of the artist's job is to make the commonplace singular, to
project a different interpretation onto the conventional. Sweatband. The Appalachians may not be as
tall as the Rockies, but they are much harder to cross than the mountains of the West. The catbird
sings in ones, each squeak uttered only once; the thrasher in twos; the mockingbird in fives or more.
The topsy-turvy nature of the roadways, coupled with the often heavy forest cover, make it easy to lose
directions altogether. Tie. Tony Hawk ball cap. Troutville Baseball Park. Truevine. Thought
bubble: Happiness is an inside job. Shirley Jackson. Spoon. Thomas Jefferson was so impressed by the
bridge that he purchased it and the surrounding 157 acres from King George III for 20 shillings. Tire
dip in Yorktown River. To avoid some of the humidity, cycle early in the morning. Towel.
Umbrella. U.S. Bicycle Route 76. Vesuvius Hill. Virginia is a flood state, with floods every month
of the year. Virginia Capital Trail. Wilderness Road. Wildwood Park. Willis United Methodist
Church. Wooden crosses. Yorktown Victory Monument.

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Day 1: The Road Bicycle
Yorktown, VA to Jamestown, VA
27 miles

It’s as if you are your own car on Day 1.

And it’s also as if you get a car on Day 1,

that remembers that first loop scooped,

that first open lunch in high school. On Day 1

it’s like that first road trip with friends,

that first long distance go. It’s as if on Day 1

your dad and grandpa gave you the keys

to test drive the block and on Day 1

you get this sense that to be wheeled means

to accept these gifts passed down to you. On Day 1

vehicles become projects that need to be driven

daily—it’s good for the engine. On Day 1

you discover you are your own motor.

The separation of I and it dissolves on Day 1,

as if it never really was. The bicycle rider

merge into the word cyclist on Day 1.

That transformation—you are the power

moving over the road. This trip on Day 1

is a memory making good. It has to

start somewhere. We’ll begin with Day 1.

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Day 2: Road Flare
Jamestown, VA to Church Hill, VA
62 miles

Yes, it’s just a broken headband,

one pigtail remains, but you’ve got it—
curl, hues of blonde that brightens,
one magenta strand that sparkles,
and a spring rising from the edge
of a state for lovers. What young gal
lost this on the Virginia Capital Trail?

Yes, sometimes that’s all there is—

unknown bits that flicker and catch
the light, embers among the shadows,
uncollected sparklers by the crew
in vests who are paid to gather trash.
What had that gal thought the moment
she realized how it all just blows about?

Yes, you stop your bicycle to get it,

remembering how it once felt
to have hair hot behind the ears,
smoldering with the parkway grade,
and like a kid—that fearless—release that light.
What gal wouldn’t set fire to the shoulder
along the road to mark her path, asking, Follow?

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Day 3: What’s Found in Map Section 12
Church Hill, VA to Palmyra, VA
86 miles

Say a girl’s pink sweatband could be found

on the Blue Ridge Parkway where no trash
appeared, or between Monticello and Ash Lawn,
a towel for that post-ride shower, a little faded
to a patchy orange, but still clean, or on this side
of Bumpass, a cap without a logo or emblem, meaning
this will protect anyone’s cheeks from burn
or maybe in a day or two in Max Meadows,
a spoon will be left in a shelter by someone
who must’ve gone home with one utensil short
of their set, but oh well, because there’s a dog, Max,
maybe, who’s smart and ready for the cyclists
who stop to offer a scratch. What does it matter
what is lost—mate-less shoes, gloves, socks—
when there are overnight towns like Palmyra
with a church shelter and free food—chicken,
watermelon, sweetcorn? Aren’t thoughts just bubbles,
sometimes dark and heavy, but also easy with good
tailwind to lift with the light? Pray first, one says,
and on another laminated card, Happiness is an inside job.

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Day 4: Rider with a Good Break
Palmyra, VA to Reeds Gap, VA
69 miles

He can no longer raise both fists, though

he once rode a motorcycle like a beast.
When half an arm snapped off leaving him

unable to hold to his machine or the gun

that came as an accessory, he became useless
as a toy—never a toy: more like a role,

a possible self, a way to behave. Muscular

and helmeted, even where scraped raw
by gravel and debris, what’s encountered

by following the roads out here, his eyes

remain ever shielded as if the world is just
as it always was—ever open and bright.

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Day 5: Riding with Shirley Jackson
Reeds Gap, VA to Troutville, VA
65 miles

When she arrives, she does so on a bicycle, riding up beside you on a Schwinn. You’re in
Virginia, somewhere beyond the Blue Ridge Parkway, maybe gripping the brakes hard on the
switchbacks of Vesuvius Hill, or maybe you’re still coughing from that traffic near Richmond
when the heat got bad. You’re surprised by the jacket and skirt, her hair done up just the way
it is. She doesn’t wear a helmet or gloves and of course, no clips. I delight in what I fear, she
says. You nod and then bare down to climb. On the downhill, you tell her you read “The
Lottery” in high school, and then later, when The Hunger Games became cool, you thought of
it again, that reaping theme. She says, So long as you write it away regularly nothing can really
hurt you. You’re not the type to argue, and you can’t breathe anyway—allergies, the
Appalachians, the humid weight of riding mostly alone. Wouldn’t the Buddha say to write out
gratitude and hope instead? A biography you once read said she was the type of author who
found the evil in each. Did she think maybe the evil she saw was just allergies and
inflammation? Would a better diet have helped or a more attentive husband? You ride for a
time, one hill, then another. She complains about her mom in a non-direct way, talking story
plot and character development, the darkness inside of girls. It’s all good stuff, and because
you miss being a student, you listen. On a hill, you both stand, her because Schwinns are
heavy and you because of the saddle sores. You only get to ride a few miles together and then
she’s gone, trying to make a career with words, which means mostly she sits down to it, hour
after hour, until something happens.

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Day 6: Hats Left on the Road
Troutville, VA to Newbern, VA
76 miles

O lumberjack, O axman, full-bearded and rugged,

would anyone dare to hold your gaze long?
Your strong teeth like train tracks that disappear,
your nose like a rocket leaving all this behind,
the trenches below your eyes like hard proof
you don’t have time to sleep today and those pupils
like bullets to get it done. In flannel and wool,
it’s more than some school honor you defend
as all day the mowers shear the road’s shoulders
and you appear tossed among so much spent grass,
then a half mile later, another ball cap. This one
boasts two collegiate letters, an acronym for excellence.

Where are all these boys and men who ride away hatless
the sweat of their brows drying with their discarded
allegiance and pride? Will they drive here again?
Or is there a new one now: golden arches
of McDonald’s, a camouflage pattern of the hunt,
an eagle, an American flag, or service in the Army of God?

Maybe the lesson is simple—to rally for one team for years
then select a brand-new, unbroken bill and look out.
Anyone can ride behind this mascot and shout.
Or maybe letting go is the lesson, all those miles gone.

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Day 7: The Unpaid Labor of Bicycle Touring
Newbern, VA to Troutdale, VA
80 miles

Maybe you ought not to have collected that clip-on tie

from Troutville with Troutdale ahead, just another thing
to have squirm and thrash, fighting climb for miles,

even if that’s all there’s been besides a red-eyed laser,

the on-button smashed with a keyring but not a key
attached to open any door, because it’s got you thinking

why you can’t leave alone what has been kicked or hit
by a precise aim into the gutters, the verges of weeds,
or way out on the lawn’s edge where the news is left,

and then why you backtrack, stop against the traffic

for some sparkle that is nothing half the time.
You could be collecting cans. You could be paid a wage

to pick up garbage. Or this could be how you serve,

in orange stabbing at trash, your term for your crimes
—how you ignored the urgent flow of spawn or why

you’re so hard. Maybe you’re just remembering

your dad’s Boy Scout logic, Leave a place cleaner
than you found it. He found much in city dumps.

There’s no clock-in, no clock-out, a day of treasures—

a red umbrella, a cap with an American flag, and a tie.
Maybe your job is to find it—whatever it is—and hold on.

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Day 8: Bicycle Helmet
Troutdale, VA to Rosedale, VA
63 miles

No red in the pre-dawn skyline, no front pushing

in the distance, no incessant seams to jar clear
the night terrors. Holey styrofoam is all there is

to replace what cracked in that SUV-bicycle collision,

that shock that made this state a strange,
dangerous journey—bruised, bone-ached,

shaken—to teach how much is held, how tenuous

a hold. Could another helmet with its straps dangling
against the throat be security? Could any Nutcase

or Bell, any pattern protect what must be cradled?

Could a talisman like the stars and stripes on a crown
hold you—one of ten states biked, nine to go,

almost like fingers that cup a furry not-quite-roadkill,

or like a pitcher’s glove around what you could throw
if this were a field, or like a waffle fry, that heat

and salt, that means a friend just bought you dinner?

Could that cross-country spirit soften the possible falls,
keep you together, catches locked, with maximum airflow?

You go on—what choice is there if this is it? To be a visible dot

moving along the road, you align the visor to block the sun.
You put us on like any pioneer bonnet, any stovepipe hat

of hardscrabble. Who says America is broken or small?

Who says you can’t be covered by it as you cover it,
shore to shore by bicycle, just to prove it’s possible?

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 Kentucky

30 SPF sunblock. Abraham Lincoln Birthplace National Historical Park. American flag.
Anderson Dean Community Park. Appalachians. A simple whistle around your neck will solve a
multitude of problems with the pesky pups. A study in contrasts, you’ll see poverty, beer shakes,
$100,000 coal trucks parked in the front of $10,000 trailer homes, empty grocery stores, and friendly
people. Be aware that signs can be damaged, stolen, or otherwise missing so you can never rely totally
on following signs. Big Hill Welcome Center. Bluegrass music. Breaks Interstate Park. Brooks
General Store and Café Calendar. Cave-in-Rock. Coal. Coal Miner's Daughter. Bouquet. Ball
caps. Domes & Dripstones. Dwarf. Feeling more at ease among their own kind, most of them
moved further back into the hill country. Freeda Harris Baptist Center. Groceries are available
outside the park. Hayters Gap. Hindman. In Appalachia, summer fogs may cling to the highlands
until quite late in the morning. Infinity scarf. In an evil world, working the land offered a life of
purity and simplicity apart from the corruption of commerce and trade. In this coal-mining region
known for its poverty conditions, riders encounter a compelling mix of beautiful rural spreads that
alternate with tar paper shacks, house trailers, and barking dogs. Lincoln Homestead State Park.
Lincoln of Kentucky. Lookout. Loose dogs abound in rural Kentucky so you will likely encounter
them. Be prepared. Whiskey Distilleries. Mammoth Cave. Marion United Methodist Church.
Mermaid. Occasionally you will see a sign that points to a different road than what the map says.
Ohio River Ferry. One legend insists that it is extremely bad luck to burn the wood of the sourwood
as fuel. The results can be anything from bad weather to family disasters. Pajamas. Prayer cloths.
Rise of the Robots. Roads are narrow and shoulderless. Sonora. Sebree Dairy. Stories have been
handed down about hollow sycamores so large that they served as homes for settlers while cabins were
being built. Stuffies. Tee-shirts. The descendants of the backwoods people who once shouldered
squirrel rifles now shoulder picks and shovels as they tunnel through the earth in search of fossil fuel.
Their psychological makeup was against ownership of a human being. They were excellent shots,
knew the ways of the woods, and were able to take great hardships in stride. Tights. Toothpaste.
U.S. Bicycle Route 76. Utica Volunteer Fire Station. The Circle. This profile is only intended to
show you the general lay of the land, allowing you to pan for the major climbs and descents, it does not
indicate minor hills. When men begin to wrest it from the earth, it leaves a legacy of fouled streams,
hideous slag heaps, and polluted air. It mars but never beautifies. It corrupts but never purifies.
Wallet. White Mills Volunteer Fire Station. Wi-Fi.

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Day 9: The Day
Rosedale, VA to Bypro, KY
82 miles

It climbed and climbed like a mountain

that rose to a knob of rough green hills,
and that it kept moving up, if slow,

was what let wheels turn through the heat

and the next drop, then the next climb
without much water or food to spare.

It didn’t promise a view or send a traveler

shying from crosswinds or vehicular drafts,
if for a time the fog erased what might be

out there, meaning it would have to be

best-guess and ponder the everywhere trash
that refused to be hidden, a sort of stance

against the long work days in the mines,

the collapsed industry, and the meth
that shortened the nights. As if it intended

to be the unstoppable challenge

to keep going, never a slump, but grit,
ash, and metal well after the Breaks,

the storms in Lookout that obliterated

its better light, and the dogs that might
give chase, but most often, stood guard.

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