Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: SUNDAY, June 5, 1994 TAG: 9406210038
SECTION: TRAVEL PAGE: F-8 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: By PATRICK SORAN
DATELINE: LENGTH: Long
Well, maybe pirate wannabes.
Released from everyday woes and shanghaied into a five-day bicycle tour, this gang of garrulous gangsters even dresses like pirates - updated ones. Tricorner hats are replaced with sturdy Styrofoam helmets. Baggy pantaloons shrink to skin tight spandex. And the grog? Well ... yo ho ho and a bottle of Evian.
These pedal pushers are hardly a crew at all on the first day; quiet retirees and adventurous singles mingle on the porch of the Harmony House Inn in New Bern, N.C.
Most, first time bike-trippers, have signed on for a pedal getaway because they want a well-padded soft adventure. Many picked this North Carolina excursion as an excuse to eat Southern cooking and breathe a little ocean air. And it's Backroads Bicycle's easiest tour.
"For five days, all I have to do is eat, ride my bike and sleep," says one pirate-to-be. "I already feel like a 12-year-old."
After handshakes and how-do-you-do's, the group devours dinner and wine around the corner at the Harvey House Mansion, then assembles for some in-depth tale-swapping over dessert.
Rested from a good night's sleep and brimming with energy after a strawberry, yogurt and granola parfait, the rowdy band assembles for its first road assault. Today's goal is to conquer the 48-mile stretch from New Bern to Beaufort, N.C.
There are three waves. Two or three expert riders head out first. Stunningly healthy specimens, they reconnoiter the lay of the land. "Flat as a fritter," one reports back.
The asphalt two-lane slices through oak and loblolly pine forest. Tobacco, cotton, and rye farms sashay right up to highway's edge.
The main pack follows. The warriors pedal mightily along, stopping occasionally to drain unsuspecting hamlets of their soda and iced-tea reservoirs. Finally, the rear rides up, sweeping for stragglers and pulling up behind the bright red sag wagon to polish off the luncheon buffet.
This first of four al fresco feeds wipes out any notion that dry biscuits
and greasy beef jerky will constitute the daily rations. A table, covered with a bright gingham spread, bears the weight of chicken, turkey, cheese, guacamole and salsa, fresh salad and fruit, pickles and olives, juice and water. Cookies, nuts and M&M's cap this caloric cave-in, but the dietary damage is simply pedaled off each afternoon.
Evening finds the crew holed up in Beaufort, a seaside village steeped in serenity and rimmed with boardwalks and bobbing sailboats.
The next day's "Battle of Beaufort" takes place as small, individually crafted sorties. The athletic members, bent on cycling every day, brave traffic and bridges to see nearby 18th-century Fort Macon. Another group visits Beaufort's historic buildings and meanders through its crowded popular cemetery. A brochure, obtained at the Historical Association recounts tall tales of Revolutionary colonels buried standing up, corpses returned from sea embalmed in rum and the saga of separated lovers reunited after years, only to be torn asunder by drama, disease and death.
These ersatz pirates may love cemeteries, but they love plunder better. Armed with shiny plastic cards, the largest group pillages Beaufort's shops - bulging but not boutique-ified. A few ravage ice cream parlors. One or two go deep sea fishing and one contemplative soul simply strolls the city's streets, admiring the sheet-white Georgian, Victorian and New England-style bungalows. "That's what the locals enjoy too," winks Nelson Taylor, a born and bred Beaufort native.
A popular alternative mission calls for an afternoon beach raid on Shackleford Banks, a grass-coated island two miles off shore. The roving band clears the sparkling white sand of specimen shells, photographs approachable wild ponies and practices an unusual amphibious assault called "body surfing."
Mind you, these are not surprise attacks. Little activity is executed in quiet. Old buddies, who meet yearly on some similarly frivolous undertaking, chat quietly one minute and guffaw the next. New-found friends mimic popular "Saturday Night Live" routines and couples seem to rediscover each other's long-lost funny bones.
The next day is spent skirmishing through little towns with names like Atlantic and Sea Level. And by boarding ferries. One scalawag quips, "They could name this the Backroads Bike and Ferry Tour." But such shipboard excursions provide a perfect break for beginners who chose this trip precisely because it's not continuous, strenuous riding. Besides, these freebooters love a rubber of bridge as they crest the briny swells.
One shuttle drops the pack at Okracoke, the outer bank island where Blackbeard himself cavorted.
The adventure's highlight comes the next morning on a jaunt through Cape Hatteras National Seashore. This is pirate pedaling at its finest - a gentle tail wind, no traffic on a smooth straight road and ahead a faint mist rises, fine as diamond dust, across the grassy dunes rising from the Atlantic.
These North Carolina invasions are offered by Backroads Bicycle Tours four times in the spring and three in the fall.
They're not led by gap-toothed, mean-spirited sea dogs either. Friendly, enthusiastic college graduates crack the whip with charm and old-fashioned good manners.
On the final day the motley crew, now a finely tuned assembly, careens along slivers of road winding amidst valleys of trees and fording rivers and bays eventually returning to conquer New Bern itself.
Patrick Soran is a free-lance travel writer who lives in Denver.|
by CNB