Shenandoah Fog

300 miles, at a rate of about 60 per day, have passed. Riding over the spine of mountains is no joke, and leaves plenty of room for existential speculation. Even more so when a good majority of that mountain-conquering was done through heavy fog. We climb steep grades, breathe mist, eat fortified mush, rest, and repeat. Sisyphean and simple. Sometimes the fog is so thick we lose all bearings on the grade or surroundings, and are surprised by the apparitions of passing hikers, tunnels, cars.

Occasionally, the sun comes out, and it's incredible. Green on green on green. Thundering rainstorms, friendly southerners, obligatory mile-tallying, and looking forward to the next meal. A welcome static between the ears.