Day Sixty-Two: Cedar Town - Acworth

Slater had never been to Waffle House (he wasn’t missing much), so naturally, we had to stop in after checkout for a little waffle action. It wasn’t the best first trip: they forgot the bacon—twice. ‘Twas a bit of a bummer. We left for our ride with a bag full of snacks from the gas station and rolled back onto the Silver Comet trail for another day of peaceful riding without cars. The humidity was through the roof, and I eventually resorted to pulling my camp towel out of my bag and using it as a sweat rag, because I was literally covered from head to toe in a shiny layer that reflected the weary faces of riders passing by. There were lots of them, swagged out in cycling jerseys, clip-ins, aerodynamic helmets that make them look like anime characters… but to each their own, right?

Around midday, we stumbled across a small town festival while riding through the city park on the trail. It was the Homespun Festival in Rockmart, GA, and it was bustling with live bands, food trucks, face painting stations and tents for local businesses. One company in particular made a point of grabbing our attention to ask us a few questions about the elephant in the room—our bikes. We got to know three of the employees and took advantage of their spot by parking our bikes for a few minutes while we meandered through the festival, which led to impulsively purchasing extremely foo-foo drinks. They were peach and mango-pineapple smoothies served in hollowed-out pineapples, garnished with a tiny drink umbrella, chunks of fresh fruit and a cherry on top. Slater looked pretty damn manly drinking that one.

The clock started ticking around 2 p.m. and we knew it was time to get moving, so we walked back to the tent to grab our bikes from our new buddies, thanked them for watching over our gear, and got back on the trail. In the distance, we heard the faint sound of the band playing songs that were uncomfortably depressing for the occasion, and we sang along to the dreadful tunes in sarcastic voices. Down the road, we found an old train lying dormant on the tracks, and Slater hit me with an "Odds are you climb to the top of that train!" For those of you who haven't played, the game "Odds Are" is essentially just two people guessing two numbers within a certain range, and if they guess the same number, the dared person must complete the dare. There's no messing around in this game, much like a triple dog dare--you gotta do it--and I did. Further along, it began to rain, and for some ten or fifteen miles, we pedaled steadily along the flat trail in the pattering rain, unable to decide whether we were thankful for the “shower” or bothered by the drops in our eyes. The weather cleared up towards the end of our ride, and by the time we reached Hiram, we had nearly dried out, making us at least somewhat presentable enough for a trip to Starbucks.

Just off the trail, a cycling couple in their sixties or seventies stopped us for a chat that turned into an extended conversation about the various stabbings and muggings that have taken place on the trail. The man made sure to warn me in particular (being a woman) but I couldn’t help but politely nod my head in agreement and roll my eyes after the talk was over. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the words of advice, but I’ve really become sick of everyone telling me how much danger I’m in on this trip—quite honestly, I feel like this is one of the safest ways of traveling. Anyways, they finished up by directing us toward the main strip of restaurants and shops, just about a mile down the road, and we took off toward Starbucks to get our fix.

The plan for the night was to stay in Acworth (a city outside of Atlanta) with family friends of mine that I’ve known since high school, the Stockmans. They moved to Georgia over two years ago and have traveled back and forth between Vancouver and Acworth for their kids’ schooling, events, etc., but luckily, they were flying back from vacation the night that we were going to arrive! However, due to crazy storms in Atlanta, they were forced to backtrack to Alabama and wait for their flight to continue once the bad weather passed. So Slater and I had time to kill before James (one of the sons) picked us up, and we knew exactly what to do with it: go to Buffalo Wild Wings. We lounged outside on the patio and winged out while watching the storm clouds gather above us, creeping in like a dark sheet covering the sky. We returned back to Starbucks after dinner because we knew we wouldn’t be called out for “loitering” and I journaled while Slater walked across the street to attempt to find a bookstore. On his journey over, he was cornered by a friendly young woman wearing a floor-length denim skirt who “insisted” that he buy a dozen Krispy Kreme donuts for her church dance fundraiser—I’m going to assume that there wasn’t much insisting taking place. He directed her to Starbucks to hand the box over to me so that he wouldn’t have to take them into the bookstore, and I was pleasantly surprised when an unfamiliar woman walked into the coffee shop asking, “Are you Caroline? Sl—Sl—Slotter told me to give these to you. He bought them from me for my fundraiser.” I chuckled. He returned without a book.

James arrived by nightfall and after a lashing wind and rainstorm with lightning that turned the sky a hocus-pocus purple (luckily we were inside). Slater lifted our bikes into the back of the truck and I adjusted the wheels to fit inside, just to act like I was doing something productive, then we jumped in the car and headed toward Acworth. We showed up at the Stockman household in time to get a tour of the new house and share a few beers, cheese and crackers, and freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. We were all a bit wired, somehow managing to stay up past 2 a.m. before making a pact to go to sleep. We hunkered down in the guest bedroom and promised a longer visit in the morning, and we couldn’t have been happier to be in a home with familiar faces and cozy beds.