The ride into Ashland and the rather regal Henry Clay Inn

October 21st

These signs are so nice, no more wrong turns!

Once we left Fredericksburg, we were really out of the Beltway. In the morning, we saw more consistent farmlands instead of housing subdivisions, and an occasional glimpse of a more classic Virginia.

Nicole said it was rude to take a photo, so I didn't. I'll just give you the description: Trailer home, outhouse, circa 1950s Mercedes-Benz. Classic.

Fredericksburg just isn't populous enough to have any real suburbs. Sure, it looks like a city, and back in the mid-19th century, a town of 20,000 was quite populous. Now, it's got 20,000 people.

Fredericksburg hasn't changed much and neither have the "suburbs." We rode for nearly 20 miles before we found a business establishment that sold food. They made sandwiches, and if you were really in a pinch, the store had dusty boxes of Wal-mart brand pasta for purchase.

Nicole and I each had a sandwich and ate in the shade to seek refuge from the hot Virgina sun. Once we finished eating, we decided to quickly get moving again. The wind from riding a bike makes for good air conditioning.

It was getting late by the time we were getting near Ashland, a quaint town about 20 miles north of Richmond. Railroad tracks run right through the town center. Across the street from the train station lies the Henry Clay Inn, a modest, two story building with all of 14 rooms.

Henry Clay Inn

That place sure looks nice, I thought. But it must be expensive. I programmed the GPS to "Motel 6" and we headed towards the outskirts of town.

These railroads tracks make u-turns very hard to make.

As we got closer to the Motel 6, we realized that my GPS was out of date. There was a rather shady looking hotel, but it wasn't a Motel 6 anymore. Apparently even they bailed on this location, and I had eerie flashbacks of the Pulaski Highway.

Just down the street was a Super 8. Hey, it's a chain. They must at least be presentable, right?

The Super 8 was a rather tacky looking building that shared its parking lot with a Days Inn. Both of them had a cheesy 1970s era look to to them: hideous colors, puzzling arches, and not much else. When we walked into our room, it looked like it hadn't been cleaned since the 1970s.

Okay, perhaps I exaggerate, but when I flushed the toilet, it sounded like the pipes were going to burst and the walls collapse. And I saw what looked like a bedbug. That was enough. I wasn't going to spend any more nights in scary hotels, and since this is a once-in-a-lifetime journey, I figured I would splurge a little on the Henry Clay Inn.

Beautiful southern sunset as we enter Ashland.

We headed back downtown, but checking in at the Henry Clay Inn proved a little difficult.  When we arrived, the front door was locked, with instructions to call after 6 pm. Given that it was after six, I called the number--and got a voicemail.

I left a brief message stating the obvious: I'm outside the hotel and I need a room tonight. A few minutes later I got a call back.

"Mr. Miner, how can we help you."

"Yes, I need a room for tonight."

We encountered the train 2x while trying to cross their main road.

"And where are you?"

"I'm right outside the hotel."

"You're outside the hotel? Oh, I can't help with that."

Well that was unexpected.

Fortunately the voice on the phone called an Inn employee who called another employee so that we could check in for the night. Time consuming and wasteful? Sure, but so is the U.S. Senate where the great Henry Clay made his career.

Beautiful, we even get a porch.

Once we arrived, the room was immaculate compared to our squalid conditions on the other side of town. I'll let the photos speak for themselves. And every time a train road by (as several did during the night) I could feel my whole mattress shake. It was like getting a fancy massage mattress at Bridgestone!

Although he hailed from the slave state of Kentucky, Clay was adamantly opposed to the expansion of slavery into western territories and was was a unionist during the Civil War. I never really found out how and why it was that he got an Inn 20 miles from the capital of the confederacy.

Tomorrow, Richmond . . .