October 28th
After yet another tasteless and unfilling continental "breakfast," we decided to take a look at what we presumed would be downtown Elizabeth's fine eateries. We rode by several that didn't look very inviting from the outside, then did a circle through downtown looking for something that would match the colonial character of this port town. Eventually, we found the Colonial Restaurant. It didn't look any more inviting than anything else we had seen, but the name had me. Also it was drizzling and this place had an awning to keep our bikes dry.
When we walked into the restaurant and we see 1970s formica tables and somewhat dim lighting. Is this supposed to be an upscale elementary school lunch room?
We sat down and looked at the menus. Hmm. Not much going on here. They had about ten different sandwiches on the menu and various side dishes to order with each sandwich. Okay, I thought. They didn't say there were a sandwich shop, but that appears to be their specialty.
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| Johnson/Humphrey 64' |
"I'll take the hot turkey sandwich," I say the waitress as she takes our order. She starts to write it down but then has to let me know:
"It's deli meat," she says. "It's not the--the whole thing, I just say that because I'm particular."
"Well, that's fine."
"Now the roast beef," she says, holding her hands together to illustrate, "that's the whole thing right there."
"Well, the turkey will be fine."
Nicole, however, is won over by this woman's description and orders the hot roast beef. A few minutes later, we see our sandwiches as we could not have possibly imagined them: one piece of bread, lots of gravy, and deli meat. With both have two razor thin pieces of deli meat. Room temperature!
At least my vegetable sides are palatable. Nicole ordered turnip greens with her sandwich, and they're just awful. The waitress sees Nicole grimace as she tries to stomach her greens and asks if she would like some vinegar. Nicole says yes.
"Spciy?"
Nicole deliberates momentarily and uneasily says yes. Seconds later the waitress returns with a four and half decade old bottle of Texas Pete's Pepper Sauce. We're not sure what's in it, but if I had to guess, it was some kind of gag gift from Lyndon Johnson during a campaign stop in 1964. I can just see that smiling Texan on his way out the door after handing over his gag bottle of "hot sauce" saying, "Y'all don't vote for Goldwater, ya hear!"
Nicole isn't too fond of her memorabilia, and I tell her that this terrible gravy and tasteless turkey is a problem of my own. "Here," she says, trying to contain her laughter, have some of my turnip greens."
She dumps some on to my sandwich. I grimace a little as I brace for a single bite.
Just then I feel a man put his hand around my shoulder.
"How are you doing sir,"
"Oh, fine," I say startled. "Just fine."
I turn around and look at a rather pole shaped man wearing an apron. I assume he's the brains behind the kitchen.
"That's good," he says reassuringly. He comments that he like my Irish Cycling Jersey and asks if those are my bikes outside. I tell him yes.
"That's also good. You know what, I heard Louis Armstrong just had himself another baby!"
"That's right I say." I know which Armstrong he was referring too.
"Well God Bless you," he says and walks back into the kitchen. I'll be darned if that man didn't make the worst food and somehow made me feel good about trying to eat it.
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| Not only is the great convertible, but the keys are still in the ignition! |
Once we leave Elizabeth City, we're right back on Route 158, and the terrain is very rural, much like previous days, until we reach Coinjock Bay and 158 veers sharply southward. We get excited as we start seeing farmstands everywhere--by which we mean three stands each about five miles apart. All of them cater to tourists, but in late October Nicole and I are free to peruse without the crowd. We stock up on local cider, local peanuts, local fudge, local everything. Real food is a welcome departure from the meaningless fields of soybeans that we've been riding through nearly half a week.
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| This family owned farm was a sight for sore eyes. |
We stop so often that it's getting late by the time we reach Kitty Hawk, and there's only one way on or off that island. It's the Wright Memorial Bridge--three and half miles across Abermerle Sound. And there is no pedestrian section.
We turn our our SuperFlash taillights and ride on. Nicole is nervous as the sun starts to set in the horizon. We're about halfway over the bridge when I see a state trooper's car drive by us, only to slow down and stop a few feet a head. Oh no, I think to myself, not again. I ride by and brace for the bad news, but to my surprise, he doesn't say anything. I stop riding and twist my head around.
"You can keep riding," he said, with a sweet southern drawl. "I'll just follow you."
Well that was helpful and unexpected!
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| A great accquistition from Morris Farm. |
We get our escort service for another mile and half. Nicole feels sorry for the trooper, so she edges me to ride faster. We're riding at about 17.5 miles an hour as we roll into Kitty Hawk--quite a feat with so much gear to carry. The Wright Brothers would have been proud!
It's after dark now, and we ride a few miles into town to find a hotel. I cook some pasta in the parking lot, and we enjoy it with some of the local food we picked up from the days riding.
Tomorrow: Wild Horses!!
