from the marsh, looking like a flake of 

 snow against the blue sky. A mile or so 

 farther, a pair of gray-brown ducks 

 glide along a marsh pond in seemingly 

 effortless motion. Nearby, some red 

 cedars become animated after a flock 

 of birds fill their branches with motion 

 and sound. I cycle on. 



At spots on the refuge, I can see 

 clear across Hatteras Island, from the 

 beach dunes to Pamlico Sound, about 

 a quarter of a mile. The ocean has only 

 to surmount an eight-foot dune and 

 sidle across the marsh for the two 

 waters to meet. That's exactly what 

 has happened, during big storms. I cy- 

 cle on. 



We stop for rest and a snack in 

 Rodanthe. Upon dismounting from my 

 bike, my knees wobble, unsure that 

 they can support the weight of my 

 body. I am quickly realizing those 30- 

 and 40-minute spins around the 

 neighborhood weren't enough con- 

 ditioning for this trip. 



Soon after our pit stop, we pass the 

 Chicamacomico Coast Guard Station. 

 Abandoned years ago, the buildings 

 are weathered gray. Some of the 

 coast's most daring shipwreck rescues 

 where made by men stationed here. 

 Area residents are raising money to 

 restore the old station. 



Once by Rodanthe, Waves and 

 Salvo, we again leave the billboards, 

 motels, and convenience stores behind 

 as we enter the Cape Hatteras 



Illustration by Neil Caudle 



National Seashore. The gentle morn- 

 ing breeze now turns mean as it briskly 

 whips by us, slowing our pace. No 

 longer can we pedal, g-l-i-d-e, pedal, 

 g-l-i-d-e. It's now just pedal, pedal, pedal 

 .... After only a few miles, we must 

 stop to rest and plan a strategy against 

 the wind. We decide to stay close 

 together in a single-file line, so the 

 front rider can knock off some of the 

 wind from those behind. We will take 

 turns leading the caravan. 



Our plan helps some, but every inch 

 forward requires maximum effort. I 

 tell myself, make it to the next 

 telephone pole, the next, then the 

 next . . . 



Finally, I see the black candy- 

 striped Cape Hatteras Lighthouse. 

 Buxton is near and the last bit of 

 adrenaline flows for the push into 

 town. I use the old lighthouse to gauge 

 my distance to Buxton, much as the 

 navigators long ago used it to gauge 

 their distance from the cape. 



We arrive. Famished, we head for 

 the nearest hamburger joint to quiet 

 our growling bellies. We explore the 

 lighthouse and the beach — on foot. 

 The lighthouse stands haughtily at the 

 dune's edge. The encroaching sea is 

 threatening to topple the lighthouse, 

 which has stood here for 110 years. On 

 the beach, a few fishermen are still 

 casting their lines in the late afternoon 

 surf. They tell us today's catch has 

 been poor. Beyond the fishermen. 



there is only sand, surf, dunes and 

 solitude. 



We splurge on a hearty seafood din- 

 ner, hoping the treat will appease our 

 aching bodies. But I have serious 

 doubts that anything can revive me for 

 the return trip. 



A night's sleep can do wonders. Af- 

 ter breakfast and a stretching exercise 

 or two, we whip out onto the road. The 

 breeze is at our backs today and we 

 glide along like sailboats over water. 

 I'm ready to see the trip through. 



The wind that confined us yesterday 

 gives us freedom today. Sometimes I 

 cycle ahead of my companions, other 

 times I lag behind. I pull ahead at one 

 point to take pictures as they pass. 



Back on the road, I hear a car honk 

 from behind. I move to the far right of 

 the lane to allow a wide berth for 

 passage. But my ears quickly tell me 

 that this vehicle sounds very loud 

 because it is too close. I move farther 

 to the right and balance precariously 

 on the edge of the road. Even then, the 

 vehicle passes within a foot of me and 

 my cycle. The bike waivers in the draft 

 the car creates. Frightened, I fight to 

 keep control of my bike, but my fright 

 gives away to anger at the driver, who 

 has nearly bullied me off the road. 



We are in Salvo only an hour and a 

 half after we left Buxton. It's hard to 

 believe it took me three leg-numbing 

 hours to cover the same distance 

 yesterday. We snack and rest in 



Pedal, pedal, pedal against the wind 



