Meeting the locals in Southern Virginia

Editor's note: Matt Wittmer is a Cape Girardeau native and an avid cyclist. He is helping to plot a bike route from Canada to Key West, Fla., as part of the East Coast Greenway. Wittmer's portion of the ride started in September in Washington, D.C., and will end in Key West in November.

Sometimes an exit becomes a rabbit hole. We know the South is deep, but if you thought Virginia was the shallow end, think again.

I met a round mountain of a man, 6-foot-5 and 350 pounds. He wore a dirty, white-collared, short-sleeve shirt, blue sweats and penny loafers minus socks. He was bald, with ankles that threatened to roll over his shoe tops.

He sat on the rough-hewn porch of an old dry goods store turned curiosity shop, a bona-fide raconteur. He recited an original poem from 1960 about thieving grandma's pie. He sang a beautiful, booming stanza from "The Battle Hymn of the Republic." And then he propositioned me. Seems southern hospitality's alive and well.

He said he'd just love it if I joined him at his hunting cabin, ostensibly for some homemade Salisbury steak and mashed potatoes, but I declined, as the sun was fat on the horizon.

I hasten to add: He had been that particular village's mayor, currently preached to its parishioners and taught Sunday school to its children. Now a man's choices are his to make, but there's one more thing. He told me to my face -- actually to my video camera -- he liked boys, in his words, "plenty."

A guy down the road confirmed said inclination. It was a matter of public record.

At 8:30 the next morning a county sheriff pulled up as I was sitting outside a convenience store enjoying the Richmond Times-Dispatch and a cup of coffee. He asked me for identification and explained the situation. A woman had pulled through and thought I fit the description of a man wanted in the area. I told him my business. We chatted and parted with mutual well wishes. Seems to me folks around there have their own stoop to tend.

Rolling on, I passed through a dying town; air and sky clear as a rung bell. At the main crossroads a sign read "Alberta Blooming," yet the place looked like an undernourished houseplant drooping under the hot, late-summer sun. Its buildings were stout enough, but the streets were an abandoned movie set.

The shrewdly named "General Store" was the only thing open. It offered a hodgepodge of items, a single mailbox, old comics, probably the very stool I sat on. It was the kind of sad, little market where nothing extended to the back of the shelves. Two mustards, one relish, and three cans of beans sat lonesome, their tops covered with dust.

The owner bemoaned Alberta's lack of fiscal sense, its insularity, and the decades-long nepotism that had nearly suffocated it. The town hadn't been the same since the railroad tracks were pulled up. He said a generous benefactor had granted it numerous properties, with a single stipulation. They could not be used for commerce and were to be reserved only for recreation. The outcome was comical.

This tiny settlement of around 325 people down in rural southern Virginia with five downtown businesses, two of them hair salons, had ended up with 23 parks, some simply the empty spaces between buildings. The shopkeeper had, of all things, a dance studio in the works next door and wanted to put a bar in upstairs but was worried the insurance company wouldn't allow it. I imagined a warning, "Beware, Falling Drunks."

Mapquest reads 257.59 miles from D.C. to Durham, N.C. The Greenway covers 280.55, but my odometer already sits above 400. I run errands too, you know. I make mistakes and have to backtrack. Curiosity adds the rest of the miles.