You know the song, ” Almost heaven, West Virginia, Blue Ridge Mountains, Shenandoah River, Life is old there, older than the trees, Younger than the mountains, growin’ like a breeze.” Trouble is John Denver must not have been looking at a map when he penned these words and spread the rhythm of Appalachia far and wide.

Sorry John, maybe stick to the Rocky Mountains.Nevertheless, Denver’s tune captures a slice of the place I’ve loved and called home most of my life.

The word “Appalachia” is one of the oldest place-names in America.

The legends and lore of the deeply furrowed mountains are well known; native Americans subsisting off the bounty of the forest, coon-skinned pioneers pushing west through thick greenery, moonshiners and revenue men in an ever-quickening chase, all taking place before a backdrop of rugged independence and self-reliance.The Shenandoah Valley in particular is where I cut my teeth as an outdoor adventurer and where our story begins.

They may not be as rugged and imposing as younger mountains like the Rockies or Alps but their age and wisdom mean that they have had longer to practice resisting mankind’s efforts.In our efforts to tame them cyclists like me have compiled dozens of routes through their ages-old trails and dirt roads.

Many of them have legends all their own and have been pushing into my mind more and more as events I had planned make their wise decisions to postpone or cancel this year.