D n L Honeymoon II Day 3 The Challenge Day!

We determined that today would be less leisurely, and was therefore begun with a leap out of bed, a quick reduced Pilates, and a bound down the hill to the bike barn via the creamery, where we fueled up for the day’s activities.  For Dave, a maple pecan pastry, for me two giant ice cream balls…one praline and the other from the original Biltmore recipe (higher butterfat than normal ice cream).  For some reason, the hours of daily hiking and other exercise had already accelerated our metabolisms to be able to eat massive amounts of things  that we would not be able to absorb by any stretch of imagination on a daily basis.  Yeah.

And after being expertly fitted to our hybrid mountain bikes and helmets in the barn, we were off to the so called ‘bike trails’ of Biltmore estate.  To say that we were surprised by the estate’s concept of bike trails would be a bit of an understatement.  Dave, on the one hand, being  more experienced than I had seen many levels of trail concept and maintenance, from the sublime to the ridiculous.  I, on the other hand, having only the experience of our own sublime Cardinal Greenway in my repertoire, found the Biltmore trail surprisingly close to the ridiculous.  It was the only thing in our heavenly experience there that varied from the overall atmosphere.  In summary, let me just offer the mental image of a third missed trail marking rendering the two of us marooned in the middle of acres of treeless terrain under a scorching sun, with the only hope of return to comfort being located up up up yet another steep and unmarked GRAVEL (did I say grave?) service road.  After this I began to just walk the bike, and we rerouted to the winery sans bikes  to buy gifts.  Oh happy shoppers.

Our shopping bliss was interrupted by the realization that our reservation for high tea at the inn was twelve minutes away, the solution to which was yet another brisk trek up the hillside, this time at a sprint.  Although I ended this ascent with mild resentment toward Dave’s level of triathlete fitness (he was barely breathing hard and I was sucking air, I was at the same time filled with the awareness that just a few months ago I would not have been able to attempt any portion of the day, much less the ascent we had just undergone.    After all, I did keep up with him.  Good hips…Good Father..I love my life.

Within minutes of arriving in the air conditioned hallway of the Inn the two of us were transported into the inner sanctum of elegance, seated now in evening attire, as it were, in front of the floor to ceiling library window overlooking the valley, with a dozen varieties of tea sandwiches and delicate pastries before us. 
We had chosen our teas from a wooden box of a dozen or so from all over the world: Dave’s a black tea and floral blend, mine a black with hint of Mayan chocolate.  

The soft classical music back ground was a perfect foundation for the dropping away of any anxiety that had accrued during the previously lived three hours.  The Vanderbilts would not have wanted their guests to be anxious about anything during tea.  The spectacular favorite:  the key lime scones with lemon curd and Devonshire clotted cream.

We stayed in that library until all had left, sipping and relishing the abundance of our culinary and other blessings, admiring my new ring, reflecting on our times.  Our plan for the evening was to have been a walking and maybe tasting of Asheville at night, re visiting some of our favorite bohemian bistros and the chocolate lounge.  Instead, we  decided to try a new one, and sat down at a table in their outside café.  Momentarily captivated by a lovely gazpacho and chilled blueberry soup, we failed to note until it was too late that the increasing discomfort we felt with the slant of our table was to indicate, as it were somewhat prophetically, the downward turn of the atmosphere during sunset into a spiral of noise and raucous revelry. 

It was the evening of the Bad Clowns of Asheville.  Firetrucks that literally cruised our block over and over for recreation with their deafening engines, groups of young people that were openly not happy, tarots, pendulums, and even a tour bus in which 50 seniour citizens did a drive by shouting at our café.  Intentionally.  Couple it with a very bad so called ‘barbeque’ spare rib entrée, and we retreated shamelessly and swiftly to our 8000 acre getaway, and rested again in grateful bliss.  Bad clowns.  Bad Asheville.  Good  Biltmore.