I slept very well at the church hostel. Alone. I haven’t seen a rider on the TransAm and the hostel says there have been very few riders this year.

I took my time getting on the road after eating a breakfast of leftover food from yesterday. As soon as I mounted the bike I could tell that this would not be a good day. I had lead legs. I had been using my granny gear until today but this was getting ridiculous. Hills that I would have sped over last year were brutal slogs.

And, like the last three days, the weather was perfect.

I kept at it hoping that my Warmshowers hostess would come though with a place to stay 20 miles beyond Charlottesville. She never did.

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I plodded along and stopped at a gas station convenience store without the gas. It was a place out of the 1940s. While washing down a homemade brownie with a Diet Pepsi, a local came by. He’s 68 and has livestock on his land. He lives off the rent from six log cabins he built with his own hands. He spends summers on a ranch in Wyoming near the eastern entrance to Yellowstone. He had on a weathered cowboy hat with the sides of the brim turned up like Junior Brown. He was missing a few teeth. And he could talk a blue streak.

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After a half-hour chat I took off for Charlottesville. I often have a problem with congested lungs when I ride, but today, instead of going away, it worsened by the hour. A shot of albuterol had no effect. I was coughing up gunk all morning and feeling drowsy to boot.

As I was grannying yet another hill, some local riders in Lycra zoomed down the hill, all smiles.

Must not kill.

The hills seemed to be getting steeper with each mile. Climbing past Monticello took everything I had. The climb into Charlottesville nearly did me in.

I checked a few a few hotels and they had plenty of empty rooms. So I went downtown for sustenance and reflection. When I got off my bike I was dizzy. No bueno.

I concluded that there was no way I could continue in this condition. And even if I could, I wasn’t having any fun. If Monticello was tough, Afton Mountain and the Blue Ridge only a day away would be impossible and dangerous.

I had a burger, fries, and a beer at a bar downtown. It tasted great but my head still felt out of kilter.

Back in 2003 I abandoned a tour when my brake and shifter cables froze, the sidewall of my rear tire blew out, it was raining, and I was sick as a dog. I called my wife and she rescued me.

I did not feature laying about in a hotel for three days getting over whatever it is that is ailing me.

I rode a mile to the Amtrak station and checked about getting the train home. $46. Roll on service. In bed by 10:30.

Sounds like a plan.

I didn't have to box my bike, but I did have to carry it onto the train via the narrow stairs at the end of the passenger car. Once inside, I had to take off the front wheel and hang my bike upside down on a hook inside what amounted to a small closet. The conductor was helpful but it was still a big pain in the ass.

When I arrived at Alexandria, I reversed the bike boarding process. I was trashed at this point. No fun.

As I was struggling to put my front wheel back on, a stranger approached with an elderly woman. He asked me where I lived. As it worked out, Jason was picking up his mom to take her to his house, one mile from mine. Jason offered me a ride and in no time The Mule and all my gear were in the back of his Honda Pilot.

I arrived home at 10 p.m. ready for rest.