Most gulls don’t bother to learn more than the simplest facts of flight – how to get from shore to food and back again. For most gulls, it is not flight that matters, but eating. For this gull, though, it was not eating that mattered, but flight. More than anything else, Jonathan Livingston Seagull loved to fly. — Richard Bach, ‘Jonathan Livingston Seagull’
There is really no place on Earth quite like the fragile chain of pencil-thin barrier islands called the Outer Banks. Located far to the east of North Carolina’s mainland, wedged between the Great Dismal Swamp and the Continental Shelf, the Outer Banks is a tranquil, remote, desolate, and beautiful place. It is a place like no other. It is a land where beauty comes easily and nature coexists with only those hearty few who call it home. The Outer Banks is the birthplace of flight and it is where I recently traveled for a 120-mile handcycling journey that became as much about personal growth and discovery as it was about athletic achievement and accomplishment.
Lighthouses and Mileposts
As lighthouses have served as navigation aids to mariners for hundreds of years, the four lighthouses of the Outer Banks became my navigational markers for the adventure. I chose as my starting point the 150-foot tall, red brick Currituck Beach Lighthouse in Corolla, nestled in a wooded area between Currituck Sound and the Atlantic Ocean. Situated near the northernmost tip of the Outer Banks, I was scarcely miles from the Virginia boarder. With the rising sun in my face and a slight wind at my back, I pointed my handcycle southward and began to turn the cranks.
The first 20 miles were simply magical. My route along Hwy 12 wound its way south through the sparsely populated seasonal village of Corolla before entering the Pine Island Audubon Sanctuary at mile 10. I enjoyed the opportunity to interact with some of the 159 species of birds, 19 species of mammals, and 17 reptile species that call this area home. Passing into the thriving year-round town of Duck, which was named for the sheer number of waterfowl that annually flock to the area during migratory season, made me realize why so many people choose to live at the beach.
In the busy villages of Kitty Hawk, Kill Devil Hills and Nags Head, there are actually two routes for cyclists. I chose Hwy 12, also known as “Beach Road,” for the next 16 miles. Hwy 12 ran parallel to “The Bypass” and offered a scenic beach view along the newly paved 3-4 foot wide shoulder with a 35 mph speed limit. The highlight of this section came as I passed the Wright Brothers Memorial in Kill Devil Hills, a granite monument set atop a 90-foot tall dune to commemorate the first powered flight that occurred on December 17, 1903. At the base of the monument are four smaller markers, each positioned to show the distance the Wright brothers flew in their four successful attempts.
Seeing the monument ahead, I imagined the thrill that Wilbur and Orville Wright felt on that cold and windy December morning as their craft first lifted into the air and soared 120 feet in 12 seconds. Writing about the experience, Wilbur said, “More than anything else the sensation is one of perfect peace mingled with an excitement that strains every nerve to the utmost, if you can conceive of such a combination.” As I left the commercial center of the Outer Banks behind and the Monument faded in the distance, I, too, began to experience the thrill of flight as my arms strained and the mechanized marvel of my handcycle came to life. It felt as though my handcycle were an airplane breaking free from gravity’s clutch as it carried me effortlessly through Kitty Hawk.
In Whalebone Junction, 36 miles south of the Currituck Beach Lighthouse, the true wonder of the Outer Banks began to reveal itself in the form of untouched beauty, quiet isolation, and natural wonder. A small welcome sign posted by the National Park Service was all that served as the official entrance to the Cape Hatteras National Seashore. And with the arrival of these remote salt marshes and sea grasses, the bustle and commercialism of the Northern Beaches disappeared.
The Cape Hatteras National Seashore was a living and breathing tapestry of life. Cape Hatteras stretches over 70 miles north to south across three islands—Bodie, Hatteras and Ocracoke. Moving at 12 mph, the Seashore became a long, unbroken stretch of beach, sand dunes, marshes, and woodlands. It was a lonely place and a ground for discovery. It was here that my adventure began to gather the energy I felt would be necessary for my handcycle to fly.
The first five miles along the South Oregon Inlet Road was a test of cycling solitude. There were few rest stops and almost no sights to divert my attention from the thin white line along the road’s edge. In hindsight, this stretch was the most difficult test of my will and determination to continue. And as I realized a short time later, this length of roadway made me appreciate the breathtaking beauty that lay ahead.
One of the most spectacular sights of the entire ride came into view shortly after passing the 156-foot tall Bodie Island Lighthouse near mile 45. The panoramic view from atop the 2.5-mile long Herbert C. Bonner Bridge (which spans the Oregon Inlet to Hatteras Island) is amazing. As well as being a test of physical endurance, crossing the bridge offered unmatched views of surfcasting fishermen, migratory birds, recreational boaters and the occasional porpoise playing in the waters below. I found it difficult to stay focused on the road when so much of nature’s beauty unfolded on the living and colorful canvas around me.
When I rolled onto Hatteras, everything again changed. The next 30 miles was an adventure in handcycling isolation set in a seemingly endless mountain of shifting sand dunes and scrub brush. This stretch was not simply a measure of time and distance; it was a stretch of roadway measured in degrees of perseverance and levels of personal discovery. Amelia Earhart once wrote, “Courage is the price that life extracts for granting peace. The soul that knows it not, knows no release from little things. To know the livid loneliness of fear and to feel the mountain heights is to live where bitter joy can hear the sound of wings.” As I crossed these lonely miles, I faced a strange sense of quiet desperation that tested my courage. Despite my passing friendships with soaring egret, geese, ducks and heron, this stretch gave way to a true sense of loneliness.
At mile 85, the towering site of the 208-foot tall Cape Hatteras Lighthouse woke me from my dream of sand dunes and solitude. With its alternating black and white spiral stripes, “America’s Lighthouse” has long been regarded as the most recognized symbol of the North Carolina coast. There it was in front of me, standing resiliently at the Southeastern-most tip of the United States. As a beacon of navigation, Hatteras Light reminded me that my journey would soon take a westward turn. Having enjoyed a slight tailwind for nearly the entire journey, I turned my handcycle to the west and into a building cross wind for the remaining miles toward Ocracoke. The simple change in wind direction along the roads through Buxton and Frisco helped me better understand what it means to fly.
A 40-minute ferry ride connected Hatteras Village with Ocracoke Island and the finish line of my adventure. After disembarking at the ferry landing, it was then a 14-mile ride from the ferry dock to Ocracoke Village and Ocracoke Light, the fourth and final lighthouse on my adventure. And as lighthouses have guided mariners across the ocean, Currituck, Bodie, Hatteras, and Ocracoke guided me. The journey came to its geographical end.
Lessons of Flight
The Outer Banks should be on every cyclist’s list of American rides. It is one of the prime cycling destinations in North Carolina and one of the most picturesque settings on the Eastern Seaboard. While the treacherous waters of the Outer Banks bear the name “Graveyard of the Atlantic” for they have claimed over 600 ships along the shoals and ridges hidden below the surface, the roadways are open and inviting.
Socrates once stated, “Man must rise above the Earth—to the top of the atmosphere and beyond— for only thus will he fully understand the world in which he lives.” I agree. Somewhere along those remote and windswept roadways of the Outer Banks, where wind and sea play a game of give and take, I learned how it feels to rise above the Earth. I learned to understand the natural balance of the world in which I live just a bit better. I felt the winds of my soul blow strong and true as I covered the miles. And, like the Wright Brothers did more than 100 years earlier, I learned how to fly.
The Outer Banks is a place of unforgettable experience.
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