Theres so many songs about love. Few have anything new to offer. The Coup’s Laugh/Love/Fuck pumps out of my Bluetooth speaker. With Boots Riley on the chorus stating “I’m here to laugh, love, fuck and drink liquor – and help the revolution come quicker”, this is not your typical love song. Harmonizing behind him, Pam the Funkstress has very few lyrics outside of the title’s three words. The ones my mind drills in on are “we can’t just talk about it, get all up in it now”. Getting all up into something is a thing. A thing that matters. A lot. It’s known as showing and proving.
It’s what gets the later revealed-to-be-an-undercover-cop Mr Orange in with the criminal masterminds of the jewel heist in Rezevour Dogs. His “commode story” that he’s gotta learn and memorize, thanks to Holdaway. You know, “something funny that happened to you while you were doing a fucking job, man.” When Harvey Keitel, not-Sean Penn and The Thing aka Joe aka Daddy posit that “you knew how to handle that situation: you shit yer pants and dive in and swim!”, it confirms his credibility is instantly. This is all it takes for the cops to beat the robbers. It’s a pretty good measurement of someone I suppose. Except Mr Orange didn’t really do what he says he did. He learns and makes it up as a lying ass piece of bacon. A made up story. A whopper. I literally go through a “dive in and swim” yesterday. I have to get all up in it now. Get up, get into it, get involved. Unlike Mr Orange, my shit was real. Or was it? Am I just writing this all to convince the puny little readership I have that I’m the real deal. What if I’m making it all up? Just a commode story. Worse. What if you’re all just a part of commode story? Or all even all of us? Living in mental matrix-like existence, fictitious characters in some undercover cops back story. Real only in our minds. You ever think about that? No? Well, then I bet you haven’t pedaled fully-loaded into 20 mph winds for 7 fucking hours now have you?
Get in the phone booth Bill and Ted, we’re traveling back to when I wake up on a porch in the woods. It’s coldern hell. Probably colder than Buffalo right now – which I hear has been gorgeous since I left. I brought this crap weather with me. Friends, colleagues and countrymen back home: you can thank me when I return, profusely and generously in fact. My new friends from here Fred and Renee arrive just before I dip out! Glad I get to meet them. Plus I get to go poopy in the potty, instead of out in the woods. Which. as an outcome, is sort of a Switzerland of good or bad happenings.
Northbound as yoozsh, on Georgia road 99 for now and yea the wind is still out of the north and in my… fuck! Logging truck full of logs scares the shit out of me like no other! They pass close and with their contents all exposed and barely strapped in? Christ with a chainsaw – it really puts the fear of science into me. Blinds me with science.
17 miles later I’m back on Highway 17, heading northeast — with the same headwind. Destination Savannah, hopefully. Wind wind wind. I’m done with it. I’m shortening the route. No more quiet road alternates, I’m going direct. It’s too windy to add mileage. Doesn’t seem to be any rain today though. At one point, I turn around to go back for a photo and really notice it how strong it’s blowing. If this wind were in the opposite direction I’d be able to coast the 70 miles into Savannah. What button this remote does that? Is there an app? Can I report this as trauma and shout down anyone who disagrees? I decide that’s the last time I turn back for anything. I’d rather not know how much easier it could be.
Smallest church and I am shocked, surprised and stupefied that I am not struck by lightning whenst entering. Probably because — spoiler alert — there is no more god in these manmade building than any other structure: casinos, crackdens and brothels including. Anyhoo I really really really wanted to get some of the old ass art juxtaposed alongside the stained glass, but I didn’t push my luck…
Taking a break in Midway Georgia, which is misleading because it’s today’s halfway to Savannah and also half way between the Florida and Carolina lines — but not the halfway point of my entire intended ride. I score some artisan jerky. Righteous Felon. I like it. The name and the taste. Though shit was $7.49 and from a gas station on US road 17 — smells legitimately like highway robbery if I’ve ever stepped in it. I blow the toilet up as mildly stinky form of payback.
I would say 17 is a real bitch, except I’m a dog lover and that would be an insult to females canines in heat the world over. Not that I have a problem offending… Fuck! Another logging truck!! After a dozen of these things I stop counting. The sun has finally come out and it’s warming up. I take off some of my layers from this morning.
Most times I have a 12-18 inch shoulder. Sometimes it’s more like 8”. Sometimes it’s more like 4” because of a rumble strip in the shoulder. The traffic definitely ain’t Easter traffic. It intensifies as I close in on Savannah. Happens with almost any American city really. An asshole in a fossil fueled death bomb comes way too close as I’m fighting the wind. I find a TA, I buy Lenny and Larry’s cookie. The 500 calories goes down quickly. I take yet another dump in what is very nice truck stop bathroom. I consider showering as it’s been a couple day. Nah, I’ll pass on that adventure for today.
The shit hits the fan coming into suburbia proper. No May Low Goose Tuh. It’s like every American city is an onion routing from the outside. Routing? I meant rotting. Country roads turn to strip mall roads turn to less and less space. Talking Heads Love -> Building On Fire comes on. Another great atypical Love Song. I blame David Byrne, as I should. A normal semi comes closer than Al other previously had, within a foot or two. It whips me around and feels like yesterday on that bridge. This fuck had an entire left lane, refuses to move over and nearly knocks me down only to get to red light. It changes before I can get there to give him or her a live of my mind — and probably get shot.
Finally Savannah! I’ve never been here outside of stopping at a Hooters on a long drive down to Tampa twenty years ago. Shoutout to the homie Angel aka Ketchup Samurai. That was also the only time I’ve ever been to a Hooters. This version is much nice. It looks a lot like New Orleans. People on bikes and foot. Lots of little plazas and town squares. Somewhere in what has to be the most hipster of neighborhoods, I found a $14 poke bowl and I devour. I mean crush it. It was good and worth every penny.
A photographer here named Robert has agreed to put me up for a night on his downtown apartment. I arrive, make a little chit chat and b min for a shower. Badly need. Stink like all hell. Robert’s also a fellow long distance bike tourist. We talk about how poor all of the options heading north out of the city are. The sun sets and I feel like I want to spent at least a half day here tomorrow to enjoy Savannah a bit. Shortly thereafter I’m out like a light.