Hoping for a Tail Wind

If you could wake up in a different place, at a different time, could you wake up as a different person?

I come in the back door on the OBX. Come to find out even the most astute first timers and repeat returners all come down through the populated areas further north. Via Kitty Hawk. They rarely get past Nags Head, which is where all the really bawesome stuff is. Even an older gentleman from Virginia who owns property and has been coming his whole life admits he rarely get to Cedar Island National Wildlife Refuge. My entry point. Orcacoke, my current location, is seldom visited, because you can’t drive there. There’s a sign calling this “the authentic outer banks”. Fuck yeah. No bridges. Boats and planes only. Win.

I’m up before sunrise. The stars are gone, though they were out in the billions last night. Just solid black space fading into blue skies. Cool breezes all up in the palace. Also, it’s a goddamn murder scene in here. Blood everywhere, on the sides a floor. I sent a few infiltrating mosquitoes to their death — that’s my blood on my tent. Good sign I suppose. Not dead yet.

Campground coffee is so surreal and peaceful. Better than the yooshjz. I hear the ocean. And the songbirds. Life is alive. I hear no motors. At all. The air is fresh and clean. This is the place, David Byrne.

Pedal. Hours.

Ocracoke Island is an overwhelming step back in time, a mix of old traditions and community spirit infused with a steady flow of visitors from around the world. No community loves a good story more than Ocracoke, and locals can tell a tale with great expression. The island is a place of supreme solitude, especially in the off-season. Ocracoke has long been sought out by poets, nature lovers, and the tenderhearted.

That’s all from the sign at the visitor center. I love me an island. I’m looking at both of you, New Zealand. And don’t think I forgot about you, Cuba. The best islands have no bridges to them. I mean are you really truly on an island if any harry dick or Tom can get in their Ford Fucknut and drive to you? Doubtful. Here I am, island hopping in the outer banks. Cedar. Orcacoke. Hatteras. Pea. Bodie. To the next spot on to the next spot on to the next.

Pedal Miles.

Cape Hatteras National Seashore ruins all other beaches for me forever. I’ve got the place to myself. Miles and miles and miles of sand beaches juxtaposed right beside dense forest piney greenness. Ocean waves aka the most bestest relaxation rhythm invented. Courtesy Mother Nature. Thanks, boo.

Pedal. Hours.

“Take care in the sand” says a woman, passing me with a group of day cyclists. There’s sand dunes to my right for miles. Some of it had blown over the road itself, which doesn’t see much vehicular traffic. Sand everywhere. Beaches. Shoreline. It’s soft and squishy under my feet. Like memory foam. I find out later that none of this sand is from here. Not a one of these shells. All of it washes up from across the oceans or comes down from the Appalachian Mountains.

Ferry ride numero tres is an hour long. Previous ferry deux takes nearly three hours. This will be my last opportunity for an electrical outlet in days. As soon as we depart from Cedar Island en route to Orcacoke Island (yes we’re actually in the past now) I get the feels like I left something or forgot something. Yikes. I am out here. Outchyeah.

Pedal. Miles.

There’s word of hammerhead sharks near the (cold) showers at the Beach on the other side of this one hour ferry to Hatteras Island. This guy uses the word terrified. So I jump in and refreshingly cool my parts. I can tell it’s real though because adults and kids alike are in like ankle level. There’s dudes out there on whatever those stand and paddle boards are called, they are definitely all out of the water and looking around. So I’m in the water up to my waist — saddle sore stuff so sensationally soothed, seriously. I didn’t see any sharks, but I didn’t swim all the way under because I wouldn’t have been able to see them with goggles, and I don’t have those. So I get out and now I’m writing this. Plus, tbhonest, I’ve already swam with hammerhead sharks on a long bike tour before. It’s on this site from 2015 Florida keys. Look it up. Back to now, I take this photo and if you look closely you’ll see one of those paddle stand dudes, then look behind him to the right a little…

I gotta tell you, when I really look. I see Portugal. Maybe Morocco. Probably England. I left my globe at home.

Back on that ferry number three down here, i chat a great deal with a guy from Virginia. He’s clearly familiar with the entire outer banks and gives me great advice. I realize that what I actually left behind on the orcacoke ferry was everything I don’t need. All the baggage. Concerns. Fears. Trepidation. My confirmational biases. So much of what used to collectively create me, myself and I. I’ve got no schedule, no agenda, no needs. Just a few days to ride and sleep under an amazing amount of stars. Later I’ll pass a sign indicating the end is USBR 1 and the start of USBR 2. I take it as a sign. Which it is.

Pedal. Hours.

To walk back from the campground toilet and see your entire world in one single vantage point, splayed out in a tent or on a picnic table and next to a bike. A world under the sun. A world in motion in which everything in it has two or more purposes. With that one glimpse of myself, my feels are feeling for reals in a way no one will ever feel from reading these words or looking at this photo. Won’t get the feeling riding your bike around town or to work or school. Or my roaming around “camping” in your “RV”. You won’t get this feeling from running into burning buildings with a flamethrower (I can’t be 100% about that last part, because if Hollywood has taught me anything it’s that flamethrowers make everything way more awesome). Nope. You’ll only get this feeling of oneness from doing this. Liberated. Living outside. With nature and life. In motion. Under our own power while we can. However long we can. 3 days, 7 days, a month, a year… let’s not get me started on time…

Morning in Cape Hatteras Point Campground is wild tranquil. And moist. Dew point. Apparently Moms Nat got her wet dream on last night and me, myself, I and everything I possess is covered in it. Like Ghostbustin ass Bill Murray getting slimed — do not swallow, Bill Murray. Seriously though, I kinda blame deep blue Daddy Atlantic on this one. Believe me; dude’s clearly my right hand man on this ride. I fire up the jetboil — who still doesn’t pay me (at least send me a new stove!) — brew up some serious delirium goodness and set things out to dry, eagerly awaiting the sunrise on the Atlantic to burn off all the morning fog, word to the ol dirty Chinese restaurant.

Pedal. Miles.

Cold showers for three days is getting real old. I could add three dips into the ocean. The further north, the cooler the ocean gets. I smell as such. Three days of incomplete hygiene. Wait a minute, oh here’s Oregon inlet campground all up in my visuals. Shit, it’s like 1pm. I had this third national park service campsite on the radar, before adjusting my time space continuum, just a moment ago. I think long and hard about camping here. Orcacoke and Hatteras Cape National Parks campgrounds equal dope in my book, and this one is supposed to have hot showers. So cutbacks mean self check in and online reservations now. No entrance guard to talk to. I roll up and tuck behind the shower, behind the bathroom. Scout mission. Be prepared. $25 for a tent only loop, toilets, water. I yank on the shower cord and wait — warm water!! Got everything except power, yet I spy the GFI next to the bathroom sink. All this is legit. I say fuck it and sneak a quickie midafternoon warm shower. Wash it up good and fast, fire academy style. I think more about this campsite. It’s so early. I have a tailwind. I gotta take advantage. This is the end of the National protected seashores. Forward is basically the beginning of real civilization. More than one road. The non-remote and tourist-typical parts of the populated outer banks with towns cutely named Nags Head, Kill Devil Hills (not a cotdayum hill!), and Kitty Hawk. Bye bye remote tranquility and isolation period.

Pedal. Hours.

The lady at the Peas Island Wildlife Refugee Visitor Center tells me there’s really nowhere to camp past Oregon inlet. I believe and tell her that I’ve got a hook up for a backyard screened in porch up in kitty hawk. Power outlets and an outdoor and warm shower as well. Tits. 80 plus miles with the wind is better than 40 miles into the wind.

Pedal Miles.

I have a feeling this going to end badly. Not going to end well.

Kitty Hawk looks like every other suburb but with beaches, I suck down this Starbucks oat milk latte in their AC while charging my phone like a methhead sucks down anyone anywhere for meth. It’s small, this Starbucks. The barista, she looks like a Jan and asks “you aren’t from around here are you?” “I don’t look it huh?” “No sir.” She ogles my Jomon hand tattoo the way 55 year old men ogle DD titty cleavage. Jan’s got all sorts of love suck and bite marks on her neck and is not in high school. What the fuck Jan. I bet her dudes name is Han or Fran. This place is strange. I’m out. Food Lion around the corner is robust. Most I’ve seen in a while. My spot is 2 miles away, I grab some staples and decide to snatch up a small salad and rotisserie chicken. Rolling in, my hosts have told me they are not in town. I creep around the back of the house, nice deck. Screened patio locked. Fuck. That’s where the outlets are. Outdoor shower, not working. What the actual fuck. This is the worst. I house an entire chicken after rotting up their hose on a hook for yet another cold shower.

Strangely, half the nation fears the word socialism. But if you really wanna provoke insanity amongst many — especially the farthest-goofiest versions of extreme progressivism or conservatism in this nation? Use the word COMMUNISM. It scares the gosh darn be-jeezuz (more on him later) out of all of them. Reveals the absurdist attitude surrounding non dialectic discussion, no matter how many sides or parties there may be. Absurd. Ok. Deep breathes.

A moment for some next level McCarthy malarkey. I’ll testify before the committee. Scary colors. Shoutout to Eugene V Debs. Lemme let you in on a little secret. My legs are communist. AF. Card holding, party affiliated fuckers. Well ok. Actually, they specifically are a communist state. Together. My whole body is. Not a communist state as in the former Soviet Union or China. Like in actual Marxist thought — a stage of socioeconomic development. The both of them. Smell what I’m stepping? Together working as one and shit. My butt is obviously in on the crew too, let’s leave that behind for this one. Puns. My legs though. Communist state. And really now that I’m thinking about it, I mean it in both senses of the word: state and State. General intellect. These legs, they are workers, toiling on behalf of the state of me. Myself. I. My body is the commune. Look at me, over here communing. Back on Highway 17. Eh. Miles.

Timespace travel our Royal collective ass back to me pushing my luck this morning. Two cups of coffee. It’s tasty. I’m dehydrated. Don and I chat, hes gonna think about an Erie Canal ride that I’d be able to help him out with, I’m psyched for that. Trains. Parking space. Place to sleep. He got his brother hooked on long rides. I still haven’t decided on my route going forward — pushing that to the last minute. I make one good decision though, 18 miles in I stop at the good old Hampstead, NC United States Postal Service — a cadre of comrades if I have ever seen one. Seventeen US dollars later and I’m six and quarter pounds lighter. This must be subsidized at those rates. It was all crap I really didn’t need and/or wasn’t using: GoPro, unfinished reading material, a couple articles of unneeded clothing, bike reassembly tools, some other little things. I consider this a win and push on to… Jacksonville? Yup. Wait. Rewind to about 5 minutes ago, the postal counter clerk agreeing that every pound matters on a bicycle. She asks where I started. “Jacksonville”. “You mean Florida, right? Because our Jacksonville ain’t that far.” Oh yeah, good catch. There’s a Jacksonville NC somewhere between her and the decision intersection on my map. Left turn right turn. This clerk and her federal pension is all like “ours ain’t that far” and I wonder if she’d make one the 35 fully loaded miles I’ve got in front of me. Twenty bucks says nah.

My physical form, it works, it functions as intended; doing what it do – even with as much allowed atrophy over this past winter. A of it as a whole shares the means of production, right down to the capillaries perfusing as they do. I start to get deep into my mind and… woo. These motherfucking legs though! Hot damn. Make you wanna slap your lover with a sickle and mc hammer over here. Let’s get it started. The left one is the kick stand at stops. The right is the initial pushoff, sort of like a Trotsky kinda cardiac sinoatrial node for my legs. Figure that one out, Diego Rivera. Read more books.

This circle k is different. First, because it’s a shell. Second because military helicopters are everywhere overhead. Blackhawk up. Left right. Is this cadence or a contra code? Select start. Ah, it’s the marine Corp base at camp lejeune. Can’t go through anymore. Not even on bike. lejeune? Hmm sounds French. Communes. Shoutout to Ernesto Che Guevara. I’m waiting like forever at this red light. Whole line off marines. Waiting to turn left. Whoa. Convoy. Carpooling in humvees, they stare me down. Like all six in each, somehow I know they see me. It’s creepy. I’m waiting for one to pop out the top hatch. Hopefully it would be a water gun. Or frickin lasers. Imma just keep pedaling and paying my taxes. Jacksonville NC is the city for all the bases around. Lots of memorials. Cemeteries. A sheriff passes me slow but mega close. Maybe to show off his “in god we trust” phrasing that’s above “sheriff” on the back hatch window of suburu sport utility whatever. Gotta love good old separation of church and state. Those old white slave-owning atheists are turning in their graves. Or are they?

It is the end of exploited labor. My legs get breaks. Union breaks, as in they both get to take off at the same time. It makes them happier to do what they do and better at it. They get closer with the entire commune this way. Shoutout to Fred Hampton and his Rainbow Coalition. These legs help each other out. My left hamstring starts acting up somewhere on Highway 17 and my right leg picks ups the extra pushing for a few miles. Really solidarity in these fuckers.

Judgment day comes and my plan works. All I do is push it off and push it off and eventually I’ve pushed so far that I’m one day ahead of schedule again and take the long, windy way. Toward the outer banks we go. Eastbound!

My legs. They don’t believe in a higher power. They are a higher power. They get me where i need to go even on Friday and Saturday and Sunday. No holidays needed, they are Gods, the each of them. Eaching away. Right turn! It’s thankfully my last real stretch on 17 and there’s something I been had been having on my mind. Let’s talk about nails. Obviously, Christ got ‘em right in his hands and feet for like maybe up to three days max. But yo, I got ‘em in the shoulder. Repeatedly. All day, every day. 9 and a half days of this. Left and right. I gave up counting on my first full day – I’d guess it’s consistently been hundreds of nails per day… plus screws. I shit you not. More than anywhere. Even around Easter. I’m riding, it’s quiet enough so I decide to look down and over a couple minutes of counting I always see 2 or 3 of them. Then extrapolate por favor. And that is what I SEE.. when I’m looking at the ground three feet in front of me and not at vehicular traffic nor pedestrians nor surrounds nor scenery. Long ones. Short one. Rusty ones. Shiny newbies. Most on their side, some straight up. The shoulder is screwed too. One day there were entire boxes of construction decking screws splashed open in my way. Probably like fifty dollars worth. Pedal right over and hold my breath. Yeah that’ll make it work. Today seems worse than most. I pray to the spokes gods.

An 80 plus mile day in the sun and swirling winds finds me pulling up to the USFS campground in Cedar Point. Oh shit did i teleport to Cleveland already and miss the whole thing? Nah. Cedar Point North Carolina. The campground host tells me he has one site left. It’s a shared site. How fittingly socialist. 19b. Nope it’s capitalism. No free access to articles of consumption of here. Im consuming time I suppose. Fascists. The host, he looks like a Frank. Frank eyes me and says, “we get more than a few of you comin’ through”. “Yeah I bet”. Apparently my predecessor haves inquired about showers in the past, Fred says “Well I know y’all love to shower, we’ve hit showers over there…”. In my head I wonder who doesn’t shower. But hey to each their own. Over to 19b. My campsite comrade is one Baldhead Bob. His name is Bob and he is ballheaded as fuck. He’s got a little foofy lap dog. I miss the dogs name because it’s yapping at me. Whatever. I actually pay him. What are. Here’s your cash, Bob. I got a shower to enjoy and ramen to nom. It’s bomb. Both of em. The palace pops up. My devices get charging and the adventure adrenaline kicks in… no.. no it doesn’t.

My legs. They don’t need money. They need electrolytes in their utopian state. I stretch them more and more. Mandate. Is it rest or work for these working legs. When it’s rough standing up out of a crouch, they kick in. Sometimes taking turns. Thank you legs, you courageous commies, I most definitely could not do this without you.