Hoping for a Tail Wind

As they pass, each mile is unique in its impression. Different. Like that mile’s momma always told them they were special. There’s no easy miles. No easy days. Some are better than others. The outer banks provided timespace for better miles and easier days. 70 miles into Kitty Hawk with a tailwind is still hard work, go ask Wilbur and Orville. My arms and hands are sore. My sit bones. Neck feet. 70 miles with wind behind me is better than coming at me. The last few days I’ve refined my working with the wind Leine never before. Making the miles and hours easier in any way is the name of the game.

I am awake and up and out earlier than ever. I have no destination and there is not much in front of me in the way of camping, lodging or food. So nothing really. Green murk. There’s a 2 mile long bridge back onto the “mainland” about 4 miles ahead, and I want to crunch it before any sort of rush hour traffic. Plus I’ve been checking the winds and they will be whipping across and at me.

This bridge, the Wright Memorial Bridge — oh yeah, those guys — marks the end of the island portion of this program – with another 60 miles after it to reconnect with the main route into Richmond. My outer banks alternate ride is sunsetting as the sun is rising as I push lightly through quiet little wooded neighborhoods alongside marinas filled with yachts, bacon is the smell track and song birds still the soundtrack. I’m out here meeting people without a cause and being open and honest with them. It’s wonderful to do. My mind drifts into what’s really at the core of American humans being so mad at something or at each other all the time, usually for no good reason. This doesn’t happen in other nations, it’s clear by the way we treat each other and the way they treat each other. The real cause for really real. The Royal we has got the how what when where; we need the why. Here I am riding my bike and thinking about a guy a while back basically just mad at ethanol in gas, which I am not here to defend. Duh. More than one thing can be true at the same time people. So one group is mad that it’s a poor, low quality fuel. Another is mad because it’s expensive. Another, because it’s a fossil fuel-burning waste of precious life on our planet and… vvrrrrroooooom! A 70’s Ford pickup blows by me, spewing black smoke and stank all up into my face and lungs. This douchebag, he brings us closer in brain cell counts with this one action. Cough cough. Fuck you.

With debris all up in the shoulder, I pretty much have to take the lane or ride the line. Leaving Bodie Island, the last island hop, I gotta give a special shout out to Orkacoke for having no bridges and few vehicles. Wait a second, Bodie Island is actually a barrier peninsula you say? True indeed. But did you really look it up? I did. It used to be an island, until the inlet — near current day Nags Head — closed up. Ok, ok. You know what they say, “once an island, always an island.”

These miles kinda suck; it’s early though, so I go into my thoughts for a bit. Incomplete solutions have gotta play into the reason behind the omni-vitriol of our nation. America is fucked up and fucked. Pay attention, this is patriotic shit people. Half measures. A decline of actual exceptionalism. No more Will and Orv. For anything. Pick a card any card. The writing is on the wall. All the cliches! Education. Health. Debt. Manufacturing. Worse than Idiocracy, plenty of people are still capable, yet very few are desirous of even giving a shit. Take care of everything except the people as if one can live in a nation without living in it. Except, yes the profit motive. Greed is good, I guess Gordon. Let’s hope we can hold on to culture and civility, at the very least. Wait do I sound cynical?

Cutting north west I have a bit of a tailwind. It’s at my left with the gusts though. It’s hottern hell, I’m sweating it up. Miles pour on. A town named Coinjock has a store and water. There not much out in this neck of the woods yet there still are “OBX” signs and marketing everywhere; we’re 100miles away from Orcacoke. This ain’t Hatteras anymore Toto. Coming up in the back way, I don’t even feel like Kill Devil Hills and Nags Head were very much OBX to me — all this out here though, nah. Perception is reality.

It’s never an easy day. I’ll say it again. Short or long mileage. I bathe in icy hot. I eat ibuprofen like a fat kid eats cake. I’d eat cake like a fat lid if I had any. This day is ultra. Hot, like 88° F hot. Little to no cover. No clouds. Even less camping or even lodging options. Legit 40-50 miles between services. Nothing but dismal swamp. No games. Really, it’s called the Great Dismal Swamp. I’ve got enough swamp ass already, no need to add to it. I push more miles.

I find another gas station with a store after 30 more miles. I’m gassed. I need shade. The shaded side is occupied by a bumblebees nest, so I go inside. All they have is Gatorade. I don’t like it. Fuck it. Gimme it. Oh gas station fried chicken? Gimme it. Crush it. I sit inside and cool off. After a bit I look at my map. It’s still another 30-40 miles or so to anything. I could camp outside a fire station or really just anywhere not private property. I don’t know how I’m feeling about that. All this current swamp booty and all. So I’m like fuck that noise and dial up the motel in the next town 35 miles up. Actually I just book it online, I don’t dial shit. I now have what is known as A goal. A carrot on a stick and a hot shower and electricity and a bed. I push off, all excited, that’s when I see my ACA map has me cutting back down to get under the swampland. And um, no dirt roads for me google maps. RUH ROH.

The wind blows. No it really blows. Hard. This ain’t what I was led to believe by the Catholic Church to be a blowjob. And worst of all, it’s in my face. Cruelest of maneuvers is having to get back on 17, going SOUTH (southwest actually) into a 14 mph wind from the southwest. After about one horrifying mile I turn slightly off — still into the headwind on US 158. This might be worse. One lane in each direction. 3 inches of shoulder, littered with debris. Into this wind. I’ve got 6 miles of this, none of those miles is very enjoyable.

I’ve turned north. This is a good mile, as I cross the Virginia line. Tailwind central. My body aches and is tired of being in the saddle; I’ve got my north start. Literally. I stay on the busier road to avoid micro cutbacks into any sort of wind.

After mile 90, I black out. On autopilot. Even the wind can’t help me. My brain shuts down in part survival mode, part zen state. I cut across town, skirting most Friday traffic, I think. I have no idea and get tangled up in a highway exchange And overpass. A mile later and not only is the hotel just great, it’s on the other side of the parking lot from the Food Lion. Good last mile. Long day. I take a wonderfully delightful shower, the kind from which those women in the 90’s TV commercials would orgasm. I get some vegan ice cream to celebrate — it’s what Damon would do on long pushes that end in a room. I do some sock, underwear and glove laundry in the motel sink — there’s 5 states worth of sand, hairs and dirt in there. I hit that bed. You know what it is.

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.