Hoping for a Tail Wind

Imagine me, two wheeled in a reboot of the reboot of High Fidelity, breaking however many walls there are left now…. Setting a playlist aside for the sake of returning to listening to an entire album is sometimes needed on these long ass rides. More than run on sentences at least. One song off the 8 hour shuffled playlist I drafted continuously comes up – off Blackalicious’s 2002 album Blazing Arrow. So I hit play on the entire Broken Arrow album. Album. It sets the tone perfectly on both the easiest and hardest days. For the uninitiated, the lead “vocalist” in that “group” — code for “one MC in a hip hop duo” — is the late great Timothy Jerome Parker, aka Gift of Gab. He lives up to his name. I’ve brought him to Buffalo several times and and happy I met the guy before he passed at age 50 of what his Wikipedia says is “natural causes”. End John Cuseck adaptation. I digress. The song Make You Feel The Way provides some of Gift’s most poignant and positive poetry:

“Up and early for the hope of a brand new day
See a homie you ain’t seen since back in the day
Fresh haircut fitted with a fat-ass fade
End of work, we chilling on a Saturday
How you felt when you first heard the Daddy Kane
Rakim, KRS – hey I had that tape
Cooling out with ol’ girl on a fat-ass date
Find a hundred dollar bill wow man that’s great
Get promoted at your job up to management
Plot a long time finally a plan has made it
Sometimes I feel I wanna shout, man it’s real that way
When I think of things that make you feel that way”

Up and early for the hope of— ah fuck, fuckity fuck… my head is pounding. Throbbing. So bad I can’t even type exclamation points because even reading anything emphatic is just too much. Like I went out and got rowdy with the locals last night or something. Nope, just didn’t get enough water into me yesterday and now I’m paying the piper. It really does feel just like an actual hangover though. The town looked like it was gonna get its Saturday groove on last night; I didn’t leave the room once upon checkin. Yuck. My head is all go hammer go hammer go. There’s been zero beers for me for a while now and I’ve replaced it with more coffee lately. Last night I tried a double brew room machine decaf thinking it wouldn’t hurt. It hurts. I’d be more hydrated if I was out drinking beers, though I’d probably have the Carolina chlamydia or been punched in the face or something right now if I had. Anyhoo. I’m like ok. Get up. Eat something Free breakfast. It’s meh. Like really meh. I swipe a couple bananas. Despise the “free”hotel breakfast. It’s not free. I like free breakfast programs. Socialists cook better. Chef it up comrades. This is crap. Profit margin bullshit. I shower and it doesn’t help. Pound pound pound. Dogg Pound Gangsta, DPG. Kilograms please so there can be no more pounds. I’ve got to check my coffee intake. I contain myself to a Jack White-esque one more cup of coffee for the road, pull myself together, pack up and mosey on out.

I’m in “The Carolinas” as the signs tell me. Better roads. Worse drivers, maybe? I think they call themselves this in the middle and then neither North or South likes them helps them out. Or maybe the other way around, either way it’s some bizzaro middle world. Morning clouds and even some rain sprinkles give way to abundant sunshine. My mind is on mindfulness. Or am I just being mindful. I don’t mind. Vultures buzz around a deer carcass. They gotta eat too. In the world where I can only plan things two to three days ahead, I’ve got to make a choice coming up about taking the Outer Bank Alternate route or not. It’s a lot to ponder. The main route offers a lot, including at least a day less and way less volatile winds. But butt butte. OBX. I push my decision off and pedal on.

“Christmas Day when your mama got your first bike
Type of feeling when you went and won your first fight
How your team felt winning championship games
Celebrate in a huddle dancing in this rain
Have a thought see a shooting star cross your screen
Put in hard work finally you’re living your dream
Deaf man get his hearing now in come vibes
Blind man gain his sight see his first sunrise
Young man speaking out, now he’s loud and clear
Birthin’ your child, smile so proud you wear
Going in your third eye for the styles you hear
Making music that’ll bump for a thousand years
Eating right feeling conscious like health is first
Said a prayer that’s sincere and you felt it work
Times I feel I want to shout, man it’s real that way
When I’m thinking things that make you feel that way”

Christmas never meant much to me, though my mama got me my first ten speed bicycle for my 13th or 14th birthday. It was a second hand kinda thing. Apparently she caught me sleepwalking on my way out to go late night riding. Or she tells me that now because I kinda like bikes. I pull up to a toll booth, a dude with a squirmy stache says “one bicycle, that’ll be $3 please.” I confirm “does that include myself as well, because it can’t ride itself — though sometimes I wish it did.” Neither of us laugh. I give him my credit card. $3 for me and my Raleigh Sojourn. Pool Noodle Petra rides for free — as she should, that beautiful queen. Next thing I know I’m feeling like Huff & Doback. Boats. Hoes. Ok just boats. No hoes. Unless you count me. Idaho. Really just boat. One. And it’s a ferry. Not tinkerbell. The Fort Fisher Ferry. And I’m with it like a biscuit. Back the Delorean up just a bit to the literal and figurative turn out of this Days Inn. I have to trek southeast for about 25 miles to Southport, chartered in 1792, to jump on this boat and get to Cape Fear. I’m going south and into fear? Yeah I said it and I mean it. The wind means it too — stiff. Out of the… yup southeast. Headwind. No mention of winds by me, myself nor I the last few days silent-specifically/signify tailwinds — or no winds (there’s always usually a little wind). I get in gear and the sun comes out full blast on this long straight Southport-Supply Road. My hammy feels better. Healing. I can’t feel my hands. Or my feet. Or my ass. It’s hot. Whew. I make it just in time for the 1pm departure. I planned for the noon departure. Lesson learned. Though I sorta shoulda learnt this one two years ago on Dauphine Island Alabama. There’s a machine on the upper deck. Reading the inscription. Sounds like a bicycle to me, yet it don’t look like one and cost twenty five whole cents.

An older gentleman is my only other non motor vehicular homie. We chat up top for a bit. He’s healthy looking, walks with a cane, moves around well but can’t stand for too long. It’s $1 to do this boat by foot. He lives nearby and just walks on, takes the ride, walks off. Takes it back. Etc. Far as I could tell he was flirting with his female octogenarian counterparts sitting outside the visitor center. Which also is apparently a social activity round this parts. This guys name is definitely Joe. He’s oozes Joe-ness. Probably Joseph. I don’t ask. Joe tells me that Wilmington was unique because it had two inlets. Had. He points at the breakwall, “they sealed one off an dredged it deep after the civil war.” Wilmington = strategic as fuck for the confederacy, he tells me. I like the history. Later, I’m off the boat, riding and enjoying the lack of cars — since they all got off the boat before me. Joe pulls up in his car and drives alongside me, offering camping spots. Thanks Joe!

“All up in her vibe something coming over me
Summer days more likely that you notice breeze
Winter days more likely that you notice heat
When I’m gone, more likely that you notice me
In the dark it’s more likely that you notice light
In the light more likely that you notice night
Hungry, more appreciation for that meal
Dead broke, more appreciation for that scrill
A bad day’ll make you really notice ones that’s good
And that’ll make things a little better understood
Times I feel I wanna shout, man it’s real that way
When I think of things that make you feel that way”

Here on Cape Fear for the first time, I’m feeling like I could get a DeNiro style prison tat as a souvenir. What’s it mean if I find Robert Mitchum more menacing in the original without all the stand in ink? Robby D got a best actor nod for this and he had to rely on faking a stereotype or look mean and dangerous? In a remake? Should be a cancelable offense in my book — especially considering he had already done Goodfellas, Raging Bull, and Taxi Driver with Scorsese at that point. More meh. I pedal on, now with a considerable and mentionable tailwind.

Wilmington has a solid amount of bike infrastructure into it. I hit the stores, grab some stove fuel and some human fuel (aka trail mix, peanut butter and bananas). I also grab an oat milk latte. I can’t help it. I meet Don, who’s also rode coast to coast on the southern tier route, he offers me a spot to crash and hooks up a taco dinner. Hopefully Don comes up to ride the Erie Canal Trail this fall and i can return the hospitality.

Question. Why do I need ID to get ID, no for real though: it’s a cape I’m on and it called Cape Fear, why is the River I’m riding along right now called Cape Fear River instead of Fear River. I’m feeling slighted, because I wanna say im riding along the fear River. It’ll get me all the likes. Social currency. In a nation where no one knows or cares enough about anything to do anything, crime is down way low. Way way low. Can’t commit crimes sitting in your couch reading Facebook. Poverty still exists — and needs to be alleviated — yet there’s not nearly as much violent crime statistically as there was 40 years ago. Minuscule amount. Cars are the main perps now — if we’re counting traffic violations. Violations of safety laws around operating a motor vehicle. A deadly weapon. They don’t make reality shows about it this but it’s a massive part of the five-oh’s operation. Traffic. It’s where people actually most disobey the law. And safety suffers. People can’t walk in the street. Or ride. Or whatever. Cars become more important than individuals, even though they can’t drive themselves. Yet. Until then it’s a war on tranquillity and safety more than drugs and terrorism. Or any brown country. Let’s eat on these under attentive humans getting involved in the operation of heavy mobile machinery while hopped up on anything from Vicodin and vino to the whiskey and coke. Or their cellphone. Their Big Mac. Their makeup and hair. Anything that isn’t driving with due regard. Lock them up. Times I feel I wanna shout, man it’s real that way. When I think of things that make you feel that way.

It’s a wet, foggy morning. I didn’t sleep too well, not bad though. I’m on a bit of an incline, flat-Earthers should come check out this out. I do some serious stretches in the warmth of my pop up palace. Tent yoga? I climb out before sunset and relocate to a covered shelter. Now instead of an overnight criminal I just look like an early riser. Easy rider. I still have no fuel, so no coffee. But there’s a toilet. I let some things dry and ride a bit, relocating to a Dunkin’ the next town up. Damon would be proud. He loves Dunkin. It’s robust as fuck. The Starbucks was part of the Kroger and all local shops were still closed. There’s wifi and outlets and booth seating and coffee and microwaved bacon. Mmm. Plus there’s a Walmart across the street and they have everything. I’ve got some thangs to handle so I get setup and pull out my maps and, gawd damn!! Every other person walking into here is a woman between 25 and 35 and has abs of steel and has decided to show them to me as they walk in the door. One after the other like a fucking fashion show that has nothing to do with clothjng. My spidey senses indicate we’re close to surfing areas. That works your abs. Or maybe all these tourists have eating disorders or gym addictions. I have very little space left on my skin for more art, but I six-pack of cans on my belly seems like a good usage of the rare remaining real estate. Anyone not hot and young and fit fit is curious about me and my about my ride, of course. I love that though. People don’t talk to people they don’t know much. Our culture has instilled fear and default animosity, mainly thanks to the 24 hour cable news cycle. Fuck that noise. I’m happy to engage with kind hearted people who always end by wishing me well and safe travels. My bestie is a chubby dude with an og Patriots logo t shirt, “keep the rubber side down.” I hit him with a “yessir” and pedal off.

After a robust Walmart that is without my size fuel, I am in full on beach status. No longer near it, I am on it. It’s a town called Surfside, now I understand why the washboard is the display-instrument of choice round these part. Golf carts outnumber cars. There’s bikes. It’s slooooooooow on a Saturday. Also hottern hell, I’ve gone full native, and I’m kicking the shit out of whoever is on shirts team. I pass by tourist couples nursing their hangover out front of a beachside breakfast eatery get their giggles or kinks or whatever. “Oh look at this guy!” “Bitch I’m right here 15 feet away going 9mph!” Ok I didn’t say that right now right now. Except maybe in my head. And now in this story. Is it real if you believe it to be real even if it actually is not?

I avoid most of the beach through Myrtle Beach. Myrtle is definitely the name of my childhood school bus driver. There’s decent bike paths, with the major intersections creating waits as I have to push a button. I do some stretches there too. This hammy is still screaming. Traffic yoga?

Eventually the bikes paths run out and I’m back on Ocean Blvd. it feels like A1A and it’s around 1pm that I decide to dip. I need a bath and a refreshment. Into the Atlantic I go. Damn it’s cold! I develop a second belly button but thankfully also get some cool cool icy relief on my legs. Feels good. My long long ride comrade Daniel Spurio requires these daily dips and I thought I knew but not I really know why.

There’s a game of some sort going on which a table and red solo cups. Like beer pong but no ping pong ball and no beer. And also totally different. There’s a pebble and what appear to be hard seltzers. Cool bruh, sis, whoever.

I take a second dip to rinse off all the sand from my beach yoga sesh, and also to check on that whole belly bu… nope all good. Peeing in the ocean right now. Like right now. I pack up, take a beach shower and move along. No Beach Bum for me Harmony Korine. On my way out a car turning left into the parking lot almost hits a golf cart which has the directional right of what. The scene quickly changes from beaches to golf courses. Golf carts reign even more supreme. Just as many cars though, and I realize it’s not that they drive golf carts instead of cars, it’s that they drive golf carts instead of walking.

The circle k calls me. I gets the electrolytes, the plant that am I. I decide I’m tired… of South Carolina. I’m heading north. I book a hotel room 30 miles up and across the border in North Carolina. Burning daylight so I head on out.

I make the state line. It’s underwhelming. Southern North Carolina feels just like Northern South Carolina.

I take a break under an overpass and throw down a Lenny and Larry cookie. They don’t pay me but they are good and like 16 grams of protein 500 calories each! I Winston Wolf it, Harvey Keital. The Days Inn appears as I hit fumes status and the sun begins to set What luxury in room 133. I shower twice and organize, eat and prepare for the push into Wilmington tomorrow.

In the words of Professor X, “Van-glorious.” It’s a beautiful morning. Overnight rain and thunder have brought a freshness to day 6. Rick is rolling out with me. We’re heading north on 17 and there’s not much wind. More humidity than usually but gorgeous riding. Nice 3 foot paved and maintained shoulder. It’s a feeling I haven’t really felt in a while. “Oh shit, I love riding my bike again.” Rick and I talk about lots of things. Traffic is thin and moves over for us. I like comparing cars and guns. Drawing the similarities on how we hand out driver licenses and firearms with almost zero due regard. The exact thing you’re supposed to have with these two deadly creations. “Cars don’t kill people, people in cars kill people”, I say. Rick agrees, “like guns”. The problem with writing dialog is that I wanna just write our exact conversation but I’m too busy listening and speaking to type. Maybe I had a recorder, but then I’d look like either a reporter or a cop and I’m definitely neither of those two things. We get 20 early miles in, non headwinds mean tailwinds at this point in my life and I feel fine. Doing 17 mph on 17; using my touring gear for the first time, still gingerly with the hamstring. I’m surely grateful to Rick, I really should list the ways he’s helped me out before I thank him profusely and we part ways:

• Met me 25 miles west of his house and made the ride instantly better by providing company.
• Navigated and marshaled me through the city of Charleston; he offered a tour, I chose to beat the rain back to his house — which we did.
• Offered up a spare bed when it became clear that camping in his gorgeous backyard would mean getting wet.
• Allowed me to do some laundry.
• Offered some of his dinner.
• Gave me some CBD balm.
• Cleaned my chain.
• Offered breakfast; I accept a banana.
• Rode out 20 miles east with me the next morning.

Solo rides allow me to make friends with new people who many times are different. Rick is from the same part of the country, which means a lot when you travel. Even in such a small subculture of long distance riders, I can still appreciate our small differences alongside our multitude of mutualities. His hospitality and generosity is truly inspiring.

Back out on my own and I’m back at the circle k. My dude Damon would not call this one robust. It ain’t bad. Electrolytes and trail mix. My man comes walking out to grab a bag of ice from the ice box my Raleigh Sojourn is currently using as a kickstand – he’s got the classic red neck look and appeal. Camo trucker hat that hipsters somewhere would kill for. Maybe everywhere. Kill kill kill. There’s no trucker truck here though. One wouldnt even fit in this tiny lil thang. He does have with a million dollar yard style manicured white beard though. Odd. It sorta clashes with his look — and the rest of him doesn’t even look that old. Like if the architect in The Matrix found the fountain of youth and it didn’t keep your hair from turning gray. Hopes and prayers that he was named him after that actor who played him in The Matrix, but this dude doesn’t look like a Helmut to me. Really doesn’t. Nah, my money is that this redneck architect’s name is Clem – mainly because I bet he either went to or loves Clemson or he didn’t and hates Clemson. Dudes last name might be Son for all I know. I dunno. He looks at my rig and says “Man, I saw you way back on 17”. And again, I see no big rig truck, I answer “yeah, I’ve been on it for a while now… since Jacksonville.” Homies jaw drops. “Jacksonville?! Really?! That’s a haul, man.” “Yeah, I’m headed to DC and getting on a train.” I like Clem. I kinda wish he’d bring up remainder and anomalies. Maybe we would or wouldn’t along on Facebook if I went onto that wasteland that is the worst part of America, (think about that if you’re reading this via some leftover Facebook linkup — it might mean we’re dead to each other in that world. Still cool, just dead, Friends) yet we get along just swell at the circle k talking about basics of what matter. Great days. Being safe. Enjoying shit. Fuck yeah Clem Son, rock on with your bad self. It’s humid as fuck and the ice cooler is getting busy with customers, so I roll out. 30 miles of wilderness ahead.

Santigold on blast and i cross not not one but the Santee Rivers and with one turn I’m back on quiet back roads again. Ferns ferns ferns. Love them. They are everywhere. I get the vibe that love me too, so it’s us and them. Until I come up on what appears to the be the set for every southern plantation film ever. Plantation after plantation.

I’m in Georgetown South Carolina. I wonder if there’s a Carolinaville, Georgia. If so I’d don’t go through it. Cute little town. I get an oat milk latte in a consignment shop. There’s a river walk. Yachts and shit. Pocket parks and taverns and a maritime museum. Some lady is coughing hard as tuck while chain smoking. She could be 22 but she looks in rough shape. Smoke. Cough. Smoke cough. I’m thankfully upwind. I pass an ice a cream shop. “Mercantile” store. Yoga. Art. We’re not in plantation land anymore Toto. White people shit everywhere, but it’s the south so it’s still actually plenty of black people around too. My mind wraps itself around itself. There’s a great Chappelle joke in there somehwere. Probably something about “the whites” and “the blacks”. Ask him. I hook up and scarf down a peanut butter and banana with Trail mix burrito.

It’s tempting to stay here with no real destination tonight. Find little town. 60 miles is 60 miles. I have a full on tailwind. No hosts to hook me up with space. And yo, spring break still in full effect — prices just ahead are jacked up. There’s plenty of sunlight and plenty of full Campground and motels ahead of me — all back on the coast… near da beach, boooooyy! I push out and ahead, taking advantage of the weather.

I’m now in a place called The Strand. It’s not. A theatre. It’s an area. Hmmm.

80 some miles in and I’m getting turned away at Huntington Beach State Park. South Carolina does not have a “No turn away” policy for hikers and bicyclists. Even Florida does. Duh. So now I’m walking around the marshwalk in Murrells Inlet. Shit has leveled up. It is Friday night and people are out and getting hammered. Ok it’s like 630pm, but tourists are throwing them back and everyone who’s had more than three is noticing me. Little dogs bark at me and only me. They smell it. I’m just wasting time walking, waiting to commit a crime. I’ve spied a few spots to set up a tent rent free, “illegally”. There’s not a drop of vacancy anywhere and I don’t wanna ride 10 more miles to possibly get turned down again. Some call it ghost camping, some call it stealth camping. I prefer simply “Remote Sleeping”. I hook up the water fill up, use the public restrooms, eat some snacks, hit the spot amongst the tree adjacent to a park, and pop up the palace. Oxford comma and all. Buenos noches.