Hoping for a Tail Wind

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.

This site is simply a training ground for my creative writing. I way to get better at the words. So I say to myself, “I should really practice writing more dialog”. No one answers, thus I have to utter, “yeah, and I’d like to keep that thread of the subject of the topic of the science of “Confirmational Bias”. You know, like if the whole right and wrong lesson learned as a child ended up being just pre-k and now we’ve pre-phd leveled up. Boss boss boss boss boss boss boss shit. Maybe some of you know more than me about it? Did you watch the YouTube TED thing yet? Yeah, me neither. I laugh at myself for thinking any of this is dialog. If you know more on the subject or science of anything, write a message, put that message in a bottle, and send it up along the Atlantic Coast to Washington, DC. When I get there I’ll be sure to get it and get back you right away — because I hear that’s what they’re really know for in that town.

Started in Jacksonville and now we’re here… in Jacksonboro. Twenty dolla holla. No coffee machine here in the Edisto Motel, so i’m finna set up the Jetboil press out front, pop the lid and realize that the rattling and riding somehow got the stove settled into the uncapped fuel and let er all out. Farted on me. I lose some brain cells upon my discovery. Luckily I have a microwave and coffee happens, for there’s not a drop of it outside of gas stations for 25 miles. I’m tolerant of that if I have to be, but what I brought with me is superior.

Back on my nemesis 17, just in time for the morning commute. Assholes overcompensate for something by passing me way too close. Some Dick lays on the horn. Im startled and nearly fall off my ride. He looks like a goddamn Richard too. I can hear your dumb car, dumb ass. Truckers are my peoples though. They know how to drive. They will use the brake if needed. And they know how to blow the supportive horn. I wave at them.

Finally some quiet roads and an upcoming rail trail gives me space to breath. There’s a nice headwind straight out of the east thigh and it’s picking up momentum. Forecasted to be five miles per hour, it’s definitely up to 10-15 now. I’m able to get back into my drops a little and it aids some tightness in my right hip. Days 3-6 are reliably the break in period of any long ride. Im feeling that in most places. Stops and stretches.

I love me some picnic table table naps. Right on top of the tabletop of it. I’ll do it anywhere on any kinda travel — on a solo long ride, they are clutch, especially when covered from rain or sun. I have got no picnic tables naps in yet. Worse and far more unbelievably tragic: I have not seen a single picnic table since entering South Carolina. Not on a rail trail. Not at a Food Lion. Not at a park. Not next to a fire station. And believe you me. I been looking. Not a one. Strange things afoot — though no picnic tables — at the circle K.

Still not a goddamn picnic table in sight.

Rolling down a rural road, i hear a loud pop! Thinking I blew a tire until… pop pop pop! Hmm fireworks? Nope, as I pedal up, soem old dude is literally out in his front yard letting off hand guns rounds. I don’t even know what her shooting at. It’s not immediately apparent, which I feel like it should be. Hopefully not me. He’s maybe 20 feet away. I survive. I pedal on, into the wind. I stop to take a break at an an abandoned gas station stretching and snacking. An older woman just stands there and stares at me. I mean for a few minutes. I say hello. Nothing. Just stares. For another few minutes. She looks like a Gertrude. Maybe she’s goes by Gerty, but she can’t spell Gertrude without rude.

Still no picnic tables! I don’t even wanna picnic, I just wanna stretch out and nap.

I’m back on 17 and the experience is wild different. Vehicular traffic is back up hard. At a standstill. I fly by at 11 mph. It’s bawesome. Straight up the best moment of the ride to this point. Check it out:

25 miles in or so and the wind has picked back up. Headwinds again. Manageable at least. I make it to a small park which doubles as a trailhead for the West Ashley rail trail. Fuck yeah. Not only do I get non motorized riding for a bit, but Rick has come out to do ride with me. Originally outta Olean, Rick is an official member of the Western New York diaspora. He’s definitely Bills Mafia. And he’s putting me up for the night just past Charleston. Rick is involved in all things cycling down here and is also planning a ride from LA to Maine. He plans to do it fully loaded and 100 miles per day. I get exhausted just hearing him talk about it. We ride and talk. Talk and we ride. The miles go by easier.

He navigates me through Charleston with ease. I like this city but it’s not a stop on this trip so we’re cruising right through, when — oh shit — South Carolinas first picnic table!!

Unfortunately it’s beyond nap time. I don’t even drink anymore coffee. I eat some beef jerky and a banana. We push another 25 miles to beat the rain. Getting into Mount Pleasant requires another tall long bridge and headwinds. The Arthur Ravenal Jr Bridge. Whoever he is, I ain’t got time to look him up, I’m trying to stay dry. Luckily this one has separated bike and pedestrian facilities. I get into the lowest gear i have and give it my all, Rick graciously purposely moving slowly so we don’t separate, he could probably hit 25 on the bike he’s riding.

I get a shower and some food in me and plan out my next couple of days. I get too tired to do that so instead I just pass out. Really excited endings I have to these adventure journals huh?

In his autobiography Glow, Buffalo-native James Johnson (professionally known as Rick James) writes that during his time in prison he met a man he comes to know as Brother Guru. Brother Guru talked a lot to Rick about what he referred to as the “Me Monster” and a balance between anarchy and discipline; most interestingly he went into the idea of a “thin line between breakdown and breakthrough”. It’s highly insightful, especially here on day four – feeling out my physical condition after a few tough days followed by a relatively restful one. Like in that flick “The Program”, James Caan is asking me if I’m hurt or injured. I’m not dead, Sonny.

For shits and giggles, let’s hot tub it up this morning and timespace travel forward to when I’m spending the later afternoon in the shade of a train depot. I’m weighing my options. Like scales of justice. There’s an ice cold water fountain within eyeshot; I’ve filled my bottle threefold already. I decide I’m gonna flip the power lever on this box and hope for the best and whaddya know? I’m chargin my phone, whilst I’m on it. Weighing. Not literally – wait does the iPhone do that yet? Nah, I’m figuring where I want to sleep. I never plan these rides out much beyond the day to day. Ruins the fun. I could probably never do an organized tour. I’m looking at distances to my various possibilities. I’ve got good weather; I’ve got 35 miles of riding under my belt today. It’s getting later – 357 in the pee em in fact. This depot is super cool. Literally, old brick got the temp real nice in here. No more trains; just a hollowed out and preserved structure; old doors and windows; looks like it get used as an event space at times and I’m betting I could camp right in it if I wanted.

Break.

I wake up to hippy alarm clock sounds or something, There’s chimes, probably a vibraphone, maybe a didgeridoo. I’m on Debbie’s couch. She getting ready to go to work. I get up. I thank her again, she’s out the door. I’m into some coffee and a banana and I poop and pack up and move out. Next thing I know I’m on the side of the road — hoping to get into a pickup with a strange man. Huh? Well really, Debbie asked favor of her coworker at the school she works, a guy I only know as Coach Collins. Yup. I’m getting a lift over that shitty bridge. I think Coach’s name is Brandon. But I’m calling him Coach, because I’m ready to go and “let’s go Coach sounds” like a travel invitation and “let’s go Brandon” sounds like, er, um, nevermind. Thanks for covering those four miles of morning shoulder-less rush hour, Coach.

A couple miles of riding post-Coach and now my Thavannah counterpart Robert has got me and my Raleigh Sojourn in his pickup, speeding over another bridge and past what he has told was — and what I now see definitely is — construction for a future widening, yet a currently COMPLETELY shoulder-less situation. A very very tight tight tight setup of one lane in each direction. And heavy volume. I would not want to ride that. We whiz through it and into South Carolina at 60 mph. Thanks for covering those 15 deadly miles for me.

Decipher some Heptapod and we’re again late in the day at that weighing the options moment. So. About 20 miles up out of this depot lay the ruins of an abandoned church. This known attraction has developed a little clearing nearby due to 1) how fucking cool this place sounds, plus 2) lazy motherfuckers needing to put their car somewhere while being awesomely there. I’m guessing I can use this clearing for rent free tent popping under cover of darkness. Tits McGee. Robert hipped me to the spot because Robert is a motherfucking G. A goddamn Jedi. A scholar and gentleman. He knows the area for sure. Some call it ghost camping. Or stealth. My real ones know it as Remote Sleeping.

Break.

We definitely don’t need two Dakotas and I’m not sure we need two Carolinas either. I’m at the circle K and yes, strange things are a foot. Then again this isn’t Georgia anymore, so its probably normal as fuck here in “south” Carolina. I’ve traded Ray Charles for Stephen Colbert. I’m filling bottles and the muzack station blaring in here (strangely loud as fuck) simmers down into a “DJ” telling her listeners that 53% of workers are in favor of a 4 day work week. Like really — show me the other 47% who oppose so that we can put them on a candidate list to be drawn and quartered. Or maybe just define “workers” in your poll for me, hun. And oh yeah, it’s apparently still cool to use “hun” here. Alright sugar. Sweetie. Dollface. Baby. Yuck.

Pedaling through Okatie and then Beaufort South Carolina. I pass Hilton Head. I pass Parris Island. Paris Hilton? Al Pacino. Hoo Rah. Cadence is in effect. My legs are feeling solid yet sore so I’m healing and riding. Taking it easy. Moving at like 8 mph. There’s some getting in gear going on Greg. Whoever in the hell Greg is. Maybe he’s a Gregg. Dunno. Don’t care. I’m using my gears, the granny one specifically. Winds the last few days had been out of the NNE while I had been ride directly north-north-East – now they’re out of the east, I’m generally heading northeast – so only headwinds half the time. And much less strong. Much less. I have gears for this wind. I’m focused on going slow and steady and easy.

The lesson timing in my head is not pushing. Something I’m still figuring out for myself. Lin Yutang’s The Importance Of Living did a lot for me, this ride appears to picking it up on another wavelength. I need to keep it slow and easy and avoid my natural tendency to shift up and force myself into full injury. Rest helps a lot, I have to be able to ride while allowing for things to get a little better in my hamstrings specifically. So I’m not in my drops. Keeping the cadence up and resistance down. Tricking my brain into not doing what it normally does and go for it.

Fuck it, pick your favorite literary or cinema timespace travel device, put it in the comments, use it, and find me looking on my maps for what’s past the church ruins. Basically I get back on 17 and there’s isn’t much. At least not on listed on Google maps or on my ACA map. Realistically the only things listed are an RV campground and and a motel in Jacksonboro – 40 more miles from this baller ass Spanish Moss Trail Train Depot things. Thats a lot of miles my man. Whew. Makes being right here right now in this funky little bike path/train depot building feel all the more comfy. Those combination Wendy’s and Timmy Ho ain’t got nothing on this.

Break.

I like making eye contact with the operators of motor vehicles when I can. Really let ‘em know I’m here and not interested in dying today. Sometimes I get a nod back or a wave or a smile. It puts me in my safe space of not being killed by you. The full blackout tints of the south piss me off. I understand the thermodynamics at play… still though. If I wave a thank you at a driver I can’t see who yielded, are they really there? Do they exist before I see them. Maybe it’s a driverless car? Finally! Bring them on.

Stargate to me frantically scrolling around on my phones satellite map — the service in this brick shit house of a structure is thin — I’m searching for a “medium option”. Something between the 20-40 more mile options. There’s isn’t even a store on this stretch. No gas station. Nothing. I find a volunteer fire station that looks likes it’s also somebody’s personal home too. Yet it is 31 miles up. It’ll have to do. Three options exist.

Break.

Through.

It’s a lot right now. Like right now, right now. I go back and forth on all three options for a bit. Do I really wanna do 40 more? Should I? It would probably just get me a crappy and expensive motel at the end. Could I even make it in time? I weigh the cost and realize I couldnt care if it was $70 or $100 at this point. The church ruins sounds so cool and I do have all this camping gear. Fuck. I get analysis paralysis. So I say fuck it and I get on the phone and use all the fake texas-montana-southern-country-slang-accent-drawl charm I can muster with Dolores, who answers the phone number listed for Edisto Motel with “hello this is Delores”. She actually says Susan, but later when I meet her, she looks more like a Delores so that’s what she said. She tells me I’m in luck. I get cabin 8. Oh. And it’s $65 with cash. This seals the deal. I’m going for it. Let’s roll and get these 40 miles in!

After the remainder of the Spanish Moss Rail Trail, I see very little if nothing but marsh mania, super swampy, muck and mud. Maybe one store early in the 40 miles to Jacksonboro. The wind has shifted again for me. Now out of the south, so even a slight tailwind is working with me. Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers’ “Breakdown” comes on. Of course it does. I put it on this playlist. Right on time. The irony is that’s it’s getting late and I’m chasing my shadow — my body is exhausted yet holding up fine on mile 65, I just really can’t afford a mechanical issue. It’ll put me into darkness on this highway. And just for the record, Tom Petty is allowed to you use the word “honey” in this song because it’s art. And he’s dead now. There’s context. Fuckers.

Im chasing my shadow. The advantage of long days. It’s fun. Until it’s not. Especially outside of cities, it gets dark quickly. And very dark. A second store pops up with 8 miles left. Im out of water. Im on fumes. Im going on. It’s twilight and there’s no time to stop. The sun sets on me and i finish the last few miles in darkness. The motel is actually dope. Cozy little room trapped in the 50s. The wifi password is backintheday. I pay Dolores. I crush some instant pho noodles. I crash. That’s all.

Break.

Jacksonville to Jacksonboro