Hoping for a Tail Wind

It’s a cool, quiet morning at Robert’s place. There’s coffee already made. I am sore as fuck, and there’s some left hamstring twinginess that clearly has persisted. I didn’t notice any specific injury in the last three days, though I’m realizing that each of my last five days consisted of: 3 mile run, 3 mile run, 2 mile run + 30+ ride, 70+ mile ride, 70+ mile ride. Which brings me back to this cool morning in Savanna Georgia, sipping black Folgers and slathering icy hot on the back of my leg. Popping ibuprofen like Boomers pop Lisinopril; like Millennials pop Adderall, like, like Gen Z pops anything. Exactly and precisely 7 days prior to the commencement of my forty seventh rotational journey around the giant fiery ball known of our solar system. Find me a more complex way of stating birthday and I’ll admit that Kubrick likely didn’t direct the first moon landing. Maybe.

Robert and I chat on all things bike tour nerd stuff. Routes and such, specifically. Empire Trail. C&O/GAP, Katy, Natchez Trace. All the wondrous lovelies of long rides. Conversely he tells me that the bicycling north out of Savannah is a current hellhole of suck, so I might take him up on a offering a lift to skip the first few miles of suburbia, construction and lack of shoulder. Maybe they’re building a separated bicycle trail? Meh. I leave all of my baggage and bike behind and get ready to head out on foot. I thank him again, explaining I just plan to walk and relax and read and use my mind to heal my body, to which — in his thick southern accent — he simply replies “the power of positive thinking”, to which I equi-simplistically affirm, “exactly”.

People and walking and squares oh my. Squares everywhere. This city is certainly amongst – if not the most walkable in the US&A, at least the historic core of it. A nice chunk of square mileage. Thanks King George? Am I right? Nope, Oglethorpe is the OG. More later. Now. Right now. It’s little parks every other block, connected by pedestrian only streets and this is all before even getting to the ubiquitous riverwalk. I’m like the Count of this foot thing: one mile, two miles, three miles, four. This is as much like a European level of urban chill and streets-for-people as I’ve seen. It reminds me of good old Barcelona. Real name Bar-they-lone-uh. I’m now deeming this place Thavannah. Kinda like Havana. Rhyme time. Maybe a little NOLA. Damn I’m drawing urban area mental threads everywhere as I wander around, liberated from the chains of navigation or care. And wind. Free to explore the more hidden parts of my brain tissues. I’ve been to something like 120 cities worldwide and most major ones domestically; this is my first time exploring this one. This is not just a new city for me, it’s a new situation. I’ve taken very few zero days in cities on long rides and none in one I have never been to and to actually recover. A vacation within a bike ride that is a vacation. It’s a god damn holiday inception. My focus and pecan pie is disrupted by a fire engine followed by an ambulance. I wonder if it’s the day shift back home. Then I realize that I don’t even know what day it is. Fuck it all. And I’m fine with the cerebral retirement, even if it’s only temporary.

There are 22 squares still in use today. The original four squares of Savannah date to 1733 and were a distinctive part of James Oglethorpe’s plan for the city. Eventually squares were located in the center of each of the city’s 24 neighborhoods or “wards.” The foresight of Oglethorpe’s design continues to provide an extraordinary example of how public space provides a timeless and lasting amenity to a community. Very much used and beloved, the squares are essentially public “living rooms”. This segment and the entirety of it all warms my cold heart. The whole thing was done to create a classless agrarian society. Oglethorpe believed that if only they were granted a degree of opportunity, the country’s “worthy poor” would evoke into successful farmers, businesses, and skilled workers. In order to prevent the growth of divisions, all settlers would work their own plots of land, and both slavery and large landholdings would be forbidden.

6 or 7 meandering by foot miles in, I make it down to the Savannah, er Thavannah River, just in time for a massive cargo freight ship to blow its horn. Fuck these fishing yachts, riverboats, cruse ships and what not — the Zim Bangkok is the hot ticket. Let’s I forget the most baller ass part — the tugboats doing they’re thug thizzle. It amazes me. The Jack T Moran and the Cooper Moran respectively. I’m walking by thinking about all the crap in all those cargo containers. Things people got on Amazon a month ago probably. A nautilus photo shoot ensues. It’s totally hawt. So hawt. These boats really know how to work the camera. Real professional vessels. I walk on and overhear a woman with her husband and kids “so many things have to be on there, probably some bodies”. She looks like a Sandra, and she probably watches a ton of true crime TV shows. I laugh out loud. She hears that I heard her and tries to apologize for being morbid – I let agree with her and love the perspective. “Yeah. Probably” Dead and alive I bet.

Positive thinking isn’t always about always everything roses always. Nothing is always. Everything is never. I sometimes focus on ways I can improve myself. That’s truly positive in the sense of the specific definition. Addition. I’ve always been good with a plus one or two. Big up!

I’ve gotta improve my cadence while riding. Especially on the rest of this ride. Relying more in the revolution than the force exerted by my legs. The wind hadn’t helped at all, I don’t have a gear for that and had little choice if I wanted to keep moving. My stretch game is gonna have to step up too. And I definitely need to pack less things, somehow, someway. More exi-mental-meta-physically, I meditate on the concept of “intellectual humanity” — recognizing that our reasoning is so flawed, so prone to bias, that we can rarely be certain that we are right. Mega meta my man. We don’t even know we’re wrong until we find out we are. Whenever we are in fact wrong, despite the fact that we’re actually in fact wrong the whole time, the feels of being wrong didn’t happen until we knew we were wrong. Until we find out. Mind fuck. I’m sure there’s a positive version of what I just said — sometimes to be positive you just gotta look at the negative I suppose. The empty space. There’s a TED Talk called “On Being Wrong”. I’m too lazy to link it. Look it up. It’s worth a google. How does it impact just what we see? Seeing someone or something or somewhere. All of it exists regardless right? Is it really there before we see it though? Are we experiencing or just creating reality? Maybe it’s all ancient aliens.

Still city walking. Aka hiking. Aka tramping in New Zealand. That’s my fave. I don’t need the forest or mountains to call it these words. There is truly a dedication to foot traffic. First. Even before bikes. And definitely before cars. That matters. It pisses me off that the word pedestrian now seems to come with a diminutive connotation. Somehow “ordinary” is the nicest version. Fuck that noise. Streets are for people. It’s peaceful and happy and the vibe is just right in everyone of these squares. Shout out to Bernard Rudosky and anyone in history who has ever laid a human city out in such a way that public places for people were prime purposes. Cities came before cars. We’d be better off if we had preserved that more in some of our more historic cities, mine included. Or put it back. Or made it brand new. I don’t giving a flying fuck how. If we are great then what else is there? Quality of life and livability are measurements we should put place a higher stock into — and just the ability to get up and out and around with ease is a big part of that. Simple Simon ain’t no rhymin.

Feeling much better after a day of chill. I’ve just got a few miles out toward the islands where my host Debbie is putting me up for my last night here. So much for a total zero day! I jump on the stallion of steel and my legs are screaming at me. And the rush hour traffic joins them. It’s a short haul yet of course I have a headwind and little to no shoulder to ride in. Another bridge. What the actual fuck. I survive. Meet Debbie. Fill my face with a shrimp salad. Shower. Settle into her couch and get ready to pass out hard, grateful that I continue to receipt the help of total strangers.

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.

Math quiz: how many carbon fiber centuries equal 76 miles in direct 20 mph (40 mph gust) headwinds on a 50 lb bike with another 50 lbs of gear? And please, express your answer in milligrams of ibuprofen. This counts towards our final grade.

My first morning on the road, I wake up in Florida and it’s fucking 50° and raining. As it eases into more like a mist, I head out. Wearing pants. And a long sleeve. And a jacket. Wtf? It’s not bad riding weather, though the steady direct headwinds remind of days through western Texas. This ain’t too fun. After a few miles I hit the state line. Gil Scott-Heron on blast, Hello Sunday Hello Road. It’s as if the ghost of Steve Jobs inside my iPhone knows everything I like. It’s Sunday. Easter. I’m positively staying peachy over preachy.

Georgia. The Peach State. 🍑. It’s a great emoji too. This particular one is now code for a booties. Behinds. Rumps. Rears. Back sides. Butts. You know. We all got ‘em. What’s a butfer? For pooping silly. And you probably know what’s coming next.

I push on down Highway 17. 45 miles in I spy a TA stop near I-95 has a Starbucks and a Subway. T&A. I indulge. In food and drink; they’re ain’t any tits and ass – and even if there was I stink like all hell. I’m gassed and have another 25 miles directly into a now intensifying wind. Needs fuels. The oat milk latte is muah. The sammich is meh. Moving along. I regroup and prepare to push on. I was hoping for a tailwind and didn’t get it. Now I’m hoping to take advantage of Sunday/holiday traffic volume to get through Brunswick Georgia with minimal issue. This is one stretch of the lauded highway 17 that is noticeably setting the inter webs ablaze in anger over it being considered part of the “East Coast Greenway” yet its really a 4-5 line highway who’s 18” shoulders have been obliterated by rumble strips. I admit it has sucked and continues to suck now — though I can tell there’s likely a tenth of the vehicles flying by me as there will be tomorrow. A rare occasion for less suck. I even pass up on a non paved rail trail that runs parallel for a few miles.

Let’s talk about the Sidney Lanier Bridge into Brunswick. It is a cable-stayed bridge that is the longest spanning bridge in Georgia and is 480 feet tall. It is named for poet Sidney Lanier who was hailed in the South as “the poet of the Confederacy. And here I am thinking he could be Buffalo Braves legend Bob Lanier’s cousin — RIP the Buffalo Braves.

This massive engineering marvel spans 1,250 feet and is like 200 feet over the water. It has four lanes of traffic and I see it coming literally 3 miles away. It’s the only way forward and it is daunting. I think back over the years of the various friends I’ve bike toured with and only 1 or 2 come to mind that would actually do this. With 50 miles already in on the day, I slowly push up the incredible incline into 40 mph winds gusts. I’m moving like 3 mph and there’s no room in the shoulder to slalom up. I’m realizing that maybe even those one or two brave souls might have waited this out. Maybe I should have. I can’t even hear the roaring traffics next to me. My Apple watch is telling me that loudness is making this is an unsafe environment for my ears. And the rest of me too. Well, I suppose my sphincter muscle is getting a workout. I’m fortunate the ridiculous Atlantic coast wind is directly head on – if it were from either side it would surely knock me over. I’d have to walk. Or take the midnight train. As it’s happening, I know this is in the top five of single most intense experiences in my life — and certainly number one for experiences wasn’t paying for or getting paid for. And only if I don’t die doing it. Yeah. I chose this. For free. Even coming down is treacherous as I still have to pedal with enough resistance in order to even maintain my balance. Holy fuck. Afterward I personally need to check for proof that I didn’t shit my own pants. I didn’t. I’m a big boy. Yay.

25 more miles through Brunswick and I arrive in Darien. Fred here has agreed to put me up for the night. Fred’s not here though. So he’s letting me camp out on his screened in porch enclosure in the middle of the woods. It’s got water and power and wifi and tranquility. Boom bam pow. Perfecto. I don’t get to meet Fred; I’m grateful for his blind generosity and this instantly conjures up all of the help I’ve gotten over the year from total strangers.

Ultimately my mindset and mind power get me through today. Not much room for snark or sarcasm when it’s this rough. At least not yet on day two. I try to stay positive plus persistent. Persistently positive. Set and setting. I have lots of what my cousin might call “brainy chit chat” with myself to keep me going. Most of it doesn’t end up typed because I’m busy riding. Don’t fret though, plenty of cutting cynicism is to come.

There’s a carbon copy day forecasted and routed for tomorrow. I boil up and wolf down some ramen, pop up the palace on the porch and get down into it. Lights out with sundown.