24

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Currently sitting in a comfortable coffee shop in Beaufort, South Carolina on a fine, rather blustery afternoon. As anticipated I arrived early; earlier even than I expected, thanks to a 31 kph average over the first hour-plus.

Having left Jacksonboro not long ago, I came to a cute little pie shack off the side of the highway near where I was to make the turn eastward, where I would then be crushed and swallowed up a bit by the winds gusting relentlessly westward. The shack was one of those slightly kitschy little places one must stop, where the provender is assumed to be delicious and of local supply. I bought a mini pecan pie and a chocolate chip cookie. They were good—not the best I’ve had, but not the worst either. Everything in the store was tempting. The cider was tempting. The jellies were tempting. The chocolates were tempting. The other snacks and baked goods were tempting. Ultimately, I thought the pie and cookie more than enough, as I am attempting, and failing, to stick to a nebulous budget, and so I left with only them.

Prior to this, as I was pedaling along Highway 17, a splash and a heavy flapping of wings I abruptly and suddenly heard. I looked up in time to see an enormous, grey bird glide swiftly and fluidly off into the forest, weaving between the gaps in the trees with the precision of a hawk or any other bird that would exemplify the gracefulness and nimbleness of flight, rather than the sure-footed, keen-eyed, stately patience of a bird known for wading on long, stilted legs. It was a bit like watching an aerobatics pilot weave his way through an obstacle course in a narrow canyon, or the speeder bike chase in Return of the Jedi. The weaving of a weft in the warp. Of the mind coming to an understanding. The whole experience was mesmerizing; the perfection of symbiosis along the edge of disparate worlds.

 

Leaving Beaufort, and to enter Bluffton it was necessary again to pedal eastward—not something to be looked forward to. And what did I do it for? A picture of a tree. Not just any tree, of course, but the tree that is known as the Secession Oak. Robert Barnwell Rhett gave the first speech encouraging South Carolina’s separation from the Union on July 31, 1844 under this tree, which is estimated to be 350-400 years old, and it looks every bit of it. Ancient, glorious, majestic, colossal. It’s branches create a serpentine labyrinth when gazed upward at from beneath—the sky a bluish-white lightbox against which the twisting, turning limbs of the great tree are silhouetted. The Spanish moss hangs in wide curtains. Broad branches carpeted in resurrection ferns. It’s only unfortunate that this tree is in someone’s yard, down a long private drive—something I didn’t know when I went to take a look. One would naturally think an icon of such historical importance would be on city-owned property to be made more available for public consumption, but, alas.

The day ended with a double flat, and swarming gnats, but as I was on my way to find an appropriate site to setup camp it wasn’t too bothersome when I looked to my right after repairing the punctured tube to see a nicely tucked away spot down a slope just off the highway. It was on the grounds of a funeral home, but I’m not one to quibble over details like that when the evening is getting on and the day had been as long as it was. In actuality I couldn’t have asked for a more convenient spot to catch a flat.

23 (or 6b)

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It’s been four days since last I wrote. Will I remember anything important? Did anything noteworthy happen? I merely cycled for a day, and then relaxed for several after.

Friday I wasn’t at first expecting to make it to Ward’s place on Sullivan’s Island. It would be my second seventy mile day in a row, and my legs were the most tender of things that morning. But then the thought occurred to me that, well, I won’t be setting up my tent since I’ll be staying at Ward’s, so I can take my time, and I have a light if it’s necessary that I cycle in the dark. Why should’t I manage the full distance into town given the circumstances? The ride, however, was excellent, even with my belated start, and better than I had any reasonable expectation for it to be, most especially taking into consideration the previous four days. Headwinds were minimal to nonexistent most places along the route, much of which was through the Francis Marion National Forest—a subtropical coniferous forest where nearly all the trees of which, I just recently learned, are only twenty-seven years old as a result of the destruction that Hurricane Hugo in 1989 brought. I found it to be a pretty place, what little I saw of it, and a pleasant, quiet ride. There was very little birdsong in most parts, sadly, and much of the undergrowth had obviously seen controlled burning fairly recently.

I arrived about six pm, and Ward took me out to dinner. A generous gesture for which I am humbly thankful—as well as for the room at his sparkling home.

The next day was spent relaxing, blogging, organizing, photo editing, and watching the thunderstorm from the comfort of his screened-in porch.

The day following that I spent stomping around in the rain, wandering from creperie, to coffee, to lunch, to the Karpeles Manuscript Museum where I met Michael Keane (more on him later), to coffee at Black Tap, to the NotSo Hostel to visit with the lovely and entertaining Fallon, to dinner at Leon’s, then finally back to the hostel to visit with Fallon some more and procure myself a ride back to Ward’s. It was a lovely day despite the nearly entirely uninterrupted downpour of rain, and the several large reservoirs of water that formed along certain curbs on certain streets in order that rude drivers in their speeding cars might splash unsuspecting pedestrians. I think if Ward had not given me an umbrella to use the day may have become rather unbearable in a hurry. Great, and generous thinking on his part.

So. This Michael Keane guy. What’s up with him? Why was he at the museum? How is it that I came to exchange names and stories with him? Well, if one happens to be traveling and stops off to look at some old things in a big, eye-catching building, then leaves, and upon leaving notices a large hiking pack outside the entrance, and said person is on his own kind of adventure, he is likely to stop and talk with the owner of the large hiking pack, and this is exactly what happened. He was a rather eccentric character, this other traveler, and it’s hard to say whether this is a result of his long, solo travels by foot, or if those travels are a result of his own, inherent eccentricities. Probably, like so many things, both. His mangy, white beard was stuck out at all angles as though he had recently been electrocuted, as was his shoulder-length hair, which was rather thin and wispy, sort of like a dream, or an old memory. He did not sport a mustache, however. His pupils were contracted, rather tiny specks—I’m not sure at all why, as it was overcast and raining outside—and his metal rimmed spectacles were slid quite far down his nose. He’s walked the Camino de Santiago a few times, and currently is looking to create an American Camino, with, potentially, the help of the Knights of Columbus, which is why he’s out here now. He’s quite obviously a devout Christian, and recognizes that pilgrimage is something that many do at least once in their life in Europe, but there is no proper pilgrimage trail here, in the States. Of course, this is the “New World,” and not a saint has stepped foot on the soil here, nor is one buried, at least to my knowledge, so where to is a pilgrim to pilgrimage? He’s through-hiked the Appalachian Trail as well, but doesn’t recommend it. Currently, being in Charleston, he is on his way to Canada having started in Saint Augustine, Florida. And, lastly, Mr. Keane has written a book titled Walking to Hell and Back, which is, from what I gathered part story and part informational guide on walking the Camino. I may purchase it, as walking the Camino is something I’d like to do some day.

 

Decided to hang around until Monday to wash clothes and enjoy the single day of exceptional weather. Cycled the couple miles to Fort Moultrie—an historical fort dating from the Revolution where the British first attacked at South Carolina. The initial version of the fort incorporated palmetto logs and sand into its structure, and, with the victory, inspired the state’s flag and nickname.

Rode up and down the beach, took loads of pictures and, generally speaking, simply enjoyed the fine weather. It was nice to just relax and not give a fuck that the wind was blowing at 30 knots, or whatever, and I could just stand or sit in it as I liked, and let it course over my skin and through my hair and enjoy it. Thank the Lord.

Cycling today was easy. Shockingly so. No wind. I made crazy-good time despite leaving late (late is really starting to become the norm now), and even made it to the A.C.E. Basin before their offices closed. This has enabled me to adjust my plans some, as I had plenty of time to explore (though not nearly enough to do the Basin justice—that would require a day, at minimum) and even put a few more miles in afterward in my search for a spot to make camp. Now I’m in a field under a pine tree just off highway 17, my favorite highway (though, not nearly as bad as 701). I’m too happy to have adjusted my plans as Thursday is looking thunderstorms, and the less of that to ride in the better.

22 (or 5b)

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Breakfasting at the very pricey Quality Inn at Georgetown. I’m making sure to get my money’s worth, except I’m not because there is no way I could eat enough of this rubbish they call food to possibly put a dent in the extortionist rates I was charged yesterday evening. The only reason I stayed here to begin with was because it was the only decent lodging in town, and I was too exhausted after putting in the bunch of miles I did, and it was getting on near dark, and I really wanted a shower, and I figured I won’t be in another inn, motel, or hotel for a long time, and so it was justifiable. Unfortunately I expected the rates to be about half what they were.

Getting butter on my copy of Tropic of Cancer. I don’t know why I have it with me; can’t read and eat breakfast anyway, especially if the book won’t lie open. On television a man is proposing to his girlfriend—the first ever deaf person to receive cochlear implants. What a thing to hear so suddenly. How overwhelmed she must have been. Though you could see it coming from a mile away, the way he kept asking if she could hear okay, and if she was listening to him. It was like watching a pitcher coming set before delivering the pitch. My legs are still sore. I want to go back to bed.

 

Cycling through a neighborhood here I’m struck by the prehistoric beauty of those large trees, live oaks I’ve learned they’re called, or, Quercus virginiana, which line the streets of this town, and are so indicative of The South. How I love them so. Their branches sprawl out wide like a fishing net thrown from the prow of a small boat on a river in a country exotic and far, far away; and that’s a little bit how I feel when I cross that invisible, wavering line that separates The North from The South, even though that line doesn’t really exist and there’s really just a gradual shift which most people are unaware of unless they’re walking or traveling by bicycle, but I draw that line anyhow because even though I know it’s not real I love the drama and the excitement that unfolds because of it. And watching the palm trees blow in the wind when I rode into town. It’s almost like I’m on a vacation… I’ve become nostalgic: about scenes in Florida where I would go on business trips when I used to sell sunglasses at a small shop in Annapolis; about the Dominican Republic whose palm trees were massive—long, tall, solid things so much larger than those seen here; and, about the last time I was in Charleston only nearly three months ago.

Then there are the buildings: an old church in particular, Prince George’s Parish Winyah, erected 1745-50, encircled by its ancient, brick wall, cemetery out back, bell tower with clock and cross standing staunchly over the neighborhood in the bright sun; the antebellum houses, some with their wrap-around porches, other, larger ones with their Romanesque columns, are icons of the south, immortalized in novel and poem alike. When seen together with those gnarled trees in yards and along the streets, their limbs askew and asunder, some with Spanish moss draping from their wild branches, like scarves on a coatrack, so intermingled, so indeterminate in their parts, and the moss, lichens and other vegetation growing up and around and over these structures so that they always appear to be in some state of decay, like at any moment they might collapse into themselves to be reclaimed by the green verdure of the earth, they all appear to be one and the same entity, inseparable, like that colossal network of mycelium in the Pacific Northwest that stretches itself out for over two thousand acres. Altogether, this neighborhood as a whole, so halcyon, so serenely calm looks as though it has been here since the dawn of civilization. It is as old as the Aztecs and the Mayans, no younger than the Egyptians.

21 (or 4b)

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Camped behind a church again. Knocked on all the doors when I arrived, about 6:30—no answer. Actually, the first thing I did was gratefully refill my water bottles at the drinking fountain on the property, and sent up a little prayer on a wee birdie for that. Somehow or another, and for reasons I will perhaps never fathom, I am always provided for, whatever the  circumstances.

I setup my tent and began to organize my things after poking around looking for a reasonably concealed spot from the road. I hear a car pull up. A man gets out, maybe my age, maybe slightly older. Turns out he’s the pastor. Doesn’t really seem to know what to make of me and my gear—the tent being setup as it was, and my bicycle and trailer leaning against the church—but we chat for a bit. I explain what I’m doing, why I’m there and the like. He seemed okay with it and said things should be fine unless I hear from him later. He then invited me to take part in the prayer meeting that he was there to preside over.

After he went inside I continued the organization of my living space, and rather dawdled over it, to be honest, while considering his invitation. On the one hand I was curious to meet the people of the community, but on the other I hadn’t participated in anything church related in some years, and was rather nervous about that being as it was a group of people gathering at a rural, baptist church. How might they react to my interpretations, or the fact that I haven’t been to a church function in years, or that I find Taoist and Zen “philosophy” more relatable currently, or that most religions seem to me to be at heart essentially the same, that we are all one people, one planet, one universe together? Perhaps a more secular gathering would have been more to my liking—something not involving scripture reading and interpretation, but, instead, simply, “Hello. How are you? Isn’t life marvelous? I think it is. It is just so marvelous that one can even pedal a heavily loaded bicycle around, and around, and around for no particular reason at all but just to do it. It is completely meaningless, and yet, so meaningful that a person has no words to put that meaning in! It is just like a thunderclap.” Anyway, by the time I was nearing a decision, and had finally organized all my things the meeting had already been going on for twenty or thirty minutes, and so I really thought it best not to intrude. Here now I sit in my humble tent, writing down what has just transpired over these last sixty minutes or so.

 

Today was another day of headwinds. Despite the relatively flat ground I was only able to accomplish forty-five miles.

I’ve been thinking much these three days (there’s little else to do besides that and curse the wind) and I’ve come to the conclusion that perhaps my temperament is not suited to this activity, this way of cycling, this way of traveling. Yes, I want speed, but I also am considering that I am much to ADD, to not be at all PC. Two hours and I’m done. I want to do something else. I want to go to sleep. I want to throw a frisbee. I want to take a leisurely walk down to the park. I want to sit at the end of a pier, my legs dangling over, toes just barely brushing the surface of the water, and watch the gulls glide overhead, and the ducks paddle about, quacking at each other in their endearing way, and be happy when the wind comes and throws my hair, and watch the sun set beyond the trees in such satisfaction that I could die at that moment with the knowledge that I have seen all that this world has to offer and if there is something more compelling, something else that existence has hidden up its proverbial sleeve that I can’t for the life of me imagine would that could posbily be. But there remains three, four, five more hours to go….

I love the talking to people, the shortest of conversations, sometimes, yet the most joyful moments to break up the routine of revolution after revolution: the two black girls at the Subway in Bladenboro with there effusive excitement that was like little children with their sparklers spinning round and round in the dark, asking me questions and the amazement at my replies, and ogling my bike with its bags and trailer; the waitress at Ivy’s Cafe, in Whiteville (really!?); the two boys I just talked to from the previously mentioned prayer meeting, packing their lips with tobacco, who told me an interesting story, two vignettes of the history of this area of The South, how blacks sixty or seventy years ago here, just outside Tabor City, and in Clarendon where I had passed through just two or three hours ago, if they were to cross the tracks that ran north and south just twenty yards from here after dark would be shot dead by white men with shotguns just sitting in chairs watching and waiting; how Tabor City once had the nickname “Razor City,” due to all the knife fights and brawls that would occur outside many a bar; and how could I forget Larry from Tar Heel who, when I stopped to chat with him while he was picking up litter on his property, told me how there once was a race that would come along this very road—thousands of cyclists, and sometimes you’d see a hundred at a time swarm past, but that that hasn’t occurred in a good long while—and he warned me about the drivers in the area, about how reckless they are, and sometimes when he would be out mowing his lawn on his tractor these crazy, mad drivers would go speeding past so closely that “it felt like the wind just brushing up against ya.” Amazing! How can a man put such a simple sentiment in such a poetic way, I wonder? How?

All these people, sometimes I think they are as sustaining to me as the dinner I cook in the evening and the breakfast I make in the morning, that’s not to mention all the snacks in between. Perhaps they are.

20 (or 3b)

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I forget everything. And I can’t get this tent setup properly to save my life. I am in a large field adjacent to a middle school, and the sun is setting. Things might almost be pleasant if I knew what I was doing with this guyline and the wind wasn’t whipping the tent fabric all over the place. I am a dingus and a numbskull.

Last night I noticed that my sleeping pad had developed a leak. I don’t know when or how that happened because it was working fine the last time I used it. I’m still insulated from the ground, though. I’m just not padded at all. I’m so exhausted by the end of a day that it makes no difference, though I do find myself waking up after some hours attempting to get more comfortable. The end result is a simultaneously fitful yet restful night of sleep. My life is full of contradictions it seems.

I left one of my bidons (basically a cyclist’s water bottle) in the church bathroom this morning when I decided to add an addendum to a thank-you note I left for the pastor or whomever. The space where the missing bidon should have been wasn’t discovered until thirty or more minutes into today’s ride when I thought I might like to stop and take a photo of three statues in a cemetery surrounded by little but a flat plane of grass. The statues were white, of course, and looked slightly out of place, lost, like they had just wandered onto this green field and then made the decision to stop for a while. There was, in addition to this confusion of purpose, of being lost, a monumentality to them; for many yards around them nothing stood high than a blade of grass but for a single bouquet of flowers placed in front of the trio as if placed there in homage—a sign of love and respect.

Besides leaving things (I am now paranoid that I’m going to leave my camera, phone, or wallet somewhere) the theme of the last two days has been headwinds—every cyclists bane. Generally constant, wavering only slightly, consistent in its push, or, those times when it quiets and then quickly roars to life again the feeling is one of being lassoed and yanked backwards. Besides being a physical drain, and an impediment of momentum and speed, it is a psychological drain. Perhaps this is because I set daily goals. I don’t think so, though, but there is too much uncertainty to be able to say for sure since I haven’t had a day without wanting to reach a specified place, or achieve a certain vague number of miles. I want to get to Charleston as quickly as possible. That has been my main motivation thus far. Once I arrive there this motivation will dissolve. I don’t see myself setting more similar goals, though one can never say for certain—it may be necessary farther west.

 

I met Omar while cycling around Fayettville looking for his shop, Walker’s Cafe. It’s a hookah bar, but they also serve turkish coffee—something I’d never had. It was a Wednesday, mid-day. The place was barren of customers. Tables at low bench seats against the wall, arranged with one hookah each; low chairs opposite the benches. Dim lighting that might feel comfortable coming in from a sweltering summer afternoon, but seemed too dark—despondent almost—when entered from the superb weather that I was then enjoying. The bar was in the back. There was a selection of bottled beers on display at one end. The other end was open, and where it bent into an L there sat an espresso machine. Along the wall behind the bar was a selection of ibriks and several hot plates. Shisha and more hookahs on shelves. I told Omar, who greeted me as I entered the cafe, that I had read in an article in the Fayettville Observer that he served excellent turkish coffee, and that I had never had it before but had been curious about it for some time, and was excited to find a place that served it.

Talking further I explained that I was currently on a cycling trek around the country, and that I was only passing through Fayettville. At this he asked if he might join me at a table on the sidewalk out front, as it was a fine, sunny day, to find out more about myself and this trip of mine. I couldn’t very well say no (nor did I want to), and so it commenced. We talked about our lives, and how we came to be where we were.

He is originally from Turkey—Istanbul, precisely, but he has a smaller home elsewhere in the country with his wife. He used to captain sailboats, but is now obviously running the hookah bar. He was curious about my journey, and had the usual questions about why I was doing it and what all I carried with me, how I navigated, etc. Explained to me that he has plans to sail around the world one day. He estimates that in the next three to five years he will be able to start, and that the whole odyssey will take about five or six years to accomplish because he plans to stop and stay for a while in many places in order to more deeply experience its culture, environment, etc. I mentioned that I desired to do the same thing, only limiting my stay in particular areas to a couple or three days since I wasn’t trying to spend years traveling around the country.

I thought the coffee to be superb. In fact, it probably ranks somewhere around my top five favorite coffees ever. Whether that is due to the weather, the setting, the company—the context for the coffee—or that it was my first ever Turkish coffee, I can not say. I can only say that I savored every sip, and it will always be fondly remembered as one of my favorite coffee experiences.

He told me if I ever have a turkish coffee again to make sure the preparer allows the small bubbles that are proof of a proper brewing to form on the surface. If they are not there I should not accept it. Turkish coffee is typically served with a turkish delight—a small, chewy candy cube, somewhat similar to nougat, but less sticky and airier, that is dusted with coconut powder. If the coffee is found to be too bitter one can nibble a bit on the turkish delight to offset the bitterness some. My coffee came “medium sweet,” so there was some sugar added in the brewing process.

Having finished the coffee I thought it best to leave as I had a destination to make—that wonderful field in the town of Tar Heel. His was wonderful company to have for that half hour. If I’m ever in Fayettville again, unlikely as that may be, I will definitely return to Walker’s Cafe for the coffee, hopefully for the company, but also to smoke some hookah.

19 (or 3b)

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One pair of shoes lost, one Nalgene bottle busted, one sense of adventure slightly dented and dismantled: the essential spirit and substance of my ride today. These are my thoughts as the chill air creeps into a poorly erected tent on a sloping ground. And silence. Silence of the mind. Nothing-to-do-ness. The sounds of automobiles intermittent, not regular; a dog barking somewhere, lost in space; crickets, etc.; the mad chatter of frogs. These are the sounds of rural North Carolina. Altogether peaceful and lulling. And yet, I’m wary. I’m not completely comfortable. Perhaps because this is my first night alone in a tent, all over again. Perhaps because I have stated reasons for wanting to do this but then have little interest in doing what I say I want to do, or accomplish. Does that make sense? I should stop this nonsense. The thing will come of itself at the end of the journey, not before. And if it doesn’t? Well, that question must wait. It can only be answered then, at the appointed time, as with all things. Day by day, hour by hour, pedal stroke by pedal stroke.

I chatted briefly with a kid at a gas station, in the community of Seminole. I was standing outside by my rig when he walked over to me and asked about my trip, about which I explained, pointing out that I carry certain things in my trailer, and other certain things in my panniers, which he referred to as “saddle bags.” He then went on to explain that he rides horses, and sometimes he and a buddy would pack their saddle bags and go off on short camping expeditions with provisions of food; and beer, whiskey or both. “Nothing like Brokeback Mountain, though,” he says as he stands there, a cigarette dangling from his fingers by his side, cowboy boots on his feet. He gave me a handshake and wished me well on my trip before driving off with what was presumably his brother and mother. I hopped back on my bike and continued on to find a place to camp for the night. The conversation, handshake, and well wishes were nice gestures, I thought.

In the past I used to poo-poo the encouragement of others (with regard to me), but I always felt my life to be easy, and so the encouragement unnecessary. This life now, so far, isn’t so easy.

18 (or 2b)

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Leaving.

A bagel and an espresso, and them I’m off. ‘Tis a strange sensation when I think about it; it’s been so long since the last time I began this routine, or so it seems. The issue here, of course is the thinking about it. Although, when I think, “It’s just a bike ride,” there settles over me a great calm. And a clarity of mind and purpose. This is just a bike ride. And a beautiful day for it at that. Taut, blue sky overhead speckled with bits of wispy cloud. Crisp, cool, dry weather with a bit more wind than is preferable. Yet here I am in this state of sublime calm and sustained nervousness. Do I contradict myself? I could sit in this cafe forever.

There are things in life which sometimes become missed. But there is always something else to take its place. I go now.