Tag Archives: Travel Journal

Journal entries from my travels, whether they be by bicycle, train, plane, or automobile.

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At the Savannah Amtrak station, which is significantly larger than Columbia’s. I lie down on a bench, put my stuff sack of clothes behind my head and try to nod off for a bit. Bruce Springsteen’s “Born In The U.S.A” is playing ever so softly over the speakers, just intrusively enough to make sleeping not so easy. There is a television set in a far corner airing CNN.

The station starts filling up again—people for a train south that leaves before mine. This lasts perhaps a half-hour and then the station is empty again but for me, one other guy, and the station employees. It is quiet. I get a Snickers from a vending machine and nap again.

The train ride to Charleston is only a couple hours. The scenery is absolutely marvelous. Everywhere is marshy and swampy wetlands. Wide open vistas punctuated by large clumps of reeds and grass; glass-smooth, placid waters meandering between; all of this bounded by trees, and sometimes the trees take the place of those clumps of grasses, and what I really want to do instead of sit in the train is canoe over those waters, amongst the rushes and reeds and trees with a set of binoculars, just scoot around happy as a clam, nothing important to do, nowhere to go, but just maintain an equilibrium, feel at one with the world, push my way lazily along, the oar dipping into the water on one side and then the other, and then just _______________ But I’m on a train, with a definite destination, and despite that I’m excited to arrive.

Charleston immediately strikes me as a shit hole. But then I realize of course that I’m not in Charleston, but North Charleston, about ten miles from the city. At least there is a bike lane littered with glass, sand, rocks and rubbish. It takes some time, what with my battered bike and all, but eventually I arrive in town. I stop at The Daily, the most quality cafe in Charleston in my opinion, and a go-to spot for coffee and breakfast unless one is planning on milking the wi-fi, in which case that person will be sorely disappointed because there is none. But the coffee is good, and the food is excellent. The food in Charleston outshines the coffee by a large margin. And if one needs any reason to go to Charleston it should be for the food. The culinary scene has been exploding for some time, and is still continuing on that trajectory.

The Daily is located on King Street just on the edge of where one would want to be downtown. It is optimally located in the same lot as Butcher & Bee, which makes sense since it is basically an offshoot of that most marvelous of sandwich shops and brunch places. Butcher & Bee probably tops my list of favorite places to eat in Charleston: spacious and welcoming ambiance, lots of light, short, simple menu, incredible food, great bread, fair prices, courteous service. There are shelves with various books on cuisine, cooking and pretty much anything food related. The tables are mainly communal in style, and there are tables and chairs for seating outside.

While in The Daily, having my first decent espresso in a while, I ran into an old acquaintance from Annapolis. This was the only time I would see her while I was down there but, how wonderful that the world so large can sometimes be made to seem so small. We shared brief life stories, she promised to recommend some places for eating, mentioning one while I was there—Leon’s, which I did go to—and then I never heard from her again, despite sending an inquiring text. Que sera sera.

I was needing to find the NotSo Hostel (a place I heartily recommend to stay at while visiting) and so bid Mel an adieu. The hostel is several blocks down Spring St. and I was to discover didn’t open for bookings until five. This meant that I was needing to kill some time, something which had become standard practice for me over the past couple of days. Of course, when bicycle touring one doesn’t often find it difficult waiting for things because, really, there is nowhere to be nor anywhere to go; time is of the littlest essence. The hourglass has been smashed, and the sand thrown into the wind. What meaning has it then?

I spent some of this time “waiting” in the Karpeles Manuscript Museum, which is on the same street as the NotSo Hostel, though located closer to King St., so I had already cycled passed it. The museums, there are in fact twelve, are scattered all over the country in historic buildings. The one in Charleston is particularly interesting and immediately eye-catching in that it was originally a Methodist church built in 1856 in the Greek Revival style inspired by the Temple of Jupiter, which no longer stands, in Rome. Once I caught a glance of the six columns supporting the front entablature and pediment I couldn’t tear my eyes away, and knew that I would have to come back and investigate. The library of documents and manuscripts that makes up the content of the museums is the world’s largest private collection. The current exhibit at Charleston’s location was focused on the War of 1812. In fact, there was even one of only two extant copies of the original manuscript of the Star-Spangled Banner on display.

There were only two other people in the museum when I entered, not counting the sole employee. Ed, the employee, was warm and welcoming, and interested in who we all were. Clearly he doesn’t get many visitors which leads to a natural curiosity about who we are, where we’re from, why we’re there, etc. Coincidentally, the couple that was in the museum with me were from Washington D.C. After they left Ed and I had a bit of an extended chat. The usuals were mentioned. He was, as so many people of his type are, interested in my trip. Thought it was the grandest, most important thing, etc. When he was younger he had traveled around North America three times, big looping trips of a combination of hitchhiking and walking as far north as Alaska. Says he lived in Europe and Africa for many years as well. We talked about society and knowledge, by knowledge I mean self-knowledge, the type one gets from traveling, and existing outside one’s “comfort zone.” At one point we were talking about the great mass of people who’ve never exposed themselves to this type of thing, who live there lives in their own private, gated world where nothing goes amiss and everything is just so, and he articulated something which I believe I had recognized but never consciously thought: talking about these people, he said they were, “people who don’t even know what they don’t know,” meaning that these are people, mostly because of their lack of life experience, who are unable to fathom anything beyond the simple world that they’ve put themselves in, or have let themselves be put in. It’s not just a matter of simply not knowing some thing(s), but goes deeper still. It is being completely and utterly unaware that there is some other thing to know (or not know). In short, it’s ignorance. By traveling, by exposing oneself to that which is beyond one’s own scope of knowledge, or insight one begins a transformation. It is a little perhaps like growing wings, and then those wings growing ever more strong, so that as one gains experience he is able to look down from ever loftier and loftier heights, and, thus, see more, be aware of more, know more.

Too, when I re-read this phrase of Ed’s an Alan Watts quote springs to mind: “There was a young man who said, although it seems that I know that I know, what I would like to see is the I that knows me when I know that I know that I know.” This is a comment on the conscious, and one’s attempt to get at the “self” which can never be done. While these two statements refer to two different groups of people—those who are hopelessly ignorant, and those who, despite its impossibility, are determined to get to the bottom of themselves—there seems to me enough overlap to justify their comparison (not that I should need to).

Ed’s a great man, and it was a shame we didn’t get to spend any more time together because we got along well, and I could see that he would make an excellent friend, but perhaps when I’m back down there in March he will be at his station, and I will walk in, and we will talk again.

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My train was not to depart from Columbia’s Amtrak station until 2 a.m. This unfortunately is the only available departure time for trains from Columbia to Savannah. In Savannah I had a four hour layover before departing for Charleston at 8 a.m. I was to arrive in Charleston around ten.

I had to be out of the motel by 11 a.m. There was time to kill, and a lot of it. This was probably not the most thrilling day of my life. Mainly it consisted of walking, sitting, sitting, walking, pushing my bike… Much time was spent at cafes. A ramen shop for dinner late. Leaving the ramen shop with still more time to kill I thought I might make a visit to The Whig, North America’s Greatest Dive Bar (this is according to their website). The reviews for it are pretty outstanding, actually, so it seemed a … the necessary place to grab a drink while still in town.

Pushing my bike up Gervais St. from out of nowhere, like a specter, swoops down Terrence, a rather sparkling, spectacularly ebullient character. He was just like the Christmas tree on the state house lawn: sparkling with myriad lights, his words fizzing like champagne, crackling like pop rocks. He was curious about my bike and trailer. It’s always a pleasure answering questions about my trip to those curious. So much better than the mute-mouthed stares I receive from the majority. Anyway, after answering Terrence about what I was about he excitedly went on to regale me with his ideas for cycling up and down the east coast—an item he wished to check off his bucket list. He thought this might take him a couple years, to which I told him likely not unless he was planning on making a lifestyle out of it. He seemed to think cycling across the country would take the same, so I really don’t think he had a strong grasp of time and distance in general. At the end of our little chat he wished me luck, and told me to stay safe and blessed. Often when on the road it takes very little to lift one’s attitude. Most often a kind phrase such as in this case is all that’s needed. I’ll never see him again, most likely, but that little phrase of his will always be remembered.

The Whig was only another couple of blocks up the street, and shortly after my interaction with Terrence I was locking my bike and trailer up to a railing just outside. The bar itself is located in the basement of a building. Whether it was a hotel or an office building I couldn’t say; I hardly cared, really. All I remember now was that it was a rather large concrete edifice on a street corner.

Walking inside I was greeted by a smallish, dimly lit, not-quite-yet-crowded-but-on-its-way space. It effused an aura similar to that of the basement of The Brewer’s Art and The Ottobar combined. A series of booths lined one wall nearby, and there were some tables scattered about the middle of the floor. The bar was a short way off, opposite the entrance. Way off in one corner, through a doorway, there was what looked like someone’s living room. Quite clearly it was not but, sitting at the bar as I then was, peering through the crowd, through the doorway, the room being significantly brighter than the rest of the venue and painted a putrid shade of blue-green, I felt as though I was looking into someone’s living room, but a room that was a separate reality, that was occupied by people doing things in a realm completely isolated from the one I was in. I had the sense that I was watching a movie, or had gained voyeuristic entrance into someone else’s private world. That doorway was a portal. But only that doorway, only that room, and as soon as I looked away I was brought back to the here and now. I was seated at a bar staring at an array of small animal skulls mounted to the wall over a display of bottles of various liquors and liqueurs, all surrounding a sabertooth tiger skull, the centerpiece there. Someone had attached tiny antlers to these skulls which looked like they may have come from a possum or raccoon. But perhaps they were skulls from the rare, and, some might say, mythical Jackalope. Next to a spiral staircase which appeared to go nowhere, disappearing as it was into the ceiling, was a stuffed bobcat carrying a ferret in its jaws, and a pigeon in a black cage. The whole space was suffused by an orange-red light, like a thousand lava lamps going at once. It was a bit like being in a secularist’s most pleasurable version of hell. The only pain wrought by the alcohol and that special person you mistakenly went home with on a night. Perhaps all that was missing were women dressed up as demons prodding at people with candy pitchforks. That I imagine is what the old businessman, slumping over a drink at the bar, his bald pate reflecting the orange light like it was a light bulb itself, was dreaming of. Sitting there, sipping my beer, watching him, the only question that came to my mind was, “How has he not yet fallen off his stool,” and, “will he?”

At the bar I struck up conversation with a guy—I don’t ever bother getting names usually, or I don’t write them down and consequently forget them. As is normal we talked about my trip. Guy casually told me how he had ridden his motorcycle from here, up through Maine, to Alaska and back. It took him two months to cover the 14,000 miles. Said he has a friend who did an equally wild thing by walking from San Francisco to Jacksonville. It seems strange to me that one never hears about these people until he’s off doing the same sort of thing himself. I mean, the only exposure I had to this world was via internet forums and blogs. I don’t actually know anyone, besides my friend Doug, who’s traveled in this way, and Doug’s trips were more feats of endurance than travel.

At any rate, I was off to the Amtrak station after my few beers and tacos. It’s just a small, rectangular building down a dark street. Easy enough to find despite the poor lighting, I guess. I was approached by another old guy. This one originally from the Catskills, but had been living outside of Columbia for the last twenty years. He was on his way to Florida to visit his father for his 92nd birthday this January the 7th. Fantastic. Says he’s still sharp, at least for a 92 year old, even if he isn’t very mobile anymore. Dude-man must have smoked half a pack of cigarettes while we were standing outside shooting the shit. He’s 68 and said he’d been smoking since college. Sounded like it too. I’m surprised he has any throat left. I really loved the glasses he was wearing. These enormous rectangular, metal-framed pieces. Looked like they must have come out of the 60’s or 70’s. Perhaps that was even when he acquired them. We talked for a while, on and off, about nothing in particular. Just chewed the fat like. Normally I hate pointless conversation, small talk, but he had quite an enjoyable presence to him, for the most part. Eventually though, there was no more nothing to talk about, so I went to the bathroom and he started up with a women in the seat next to him.

At last the train arrived, and once I transported my bike and trailer to the far end with the rest of the luggage and got my self settled into my seat the woman next to me, who I may or may not have woken up, decided she just had to talk, so I spent the next twenty minutes conversing with her about my trip and God knows what else. She was impressed by the trip, but then everybody is. To me it’s just riding a bike while towing a bunch of crap behind me, getting frustrated and cursing every so often. There’s nothing particularly momentous or monumental about it. Eventually she shut up and let me nod off for the rest of the ride to Savannah. Amen.

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My first day in Columbia was also my first time setting foot inside a Waffle House. I was back there the following evening too; after the debacle of the day I really was not in the mood to hide in the bathroom with my camp stove cooking lentils.

I thought it a very smart move building a Waffle House in the parking lot of a motel, or a motel in the parking lot of a Waffle House, though likely the former rather than the latter, because, obviously…

Creeping slowly back to the motel with my bicycle I noticed some poor, grease streaked sucker in a black leather jacket lying next to his moped in the parking lot, a mis-arranged pile of tools at his side. Clearly something was amiss. Walking back across the parking lot to the Waffle House after my shower, the moped was parked elsewhere, presumably repaired, the guy in the leather jacket nowhere to be seen.

Sitting down at the bar I noticed the same couple that was there the previous night was still there. In the same booth. I wondered whether they had left, or if they lived there full time, paying rent for the booth, taking showers at the motel. When one has to go to work the other stays. When the other person has to go to work that person stays. If they both have to work God help Waffle House if someone is in their booth when they return. Not a bad deal, really, though the benches don’t give you much room to stretch out. I noticed too it was right next to the coffee maker—sneakily convenient.

The woman looked like an older Peggy Bundy, though with white hair instead of red, her pasty face like a heavily kneaded ball of dough sprinkled with flour, wearing lipstick of a vivid scarlet, and a sequined, sheer, white moo-moo over black stretch pants and black crocs (versatile footwear if there ever was any). Her husband looked a lot like this fellow from a mail and date service center next to the coffee roastery I used to work at in Annapolis. The same bristly, white mustache and frown on his face, like the whole world outside was repulsive and unworthy of his notice; like the coffee was bad (it certainly was not); like life was bad, and pointless in general; like there was really no reason at all to even get out of bed; like life was so full of drudgery and unhappiness that he’d just as soon be dead because when everything is registered in the same dull shade of grey every day what difference does it make. That’s Pat. This guy was Pat. He was also wearing a five panel camo hat with a slightly cheeky sideways cock to it, either out of laziness, apathy, or a sense of humor that I didn’t think that he had. Both he and his wife looked like characters out of a John Waters film. Desperate Living specifically comes to mind.

A man, the man, the one who was tinkering with his moped earlier in the parking lot came in and sat two stools down from me. He and an employee across the bar began talking about food costs. How many pieces of bacon go on a sandwich, how much cheese, ham, pecans, sauce, whatever it is. Typical corporate, managerial worries. I’m not sure why these two are conversing about it though. I suppose if that’s something being strictly tracked in coordination with shifts worked by specific individuals, one could easily be in trouble, if not fired, for being too liberal with an ingredient—one way of keeping prices so low, in addition to using very low quality ingredients. After exhausting this topic (this took very little time) they switched to debating time of employment, with one bragging of having been with Waffle House for twelve years, while the guy next to me, whose moped still won’t start I noticed, states, with some pride I might add, that he’s been with Waffle House, though not this particular Waffle House, for seventeen years. His voice is scratchy and dry, like he’s been sucking on the end the exhaust pipe of that moped of his for too long. I’m not sure what to think of that: his time at Waffle House. He clearly does not make enough even to purchase a bike that runs, and looks like the only shower he gets is when he’s outside in the pouring rain trying to get it to start. But it feeds him, and obviously, like so many other people, he doesn’t know any better about food and nutrition, and he is presumably able to pay for a place to flop, has no ambitions beyond what’s in front of him, and seems to genuinely like the people he works with. Who am I to judge? I bet if he laid off the cigarettes for a year he could afford a new moped though.

I was just finishing up my meal when Peg waltzes over to the jukebox to rock the house for us all. Country music it is! I finished up at a fortuitous moment.

Now, I mentioned in my previous post that I was to formulate a plan with which I would proceed with the rest of my trip. It goes as such. Because I was such a short distance from Charleston, and because the cost of a train ticket from Columbia to Washington D.C. cost nearly the same as one from Columbia to Savannah (a required layover), to Charleston, and then to Washington, I decided I would pay a visit to Charleston instead of heading directly home where I would rest up and take care of the business of replacing certain parts that need and/or want replacing on my bicycle. Needless to say I am now in Maryland, where I am from, and have been for some time (a month, to be specific). I plan on taking a train back to Columbia in March, picking up where I left off. There is still, perhaps, some for me to write about: my time, and impressions of Charleston for one, the train trip, etc. Once I get through all that it may be some time before another blog post appears (not that they show up with much regularity, even with me being “home” and working minimal hours anyway).

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Disaster.

Sort of.

Disaster,

and then lightness.

The previous night I found a huge welt on my ass. Some skin must have been getting pinched between my seat and my leg the other day all day. I was used to saddle sores by that point and hadn’t give the discomfort much thought. It wasn’t until checking into my motel room and going to take a shower that I discovered it, painful to the touch. The touch! How I was supposed to sit on my bike the next day…

Mounting frustrations.

I left anyway, after a decent breakfast at the motel. They even had a waffle maker, and toast, and cereal, and scrambled eggs, and bacon, and sausage gravy; a whole variety of things. Juice. And bad coffee, to be sure. So I left, sitting side-saddle, my right butt cheek hanging off the side. How long was I going to be able to pedal like this? My thought was to struggle into Charleston and formulate some ideas from there. It would be two fifty mile days. I supposed I could manage.

I got my first flat of the trip in one of the ugliest suburban development areas I’d ever seen, in Cayce, a small city bordering Columbia to the west, on the opposite side of the Congaree River. Multi-colored houses all exactly the same on a flat, sandy lot. It brought to mind that scene in Edward Scissorhands of everyone in the neighborhood backing their cars out of their driveways to leave for work. All the houses identical but for their colors. Lawns all neatly manicured. Paradise. A Tupper-ware paradise. The flat was fixed in a matter of minutes, and I was on my way.

Google Maps routed me onto Old State Road which delighted me once I laid eyes on it. It appeared to have not been used as a proper road in years, but mainly as a trail for the occasional cyclist or ATV. It was an old gravel and dirt road that ran through a forested wetland, spanish moss dangling majestically from the trees like garland. Pretty lichens and mosses, and other damp-loving plant life in abundance. It was very jungle-like, and I would not have been surprised in the slightest to observe monkeys swinging from tree to tree, their chirps and howls punctuating the silence of my rolling tires. It was all quite beautiful, if a wee bit soggy after all the rain that was had.

I had only cycled a half a mile along the road when I came to an impasse; a lake of water submerging the road stretched for about eighty yards ahead of me. I had no way of telling how deep it was, but it was quite obvious that if I were to cycle through my panniers and some of my trailer bag would be getting soaked, and too, I had no idea what the surface of the road looked like underneath; the first half mile that I had just cycled wasn’t in the best of shape, with depressions, ruts, and various obstacles abounding. To my right it was more of the same through the trees, but sans road. To my left there was a low ridge, or mound of earth, waist high with vegetation, but nothing impenetrable or impassable, that ran parallel to the road for the length of the lake in front of me. It seemed the only obvious, immediate solution the problem of getting around the road.

The temperature was in the 70’s, it was extremely humid, my jersey was already nearly soaked through with sweat, and now I was to discover that the vegetation that ran along the ridge was nearly all brambles (and a spot of poison ivy). And because it had been raining so much the earthen ridge these brambles were growing in was slippery mud. Despite all this I still thought that I could push through. My only other option was to turn back the way I had come and search for an alternate route, which was something I didn’t want to do as I thought it would be too time consuming.

After wading over and through these brambles, which weren’t so much bushes as they were long, thick, flexible ropes protruding from the earth, peppered with thorns, sort of arched over at varying degrees, and criss-crossing each other, catching on my clothing and skin, I eventually came to anther impasse. This one a channel about six feet across, of maybe a foot or two of water, connecting the submerged road on my right to a parallel channel of water to my left. There was no way across this gap; not with my bike, panniers, bar bag, and trailer with twenty or thirty pounds of gear in it. However, from where I was standing the ground on the side of the channel to the left of me appeared to be in navigable shape. There was plenty of plant life still, but the ground was flat at least, and there looked to be more space between plants so that maybe it would prove easier to maneuver myself, my bicycle, etc. through. The only issue then was negotiating the channel. I backtracked a bit, through the thorns all over again, to find a narrow enough spot where I thought I could make the leap while carrying my trailer, as it was the heaviest piece of equipment I had. I would of course have to remove all the various pieces of baggage from the bike in order to make the crossing.

Having managed this delightful task, I reassembled everything and began pushing once again, until for the third, and final time I came to another dead end, this being the not-so-surprising one of a wall of vegetation. I finally admitted defeat, but not without having spent at least an hour pushing my bicycle, and negotiating my trailer through an obstacle course of brambles and mud. Of course, everything that I had just gone through I had to go through again, only in reverse this time in order to get back on the road.

And so, once again on the road I turned around and began pedaling back the way I had come. It was then that disaster, yet also my salvation, struck. Pedaling through one of the cratered portions of road shallowly filled with water, that was also entirely comprised of fist-sized stones, my pannier hook slipped loose from the rack and slingshotted upwards catching in the spokes of the turning wheel. The bungee cord it was attached to then began to rapidly wrap itself tightly around the hub axle. The pannier, with my computer and electronics, immediately flipped upside-down and began dragging through the water. I think the words, “fuck” and “shit” slipped out of my mouth at this point. As I was slowing down and also nearing the end of the puddle I heard a loud “crack!” This happened to be the sound of a breaking spoke. Once clear of the water and having come to a halt I leapt off the bike to take a look at things. At first, for the life of me I could not figure out what had happened. It wasn’t until examining a bit more closely and noticing the bungee cord wrapped around the axle of the hub, and the pannier hook bent at a ninety-degree angle, latched onto a spoke that I understood exactly what had taken place.

After several minutes of struggle I managed to get everything unraveled. The pannier was unusable because the metal hook had bent, and I would need a vice and pliers to bend it back, so I had to stash that in my trailer along with everything else that was in there. My wheel I noticed was well out of true as well from the pressures the pannier had exerted on it, so much so that I had to let out a fair amount of cable in order to prevent the brake pads from rubbing on the rim. Not at all rideable for any length of time, particularly as I was carrying extra weight.

I was shocked. I was furious. But only for a moment before a pristine calm washed over me, and that sort of amusement that arises when after so much struggle one realizes that there is absolutely nothing to be helped, that there was no way to prevent what happened, and that there is nothing to do about it but continue going on in whatever capacity is possible. I had a good laugh all alone there covered in sweat, mud, blood and scratches, my feet soaked from the whole ordeal. I had been struggling with the choice of continuing on despite all the aches, pains, and mechanical issues, or simply stopping and going home because, really, what was to stop me, and what did I have to prove? The correct answer to that question is nothing, and nothing. This event resolved the issue for me entirely, in one fell swoop. The mental struggle was over, and it was an enormous relief. So I began to walk, and the rain began to fall.

Once I got back to some pavement I hopped gingerly onto my bike and gently cycled back to the motel I stayed at the previous night. I called my mom. The shower was bliss. I began to formulate a plan.

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Rain. Glorious rain is what I woke up to. Looking at the weather report I saw that it was to clear up sometime around noon. With check out time at 11, and my penchant for late starts, I figured the worst of it would pass while I was still at the motel. This conclusion come to, I quickly headed over to the front office to see about breakfast, because most of these joints serve a continental, which, while of middling quality, is at least calories, and also means that I don’t have to cook. Unfortunately for me they only offered the usual foul, pre-dosed bags of coffee, and a miserly selection of the most uninspiring, sorry, pre-packaged pastries I’ve ever seen. It seemed I would be cooking.

Outside it was still drizzling a bit when I left the motel. This lasted a good hour into the ride before a rent in the clouds allowed sunlight to pour through over the earth, deluging everything in air and lightness, and softly shimmering pixie dust; the road like a long, silver tongue that you could slide along forever, it was so pure and without imperfection. The whole world was dazzling—a beautiful woman with whom you might make love, in a negligee so sheer you could hardly tell at all that it was there without its constant glimmering; none but the finest details hidden, every contour visible. And as you keep looking, staring, this woman becomes a kaleidoscope that you are in, and everything is showered with glitter, and then the top is removed and brilliant light shone in, and all you can do is stop and stare and maybe take a picture but hate it afterwards because it’s just a mere postage stamp on the envelope of the world that you were caught in for just a moment…

I waited too long before stopping for a break. Again. There are times (most of the time) when I just get rolling, and I want to keep on rolling, and so I continue to roll, and boy, was I rolling, rolling, rolling. Good energy and super flat roads were helpful assistants in that. About three hours in I began to hit some hills. These slowed me up a bit, and I noticed my energy was flagging so decided to stop and eat what had recently become my standard lunch/snack/whatever—tortillas with banana, peanut butter, and honey. Unfortunately, this provided little aid, or, more likely, came to late. The hills continued to continue and my energy continued to wane. I had wanted to do another ten miles and find a motel somewhere outside of Columbia, but once I arrived in the city, and after eating an actual meal of sorts, I decided to stay in the area. There was still at least an hour or so before it was to get dark and I could use that time to explore a bit.

Lunch (I guess I’ll call it that) wasn’t anything marvelous; just a wrap and a small bowl of fruit from a cafe that served poor shots of Counter Culture coffee. It was located in a bit of an odd area, though something that’s become a bit more of the norm within the specialty coffee scene, anyway, the lobby of an office high rise. The interior space was a bit minuscule, with a small bar at a window and a couple of tables, but they had a very nice patio space outside where a man who looked distinctly like Santa Claus in overalls and plaid was sitting at one of the umbrella’d tables, occasionally glancing up at me from a notebook in front of him. I could only assume he wanted to speak with me after watching me arrive on my bicycle, so, upon leaving I did just that. This man (I forget his name) was a bit hard to understand with the heavy, unidentifiable accent he had, and was perhaps a bit daft, at that. I told him about my trip, and that while in the cafe I had been looking for a cheap motel that had something better than consistent one-star reviews, and comments about roaches, pealing wallpaper, poor or no wi-fi, and unhelpful staff. This immediately stimulated the good samaritan in him because he had to tell me right off the bat that all the hotels in the city would be expensive and out of my budget, as if this wasn’t something blindingly obvious. He then stopped to think and recommend a few places that he knew of off the top of his head that would perhaps fit my criteria, despite my assurances that I had in all actuality already found a suitable place. I got the distinct sense that he had stayed before in these motels he named; he exuded the air of a vagrant or fringe, someone without a proper home, as we would call it; his home being, perhaps, just the city itself (but that accent?!).

He spoke to me of the clouds above, and how, if one looked at them through binoculars they moved in a certain way. I couldn’t make heads or tails of what he meant by that, and simply nodded along with a, “mhmmm, I see, yes, is that so?” to keep things flowing along like those marvelous, fluffy clouds of his. Our conversation of sorts, spiced with pinches of awkward silence, finally ended after I asked him about what he was writing in his notebook. His answer was that he was writing a mystery novel. He then asked to use my name for a character, to which I consented with a nod. I couldn’t understand why he would want to, what possible import it could contain. He said that maybe I would be an attorney’s assistant, and whether this character had been written into the novel already I had no idea. He could have said he wanted to use me, my name, as a janitor or a monkey. What difference would it make? Still, I really couldn’t understand why an attorney’s assistant, but if that’s what he sees in me, that’s fine by me. I can’t imagine how he might fit a touring cyclist into a mystery novel anyway. Who knows. Anyone as crazy as that old bugger could shoehorn one in somehow.

At last I wished him luck on his book, and took off on my bike happy to have escaped. The state house was a mere couple of blocks away, so I decided to pedal that way. I wasn’t the only one with the idea of visiting the state house. Children and a few families were playing on its steps and taking pictures. Couples were walking, hand in hand throughout the grounds. I marveled at my first siting of palm trees on my trip. The sky was the color of explosion along the western horizon, silhouetting those very same palm trees, as well as oaks and maples in tangerine and cantaloupe, crimson and honey, scarlet-red, periwinkle blue. I began cycling towards the motel, which was west, where that ball was burning, melting below the horizon, and above me the blue sky darkening, curling over, and closing in—a great wave to quash the fire that burned.

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I left Charlotte late, as is my standard, but still managed to put in the 50 miles necessary to make it to the town of Chester, SC., though it wasn’t long before my groin was nagging at me again, even after the five days of rest. I stopped at a Food Lion after a couple hours, sat down on the concrete outside the store, and had some lunch in the shade, as it was warm and uncomfortably humid in the sun. I was really feeling irritable about pretty much everything regarding the trip at this point and didn’t really feel like going on, but there wasn’t much else to do, really, so…

There were periods of cycling through some brilliant green, bucolic farm land, and the largest, most open landscapes I’ve seen thus far (well, that would likewise be the farm land). I got my first look at cotton fields, most of which were picked clean, though there were a few that had not been harvested yet, and the roads which were nicely flat made for easy and speedy cycling.

When I arrived in Chester it was already past dark. The town was decorated for Christmas with large, wire-framed, light-wrapped Santas, angels, reindeer and what have you scattered throughout the tiny center of town. Again, at first glance it seemed a charming place, what with the Christmas decorations giving it a sense of merriment, and some of the houses on certain streets being quite grand in appearance, but only so long as I didn’t look too closely at the empty buildings in the town center, which I did of course, and then came to the conclusion that I was in another ghost town. I can only wonder for the reason of the town’s, and the many others like it that I’ve written of before, economic downfall. What was the town’s past source of economy? Where has it gone?

The ground being soaked I didn’t feel like camping. It was also night, as I mentioned already. Actually, at this point of the trip I was quite sick of camping altogether, regardless of the state of the ground. Probably my overall frustrations with everything from my bike not shifting properly, to the crappy saddle I’d been sitting on for nearly a month uncomfortably, and my sore groin (again)… and that probably covers it. Physically sore = mentally sore. Things not working properly = a constant source of agitation.

I stayed at the EXECUTIVE Inn on the edge of town. A nice enough place, as all these “cheap” inns and motels are. The shower was naturally fantastic, as was being able to write in comfort. There was even an awful restaurant right next door where I could, and did, have dinner. I’ve forgotten the name of it already, but it was named after the city: the Chester some such something or other. It was one of those lugubrious places with a wooden fish nailed in place over the entrance denoting that they do indeed serve seafood. Immediately upon entering I was assaulted by the smell of old grease and deep fryers. Whether open or closed I imagine that aroma has permeated every table, brick and seat in the place, and it probably reeks of it morning, noon and night. I was then greeted by the host, standing at her station by the cash register to the left. She seated me in a booth and supplied me with a glass of water. Now, this booth was no ordinary booth. The padded seats were merely busted mattress springs wrapped in dull, red vinyl, and the surface of the table a faux-wood laminate such as one might find in an elementary school. The restaurant was essentially one long feed hall, reminiscent of a low barn. At one end was the kitchen, hidden behind a wall and a door, and the register. The rest of the place was just row upon row of booths or tables, all obviously of the lowest quality. On the far wall opposite the kitchen was a nonsensical juxtaposition of a white board side by side with a flat screen tv. Above these two fixtures was a captain’s wheel framed by two large harpoons. Hanging on a column in the center of the room was a life preserver, and all throughout the restaurant were framed pieces of “modern art” one might find at a Big Lots or similar store. Some photographs of a bunch of nobodies’ faces, and a twenty foot long mirror that probably hadn’t been cleaned since the place opened.

I wasn’t expecting much after sitting down, taking a look around, and then looking over the menu, but even the low expectations that I had were disappointed by the meal, which was probably the worst I’ve ever had. However, for $6 (!!!) and free hush puppies, which, until I got to Charleston, I could only describe as breaded, deep-fried balls of insipid, uninspiring, doughy calories, it’s maybe hard to complain. And the service was friendly enough. Actually, more so than at a lot of other places. It saddens me that this is the type of food that people find to be normal, or good in so many places throughout the country. Nothing fresh. Everything canned or frozen, and trucked in from a warehouse somewhere. No wonder obesity is so rampant here. I didn’t linger for long, despite having brought a book with me to read; I could do that easily enough back at the motel, and so I did.

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I don’t sleep well when I camp. Exhausted as I may be I am forever tossing and turning. It’s hard when one is accustomed to sleeping on a mattress that is deeper than just a couple inches. As a result of this the following day of a mere 35 miles to Charlotte turned into a slog, which it should not have been.

I spent five days in Charlotte. Most of those days it rained. One of those days was Christmas. Not a bad way to spend one’s Christmas, alone in a house taking care of some chickens.

I had thought that I would be spending a few nights at a friend’s house, but that was not to be. I arrived in Charlotte around 3:30 only to be notified that a) I could not stop by until 8 pm and, b) I was only kind of welcome for that night. After sending numerous emergency couch requests out I heard back from someone who, while they weren’t there, had a friend staying overnight a couple evenings to take care of the chickens in the backyard, and that he was okay with me crashing there. This was a God send if ever there was one. This friend of hers, Dean, who I now call a friend, and I got along really well. We got along so well in fact that he vouched for me to Charlotte (yes, her name is the name of the city she lives in) so that I could stay in the house for another couple of days, two of which would be Christmas Eve, and Christmas Day. Splendid. I just had to look after the chickens which was no problem, in fact, it was a delight. The experience of having watched over them has convinced me that I should like to own a few if I ever settle down in a place on a little land.

Most of my time in Charlotte was spent relaxing, writing, getting things in order for the next leg of the trip, having my bicycle looked at and determining that I might need to make some changes down the road (perhaps a premonition of what was to come), and the aforementioned chickens which I had to chase down and herd back to the yard twice on Christmas Day because the gate got left open the previous night. Herding chickens is surprisingly easy though. Just walk behind them in the direction you want them to go. The trickier part is getting them out of a neighbor’s fenced in yard because they’re often unwilling to fly (probably because they don’t fly well at all). A chicken’s flight is something like a leap with a lot of chaotic fluttering. It’s a bit comedic because watching them one gets the sense that they don’t really know what they’re doing, where they’re going, and if they’ll get there. This explains why you really only need a yard with a waist-high fence to keep them; they prefer to be on the ground foraging for food.

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My departure from Star was greeted with warmer, less windy weather, and largely trafficless roads which, to begin with at least, wound through a quiet wood, down into a valley, and over a rushing, narrow river, before entering the next town: Troy. This tearing downhill into a valley of course meant that I had to climb back out of it, but I was feeling exceptionally sprite and energetic after the solid breakfast of that morning and the peaceful slumber of the previous night so I was really able to enjoy it, and my groin, surprisingly enough, felt almost normal.

It wasn’t long before I arrived and passed through Troy. Located on the edge of the Uwharrie National Forest, Troy is pretty much like any other 19th century-founded town today; it has an historic and quaint town center bustling with life which, as you move further from, turns into a suburban wasteland peppered with the typical fast-food joints; convenience stores; auto-body shops; decrepit, vacant buildings; shoulders littered with glass and rubbish, or no shoulders at all; sidewalks chipped and gashed, with knee-high weeds growing between the cracks, or no sidewalks at all. In general a sense of poverty impresses itself upon one, and it’s quite a great relief once one makes it through, and past the leaden-eyed stares from the zombies toddling around the parking lots, into and out of these hovels and their automobiles. It’s standard disappointment cycling through these outer rings of rubbish revolving around their more life-affirming nuclei.

I had a relaxing, scenic lunch on a bridge spanning the PeeDee River, not far beyond the western boundary of the Uwharrie Forest. Possibly the first proper, relaxing lunch I’d taken the entire trip. In the near distance was a dam, its reservoir on the other side flowing through at a regular, even rate. Gulls were gliding to and fro over and under the bridge, and a variety of waterfowl bobbed along stoically in the river below. Herons taking flight along the shoreline; wading in the shallows on their elegantly long legs, taking the most punctilious of strides. The sun dazzling on the shallow waters below, every ripple like a shattered piece of glitter reflecting brightly. Or the sun, nature’s own disco ball, and everything twinkling and sparkling to the rhythms of the music of existence. It was a paradise, even with the dam in the background, compared to the couple of towns I had cycled through to that point—though one doesn’t need a great shock of nature when surrounded by the ugliness of man—all we’ve created, all we’ve conquered, the towns we’ve built and let fall to ruin and then rebuilt and circled round with soulless structures born of an architect’s nightmares…

I camped along the boundary of a harvested farm field and a wood, just beyond the town of Oakboro. It was one of my more enjoyable campsites, partly due to the fact that I actually got there before dark and was able to pitch my tent without the need of a flashlight, but also because of the utterly peaceful setting in which I found myself the next morning—the sunrise spectacular, a conflagration beyond the gaunt, leafless trees, following a break along an imaginary horizon between shelves of clouds, before being smothered as it rose higher by those very same clouds; the calls of chickadees and titmice flittering above in some nearby trees; and the abundance of various mosses and lichens scattered along the tree line. I listened to Mozart’s Requiem while cooking and eating dinner, my little tent light dangling above me illuminating the cozy nucleus I encapsulated myself in.

Lying back in my sleeping bag, the light above me now dark, I listened to the dogs howling at the moon glowing faintly through the soft fuzz of clouds, and barking at God only knows what. A bloody cacophony, to be sure. Occasionally a pickup truck would go by on the road thirty or forty yards behind me, with their fat, deeply treaded tires smacking on the asphalt, exhausts roaring disdainfully. I fell asleep eventually, only to wake up a short couple of hours later to a pair of horned owls calling to each other, one of which was quite near to my tent. Entertaining for a few minutes, but after another twenty I soon grew tired of it. There’s little to do though, but lie there and…

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Sanford, NC. I had every reason to believe that this was going to be a great day, a marvelous day! I would put in sixty or seventy miles and stop somewhere near Uwharrie National Forest. Perhaps the following day even spend some hours exploring it. Oh!, but Life and its many vicissitudes…

Not long after clambering from my tent and departing Sanford I began feeling some groin discomfort, like the muscle or other tissue in the area was bunching up on every upstroke. That’s the most lucid explanation of the sensation I had that I can articulate. Like a paper blinds was folding and creasing in the wrong spots. It only got worse as they day wore on. As well, headwinds strengthened and hills increased in frequency and grade. Not by much, but with my steadily increasing groin discomfort even the slightest increase in difficulty required much more effort to overcome.

The day was cool and sunny—quite pleasant in fact—but as the sun fell and darkness neared, cold began to seep in. My right foot was relatively chilly all day because it was in constant shadow as a result of riding south and west, thus maintaining the sun always either directly ahead of me or on my left. It was impossible to keep any of my toes comfortable once the sun dipped below the tree line. Also, my groin was very much nearing a condition of off-the-bike-walking-only. Doubt, the great negator of all things positive, progressive, optimistic and good was making his voice heard. The thought that I might have to end the trip early was tolling in my mind, like silence at a funeral, yet also the determination to at least, come what may, make it to Charlotte…

I stopped for a few minutes at a convenience store in the town of Robbins to fill my water bottles, have a snack, and warm my toes. Talked to a couple of heavyset men in their 40’s and 50’s and a younger guy putting on some weight himself—all dressed in camouflage overalls, all barely able to make themselves understood what with their strong accent, especially the oldest guy—about the area, my trip, and the distance to Star, which, given that I had wanted to cycle farther than that, was the nearest town I thought to allow myself to stop in.

I creeped into Star just as night was beginning to drape itself over the world, unable to determine any kind of sensible place to camp aside from perhaps the lawn of the Star Inn Bed & Breakfast: a large, estate-sized building, painted Robin’s egg blue, on the corner of Spies Road (the road I entered town on) and Main Street; the eaves strung brilliant with Christmas lights; and an historic, albeit filthy Rolls Royce parked in the gravel lot. Still, I thought to investigate the town a bit more thoroughly before knocking on the door of the establishment.

The town of Star, the center of North Carolina (there’s a plaque), is essentially one street bordered by numerous empty, shuttered buildings, the most prominent among them a long, brick piece nearly a city block in length (a good portion of the town); two restaurants and a gas station. I made my way to this lone gas station in order to thaw out my frozen toes and contemplate what I was to do next. I didn’t feel like pedaling much further, most particularly because of the chill outside and being rather sweat-soaked—a bad combination to be sure—but also because of the aforementioned painful groin. Really, what was I to do but go back to the B&B and ask to camp? The property was the largest and greenest by a long shot in the entirety of the town. I would actually go so far as to say it was the only green property in town, and the only inviting one as well.

I entered through what I assumed was the front door into the main foyer. Hanging from the second floor ceiling was a large, brass chandelier. To my right stood an enormous green and white, lacquered Chinese vase, four feet tall or so, and to my left, up a few stairs on a landing in the corner was a black and gold replica of an Egyptian king’s burial casket. From the landing a set of stairs ran up the wall to the second floor. Beneath these stairs was a console piano acting as a shelf for a variety of knick-knacks and photographs. Beside the previously mentioned vase was a large gilt-framed painting, and against the far wall a cabinet, like the piano, acting as a shelf for a number of framed photographs and other paraphernalia related to the history of the building.

I still hadn’t discovered the proprietor or manager of the place, despite my announcements of “hello?”, so proceeded to enter still further into the bizarre, other-land of an inn. Down the hall hung with still more ornately framed paintings, I entered into the dining room which was, if possible, even more ornately decorated than the foyer. Two huge glass chandeliers hung over a long, hardwood dining table capable of seating sixteen or so guests. More paintings; more cabinets; large floor-to-ceiling mirror against one wall; heavy drapes over the windows, tied back with tassled gold rope; a large silver mirror that could have been mistaken for a platter in the not-so-vague shape of a sea turtle hanging on the opposite wall; and two Romanesque columns topped with potted plants—vines hanging down like green ropes, vibrant, life-giving, and natural—something real and living amongst the antiquated embellishment of the room’s decor. It all felt a bit like I had stumbled into someone’s personal art and antiquities collection, but displayed in such a way that didn’t feel as though I was invading his privacy, but that I was welcome here to wander and observe. It was in a way a museum. I imagine if I had wandered into Gertrude and Leo Stein’s Paris apartment during the first two decades of the twentieth century this same sense of curiosity and amazement would have come over me.

It wasn’t until I wandered into, then back out of the kitchen, that the manager, Richard at last materialized from some back room. His was a face I will be unlikely to forget: that of a bulldog, heavy-jowled; sparkling grey eyes, slightly uneven, peering out from beneath a deep brow, upon which were perched white eyebrows, like little hummocks of snow; his hair, also white, and razor sharp was closely cropped to his scalp and meticulously combed, every hair in its right place. He was short in stature, but he had a large heart, a colossal heart, a heart that was bursting, bursting to give, bursting with kindness, generosity, sympathy, love… A heart that could never be confined to the constraints of a physical body, but which existed in every wall; in every window that let in the sun’s noble light; in every bit of decor, great or small; and in the lightbulbs inside that illuminated the ancient floors and every nail that held them down; the carpets; the drapes; the cables and wires visible; and so too every person that walked into and out of the inn. But that magnanimous heart of his was yet confined within himself, and thus he would take it with him wherever he went. He was a beacon on the move, a lighthouse which floated with the currents and tides. He waded through the darkness shining his lantern, illuminating a way for others to follow if they would only open their eyes and their hearts. His first words to me were “Well, could I offer to you a room to stay inside here?”. CAN I. As though he were asking me a favor. Would I please do him the pleasure of staying at the Star B & B? FOR FREE! I knew immediately that I was dealing with no mere mortal here, no standard human being, but an angel or deva. Any chill that I may still have been experiencing from having been outside immediately melted away.

Humbled by this man’s generous spirit I agreed and, after talking a short tour of one wing of the inn I brought in my bags and got myself somewhat situated in a room of my choosing (walls painted burgundy; white baseboards, crown molding and trim; mahogany four poster bed; burgundy comforter with gold embroidery; television set in one corner; old, high-backed chair in another; large, skull-size gemstone on a shelf in another corner near to the bed’s headboard). Shortly thereafter he would drop me off at the one restaurant that was then open—a lugubrious looking, greasy dive where, “everything is good,” according to the uninterested waiter. There was one older gentleman at a table when I walked in and he quickly departed after my arrival. Maybe I smelled; I hadn’t had a shower or changed out of my cycling wear yet. No one there seemed to know what to make of me, best as I could tell. Frankly, they all looked like they wanted to kill themselves, though the woman (owner maybe?) standing at the register brightened up considerably when Richard arrived to pick me up (and pay for my meal!).

Upon returning to the estate Richard bid me bonne nuit and vanished into he and his wife’s living quarters. I crept up the stairs into the shower, and afterwards lay on my bed feeling sorry for myself, but grateful for my savior.

The following morning I was to have breakfast in the dining room with the few other guests who were there. It was a pleasant enough group of people, all, I believe, from the town or, if not, from the surrounding region. One well-traveled gentleman was currently living in Colorado. Richard, being the marvelous host that he is introduced me to the table since I was last to arrive, explained briefly why it was that I was there, and then sidled off into the kitchen to allow us to enjoy our breakfast and conversation.

Eventually breakfast came to an end and all the guests but myself departed. Richard gave me a proper tour of the building, including all the various rooms that I didn’t see the previous night, along with a bit of its history; shared an explanation of the long brick building which lie across the street from the inn; and shared various stories and vignettes of experiences he’d had and people he’d met while running the B & B.

That old brick building, where Richard in fact worked for 37 years before taking management of the B & B, was once a hosiery mill until the children of the previous owner, who had died, decided they didn’t feel like running it anymore, so simply shut it down. Who knows how many people were left jobless. Now the building lies there a bit like a mausoleum. I imagine all the old machines are still in there, cold and lifeless, coated in dust, without the guiding touch of a human hand, like so many other old factories and mills around the country.

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As usual, I rolled into town, Sanford,NC, around sundown, after one of my lesser pleasant days on the saddle, though Jordan Lake and a certain train track presented some very nice photo opportunities. This getting into, or out of, town around sunset is typical for me of course. And then the searching on google maps for a green patch in the vicinity. In this case I didn’t see anything, but did find an interesting little store selling various, local, handcrafted goods, with a small cafe inside where I filled my water bottles and asked about a safe place to camp in town. I received very little useful information in answer to my question, and I don’t think the boy, and his mother?, understood what I was looking for, as he kept referring to a spot north of town (from where I had just come) that had camping facilities, whereas I just wanted an out of the way piece of earth where I wouldn’t be bothered. In the end I left, creeping another few miles south in the dark and the chill towards an area community college and high school where I found a pleasantly secluded spot to camp near some trees, and a sign warning that I was on private property and that all trespassers would be prosecuted.

After setting up camp and having dinner I wrote this in my journal: Lying in a cold tent, on a cold field, on a cold night, at a community college just outside of Sanford, NC I still don’t know what I’m doing—in life in general, on this trip specifically… There is a light shining in my face and I try to block it with this journal. I don’t really like writing on my back—my arms ache, my neck aches. Sometimes the tent smells of the weed Chad gave me as a parting gift. In the tent it just smells like weed—that general cannabis-y scent—but if you dip your nose into the bag there is a very pleasing aroma of pineapple and hops. It smells bright, and alive. Invigorating. I think that means it’s good, but I’m no expert on the subject.

A train in the distance: haunting; beautiful and melancholic. A text up close, tender and warm. This journal—the book itself—smells of roses. Everywhere a rose, if one stops to look and to think (or not think). The squeak of a small animal, outside in the brush somewhere. A bird or a mouse; probably not a bear or a lion. But, perhaps if one shrinks himself down enough that bird would be an eagle, the mouse a lion… The interior of this tent is a silvery white. It is like being shrouded in a cocoon. I am nothing right now, or very nearly nothing. I am pupa. I wonder, if anyone were to be around tomorrow morning when I burst forth from this tent if I would be taken for a butterfly. I wonder how being in this tent has, or will change me.

If there is someone out there who is a spotlight, I would like to be a floodlight.