Subway: The Law & Order of Food

Day 11 - Sept. 29, 2016 - South Boston > Bear Creek Lake State Park

I couldn't have been happier to spend the night in a cheap motel.  The storm that ripped through overnight would have tested both the waterproof nature of my tent and my ability to properly stake out a rainfly.  Also, the lightning would have probably taken me out, much like it had taken out the motel's cable and internet.  This was clearly not the front desk worker's first thunderstorm.

By morning, though, both clear skies and cable television had returned, allowing me to catch up on Law & Order while I got ready for the day.  I know the joke about Law & Order always being on no matter the hour is a dead horse, but all beatings aside, it really is on all the time.  Hand on the bedside bible, every morning spent in a motel had a TV playing L&O in the background.

When I hit the road, the storm had, thankfully, taken some of the heat out with it.  While still in the 80's, it at least felt like the lower, temperate 80's, not the high, practically 90's, 80's I had grown very tired of.  My miles for the day were also going to be in the low 80s.  I could handle an 80/80.  Almost seemed like a vacation after all the 90/90 days.

That day, the turtle parade continued.  Baby turtles and tortoises everywhere.  I even moved some from the middle of the road, thwarting suicidal plots along the way.  Here's one of the little reptiles I saved from itself:

1-800-273-8255

After a beautiful morning of riding, with only a little light drizzle, I stopped in Keysville, VA for lunch.  Motels and expensive campgrounds may have thrashed my budget, but there was always Subway for a cheap lunch.  Come to think of it, that's not an exaggeration, and there always is a Subway.  It's like the fast food equivalent of Law & Order.  Seriously, go to even the smallest of small towns, and if they have electricity, they'll probably have a Subway.  There should be a cross-market collaboration between the two of them.  I'd buy a Stabler Special or a Benson Lettuce and Tomato.

I used my lunchtime downtime to give my mom a call.  She is a worrier, so phone calls are requisite for the prevention of missing persons reports.  Anyway, towards the end of our conversation, she asked if I wanted to stop riding yet, because she'd be happy to drive the 370 miles down to Keysville to pick me up if I wanted.  I declined, assuring her that I'd much rather spend those miles on a bicycle than in a car.  I'm thankful she doesn't watch Law & Order, or her worrying would be even worse.

Just few miles from Keysville, the rain began.  It didn't begin as a drizzle, it began as rain.  Actually, it wasn't rain.  It was a million wet fingers poking me repeatedly; persistently.  The rain was a sibling in the backseat of a minivan on a long drive to Ohio, and now matter how many times I yelled to the parents in the front, it couldn't be stopped.  The rain was a 10-year-old with ADHD.  I hated that rain so much.

And that rain would persist all damn day.  All the way to Bear Creek Lake State Park.  Well, just outside of the park.  The rain stopped just before I started to navigate the park's winding roads on my way to finding the heavily price-gouged tent camping on the far side of the lake.  The park was mostly empty of occupants and entirely empty of employees, so I found what looked to be the cheapest flat pad site (according to confusing signage) and laid claim.   After unpacking and pitching, I headed to the showers.  I know I was already soaked, but I wanted to be warm soaked, not cold soaked.

I got back to my tent as the rain started up again.  I was happy to be done for the day, but not looking forward to breaking down in the rain in the morning.  Everything I had was soaked.  Everything I had was going to stay soaked for the foreseeable future.  I had 300 miles standing between myself and Philadelphia.  That was only three more days of rainy riding.  How much mildew could develop in three days?

It Got That Walmart Stank

Day 10 - Sept. 28, 2016 - Hagan-Stone Park > South Boston, VA

While packing up my site in the morning, I noticed that my water pannier (front, drive side) was getting suspiciously funky.  All that was inside of it were a few Platypus water bags and some tubes of Nuun tablets (plastic goods with no inherent odor), so I wasn't sure where the rotten smell was coming from.  I didn't have time to investigate that morning, but made a mental note to give the bag a cleaning that night.  My guess was it was just mildew from riding through the rainy, humid, summer South.

I was ready to cross the Mason-Dixon, and today I'd be one state closer.  My next stop would be in or around South Boston, VA, a confusingly named town about 90 miles away, that while technically south of Boston (over 700 miles south), has a noticeably different accent.  Not sure which I prefer.

The evening rain didn't do too much to clear out the heat and humidity, but there was a layer of clouds on the horizon that was both appealing and repelling.  I really wanted those clouds to catch up with me and block the sun's rays, but I really didn't want to spend the day riding in the rain.  I could think of a lot of reasons why riding in the rain sucked, but the two big ones currently were my lack of phone access and nipple chafe.  I always stowed my phone in a waterproof pannier when it rained, making it inaccessible for maps, podcasts, and music.  I know this could be mostly remedied with bluetooth technology and waterproof pouches, but I haven't gotten there yet.  As for the nipple chafe, my favorite riding shirt is wonderful on dry days and even on days with intermittent rain.  But on days with heavy rain that doesn't dry up quickly, water seems to turn it to 80-grit sandpaper, and my nipples get a harsh rubbing.  I was already riding with bandaids on them from the heavy rains at the start of the tour, but a big storm would soak them right off and I'd be exposed to a world of nipple hurt.

I had just barely made it to an Exxon in Yanceyville, NC when the skies opened up.  I could not have been happier to be under cover for that show.  Giant explosions of lightning in all directions, gusting wind, sheets of rain.  It would've been a top five riding storm for sure.  Even under the large awning of the gas station, I was still catching my fair share of rain.  It was bad.  And then twenty minutes later, it was gone.  Just like that, it was a hot summer day again and I got back on the rode.

(Before leaving Yanceyville, I'd just like to mention that they have a pizza joint called Little Pizza My Heart.)

The route I was planning to taking from Yanceyville to South Boston was going to be all back roads.  Bumpy, hilly backroads.  Thinking back to the stray dogs and sand traps of Mississippi and Alabama, I didn't have nighttime back roads left in me, so I headed due north to Highways 58/360.  Riding in traffic probably wasn't going to be fun, but at least it would be smooth.

Having survived that decision, if I had to do it again, I'd probably take the back roads (at least on a clear day).  That highway didn't really have much of a shoulder, but it had an abundance of cars.  And while it had an overall elevation decline, it still had a lot of hills.  A lot of getting up to get down.  At least the tops of those hills gave me a good view of the incoming weather to the west.  It looked like another Yanceyville storm was approaching, and that actually made me happy to be on the highway.  Torrential downpours on highways don't result in mud pits that stall out bikes.  They can on back roads.

Clear sky, smooth road, big shoulder, no cars, not The South.

Not wanting to get caught in that storm, I hauled ass to the closest Budget Inn, just southwest of the big city.  I didn't know if there was camping anywhere in the area, but the flashes in the distance made me not care to find out.  I checked in, was told the cable and WiFi might get knocked out by the lightning but the electricity will probably stay on, and went to my room.

I unloaded my bike and when I opened my water pannier, was almost knocked over by the stench.  So much for needing to make a mental note.  Bag in hand, I headed to the shower.  And that was the longest shower I've ever taken in my life.  I hand washed every item in the pannier, and when I reached the bottom, I found the source of the stank.  It was a single Walmart bag.  I don't know why a plastic bag would ever smell so bad, but this one did, and it had infected everything else.  After throwing the plastic bag in the trash next to the toilet, I soaped and scrubbed out the entire pannier. (Actually really easy with an Ortlieb waterproof bag.  Fill it up with soap and water, roll up the top, shake it really good, pour out the foam, hand scrub, repeat.)  Once the pannier and all of its contents were scent-free, I tended to my own dirt covered body, legs coated with puddle splash.  I left that shower feeling more accomplished than I did after 87.5 miles on the road.

That night I slept comfortably in my bed to the sound of thunderous lightning and gusting wind, hopeful that maybe this would finally be the storm that killed the heat.

Cooler Than Me Bike Guy, Pt. 2

Day 9 - Sept. 27, 2016 - Monroe > Hagan-Stone Park

When I woke up the next morning, I found a giant bruise on the back of my thigh.  The bruise hadn't been there the day before and I hadn't bumped into anything recently, so it could only have been from a somnambular fight club or an overnight ghost assault, both of which are movies I would watch.  Other than that, I was feeling pretty good.  I'd iced the back of my ankle overnight, so even that was feeling pretty good.  I felt even better when I found out the continental breakfast included waffles.

Now, I am not really a big waffle guy, but there are two places I will always eat them.  Waffle House is the first, and really, I shouldn't go there ever, but I do, and I get a waffle, and I regret it every time.  The second, and the one I never regret, is at a self-service motel continental breakfast.  You know the ones.  The squeeze bottle of batter next to a big auto-timed waffle iron that needs to be pretreated with generic Pam?  It's so good, right?  I mean, it's not, but you know, it is.

Well rested and well fed, I hit the road ready for a big day.  I had close to a century ahead of me, but I felt like I could conquer.  I lost most of that feeling within ten minutes.  That's about how long it took for me to be dripping with sweat again.  The South is the worst.

After a few hours of tempting the heat exhaustion fates, I decided I'd earned an ice cream sandwich.  I found a nice convenience store and parked my bike along side the produce stand next door.  I was going through my handlebar bag, searching for my wallet, when I flicker of movement drew my gaze upward.  And what did I see perched a few feet above me, from a piece of outward jutting wood?  If you had guessed "doberman", you would have been close.  No, it was a spider approximately the size of a doberman.  Holy shit did I jump back.  The spider was so big that I didn't even take a picture of it for fear it would steal my phone.  You better believe I ran, almost dragging Tibor behind me.

Surviving that arachnid encountered made me feel even more deserving of an ice cream sandwich, so I pushed my bike over to the gas station and leaned it against the wall.  As I walked over to the convenience store door, a older gentleman looking up from pumping gas and asked where I was riding to.  I told him Philly, and then he proceeded to tell me about how he'd met a guy that had ridden over 10,000 miles a year or two prior.  Cool.  That guy again.

I got a longer story this time.  Apparently, over one winter, old gas pump guy met cooler than me bike guy as he was on his way west.  It was wintery and cold and CTMBG looked ill prepared for the ride ahead of him.  CTMBG was also unaware of the snowy climb ahead as well.  So OGPG took him in for the night to make sure he didn't freeze to death.  Weeks later, OGPG ended up getting a postcard from Mt. Rainier sent to him by CTMBG.  Some time after that, he received a postcard from Alaska.  CTMBG really was a lot CTM.  But I had an ice cream sandwich and at least he couldn't take that away from me.

On a side note, this was not my first tale of winter riders that seemed hellbent on dying on the road. Just last winter, a buddy of mine that works at a shop in South Philly met a guy that was headed to Texas while wearing clothes that were barely suitable for November, let alone winter-proper.  He was practically frozen when my buddy brought him to the shop and helped outfit him in proper winter wear that was on its way to Goodwill.  That cyclist was a very lucky guy.  People, do not rely on the kindness of strangers.  There are some strangers that don't have much kindness to share.

After that it was a long stretch of dead reptiles until I would reach Hagan-Stone Park Campground.  I saw a big, turquoise snake squished along the side of the road, as well as a bunch of little turtles.  I'd officially moved out of armadillo country.  I hadn't seen a squished one of those in days.  But while out of armadillo country, I thankfully was still in the heart of Pimento Cheese country.  Not much could have topped the homemade Pimento Cheese sandwich I ate for lunch at a bait shop/convenience store.  Way creamier than any brand name, gas station Pimento Cheese.

Not Squished

It was after dark when I finally reached the already-closed-for-the-evening campground.  Well, dark between lightning strikes.  All around me, lightning lit up the sky as a storm thundered its way towards me.  I'd ridden all day without bad weather, and if I kept a good pace while setting up camp, I could be in bed before it reached me.  

Hagan-Stone, while mostly for RVs, had a nice tent section winding through the woods.  For the first time in a few parks, I'd be camping under a bit of cover, away from the whirring sound of generators and safe from the gusting winds whipping the tops of the tall trees that surrounded me.  Those tall trees also provided cover to the deer living in the woods, and I almost collided with a bambi as I sped through that nearly empty campground trying to reach camp before the storm reached me.  That wouldn't have been fun for either one of us.

As I reached camp, the race was on.  I pitched my tent and stowed my gear in record time, drops of rain just starting to reach me through the leafy canopy.  After slamming down dinner, I ran up to the showers.  Once I reached the showers, the sky opened up and it poured.  I'd just made it.  That night I slept in my dry tent with an ice pack on my ankle, listening to the rain beating on my tent and hoping all the while that the storm would take the summer heat out with it on its way East.

My Body is Falling Apart

Day 8 - Sept. 26, 2016 -  Cayce, SC > Monroe, NC

Over the years, I've found that there are only so many days of riding I can do in a row before my body gives me an ultimatum: Either take a day off, or I'm going to steer this bike directly into traffic.  A week straight is just shy of my arms taking subconscious control and turning sharply into a passing semi.  By the time I reached Cayce, I was seven days in, pressing my luck, and running on fumes, caffeine, and ibuprofen.

By the time I left Cayce, after spending a lot of time plopped on a couch (and some on a bar stool), I felt a lot better.  I felt better, but didn't look better as I was now rocking two knee braces and, for the first time in my life, an ankle brace.  I was used to my knees hating me, but now my achilles tendon appeared to have caught a case of tendinitis.  I have since learned that all of these problems may be rooted in a lack of hip stretching.  Or stretching in general.  Getting old sucks.

Old

Aside from purchasing an ankle brace over my days off, I'd also bought some instant cold packs for the road.  I figured they were worth a try since I was increasingly achy at the end of each day.  The only option after that would be to motorize my bicycle.  I could probably find a weed whacker in someone's front yard (I was in the South) and pull the motor off if I needed to.  I really hoped it wasn't going to come to that but wasn't above it.

Learning from mistakes of the past two starts, my first day after the long break was not going to be a full century.  It wasn't even going to be 90 miles.  My ankle and knees thanked me for finally thinking a little.

And that was it for South Carolina.  One long day riding in, one not so long day riding out.  Next stop, North Carolina.  This time, not in beautiful Asheville, but outside of presently rioting Charlotte.  In Monroe, specifically.  There would be no camping at the end of this first day back on the road, not so much by choice but by dearth thereof.  My only reasonably distanced option would be a cheapo motel, which seemed lame after spending three days relaxing indoors, but didn't seem half bad once I started dripping sweat ten minutes into my ride.  It was still Southern hot out even if it was almost October.

Nothing to really report from that day, with the exception of me being knocked down a peg or two during a rest stop.  Around lunch time, I stopped at a little strip mall gas station convenience store for a sandwich and a caffeine re-up.  Standing outside of the store were a bunch of hard-hatted dudes eating lunch around their pickup truck full of tree trimming tools.  As I leaned my bike against the store, one of the guys asked where I was heading from.  I told him I was coming from Cayce, but that I'd started in Mississippi and was ending in Philly.  Based on the reactions of other folks I'd met on the road over the years, I assumed I'd get a response like "wow" or "cool" or "doesn't your butt get sore?"  That wasn't what I got.

Instead, I got a story of how he'd met a fella just like me a while back who'd been riding for over 10,000 miles.  That guy even kept a blog of his travels so people could keep track of where he'd been and where he was going.  Yup, that was one cool bike riding dude.  

Whatever, man.  I'm pretty cool too.  With my knee braces.  And ankle brace.  Sure, I may not guerrilla camp, but, like I stay at really cheap motels and State Parks which are barely above sleeping in a ditch a few hundred feet off the highway.  Ugh.  Nothing impresses you people.  Stupid South.

By the time I reached Monroe, it was way late and the cheapo motel I'd found online had a sign out front that said "No Vacany" (sic), confirming my assertion that the South is stupid.

Southern State Parks: Pricey RV Campgrounds

A couch in Cayce might not have the charm of a tent in the woods, but after a week of $30/night ACOE Campgrounds and State Parks, my wallet needed a break.  Don't get me wrong, I enjoy State and National Parks a great deal, and I think they serve many important purposes from conservation to education to appreciation, but dang, the ones in the South are not cheap.  And they're also not really meant for cyclists or other non-RV campers.  I don't know that that's their fault, though.  I think they have a single price point because the only people that really visit them are RV folk.  It's probably too hot all summer for them to attract a major tent campers contingent, so why bother wasting space on them, right?  Just put an electrical outlet and water pump at every spot, charge a flat fee, and watch the RV-shaped sacks of money roll in.

Other than being high price and RV-filled, those State Parks and ACOEs still were beautiful reprieves after days of unforested riding.  They surprised me the same way the parks in the South Dakotan plains had.  After spending a whole day riding through flat, wide open, SD farm lands, I'd be shocked to find myself suddenly winding through dense forest that seemed entirely out of place without having to first pass through a false walled wardrobe.  The same happened in Alabama.  I'd go from a long day of highway riding to being chased by dogs through the woods in the blink of an eye.  And after escaping the dogs, I'd find myself in a park full of trees alongside a manmade lake.  A lot of Southern campgrounds seem to have a body of water attached to it, which makes sense with that godawful heat.  Did I say lake?  I meant swimmin' hole.

This is not from a Southern State Park.  This is in Colorado.  I just like the picture.

And that heat is interminable.  In July and August, you'll sweat as hard at night as you do during the day.  If you're touring down there, make sure to pack a tent with as much ventilation as possible and don't bother with a blanket.  Alternatively, a mosquito net and a rain tarp would work, but I prefer the tent since it weighs about the same and protects better during storms (September is storm season, and most camp sites are fairly wide open up above, even if the park is in a forest).  Maybe even pack a small fan to run during the night.  It can keep you cool and add a little white noise, which can be nice if the couple in the RV across from you like to get up at dawn to walk their hound dogs.

But back to the Southern State Parks.  Another thing to know is that they close heckin' early.  It's not that big of a deal with a bicycle, as gates are designed to keep cars out, not people, but if you're road tripping by car, be warned.  If you show up to camp after dark, there's a good chance you'll be locked out.  That is definitely the case with ACOEs.  If that happens, I'd say just keep driving until you can find a Walmart parking lot to take a power nap in while waiting for the next park to open in the morning.

Finally, the staffs at these campgrounds are all pretty laid back.  Sometimes almost nonexistent.  Why, if one wanted to, one could probably roll into camp late at night and then leave early in the morning without ever seeing a single park staffer.  Not even the staffers that enforce the fee collections.  Yup.  One could if they were so inclined.

But listen, with the high price point of those campgrounds and the terrible heat, it may not be a bad idea to keep an eye out for low price motels some nights.  Especially nights with severe thunderstorms rolling through.  Thunderstorms full of lightning, the great white shark of the sky.  There's really no shame in spending $40 on a motel with A/C and a mattress when you'd otherwise be spending $30 on a small dirt pad surrounded by RVs.

Does that leaf blower have a snooze button?

Day 7 - Sept. 22, 2016 - A.H. Stephens State Park > Cayce, SC

Is there any nicer way to wake up in the woods than to the sound of a leaf blower outside of your tent?  You are correct if you pointed out that I was in fact not in the woods, technically, but in a nearly $30 a night State Park.  I hadn't yet paid my camp fees, though, and the thought crossed my mind that maybe I shouldn't.  Yes, at around 8am, a member of the park staff rolled through the campground attempting to loudly blast away the fallen foliage.  For those that did not inspect the photo of A.H. Stephens State Park that was included in the last ride post, most of the trees in the area were of the pine variety, meaning that this dipshit was attempting to leave blow pine needles.  Was he doing a bit?  At 8 in the morning?  Are you serious?  Beat it, Kaufman.

I had a long day ahead of me and I hadn't planned on starting it so early.  There were over 130 miles standing between me and my layover in Cayce, SC (just outside of Columbia), and the Southern ACOE and State Park systems gave me little choice but to handle this portion of the ride as a lone segment.  Honestly, though, I'd rather spend the $30 camp fees on cheap beer than help pay for park employees to leaf blow pine needles.

Since I was staying with friends in Cayce, I was going to need to plan my arrival time accordingly.  I figured my best bet of them being home would be earlyish in the day, as they have jobs and lives and whatnot to attend to during the day.  Based on my previous days' rides, I figured if I left around noon, took breaks for dinner, a few rest stops, and breakfast, I could be in bed in Cayce by 7am or so.  That would give me 13 hours of riding and 6 hours of wasting time.  Also, if I had any bike troubles, that padding wouldn't be a bad thing.

I'm sorry to say that I paid to stay in that park.  It wasn't even easy to pay, as I had to ride around a lake to find the office and there was no way the staff had even seen me until I walked in through the front door.  The staff was even in the middle of the office counting the night's money, almost as if to show me how they were already well funded and that my money was definitely just going into the leaf blower gas fund.

It was a long day of riding, which gave me a lot of time to stare at my map and wonder.  All around the South, I'd been passing lakes that had the most peculiar, jagged edges.  In my experience, lakes are usually round in nature, with erosion working in a somewhat uniform manner.  But down here, it was not like that at all.  Unless you've seen what I'm talking about, it can be tough to imagine.  So here, take a look:

Click on the image to see a bigger version, yo!

Ok, in that screenshot, the following super jagged lakes are visible: Allatoona Lake, Carters Lake, Chatuge Lake, Hiwassee Lake, Lake Blue Ridge, Lake Burton, Lake Greenwood, Lake Hartwell, Lake Lanier, Lake Murray, Lake Rabun, Lake Wylie, Lake Woodruff, Nottely Lake, Tugaloo Lake, Yonah Lake, and honestly I'm tired of making this list so I'm just ending it here but you get the gist.  Looking at that map for the first time, you're probably thinking the same thing I thought: What up with those jagged lakes, yo?

Well, I'll tell you, yo.  After looking up info on each of those lakes, I started to notice a trend... none of those are natural lakes!  They're all reservoirs and dams and other human made/altered structures.  Even the Savannah River has been dammed and leveed into it's current state.  The Georgia.gov website even flat out says:

Most of the lakes you will visit in Georgia — Lake Sinclair, Lake Chatuge, West Point Lake and so many more — are man-made. These types of lakes are usually created when humans build artificial dams in an existing river or stream. Builders sometimes protect smaller reservoirs from seepage by compacting the loose soil around it or lining the reservoir with fabric or compacted clay.

That made so much more sense!  We were the jagged makers, not nature.  Well, physics more than nature, but nature is easier to anthropomorphize.  Physics would definitely wear glasses, though, were it to be a humanized entity.  And it would be all, "nice jagged lakes," and then probably laugh it up with Chemistry and Biology.

It was after midnight when I stopped in Ridge Spring, SC for a late night dinner break.  Nothing was open in the tiny town of less than 1,000 people according to internet, but there was a nice park with picnic benches and lights.  Tired of bagged pump water, I had hoped there would be a gas station or convenience store, but just having a place to sit down was a fine compromise.  As I sat there eating my dollar store noodles, I checked my route.  I still had about 42 miles to go to get to Cayce, most of which appeared to be downhill, meaning if I kept my current pace I'd reach my destination at a terrible hour.    Getting to the house at 5am would be a bad idea.  The dogs would start barking, waking everyone up, making them all mad at me, kicking me out onto the street, sleeping in a gutter because I was so tired.  Then I remembered I was in the South.  I could just find a Waffle House to kill time at.  That or a Walmart.  Who doesn't like walking around a South Carolina Walmart at 5am?

I should have known that after washing down cheap noodles with warm, metallic water while battling a swarm of mosquitoes, I'd find a 24 hour Circle K convenience store a short distance away on the outskirts of town.  Better late than never, I guess.  I leaned Tibor up against the glass and headed in for some coffee.  That was when I met a store clerk that had to have been bored out of his mind.  I'm assuming, at least.  How stimulating could the night shift at a podunk Circle K be?

He struck up a pleasant conversation as soon as I walked in.  He even made a fresh pot of coffee for me.  When I went to pay, we started talking about the unusually high prices of the different goods at the store and about how big chains swoop in, push out the smaller shops, pay less to their employees, and charge higher prices to their customers.  But that was a function of the 24-hours of operation.  A lot of hours to be running lights and paying employees.  A lot of hours of no customers walking through the doors to buy coffee.  So to keep those doors open for the very occasional late night customer, he had to work later for less and I was going to have to pay more.  The big winner will always the corporation and its shareholders, but at least I got coffee at 1am in the middle of nowhere.

While we talked, and we talked for a while as neither of us had anywhere to be any time soon, his girlfriend and her friend walked into the store.  They'd just gotten off of work around the corner and came over to say hi.  When they saw me standing their in my lycra, the questions started.  Where was I coming from?  Where was I going?  Does my butt get sore?  Was I scared to ride at night?  Was I scared of cars in general?  Did people harass me?  Did I get stopped by cops ever?  I said that nobody ever bothered me, really.  That the closest I had to trouble was getting buzzed by some hillbilly pickup truck in Alabama.  And that all the cops I'd run into on bike had been nothing but nice with the exception of a cranky cop in California a few years back who'd been a little gruff.

That was when they pointed out an obvious fact.  I was white.  They were black.  My never running into trouble had nothing to do with my bicycle, it was because I was a white guy on a bicycle.  I paused for a second to think, and then agreed.  They were completely right.  I told them so, and that I had no idea if they would be harassed by cops or other people.  I really didn't have to worry about that much as a white male in my mid-30s without face tattoos.

We shot this breeze for a while longer, with me encouraging the girlfriend's friend to get into distance riding as she'd expressed an interest, and a little after 2am I hit the road.  I was about 40 miles from Waffle House, meaning I could get there by 6am, eat a slow breakfast, and get to my Cayce home by 7 or 8am.  Then sleep.

Being a white guy in America really does come with a lot of advantages.  Especially if you're born into the middle class with a stable, non-dysfunctional family.  Anyone that argues otherwise is lying, deluded, or a real dope.  I'm not saying it's a guarantee of happiness or success.  I'm just saying, it's a really good opening roll.  But race, gender, nationality, sexual preference, etc. are all Earth-based social constructs used to hold some people down while boosting others up with zero regard to the content of their character and their personal capabilities.  Do you know what cares little for social constructs?  Physics!  Yup, the great equalizer!  All Physics knows is that 1,500lbs of metal, plastic, and rubber traveling erratically down US-1 at 70mph do not have the consciousness required to create reasons to dislike someone before they ever get to know them.  Physics knows that all humans squish the same when a great mass accelerates through their XYZ coordinates.

Based on previous discussions, it seems to me that most people feel that night riding is dangerous.  Yes, it's more difficult to see at night.  Yes, you're more likely to encounter tired or drunk drivers.  Yes, ghosts of kidnapped children will try to lure you into the woods and off a cliff.  But one nice thing about night driving is that you can tell what's going on behind you by the headlights that appear around you.  While riding on US-1, headlights that were still a good distance behind me were aimed very close to where I was on the shoulder instead of in the middle of their lane (where they belong).  I looked back and could see a sports car that was angling out of its lane, drifting towards the shoulder.  Not wanting to see where this was going, I pulled as far over on the shoulder as I could, entirely off the road to be safe.  I was pedaling in the grass when the car, still 50-100' back realized that I was up ahead and swerved hard to the left.  It then blew past me (I was plenty safe from where I stood), and fishtailed wildly for the next few hundred feet before pulling off at the closest exit and speeding off.  The driver was either drunk or distracted.  In either case, I was happy it was night time so I had some sort of warning.  Also happy he or she was now off the road.  My skin wasn't going to save me from that math equation.

By 5am, I was only five miles from Waffle House.  My legs felt like they were going to fall off and my stomach was rumbling.  I couldn't wait for some waffles.  Please note that if you ever find yourself in a position where Waffle House sounds good, it means you're delirious.  Waffle House is not good.  Ever.  I was clearly delirious.

I parked at 5:30 and walked into that Southern breakfast chain with its trailer park charm and ordered a waffle, hash browns (capped and peppered), and a coffee.  When I took my first sip of coffee, I was reminded of the same thing I am reminded of every time I eat at a Waffle House: Oh god, why did I think this was a good idea?  The coffee tasted like soot, the waffle was paper thin, and the hash browns were soggy.  Yup, I was in Waffle House.  It's the grossest, but I always go back.  Me and Biz.  I've even chipped a tooth at a Waffle House.  Why do I do this to myself?

After killing an hour in that booth, I headed back out.  I got to the front porch of my vacation home around 7am.  There didn't appear to be anyone awake, and the dogs were quiet, so I parked my bike and fell asleep on the porch.

Southern Convenience Food: Pickled Eggs and Beyond

Before heading too much farther (further also works) north, I need to talk about the convenience store food I encountered while touring in the South.  Not to get too high on my horse, but I fancy myself a bit of a gas station gourmet.  Burned coffee that's been sitting out all day?  Fill 'er up.  Egg salad sandwiches past their expiration date?  White and wheat.  Stale crackers with imitation cheese filling?  I wouldn't turn down a six or an eight.  To say the very least, and reiterate what is clearly common knowledge, my palate is pretty refined.

That said, for as much experience as I had going into this, I still had no idea what sort of culinary adventure I'd be embarking on when heading to the South.  Would everything be cooked in pork fat, leaving me rail thin after a vegetarian tour?  Would all their coffee have hints of chicory, leaving me exhausted as I repeatedly turned down their gross coffee with that unnecessary flavor addition?  Would there even be convenience stores that would cater to a yank like me, or would I be run out of town the moment I uttered my first undrawled word?  I was heading into uncharted territory.  A place no one had ever gone before.  I was a modern Christopher Columbus.  No, the Vikings.  No!  I was just like the Paleo-Indians!  A real historical figure of great courage, I was!

After all those weeks of riding, I can now authoritatively say that, while I missed Wawa, Southern convenience stores are wonderful in their own right.  There seemed to be more Mom N' Pop style stores along the way, especially down in Mississippi and Alabama, which meant I even found some homemade food, something you don't see too often in the Northeast.  Also, the non-chain stops seemed to have less of a focus on cleanliness and more of a focus on self-service, an upgrade in expedience that I will take in a non-third world country.  Hmm... those may not be selling points for a lot of you.  If not, here are what I consider the three biggest:

1. Hannah's Pickled Eggs - If any one thing can be used to gauge your depth within the South, I believe it's the availability of Hannah's Pickled Eggs (Hannah's Pickled anything, really, as there is no shortage of Pickled Sausages and Pickled Pigs Feet).  While tough to find in the Carolinas, once you venture into the deeper South (AL, MS), any self-respecting convenience store will have an open 5-gallon jug of individual retail, pink, pickled eggs, with Hannah's being the most common option.  And next to that jug will be either a box of cheap sandwich bags or a stack of hotdog trays in which to put your selected eggs.  If you're lucky, there will also be a set of tongs for fishing them out.  If you're not lucky, there will instead be a layer of hand-dirt floating along the meniscus.  Regardless of the self-service pickled egg delivery system that you're presented with, be assured that if you can find a jug of Hannah's in your travels, it will be a good day.
   
   

   

   AmericanFoodsGroup.com



2. Pimento Cheese Sandwiches - I am certain that even the most atheistic vegan would agree that Pimento Cheese is a gift directly from God.  For those not in the know, Pimento Cheese is a delicious salty, cheesy spread that can be delivered via any bleached carb, with white bread being my preference.  The best part about Mom N' Pop shops is that there's a good chance that they'll make and package their own sandwiches, with each recipe just a little different along the way (and with none providing any real nutritional value).  This means you can eat a Pimento Cheese sandwich every day on tour and never get the same one twice.  This is why Pimento Cheese is commonly referred to as the Snowflake of the South.
   
   

   

   FoodNetwork.com



3. Long Boys and Uncle Al's Planks - These last two entries were impulse buys at a check-out, and they did not disappoint.  Long Boys are just tootsie rolls made of toasted coconut rather than chocolate.  Planks are just thin vanilla cookies with different flavored icing, strawberry and lemon being my two favorites.  They are both delicious treats, and each is elegant in its simplicity.  That's right, I called them elegant.  I can do that because I'm a gourmet.
   
   

   

   OldTimeCandy.com

   

   BudsBestCookies.com

This would not be a fair and balanced review if I didn't tell you about the negatives.  My only culinary disappointment was the complete lack of self-serve pickled okra.  As an okra fan, I really wish there had been open jugs of pickled okra just sitting out.  Other than that, Southern Convenience Store Food gets a great big high five of approval followed up by a complicated series of hand slaps and fist bumps.

Weak Kneed Trainees: Titanium Stabilizers Required

Day 6 - Sept. 21, 2016 - Indian Springs State Park > A.H. Stephens State Park

The RV guy was friendlier, well, far less suspicious at least, in the morning.  I never met his wife, so it may have been a Norman Bates situation in that mobile home, but in any case, his wife or him in a wig seemed to have cooled down a bit after a good night's sleep.  If getting out into nature can't take your edge off, maybe it's time for an entire life re-evaluation.  There is no shame in take some time off in a mental wellness facility for some real rest and relaxation.  They'd even have a chance to talk with professionals about how to make their overall life more enjoyable.  How to cope with the day to day without living in fear and on the brink.  I mean, trees can only do so much.

After giving him a peace offering of a Philly Bike Tours sticker (he could slap it on the golf cart parked behind his RV), I headed back to my site to pack up.  While breaking down my tent and stuffing my odds and ends into assorted sacks and panniers, the real campground hosts rolled up.  They were a retired couple, and the husband was quick to loudly apologize for the shenanigans of the night prior.  He said that the RV across the way housed two overzealous trainees who didn't quite get how everything worked yet.  I don't know if the trainees could hear him over their air conditioning, but it wasn't for lack of trying on the host husband's part.  They then said to swing up to their site before I left to pay, as they didn't have change in their golf cart.

Once I was all packed and hitched, I climbed back out of the park to their site.  Like the ACOE camps, the State Parks had been mostly designed with RVs in mind.  Getting out of camp was a slow crawl with tired legs.  An unnoticeable ascent for a car, though.  Should be some sort of effort-based discount for bikes, right?

The campground hosts gave me big smiles and waves as I came up.  As they made change for my overpriced campsite (more on that in a later post), we talked about camping and hosting.  They were avid campers and enjoyed hosting as an extension of that.  Apparently, Southern state parks could get quite competitive for hosting spots, as Canadians pour down to escape their cold weather later in the season.  This couple already had other plans for their winter, though.  They were going to be snowmobiling through the Black Hills once the winter set in.  It was safe to say they were far more adventurous than the trainees parked across the street.  How many folks do you know that spend their retirement blasting down snow-packed horse trails in southwestern South Dakota?  Heck, that even sounds a bit much for me, with the low temperatures and the high chances of slamming into a tree at 60mph.

What made this even more incredible to me was the fact that the whole time they recounted their past adventures and future plans to me, the husband was being held up by a pair of titanium legs.  He clearly didn't let them slow him down, and he wasn't shy about bringing them up.  Since he wasn't shy, I had questions.

Apparently he had lost them because of a fall.  Not directly from the fall, but due to complications resulting from the fall.  He'd fallen off of a ladder or building while working (I really wish I'd written this all down somewhere) a few years back, and had landed on his legs, breaking them both.  Based on a minuscule amount of research on my part, it sounds like he had a tibial shaft fracture, which sounds ungodly painful.  So the impact sent a lengthwise fracture up each of his tibia and/or fibula, requiring multiple surgeries to attempt to repair the damage.  After the first rounds of surgery, while he gained some mobility, the pain was still unbearable.  After the next few round, it was still terrible.  Eventually, it seemed he wouldn't be able to get rid of his pain without getting rid of his legs.  Presented with the choice between a life filled with pain and a life with metal legs, he took the metal legs.  And that was that.  No more pain, and with some rehab and practice, he was back at a point where, in his 60's, he was snowmobiling through South Dakota and camphosting around the country.  It was inspiring to say the least.  He saw the loss of two limbs as an obvious solution to a problem rather than as a life changing dismemberment and appeared to have zero regrets after making the decision.  Apparently "practical" and "fearless" don't need to be on opposite sides of the personality spectrum.

After saying my goodbyes and receiving well-wishes, I hit the road, only getting lost briefly as I tried to find Route 42.  Flovilla, GA isn't a bustling metropolis, but apparently it has a middle school that takes day trips to the state park.  It's impossible to seem like you're not lost when riding a bicycle full of orange bags past a classworth of 8th graders a second time in less than ten minutes.  No.  I'm not from these parts.

My day was spent mostly in or around state or federally protected land, something I wasn't used to down South.  I'd started in Indian Springs, moved through Piedmont National Wildlife Refuge, over Lake Oconee (with its $500/night Ritz Carlton) which fed into the Oconee National Forest, and eventually reached A.H. Stephens State Park.  Georgia felt like a shift into a different kind of South.  The humidity lowered, the timezone changed, and State and National Parks started reappearing, which meant no more ACOEs.  My only fear with this shift was that there would be no more pickled eggs.  I'd miss that South.

A.H. Stephens was situated in Crawfordville, a town that could be missed mid-blink, which was were I made a pre-camp Dollar General run.  I don't know that I'd ever been inside a Dollar General prior to this tour, and I seemed to be stopping there every other day by now.  Stocked, I headed into camp.  I knew this experience would be better than the last one just based on the fact that the entrance bore a sign that read something like: "If arriving after 5pm, please check-in in the morning."  Oh good.  This State Park shouldn't have crazy town trainees up my ass.

I was loving these late summer Southern parks.  Per the usual, my site was in a very unpopulated campground.  There was one site occupied by someone on a motorcycle tour and another site much further off with an RV, but aside from that, I had the place to myself.  At the nearly $30 per night they were charging for tent campers, I'd have rather had the entire place to myself.  And maybe a nice hot tub waiting for me.  Was that too much to ask?

A.H. Stephen's State Park Bathroom (Courtesy of GAStateParks.org)

Before I wrapped up dinner, another car pulled into the campground loop, parking in front of the "Comfort Station" (bathroom).  It was a family of four, and they weren't there for camping.  We chatted for a bit, and it turned out that they were from Crawfordville and their electricity had recently been shut off.  Without a functional water heater, they were running up to the state park at night to make sure their kids could still take hot showers.  It was good to be reminded there are worse things in life than $28 campground fees...

Motel Camping in State Regulated Wilderness

Day 5 - Sept. 20, 2016 - Columbus, GA > Indian Springs State Park

Econolodge served as a great reminder of why I shouldn't take camping for granted.  The air conditioning was nice, don't get me wrong, but the whole place just felt like, well, people.  And people are kinda the opposite of nature.

When I first opened the door to my room, I found a sheetless mattress angled awkwardly on top of a cheap box spring.  The next room they gave me had sheets, as well as a broken toilet seat and a fridge that dumped cold air out of a broken door (which I promptly unplugged).  People done been here.  Mhm.

At least it had a continental breakfast.  I was going to need to load up if I was planning on riding over 100 miles to Indian Springs State Park.  What Econo lacked in fresh fruit, I made up for in mini lemon poppy muffins, everything bagels, reconstituted OJ, and burnt coffee.  I'd say I easily got my $2 worth.

Cooled down, cleaned off, and carbed up, I was ready for the start of the northward leg of my journey.  As I started on my way out of Columbus, I was extremely excited to note that the humidity level had dropped markedly.  I didn't know if it was a temporary thing or if it the dog days were done, but I was going to enjoy it for what it was.  After four days of miserably damp air, this dryness could've been the precursor to a 100 year drought and I'd still have been thankful.  My rash was even more thankful.  I'd named him Bumpy.

Not too much to report from the road, other than a large bug getting lodged in my eye near sundown.  This was the one draw back to evening riding.  I wore sunglasses all day long, unwittingly protecting myself from airborne bug assaults while wittingly protecting myself from UV assaults.  Once the sun had started to set, I pulled off my shades, and sure as shit, a bug went flying directly into my right eye.  I quickly slammed Tibor to a halt and frantically tried to pull the critter out while standing along the side of the road.  A minute or so later, a Jeep pulled over, the driver concerned for the safety of the cyclist desperately pawing at his eyeball.  After a quick check-in, the driver went back into their Jeep, came back with a Q-Tip, and pulled that bug out of the inside corner of my eye.  What can I say?  Eye always rel-eye on the k-eye-ndess of strangers.  Eye.

After 102 miles and 3,700' of climbing, I reached Indian Springs around 11pm.  Not too bad for someone as pokey as myself.  The campground was closed due to the late hour, so I sidestepped the gate and checked out the map of the grounds.  I found a site close to a shower and headed off.  Passing through, I could see that the State Park was mostly vacant, with the occasional RV-occupied site.  This late in the season I wouldn't likely be running into many people, especially not after the sun set and the bugs came out.  As much as I loathe mosquitoes, they at least serve that purpose well.

This is the photo they have up for "Camping" on the Indian Springs website... (Courtesy of GAStateParks.org)

I found my spot and pulled in, leaning my fully loaded bike against the picnic table while I started to make a quick, late night dinner of bagged noodles.  Moments later, a light went on in the RV to the left of the showers.  A few moments after that, the door of the RV swung open and a large man in his mid-40s lumbered down the little stairs and came across the road to my camp, flashlight in hand.  I guessed that he really liked noodles.

I was wrong.  He didn't care about my noodles, he cared about what the hell I was doing coming into camp so damn late.  Assuming he was the campground host, because who else would imagine running over to a new camper and grilling them in the middle of the night, I told him that I had been riding all day and that this was the fastest I could get here.  I added that it usually isn't a problem since I make very little noise, what with my bicycle being human powered.  He eyed me very suspiciously and then asked where my friend was.  Confused, I told him I didn't have any friends, well, not that I didn't have any friends, just that I didn't arrive with any friends nor would any friends be joining me.  I was riding solo.  He said he was going to have to talk to the campground hosts to see if I could stay.  Who the F was this guy if he wasn't the campground host?

After a quick call to the hosts from his camper, he came back to let me know I could stay but that I had to pay the hosts in the morning.  Losing a bit of his gruff edge, he explained that when I'd ridden in, I'd awoken his wife (I have no idea how this is possible).  She then woke him up and told him that two motorcycles had pulled into camp and that she wanted him to come over to investigate.  I'm assuming that once he walked over and found neither a motorcycle nor a second rider, he started to question the concerns of his wife.  He said he was going back to bed and that I needed to make sure to keep it down so I didn't wake his wife anymore.  I didn't know how to get to a lower decibel, as that would dip into the range of anti-sound.

I didn't know if this was any better than the Econolodge.  Motels, for better or worse, don't act like they're something they're not.  They're cheap, dirty, and reek of people, some of which are there for unsavory reasons (see Day 3).  It's just what they are, and if I get something better than that, it's a pleasant surprise.  State Parks, on the other hand, are supposed to provide connections to nature.  Fresh air, open space, and the white noise of nighttime cricket chatter.  So when I get to a State Park and find that my neighbors, who are in the safety and comfort of their mobile motel room, have the audacity to question my intentions as I roll in with no more than can fit on my bike, it kinda gets me riled up.  Here they are, telling themselves they're campers getting in touch with nature, but they're really just a bunch of scared little suburbanites so far removed from real danger that they need to whip up imaginary scares in order to feel like they're living.  Kinda made me wish a murderer would show up in the middle of the night.  Jerk-ass RV people.