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.

Furry 5K: Doggo Volunteer Day

On Sunday, we volunteered at the finish line of the Furry 5K, a fun run/walk around Seward Park that raises money for the animals at the Seattle Animal Shelter.  Normally, 5Ks are way boring because they're just a bunch of people running three miles and who cares about that, but this one has doggos running too and that's way better!  So many doggos!

The Finish Line was the best job because we got to give water to puppos and their people after they just finished running, so they couldn't be happier to see us.  More importantly, the puppos had gone at least twenty minutes without being petted, so by the Finish Line, they were ready for some serious hands-on attention.  We also had purple tennis balls for all the doggos.  They were some happy doggos.  Doggos!

Anyway, less talko, more doggo:

Fast Finisher #1

Fast Finisher #2

Doggo Cool Down

Ermahgerd Cool Down

Babushka Sobachka

Leisure Crew Part 1

Leisure Crew Part 2

Big Doug

Should you ever find yourself in the Seattle area during the time of the Furry 5K, I would strongly encourage entering it or helping out. And if you're not in the Seattle area, I strongly encourage you to look into the events your local shelters are having to see how you can help out.  Doggos and kittehs can't always help themselves, but maybe you can because you're so strong.

Goodbye, Omar

I've only been gone from Philly for less than a week, so the feelings that come with a major upheaval haven't really had a chance to set in.  There are still far too many new things to do and see for me to spend too much time missing what I remember.  I miss my friends, an inevitability that's difficult to prepare for, but I'm meeting new people.  I miss my old neighborhood, which was the best in Philly, but I just found out there's a pump track less than a mile from my front door so that's pretty rad.  I miss flat city roads, which I clearly took for granted, but my buns are now in the process of turning to steel.  I know there are going to be moments when I miss my old home a lot, so I'm just going to enjoy all the new as much as I can as a way to build enough momentum to carry me over any upcoming rough roads of remembrance.  That said, my first stumble was an unexpected one.

Philly was home for a long time, West Philly, specifically.  West Philly is not for everyone.  There aren't as many restaurant options, even fewer bars and venues, and the only way in is up a hill (I was going to mention its distance from other neighborhoods, but Fishtown is far as hell and people go up there all the time).  But what West Philly lacks in those big city amenities, it makes up for with its small community charm.  Backyard hangs around a fire pit, impromptu events in Clark Park (Bluegrass to Fire Spinning to Slip n Slides), and probably most importantly, colorful neighbors intertwined in surprising networks.  The degrees of separation between you and your neighbors is at most two to three, building unexpected friendships in short time.

On Wednesday, West Philly lost one of its most colorful and socially interwoven (for better or worse) neighbors: Omar.  West Philly Omar, with many other nicknames depending on the company, was a staple in the neighborhood, mostly floating around Locust St. between 43rd and 45th.  Anyone that stopped by Abyssinia or Fiume even once would know him.  For anyone who hasn't and doesn't, Omar was, in simplest terms, a local homeless man that never seemed too low on energy to talk to a passersby.  But he was a lot more than homeless, and he may not have even been that (according to some).  He was a drunken berater, a sober wordsmith, a slurred poet, a clear eyed advisor, a racist asshole, a friendly face, and above all in my experience, a record of the neighborhood.  He was a living embodiment of the good and the bad that are West Philadelphia.

Omar (Kyle Cassidy - Philly.com)

I found out about his death on Facebook, and the responses therein varied widely.  Omar was not a simple person.  People loved him for good reason.  People hated him for good reason.  I liked Omar.  He was always nice to me, but I can't speak to the experiences other people had.  He seemed to always be at his worst when drunk, and I can't tell you why someone that could be so eloquent when sober would want to get so wretchedly drunk each night, but my assumption is that he was either numbing pain or stopping voices.  I never asked.

When I read about his death, it hit me a lot harder than I could have ever expected.  It felt like losing a close friend or family member, of which Omar was neither, and I wasn't quite sure why.  Then it sunk in that Omar wasn't just Omar; he was the West Philly that I'd just left and now couldn't go back to because it/he was dead.  My brain was being dramatically symbolic, I know, but hear me out.  Omar was the neighbor that everyone knew and who knew everyone.  That was my West Philly experience.  Everyone knows each other, even if they don't all like each other, and that's why it works.  There is social glue to hold everything together.  And I say this as I'm currently not looking forward to battling the Seattle Freeze, thinking about how the friendly, open, neighborliness of West Philly, or at least the biggest symbol of it, is gone.  

More personally, though, Omar was the last West Philadelphian I saw as I left town, which carried a lot of weight.  As I thought about that fact, I realized that Omar had quite literally book ended my Philadelphia life.  It starts a tad convolutedly, but my first good friend in Philly was Jon.  We lived on the same floor in the dorms and eventually became roommates.  Our freshman year, Jon had friends going to Penn, and through them I was first introduced to Omar (pointed out from across the street).  When I left Philadelphia last week, while driving up 45th St. with a carload of life, Omar was standing on the corner (probably the same corner that I first saw him on) having a conversation.  I hollered out the window, "Hey, Omar!  I'm moving to Seattle," and then kept driving north, past The Second Mile, past Saad's, past Philadelphia.  He was my last human proxy for an entire city.  And now he's gone.

Day 4 of the Rash Ride

Day 4 - Sept. 19, 2016 - Gunter Hill ACOE > Columbus, GA

After waking up feeling pretty good the past few days, with the exception of wax face and puff lip, I was surprised to wake up dead tired after a good night's sleep.  Maybe I'd gotten too much sleep.  Was I so well rested that my body was confused and thought I was tired again?  Or had my body in days prior been trying valiantly to protect my mind from the truth this whole time?  Hiding from me the truth that riding long summer days in the Deep South is a terrible idea and that the heat and humidity were going to be my undoing, leaving me dead in a ditch, succumb to heat exhaustion.  Nah, probably just slept too much.

The sky above was still crystal clear, but the clothing I'd set out the night prior didn't seem to be any less damp than when I'd initially hung them from the picnic table to dry.  Come to think of it, those clothes were about as damp as the air that hung all around the camp.  If that summer sun couldn't dry the air, how was it supposed to dry anything else?  Clearly, the sun was broken.  With the state of the Southern economy, though, there was no chance it was getting fixed any time soon.

Humidity wasn't going to get me down today, though.  Sure, my chest was as rashy as ever and the best adjective to describe my body was chafed, but I had an ace up my sleeve.  I was going to be sleeping in a motel tonight.  My next stop was a Motel 6 that was 108 miles away in Columbus, GA (I couldn't find any camping in the general area).  It was going to be a long ride, but at least it was going to end in the glory of climate control.

Three nights of ACOE campgrounds had been great, but I really needed a chance to wash and properly dry my clothing.  The damp shirt, socks, and drawers that were laying out on that table had a dank basement smell to them that just wouldn't go away.  The clothes I'd put on that morning weren't much better.  Everything was just getting funky.  I still had about 300 miles to my midway layover in South Carolina.  If I didn't dry out at least once before then, I might have a real problem on my hands.  And every other part of me covered in skin.  I would be a giant fungal infection.

It was another long day of mostly highway.  Aside from the weather, the riding options were another big reason I wouldn't recommend a Southern tour.  I was either stuck on busy highways with tiny, rumbly shoulders or on poorly maintained side roads guarded by unleashed dogs.  I was happy to be riding, though, if only to never have to wonder again about what it's like to ride in the South.

The only highlight of the day was a one-man dance party (OMDP) outside of Tuskegee.  He had more moves than teeth, and when I rode by he greeted me with a huge, gummy smile and a "hey there!"  I said, "hey, dancing machine!"  He said, "alright," and that was the highlight of my day.

As I approached Columbus, I realized two things.  1) Georgia is in the Eastern Timezone.  I was about to lose an hour, and 2) I was really tired.  Instead of riding to the east side of town, I cut about ten miles off of my ride and bagged it at an Econolodge around mile 97.  It was midnight and I was dead tired.  I was already going to have a big day ahead of me tomorrow, why not tack on another ten miles to it?  Well, because that would make tomorrow harder is why not, but "today" me was only looking out for number one.  Also, my nipple bandaids had fallen off about an hour ago and I was not feeling great about that.

That night I hung clothes and equipment on every available hanging surface in the hopes that the stank of the swampy summer south could be aired out.  Then I cranked the AC and fell asleep hoping for the best.

I Moved

I was driven to Philly in 1999 with everything I needed in a single carload, and I'd be leaving the city the exact same way almost 18 years later.  A little longer of a drive to Seattle, though.

Having driven cross country a handful of times and ridden across once, I wasn't too interested in making stops along the way.  I just wanted to get to Seattle and have the drive be done with.  Another reason I didn't really want to make stops was that I didn't want to leave my car (with almost all of my worldly possessions) and the three bicycles racked to the back of it unattended for too long.  I'd only recently gotten Tibor back and I wasn't ready to lose him again.  So instead of making it a 2,800 mile sight seeing leisure tour, I turned it into a grueling marathon of discomfort.  I really don't recommend that approach.  I also don't recommend riding your bicycle on Interstate 70, but sometimes you don't really have a choice.

While I had made the decision to not make stops, I wasn't going to let that prevent me from seeing new sights.  That in mind, I chose the Northern Tier as my route.  I'd never been to North Dakota as an adult (but I love South Dakota), only been around Glacier National Park in Montana (and it was gorgeous), and had never been to northern Idaho (I heard it was like Montana).  There was no way around the boring start of PA > OH > IN > IL, but at least I was giving myself something to look forward to for the second half of the drive.

Google Maps said I had about 43 hours of driving ahead of me.  Looking at my overloaded Chevy HHR with an early-80's Sears X-Cargo roof rack and the three aforementioned bikes hanging from the rear, I assumed a few more hours would tack themselves on while driving below the speed limit in order to keep my RPMs out of the red.  At most, like 48 hours of driving, right?  I could knock that out in three days.  Totally.  Truckers do it all the time.  I hopped into my car a little before 10:30am EDT on Wednesday.

A little over 74 hours and 3 gallons of coffee later, I pulled into Seattle, my ankles swollen like a pregnant lady's and my roof top carrier an insect graveyard.  Exhausted and atrophied, I peeled myself off of the front seat, happy to know that the trip was finally over and I could finally elevate my legs.  I really had no idea the whole ankle thing could happen.  I'd been sleeping in my car at rest stops, and all that sitting must have trapped a ton of fluid down low.  Like wearing squishy ankle weights.

Bug splatter spanning ten states.

Aside from the ankle issue, here are some other things I learned:

• If you know anyone in Minneapolis, you'll see them no matter how briefly you're in the city.
• Pickled eggs are just as good in the far north as they are in the deep south.
• North Dakota is proud of its oil.  They have postcards saying so.
• Fargo is the halfway point between Philly and Seattle, that's why they're all sister cities.
• Ronna and Beverly are the best.
• There are Badlands in Montana, not just the Dakotas.
• Wisconsin has tall rock formations that I assumed could only be found around Utah, but I'd forgotten about glacial lakes.

Anyway, now that the drive is done, I'm a Seattleite.  Come visit.