Friendly towns and the town of friendly people

I waited out the downpour before leaving Orangeburg. It was an easy 16 miles to Bowman. Almost as soon as i left town the landscape flattened out. I was closing on the coast for sure, and it felt good. As i pedaled I was on the lookout for a place to make camp. I would spot a place and mark the mileage on the speedometer. If I didn't find anything better before hitting town I would grab something to eat and then pedal back to the spot.

But Bowman S.C, just as Bowman G.A some 350miles Northwest, had a city park. Clean and welcoming with restrooms and bandstands. I rejoiced in this good fortune as much of my kit was damp or sodden. I wasted no time in setting my pan for food and stringing up my kit to dry for a couple of hours. It was a wet day, who would mind me doing this? Nobody as it turns out. I was almost uninterrupted. If I ever meet a girl with the surname Bowman, or go to work for Bowman Inc. i will know that I am on to a winner!

Dawn and some sun crept through. The tent was pretty much dry and I had used one of those handwarmer heat pockets to dry the inside of my sleeping bag overnight. It worked a treat!
So I set off for the town of St George. The chain squeaked and I should re-oil after the rain. It'll wait until I stop again. the road is flat and now I average 20mph. Up by over 20% on my average speed at the start of this tour, despite the cold, tired muscles.
I have never considered myself an Athlete. Athletic- yes, but not an Athlete in the sense that I see myself dedicating any length of time to becoming faster or stronger. Which is a false appreciation because in all sports I play, I try to keep improving.
i think it's the term that needs debunking. The term Athlete is heard most often on the TV, applied to persons aiming for a pinnacle of sporting success, and if it's on TV it's in the public eye. It gives rise to the idea that to be an athlete you must aspire to compete at the highest level. Which puts goals out of reach for us.

As I said when I had just set off, goal-setting was important but to focus solely on the imagined end is counter-productive. Often this end seems unattainable, unreachable, and we risk devaluing the path and subsequently any success we do have. Or alienating people from trying to achieve altogether.
I can see the finish line now but to rush toward it without pausing would be to miss the beauty on the way. Namely Charlston and Savannah.

I will share a story of an athlete i met, with whom we might all relate better, than to the national idols we watch on TV. I met the South African Paraolympic 100m sprint champion in a dirty kebab house in Central Manchester one night in 2007. He was drunk and making an amusing pass at my friend. Technically he was the 100m record holder but he wasn't allowed to compete, despite applying, in the Olympics as his artifical legs were classed as a technological advantage. Or something to that effect.
So here, throwing back a lager and dropping sweaty kebab meat all over himself, was a different way to achieve success. I'm not urging promising sprinters to chop off legs, but trying to show how becoming an athlete does not have to follow a singular path, and is closer to everyday reality than you may think.
I can already hear myself telling young athletes that the key to success is not whether you win or lose the Sophomore year long-jump final, but that enjoying it enough to not lose faith in sport is far more important.

I bumped my numb butt into St George past a sign that read 'St George- town of friendly people'. It was accurate too.

Battleship Grey

The tour is taking its toll. My legs are weary and the weather isn't helping. Is cold and dispiriting and last night I made a silly mistake. Pitching hurriedly in the dark I lay out my emergency blanket for extra insulation, forgetting it had been at the bottom of a wet 'dry' bag. Now the foot end of my sleeping bag is damp and the tent is hardly dry.
Coupled with knowing I wanted to make better headway this galvanized me to get up at dawn. And into the fog. Back inside I lay down again for 45 minutes until the day had properly broken. Fog, low light and early morning vehicles seemed a step to close to danger.
Still, I was away shortly after 7.30. The sky was a brooding battleship grey and even after the mist had lifted, what was left were miserable low clouds. Then, 15 miles outside of Orangeburg the heavens opened. I sucked it up and carried on. If I stopped now in the rain my muscles would seize in the cold.
By 10.30 the downpour had stopped and cycling along I was drying out okay. I grabbed yoghurt pretzels and spare batteries for the lights I had used constantly and made it to the city library by 11. A quick change and brush of the teeth and I set down. Here we are, almost up to date again! Its not as easy as it was in Georgia, and pics are a no-go, but I will let you know when I do manage to add them in.

Once inside I look around.Everyone is black. you may expect me to feel strange but not a chance. I won't pretend I grew up in a ghetto. I did have amulti-cultural school with large Italian, Irish, Indian and Polish attendence, but it was still predominantly white British.
Dangerous ground, this address of race? No. It would be if I were a fool or sought to be judgemental. I am neither although strictly speaking that is for you to decide.
Two things occur to me:

1. This is a library. All who enter tend to share a common purpose that is beyond creed or colour.
2. My impression of a person is never formed on appearance. I won't say I don't joke or notice, to coin a phrase, 'the book cover' but ultimately the cover is of no use to me at this level of interaction. (Other levels, in case you wonder, would include finding someone attractive. Then the cover matters and it would be foolish to insist otherwise)

But we are too afraid of difference. everyone in here has a different cultural heritage to me. Not solely because they are black. They are American as well, and many are female.
Difference can be celebrated as long as it doesn't reach a level of ethnic exclusion in everyday life.

Let me give you an example: The European government is currently trying to pass legislation that will make it impossible to distinguish between gender. I'm sure you can see some good reason behind this. I can too. However there are limits to well-meaning. Lets put this current issue in context:
In Britain we insure the DRIVER, not the vehicle (it's different in the US). This has resulted in female drivers being given lower premiums because statistically they are safer. A difference.
To try and remove differences represents ridiculous devolution. By all means, literally, we should remove discrimination but that is an issue apart. Linked, but crucially separable. I'll say no more, but you can bet your ass insurance for girls will go up to match the guys rather than the other way around. Social benefit? Ha!

Charlotte and Beyond

I didn't want to cycle through the city but it really was the only reasonable choice. Again, I forgot my camera. This time it was with me, but I was too busy concentrating on my route, traffic and for the first time, pedestrians.
I made good headway, and by the end of the day had pedaled 80 miles. And the rain had held off. I was just looking for camping, when Boom!
The crap on the road had caused a tire to blow. Not a puncture as nothing had gone through, but pressure from the useless (pronounced dangerous) roadsurface and the speed I was carrying. It took an hour to fix, and the self adhesive patches- rubbish. In the end I stuck with what I knew and that has held perfectly since. Problem resolved, I found shelter and got my head down.

The following day was torturous. Rather than pedal through Columbia, South Carolina's capital, I sought to go around. Mistake.
This lead straight into high country again, and truly abysmal roads. Even cars were avoiding the broken and pitted crevasses in the asphalt now. I couldn't afford to put on any speed for fear of a repeat blow-out. this means I hammered the brakes and if your brakes run too hot for too long, the air in the tyre is heated, another cause of blown inner tubes.

Somehow (pedaling virtually non-stop all day) I managed another 70 miles and got out of the dread zone. At least it was sunny, if chilly. When I spotted Woodsmoke campsite, I dove straight in. Never mind I hadn't quite made Lexington and there was light left in the day. The landlady made me very welcome, albeit for a princely $23. America- In England a tent is often only $10/night. Still, I could relax. Instinct was to prove right once again.

The campsite had a pond with a little bridge over it and a space with a bench in the middle of the bridge.I spent a happy hour stretching, reading, writing and musing before a long hot shower and dinner.

The following morning I awoke to a high wind, a loud crack and a thump. Whatever had fallen out of or off the tree was heavy and had landed close! But I had paid and I wasn't getting up in the rain. Having pitched well i was comfortablewaiting until nearly noon. Stubborn stupidity perhaps.
Maybe if the wind hadn't seemed satisfied with just a warning, and then died down, I would have thought twice.

Leaving late, I only made 15 miles and having finally found the huge and very comfortable Lexington Library, it would be dark before I pitched up. The librarians were a pleasure to talk with and so helpful, i was loathe to leave. The place was open until 8 after all! In theend I'm glad I did, simply so that I got another 20 miles under my belt and didn't feel I had wasted a day.

Surprise Party

Thursday was spent mooching round downtown Charlotte. Of course, I forgot my camera, but it was remarkably clean. I can think of 2 reasons why:

1. America has trash bins all over the place, and they look nice. They also have separate stainless steel pyramids for cigarette butts. I know why England doesn't, and it's not a good enough reason. A determined terrorist will hide a bomb, even if we don't have bins.
2. No pigeons. Or birds really. Downtown was free of droppings, and those ugly spikes that keep pigeons from roosting.

Katy sent Rob on an errand into their bedroom and whispered to me while he was out of the way- would I be around on Friday night? She was organising a surprise birthday party. Sure I was around!
All I had to do was keep Rob busy a while and not give the game away. Chris would call around 4.30 to meet for a drink and we would leave the apartment. Meanwhile, Katy, under the pretext of working late, would marshall the folks and lay on beers and food.
From our side, it couldn't have gone smoother- apart from being a pleasure to talk with Chris and Rob, all we had to do was pretend that we truly wanted to be in the bar...
At 7 Katy called to say she was 'home' and back we went. Rob was genuinely surprised and delighted! From my point of view, it was a success and I behaved. Right up until we left the flat again and hit the jellied shots. Then it gets hazy.

Saturady was recovery, and sunday was second recovery. And change of plans day. I was undecided about the best way out of Charlotte. I was going to hire a car, but that proved too much hassle.

Meating with Rob

Yeah i spelt it fine...
The next morning Joe's dad put me on a lovely road to Lincolnton, and despite it not quite being finished! (the workers waved a mere bicycle through) it was a real blast. In lincolnton I text Rob and he was already home. Happy that I had time to spare I stopped for a rest in 36th Street cafe. Here I started chatting with Holly.
After a time conversation led me to ask about her beautiful tattoo. Sure enough it had a story behind it. I won't relate it here for it isn't my tale to tell, but Holly's. It was the manner in which she told me that has stayed with me a week now. Sometimes we believe that words convey all the meaning you need. Not so. Here was an example of how the words didn't even hint at the true nature of her tale. It was the timbre of voice and profundity in the telling. We lack great tellers of tales this days. You can hear it when a great narrator opens up a film and you know you are in for a good time. Holly clearly didn't choose to talk of this with many, and she skirted detail with me. Nonetheless I felt honoured and that enough had been said.

Then she said something that made me think. She viewed God as love, a spirit impartial and apart from human creation. It was the problem with religion today, that it is wielded by humans. That too stuck with me.
Incidently, whilst I don't believe in spirits (perhaps ghosts is a better word) I do often hold silent congress with what I will call an angel. It's not that I expect it to appear, but it is an alternate me, as though I were perfect and could achieve all things. Like a discourse with yourself if you will although I would prefer to call it the 'ghost of romantic reason', as it sounds less crazy and more poetic. Talking through a problem with this ideal in mind has helped a few times.

Seems reasonable! Bet Curson could give them to me for free though!

After leaving Lincolnton, I made it to Rob's in a dreadful rush hour, and met Katie, his wife. they have only been married 6 months or so, and I hadn't seen Rob in years. After I insisted on a shave, and several lacerations later, we went for a meal. Rob asked me to choose and after days of Tuna and pedaling, Red MEAT was the only option. A good old steak! And it was good. Stories were swopped and the night grew late. We were the last ones sat in the bar, so we moved to the Kilted Buffalo (great if you're in the area) and carried the night on, plus Blaire our waitress, and th efour of us joined in disgraceful conversation tinged with awesome beers! I had expected American beer to be all lager. Not at all I'm delighted to say, and my favourite thus far has to be Blue Moon.

Tryon or Bust

After a peaceful night by the church I headed off an hour after dawn. I had a heck of a way to pedal over the next couple of days and needed to put some miles in this morning. The state of the roads and the frequent ascents were going to be additional challenges. Babyfood has been an interesting part of my diet. Those little glass pots you get keep well despite the heat, and contain a great boost to vitamins and iron.

I had arranged to meet Joseph, my next host, in Tryon. This was about 85 miles pedaling ahead. After 45 miles I was in need of a break and hunted for one. Unfortunately I had passed the best rest stop nearly 10 miles back. Nowhere I pedaled to was open. After resting on a bench outside another closed store, I pedaled onward. This had been a hot, grueling day and it was only 2:30pm and still heating up.

The dogs in South Carolina have been more aggressive. And not fenced in. Every few miles there will be one waiting to chase you, because they just aren’t used to seeing cyclists. Silly animals really, and maybe the owners should bear some blame. The larger dogs seem content with staying further away, but it’s the terriers that I worry for. They come right up and try for the ankles. One almost made it but a well-aimed jet of water shocked it to a standstill. The woman in the car behind had the temeritry to beep me for it. I have over 200lbs of weight running on maybe an inch diameter of tyre at 15mph+. If I hit one of these mutts, it will kill it. If one grabs my ankle, I can’t kick it off because I’m in the toestraps. It will just have its ass slapped round and round on the road as I pedal.

Pretty Saluda with its wrestlers!

I was within 20 miles of Tryon when a long gradient appeared ahead of me. Tired as I was I kicked on. There is nothing more demoralizing then having slowed too much that you cannot speed back up again on a shallow slope. I went for this hill like it meant a gold medal, and ran it at 20mph the whole way up. Round the corner, it continued to climb for 2 miles. When I crested I punched the air in celebration. My legs were burning but grateful that I had pedaled like all the dogs of the tour were at my heels. The slow option would have resulted in a walk. I haven’t yet resorted to that away from the cities.

The jubilation was short-lived. Somewhere on that hill or the following mile, a bump had finally done damage, and I looked between my legs for the source of the metallic patter coming from behind me. The pannier rack had broken and the right pannier was brushing the spokes. Not conducive to safe cycling.

I knew that I was within 5 miles of the next town. Rather than try and repair in anger I sat by the unloaded bike and had something to eat. Calm would be a better state in which to make a repair. I laid everything in my repair kit out on the floor. In the end, paracord, superglue, strappel, duck tape and a cabletie were used. I have since improved this with a new system rigged to hold my orange drybag also aiding support of the rack. The repair has held so strong that I’m not even going to get a new rack. I may regret this but I have cycled a further 70 miles like this and it hasn’t budged.



The fix

 

But I’m getting ahead of myself…

I called Joe and he said that he would meet me at Campobello, saving me 10miles. I had just 6 miles left and I could rest. Easy!

Joe was a great bloke and he drove me up to Saluda, higher in the Blue Ridge Mountains. I would never have seen this place because reaching it on a bike would have been ridiculous!  

Whilst there, we encountered a lost female wrestler. She was looking for a competition and had the address written down. Problem was there wasn’t a 214 main street, Saluda. It was a small place! We wished her luck and parted ways, heading back to Joe’s place to meet his folks, who were also fantastic.

 



The view from my bed- Joe's mum's old dolls!



I'm picking new folk well at the moment. They live in Polk county- big for Golf and Horses, and in a small community Joe's father tells me everyone has heard of- Green Creek. Bet you know it!