Characters along the way

 

Laundromat in Iva, Apr. 7^t

 ^“The family^”

It was a really cold and rainy day when I pulled into Iva to eat lunch.  Last night it had poured and I had packed up that morning in the rain as well.  So after I ate I needed to find a laundromat to dry my tent, in addition, I had to do some laundry.  After making a few inquires I found the laundromat and pulled up.

 

I lugged my cargo bag off the trailer and walked in.  There were three other folks doing laundry and they looked at me like I had just stepped off a space ship.  It’s the biking clothes.  There is something about skin tight stretch lycra on a middle aged fat guy that just scares folks I think.  Anyway, when I started throwing my tent and rain fly in the big dryer they all decided to move down to the other side of the laundromat.  It did not take too long to realize they were a family; dad, mom and teenaged son.  Eventually they recognized I was not dangerous, only weird, and we began to talk about the war.  At that time the war was only three weeks old.  The conversation soon turned to me and what I was doing, and where I was headed, and all about my trip.  Everyone was interested in the trailer and the dad and son came out to look at it.  As we talked I learned that all three worked third shift at the “The Plant” in Calhoun Falls about 16 miles down the road.  The father’s father had worked at the plant as well.  Three generations, and now they wondered how much longer the plant would be there.   Before long my clothes were ready and we said goodbye.  That had been my first real conversation with someone in three days.

 

Fishing Village Mini-Mall in Plum Branch, Apr. 8^th

“The Englishwoman”

Today had been a nice ride as I continued down the South Carolina freshwater coast consisting of Lakes Hartwell, Russell, and Clarks Hill, all of them on the Savannah River.  I pulled into Plum Branch about lunch time and parked at the Fishing Village Mini-Mall.  The Mini-Mall’s name actually belies its size.  It is not any larger than a pantry type store, but it sure has a more eclectic array of stuff.  First thing is, it looks like a typical antique/junk store with the usual collection of useless stuff, but it is much more.   On one wall are three or four coin operated washing machines and dryers, and standing in front of them is a pool table complete with a couple of guys playing and drinking beer.  In the back is a lunch counter with a big hand written menu board on the back wall.  Taking up much of the lunch counter (so much you can’t sit there and eat) was an old electric train layout that looked has if it had not run in my life time.  Behind the counter was an Englishwoman that took my order.  She started talking as soon as I walked up.  She didn’t ask me much, but mainly gave me a chronological run down of her life.  I know she was from the Bath area of England.  I know she spent the night stranded in a snow storm once, while in northern England, wrapped in some old curtains she was bringing to her mum.  I know she’s divorced from her first husband.  I know I wanted to get out there.  It took me about 15 minutes of working my way to front door before I was able to break free and escape.  She was still talking when I rode off for Hamilton Branch.

 

 

Pantry in Clarks Hill, Apr. 9^th

 ^“The mountain man guy”

I usually try to make between 10 and 20 miles before I stop and take a break in the morning.  This morning though, it was misting rain and I had only gone about seven miles when I came to a country store in Clarks Hill.  I pulled in the dirt and gravel parking lot and leaned my rig against the wall and headed in.  As I stepped through the doors the first thing to hit me was the blue haze of stale cigarette smoke, quickly followed by a wave of fresh cigarette smoke.  I grabbed a pack of little powdered donuts (the breakfast of champions), a carton of orange juice and turned toward the register.  The little old lady behind the counter had a cigarette stuck between her lips with about an inch ash on it.  She had her head tilted to one side as the smoke rolled up her cheek, into her squinted eye, and circled her head like a halo.   I paid my money and quickly headed back outside.  The cool mist was much better than the stale smoke of the store.  

 

As I leaned against my bike eating donuts between gulps of orange juice a big chevy pickup truck came sliding to a stop.  It was hand painted camouflage with a rag stuffed in the gas tank for a cap, and the passenger side window was held together with duct tape.  The rear window had a gun rack with a rifle cradled in it.  The bed was full of chainsaws, axes, bush hooks and other logging type equipment.  From the inside of this truck stepped a man six inches taller than me, but 50 pounds lighter, dressed in jeans and a hunting jacket, with 3 inches of red mud stuck to the bottom of his boots.  He wore a hunting cap with the ear flaps turned up.  This cap was precariously perched on top of a full head of long, thick, bushy black hair that fell below his shoulders.  He had a long black beard to match his hair that would have made the guitar players in ZZ Top proud, and he was headed my way.

 

I stood there frozen with white sugar powder dusting my colorful riding jersey and dropping down on my lyrca, 8 panel, form fitting, anatomically molded, stretch biking shorts.  Biking clothes just do not project machismo, and I never felt so silly as right then with this mountain man looking guy coming my way. 

 

He started talking before he reached me and told me I was the second long haul bicycler he had seen that week.   He told me he had traveled all over the USA using his thumb and hopping freight trains.  He said he really envied my free life style and being able to go anywhere I wanted on my bike.  I decided then to just keep it to myself that I was only on vacation, and that I did this as an adventure.   He wished me well and turned and walked into the store with red mud squishing off his boots with every step.  A minute later he was headed for his truck with a pack of cigarettes in his hands.  Just before he pulled off he shouted to me to “be safe!”  I thought about this man a few times during my trip.  If he had been in that parking lot when I rode up I would not have stopped.  He was that hard looking.  I would have just kept on pedaling.  My first impressions were often wrong this trip.

 

 

Somewhere around Morgana, Apr. 9^th

“Dog number 1”

This was the first of my two dog encounters.  I had really been worried about country dogs.  I was afraid they would run me down and chew me up.  Around our area I have to carry pepper spray because of the many bad dogs we run into on a morning ride.  I figured in the countryside it would be even worse.  To my surprise almost all the dogs were either in fences or were chained up.  Except this one.

 

As I was climbing one of the many hills of the day I noticed a little country cottage about a ¼ of a mile back off the road, and connected to the road with a long curving dirt driveway.  About the time I spied the cottage, the big German Sheppard on the porch spied me.  He took off running towards the road and barking with a deep, deep bark, which foretold his size.  WOOF!-WOOF!-WOOF!  He was going full blast and I was now cranking up the hill at top speed.  It didn’t take me long to realize that we were both going to hit the end of that driveway at the same time.  And he was still coming.  Woof-—Woof—-Woof!  I checked my pepper spray and made sure I could grab it quick as the end of the driveway started to come into view.  It was then that big Sheppard rounded the bend in the drive.  woof-------woof-------woof.  He was big… and old…and completely pooped.  He had more grey hair than I did.  By the time he reached the end of the driveway he couldn’t even bark anymore.   He just stood there panting and watched me slowly ride away as he gave me one pathetic little woof.  I couldn’t help but sympathize with him.  The chase had worn him out.  I knew the feeling.

Somewhere between Graniteville and Aiken, Apr. 9^th

 “Three dudes”

Today had been a tough day.  The grade from Graniteville to Aiken had been a constant grind, and to top it off I had gotten lost earlier that morning and that required me to climb back up a hill I had ridden down.  It was with some relief that I was now enjoying a slight downhill grade even though I was riding through a rough looking community that made me a little nervous.  It wasn’t exactly seedy looking but it could use some paint and a good trash pick up.   As I leisurely pedaled down the slight grade I soon noticed three teenage black males walking towards me from the bottom of the hill.  When they noticed me they pointed and continued walking my way and then fanning out across the road.  One was on the left, one in the middle, and one on the right.   This definitely turned up my anxiety level.  I slowed down but continued to coast towards them as I tried to figure out what the heck they were doing.  As I got within 50 yards or so they all moved back to the left side of the road and watched me as I rolled towards them.   One yelled out to me when I passed; “Yo dawg, you looking fly for a white man”.   Had I just received a friendly salutation or had I been insulted?  I don’t have a clue.  They were all smiling as I went by.  I just answered with a “good morning”.  About that time the grade begin to get steeper and I picked up speed and was soon out of sight wondering just what the hell that was all about.

 

The far side of Aiken, Apr. 9^th

 “The Lady in the store”

What a day this had been.  Getting lost.  The hard climbs into Aiken.  The cold.  The threat of rain any minute.  I was glad I was finally through Aiken and headed to my stop for the night.  I had talked with two locals while in town and they had both recommended I take hwy 76 to Aiken State Park instead of the route I had planned, so that was what I was doing.  The road was flat and the wind was being blocked by the tree line, things were looking up.  That was good; because today had been the toughest day physically and mentally and I was beat when I pulled into a little country store to pickup something for supper.  When I walked into the store the lady behind counter started hopping up and down like she had just hit the lottery.  She told me she couldn’t believe it when I pulled up.  She had been taking her daughter to the day care that morning and she had seen me in Graniteville.  She said she told her daughter,”Look at that crazy man on that bicycle.”  Yeah.  That’s me.  The crazy man on the bicycle.  I think it was then that I knew if things didn’t get better fast I was going home.

 

 

Hardee’s in Barnwell, Apr. 11^th

Character One

As I leaned my bike trailer against the wall at Hardees I noticed a big, big man getting out of a pickup truck and start walking towards me.   It was obvious he worked construction by the look of his truck, with tool boxes hanging on the sides and an array of tool handles sticking out of the bed. He wore heavy jeans, boots and a work shirt and as he headed towards me I realized how big this guy was!  He was huge!  He looked like William “the refrigerator” Perry, and I felt somewhat relieved when he broke into a smile as he walked up.  He asked the usual questions about where I had come from and how long I been on the road.  He was really amazed at my trailer, and all the stuff I had packed on it.  He told me how much he enjoyed riding and how he wanted to get back  to riding seriously again.  He talked about his weight and how he thought riding would help him lose his “gut”.   He asked about the type bike I had and subsequently went on to tell he and his wife gave each other bicycles for Christmas.  He then told me they had only ridden them 2 miles since Christmas!  I couldn’t help but laugh as he headed into the restaurant and I finished locking up my bike.  Here it was the middle of April and they had only ridden 2 miles in 3 ½ months.  Maybe I motivated him to start back ridding.

Hardee’s in Barnwell, Apr. 11^th

Character two

After I had called Susan and arranged for her to get me in Barnwell I settled into my booth in Hardee’s and pulled out my Palm PDA and its attachable keyboard.  I then began writing my trip notes and thoughts for that day.  It was soon after that I noticed an elderly black gentleman watching me and trying to figure out what I was doing.  The word elderly attaches a sense of youth to him that was not there.  I should have used ancient.  He was thin and wore an old raincoat that just hung on him.  He also had on an old, worn fedora of the type my father wore in his younger days.  His hair was like cotton sticking from beneath his hat brim and his mustache was a thin grey line on his lip.  His face was weathered and his smile was bracketed with deep wrinkles on each side, and from his eyes an array of lines projected to the sides of his head.

 

 He was curious in what I was doing and I tried to show him.  It was obvious he did not know what a PDA was and I soon gave up trying to explain.  He had a strong low country dialect that was taking a lot of concentration to understand, so I folded up my Palm and put it away and we began to talk.  It seems his wife had passed away a long time ago, and he now came to Hardee’s every day and drank coffee and passed the day away.  We talked about a lot of things that day, including his car parked in the back parking lot.  He was proud of his car, and the fact that he was still able to drive it.  He also showed a lot of interest in my bike.

 

He was fascinated with the gears.  He had never ridden a bike with gears and was not sure you needed them.  He also assumed that my bike was my solitary means of transportation.  I told him my bike was for recreation and I had a truck at home for everyday transportation and he then went on to tell me he too had a truck, and how important a truck was to have.  He loved his car, but a truck was important for carrying things and moving stuff and so on.   That truck gave him independence he said.  He did not have to ask anyone to pick things up for him and he was proud of that.  It was then, as we sat together talking and looking at the cold rain coming down and dripping off my bike that was leaned against the window outside, that he turned to me and said; “I have a bicycle too.  Yes sir I do, but I don’t ride it in weather like this.  No sir.  Not in weather like this.”  I could not argue with that and there were too many times on the road after that, that I wish I would have listened to him. 

 

When Reece and Susan arrived to pick me up I was outside loading my stuff in the truck while Susan walked in to the restaurant.  When she came back out she told me that the black gentleman sitting in there had told her not to let me go riding my bike in the rain again.  I wish she had listened to him too.

 

 

Parking lot in Walterboro, May 17^th

“The Irishman”

I had planned to find a restaurant in Walterboro and sit down with my maps and cell phone and figure what my plans would be for this day.  After spending the worst night ever during this trip I did not want to go through that again with another storm coming, plus I was worried about camp site availability at Edisto.  As I rode past the fast-food chain places around the hwy 63 /I-95 intersection I held out for a nice restaurant in town.  As I rode the few miles into town I quickly realized there were no restaurants in downtown Walterboro.  This stunk.  I decided to pull into an empty parking lot on my route and I pulled out my map and started pondering.  As soon as I pulled in a man started walking towards me from across the street.  With his quick deliberate pace I thought maybe this was private property and he was going to send my spandex covered butt packing, but instead he wanted to know where I was headed.  I told him the plan was to go to Edisto and get a room for the night because of the forecast of thunderstorms.  He told me there were no day rentals in Edisto, only weekly and monthly rentals.  That made things a lot simpler.  I would head to Givhans Ferry instead.   This had been a contingence from the beginning in case of heavy beach traffic so it was no problem.  He then corrected my pronunciation of Givhans, telling me the locals said it “Give Anne’s”.  He then went on to tell me the history of Walterboro, and how it had been a summer place for rich plantation owners from Charleston and how blab, blab, blab… As I stood there with a cheshire grin and glazed eyes my mind was trying to figure out how to get back on the road before the rain started.  It was in this stupor of historical facts when a question broke through the fog, “are you Irish?’  Say what? What kind of crackhead question was that?

 

“No”.

”You have two shamrocks on your bike helmet”, he pointed out.

“Oh yeah. Those were from a couple of rides I did in Dublin.” 

“Oh! So you’ve been to Ireland?”

“No.  This was Dublin, Georgia, and there were no Irish there, only Georgia rednecks like me.  It was a St. Patrick’s Day ride and everyone’s Irish on St. Paddy’s Day.”

 

He seemed really disappointed I was not Irish but that did not stop him from his next history lesson that began with,”My people came here during the famine.”  I hated to be rude but the sky was really looking grey and I had been here way too long.  I slowly moved to the street, and when I reached it he finally accepted the inevitable and sent me on my way with an Erin go Bragh.

 

 

Six miles from Moncks Corner, May 18^th

“The long haul Bikers”

I mentioned these ladies in my trip report, but I thought I would include them here too because, well, they were the only other crazy folks I meet out there.  

 

I was thrilled to see another bike traveler when I noticed an obvious tourer coming towards me in the distance.  That unmistakable look a bike has when draped with panniers can be spotted even from a long way off.  As the rider got closer I could see they had front panniers as well as rear ones, and that the rider was a woman.  We both pulled over and started questioning each other about our trips and soon another rider joined the first on the other side of the road.  It was really exciting to meet some people doing the same thing I was doing.  I was impressed with the load they were carrying.  It seemed to be so much less than mine.  How do people do it with less?  They too, could not believe the load I was carrying, and showed a lot of interest in the trailer.  I found out they were from Virginia, but I don’t know what part, and that they were headed to Savannah to meet friends.  They figured they had two more nights on the road after having spent the last nine traveling.   We soon said goodbye and wished each other well and headed in our opposite directions.  Although I was now on the Adventure Cycling Association’s East Coast bike route I never saw another long hauler.  We were the proverbial ships passing in the night.

 

 

Somewhere around Stewart’s Cross Roads, May 21^st

“Dog number 2”

I finally had gotten off hwy 9 and was on a backcountry road.  It was so much quieter and relaxed than the four lane I had recently left.  There was farm land and country homes on each side of the road, and one of the houses I was approaching had a little mutt dog running around and a big Rottweiler laying with his back to me.   As I got closer to the Rottweiler I began to think it was a Mastiff.   That’s like a Rottweiler on steroids.  It was a really, really, big dog.  And the best I could tell it was not chained up!  He was still laying with his back to me and I was hoping I would slip by without him knowing it.  Not.  About the time I got up to his yard the little mutt saw me and start yapping like crazy.  The big dog bolted straight up and spun around to face me in one continuous motion.  As soon as he spotted me he started roaring and you could see the rage in his face.  I immediately grabbed my pepper spray and hoped it would work against this monster.  He started after me instantly, but his hind end started swinging wildly like a pendulum and he fell down.  He was up again in a flash and three more steps he fell again.  Again he was up and by now he had slobber foaming from his mouth and he was going crazy, but again he fell.  It seems, somewhere along the way, he had managed to lose a hind leg, and in his fury to get at me he kept losing his balance while trying to run with three legs.    I have never seen a dog so angry.  He would have intimidated Cujo if he could have stood up.  I was glad he was missing that leg, and I really think they should take the other rear leg just to be safe.  I was real glad to put that little country house behind me.

 

Hwy 72/21 Fork outside Rockhill, May 21^st

“The Tire man”

I had been riding through a few sprinkles as I reached the outskirts of Rockhill and I was hoping I could reach a motel before the rains hit.  As I rode towards a fork in the road I realized I was not sure which way the motels were.  There was a tire store in the fork of the “Y” intersection and I pulled into the parking lot.  I leaned my bike against a lamp post and headed towards the front door.  I noticed a man sitting in front of the window with his head down working on some kind of mechanical part.   As I walked in he paid no attention to me whatsoever.  I asked him if there were any motels around and he said “yeap”, without even looking up.  I waited a minute for him to continue but he just kept working on that part.  I then asked if he knew which direction they might be and again he answered in the affirmative, but nothing else.  Then I asked where they might be and he stopped working on the part and looked out the window for a second and then asked if I wanted the closest motel.  I assured him that I did and he just pointed down the right fork.  I hated to do it but, I asked how far it might be to the motel and he told me just a little piece.  Again, with some reluctance, I asked how far “a little piece” might be, and he told me about a half a mile.  I thanked him and headed back out to my bike.  His head was still down and he was still working on that part as I rode by.  I do not believe he ever looked at me.    As I rode down the hill and around the curve there sat the Econo-Lodge.  It was just a little piece down the road.

 

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