Slow day

I ran into another touring cyclist by a boat jetty. He was Joe, and had travel from Virgina. It was late, about 4pm, but I wasn't ready to call it a day. He was setting up camp, so I pushed onwards.

I camped in a tree farm off to the side of the road. There was an old overgrown swing that I sat and cooked on. I have bought some charcoal lighter fluid and it burns okay in my stove, a little dirtier than the white fuel, but not as smelly as gasoline.

It was a more isolated campsite than in the passed and probably for the first time, I had a clear sky. I heard a large rustling in the forest as I cooked and camped; I put on my iPod. I excused it with the simple, "there's nothing in the forest that both can and will want to hurt me." When I was breaking camp, two pitbulls the size of rhinoceroses came over to say hello - and I stood corrected. My water bottles had frozen and I had to have a small fire so I could move my fingers and undo the knots in my hammock.



The thing about stealth camping, and more generally, traveling without a good map, is you never know exactly what's around the corner. About thirty seconds, or 500 yards from what I thought was a remote site, I found a federal prison with all its razor wire and glory.

The forest

I read Kensey's "One flew over the cookoo's nest." It's great, but you know that already.

Tomorrow I leave this place. It's been fun. People put a little too much effort into being calm. It's like they want to talk faster but are constraining themselves, it throws the tracking off on the mental VCR. And these are tall standing folk; the glassy-eyed, with pupils like tunnels, aren't worth the effort.

But people were friendly. I was graciously given a homeopathy cream for my ankle and a energy healing ritual was performed for its benefit.

The food was good vegan cuisine. I helped stoke the outdoor clay oven for the pesto pizza.

There were few other guest while I was here. There was old hippie and former deck hand for Mr. Jimmie Buffet. He told me about living on the intracoastal.

The shower was just there, in the middle of the forest, draining into the forest floor. I slept in a tree house and had a view of the labyrinth.

Soreness

I woke up, dressed and sat under my hammock. I ate peanut butter because it was all the food I had left. I slept somewhat poorly, my sleeping bag is too warm for the climate, and merely unzipping it leaves me too cold. It's difficult to pack for 25 degree Celsius temperature swings; I'd probably have to bring the same sleeping bad if I was to do it again.



It was nice to get on the bicycle in the morning. I stopped for a second more meaningful breakfast. There was a mist that hung over highway and the nearby marshland.
I planned on getting to the Hostel in the Forest today, and that was put in jeopardy by a sore ankle that developed at about 20 km followed by a drop in energy levels. I went from riding more than 20 km between shaking out my muscles to dragging out 2 or 3 km, before needing a stop. The sun was out and my sunscreen is watery.

There was so much road kill. The road was paved with the bodies of small animals. Sometimes they're just unavoidable, and you've got to drive over them. At one point I had to ride through a puddle of fresh blood, leaving a single stripe from my tire on the tarmac in one direction, perpendicular there was a large brush stroke, where the animal crawled off into the bushes. Yesterday I saw maybe 30 birds with four foot wing spans eating the body of a deer; they took off as I rode by and darken out the sun. They didn't look like vultures to me, more like huge ravens. I saw a dead German Shepard; it still had its eyes. I've seen maybe 5 or 6 pet cats, and maybe 3 or 4 other dogs. Maybe a possum every kilometer or so; and these smears of leather and bones that need a forensic team to piece back together.

The death on the highway continued up the food chain to the human animal. There were constant reminders of past crashes, with highway memorials and flower wreaths This was bad heading into Brusnwick Georgia, where the traffic was bad, I was tired and my ankle was hurting a lot;
i didn't need road-morbidity hanging over me.

I took a break at a playground, planning on making it a full hour - to get out of the heat and rest my ankle. I sat under this large tree covered in Spanish moss. This drug user walked by and decided to loiter on the other side of the tree where I couldn't see him, making me feel most unwelcome. I moved on.



I was close to the hostel, maybe ten miles, but my ankle was hurting a fair amount and the traffic was four lanes in each direction without a shoulder - so I considered scouting out a motel. Staying in a motel is a nuclear option, and I was more than disappointed in considering it for a second time on the trip of less than a week. But, I rode a couple more kilometers and then a couple more. I got to this stayed cable bridge like the one heading into Savannah. Wow. I think it was taller. The cement barrier that separated me from the thousand foot drop was low. Lower than my center of gravity on the bike, riding by it you don't even see it. The view was incredible and speed on the way down makes you feel fantastic.



The highway to the hostel was brutal, but I was still pretty high from the bridge climb and descent, so it didn't bug me as much. Here is a photo of it. Signs indicating that its some sort of bike route, then the rumble strip on shoulder all the way to the white line. So, you've got to ride in a lane with traffic going at 65 miles/h (105 km/h). There was truck traffic too, the truck drivers are usually courteous and give you a lot of room, but they produce a wake that shakes you a little.



The hostel in the forest is cool. More on that later.

Give me more kilometers.

I brushed my teeth with mittens on; the temperature is a little chilly. But, it was perfect cycling weather, overcast and cool. I could wear pants and an long sleeve shirt.

I rode a 107 km today. A number I was slightly disappointed with, while I was planning on doing 100km, all the way up to 80 km I thought I could make it to this place "the hostel in the forest." But, it would have been a 200 km ride. I pretty much rode till I ran out of gas, I thought of making camp around 120 km, but was just too tired. Plus, I notice a good camping spot, so I decided to pull off the highway and set up camp.



Yesterday, when I met the sport cyclist outside Beaufort, he told if I was ride to Savannah that I had to be ready for a steep bridge. Outside Beaufort there was a nice long rolling bridge, and I thought the cyclist was a wimp; but I think he was referring to the bridge into Savannah. It's in the picture. From afar I considered my options, maybe trying to hitchhike over with my bike, but on closer inspection there seemed to be a pretty good shoulder. It was a climb. The bridge had jaws, these teeth to allow for expansion and contraction with temperature. These steel teeth were about two feet long, but they didn't scare me, the gaps between them did; perfect fit for my wheels. On the way down I hit about 60 km/h, the bike handled well at that speed.

I didn't have a map, and was planning on just sticking to route 17 for a while. Following the signs to route 17 led me to the interstate. Out of the frying pan and into the fire. There was a lot of junk on the shoulder, and the interchanges were death traps. I was only on it for about 5 miles - but think that probably filled my quota for riding on the interstate for the rest of my life. It actually wasn't that bad, I'm pretty numb to fast moving cars.

Today on two occasions dogs ran after me, perhaps wanting to imbue a passing sense of championship, or maybe they just wanted to bite me. I'm not nearly quick and agile enough on my bicycle yet to unzip my bag and grab the pepper spray without taking a slide.

I get kudos in the form on honks, hollers and waves, from authentic looking biker gangs; and nothing from them hobbyists. Although, I do feel a strange camaraderie with people who ride/drive those motorized trikes. There is no way operating one of those devices is cool, just like it's a stretch to imagine how rodeoing a bike and 50 pounds of gear over the rumble strip on the side of a highway is cool, but they do it and they must love it.



Camping tonight was miserable. I still don't have fuel for my stove. I went to buy some in Charleston at an outdoors store, and it was ten dollars for a pint. That's pretty expensive, so I went to the hardware store, where it's nine dollars for a gallon. I only wanted a pint. I thought about it and decided on the gallon, went back to get it and the store was closed. I've been carrying all this food for cooking, but haven't been able to eat it. I tried to light a cooking fire - one of my camp skills I had absolute faith in. Everything was so wet, I couldn't get anything burning except for my South Carolina map (thanks Steph). I was hoping for a hot meal for the last half of the day. But no luck. I had a can of sardines and a bagel; not the greatest meal after such a long ride.

I was also pretty much out of water. It's this kind of putting off of things, riding my bike, every gas station I passed, I'd say, "Oh, I'd stop a the next one." Until, of course there wasn't a next one and I didn't have any water.