What worked, part 1

I was asked, “Are you really planning another trip?” and the answer is a definitive, “Yes!” How can you put aside something that offers so much? But what about the problems like broken equipment, rain and money? Few things cannot be resolved if you’re willing to make adjustments and, especially, if you learn from your mistakes. So, what did I learn?

One of the best decisions I made was to purchase “Cargo Short - Padded for Bicycling” from Aero Tech Designs (aerotechdesigns.com). By incorporating typical padded, skin-tight cycling shorts as an inner liner to ordinary-looking outer shorts, you have both the supportive feeling and practical advantages. Being able to enter a convenience store without attractive unnecessary stares and carry essential items in useable pockets was a really good thing. I am aware that Aero Tech is not the only manufacturer of such cycling garments, but they are made in the USA, their customer service is very good and their price is extremely competitive. After wearing one set frequently for several months I purchased two additional shorts. I have no reason to believe they will not give me a long service life.

Of equal value to Aero Tech’s shorts is Chamois Glide (bodyglide.com), which I originally purchased as Body Glide. No matter what name, the stuff works, eliminating any concern about chaffing. It even worked on hot spots on my feet. You really don’t want to leave home without it.

Ortlieb (ortliebusa.com). As far as I am concerned the name says it all. Back Roller Plus, Front Roller Plus, Ultimate 5 Plus and Dry Bag all performed as advertised and as expected. Nothing got wet despite several encounters with heavy weather. The panniers and handlebar bag installed and removed efficiently and with their locking capability provided a measure of security (false or real) that I appreciated. Some tourists complain about the lack of pockets in Ortlieb’s bags, but I found this to be a non-issue. Not having to manage pannier covers before, during or in anticipation of rain was its own reward.

Adventure Cycling’s (adventurecycling.com) route maps are durable and accurate. They are not always the easiest to decipher in metropolitan areas and where signage is lacking, inadequate or different, but 95% of the time you where you are and where you need to go. Sometimes it is useful to have a broader view of an area for basic orientation, but most modern cell phones can deliver those as necessary.

Big Agnes (bigagnes.com) also performed as advertised. Their Lynx Pass 3, three-person backbacking tent was large enough to easily accommodate me and all my bags. During the several heavy rains, I remained dry. Any issues with tenting were related to the quality of the campgrounds and my own limitations. Lynx Pass 3 went up quickly and stowed easily.

No, this is not the end of this list nor of the one that will identify what did not work or serve me well.

Some pictures I like

I took far fewer pictures than I expected. Rain compromised many opportunities. Other times I didn't want to bother, but have no regrets for having missed anything.

Here are a few, including repeats.

Love Sea Oats. Along the Amelia River, Fort Clinch State Park, Florida

First Coast Railroad Swing Bridge which connects Amelia Island with mainland Nassau County.

Before Interstate Rest Areas there were Roadside Rest Areas.

 

 

Ten point five miles!

One of the things you notice at 12.5 mph.

Yep, Worms and Coffee. I settled for Gatorade and water.

Fascinated me.

There you go thinking again.

The most difficult part of this adventure has turned out to be the ending. I do not want it to end. I do not want to return to what I have accepted as the real world.

I was reminded innumerable times as I traveled, that the natural state is not one of anger and confrontation, frustration and disappointment and the idea that warmth and compassion hinder production. Repeatedly, as I crossed coastal South Carolina, I put my faith in man’s common sense of goodness as log trucks and other vehicle shared my route. Perhaps it was good timing that kept me from Harm’s way. Next trip, maybe I get clipped by a right-side mirror or the rear fender of a dually. Or not.

Too often I have allowed the personal dream of everyday-life to consume me. For two weeks any such thoughts simply did not exist. “No phone no pool no pets ain't got no cigarettes” come to life as a confirmation that our burdens are mostly home-made. If we allow them, or give them too much value, they color all our existence. There are people around all the time who have REAL problems (and neither the Republicans nor the Democrats care enough for that to matter). Complaining about one’s own “plight” or devaluing the plight of others is self-indulgent and sucks. I offer this quote.

"It's fucking great to be alive, ladies and gentlemen,
and if you do not believe it is fucking great to be alive,
you better go now, because this show will bring you
down so much."
Frank Zappa, from "Just Another Band From L.A."

So, I think I have finally found my place and will be able to wrap up some of my observations and ideas about the actual trip then see about being a productive American once more. One or two entries should do it and I still need resolution to the plight of my bike. I’m already planning the next trip!

And 920 miles by Greyhound . . .

Before talking about my Greyhound adventure I need to 'splain what's happening.

My bike was supposed to be disassembled and shipped to Bikes and More. It arrived at my home. Argh! Now I was faced with having to get it to where it needed to be. Additionally, there were no wheels! <sigh> Island Bikes, to whom I initially expressed great frustration allowed as how it was their error, but that agreeing to disassemble and package the bike was the first error. Getting the bike to my FNBS will be accomplished soon. They received my wheels and agreed with all previous observations that the rear one was broken more severely than was typical. It no rests with Salsa, manufacturer of the rim, to decide how to handle the matter.

The Schwinn is serving well, though lack of fenders is close to being a severe problem. I'd forgotten how nasty road grit gets when it rains. I hope to find some closure for the transportation matters soon.

And the roof leaks. Have to deal with the roofers, too . . . soon, I hope. 
 

Was it a life changing event? No, but there have been many things to consider how they may or may not apply to everyday life. But first, a word from our sponsor . . . Greyhound

The last time I rode a Greyhound bus may have been nearly a half century ago in the 60s. There were few options for my return to FL and Greyhound seemed to be the best. In the years since my last ride many things have changed. Remarkably, much has not.

The nearest “terminal” was Washington, NC, known as Little Washington to the locals. A three hour drive (give or take). The nearer pick-up location was just that, a pick-up. Stand outside a store and wait, ticket in hand, for a bus to arrive. I opted for the stop at B & L Properties where tickets could be purchased. Seemed more like a terminal. It was, but barely.

B & L may have been the couple behind the counter when I arrived at 10am for my 1050 bus. A partially converted service station (with two bays) provided indoor seating. Assorted vehicles and other equipment in stages of repair filled the service bays. My bags were labeled and the second bag paid for ($10 please) after being told to clip one front roller to one back roller so I would not have to pay for three extra bags. Seemed like good advice. The bus arrived 55 minutes late. It had been three hours late the previous day. A connection was scheduled for Raleigh at 3 pm and we were to arrive there at 2 pm, so maybe the connection would be made.

I was surprised to find that there were both 100 volt sockets and that the bus provided a WiFi signal and took advantage to charge my cell phone. Because of the WiFi connection I was also able to maintain cellular coverage where it would not have existed otherwise.

The bus passed through the home of the East Carolina University Pirates and it was no surprise that it resembled Stateboro, GA, home ot the Georgia Southern Eagles and El Sombrero, home of my favorite Mexican food. We arrived in Raleigh minute before 3 pm, but it mattered not. A bus already at the terminal (a real terminal) was being searched for a possible bomb. This must have been a common occurrence as there was police presence but little overt evidence of concern. The new bus departed at 345pm, but not until the baggage handler took exception to my bags. “I know what you did,” he hissed. “But I’ll load ‘em.” And he did with an intention aggressive disregard.

Soon after leaving the Raleigh terminal the drive announced that the bus was a local, meaning we would visit, briefly, every moderate sized city in north and central NC. He also made several allusions to the presidential race, noting that whites were attempting to keep blacks from voting. Maybe I had been alone too long. His rambling monologue made little sense.

Charlotte, too, was a real terminal. Like Raleigh and it was run down but clean. Sandwiches priced no more than twice their reasonable value. Captive audience means captive money. A strip of sockets, identified as a charging station, soon looked like a Smart Phone grazing area. Few people showed any concern about their equipment’s safety. Obviously, this was not a new experience for the majority of bus travelers.

From Charlotte the ride to ATL was swift, arriving around 230am. I expected the old Greyhound station, but found that it now existed as part of the Garnett Street MARTA facility. My stay here would be about 4 hours. Knowing I was closer to being home did not make the wait any easier. Compared to the old Atlanta bus terminal . . . no comparison. Clean. Bright. Reasonably safe with one or more MARTA and ATL police officers in evidence. At intervals over the hours, travelers would queue at numbered doors. The overly large police officer would run a metal detection wand near their pockets. I could hear no difference in sound, but he often paused and asked for pockets to be emptied. Don’t want anyone commandeering a Greyhound with a fingernail file. Wait, maybe I need to be more serious! Hard to be. After 430 am he checked no one else. Had the perceived threat left for Alabama earlier on the morning?

The trip to G’ville was uneventful and done on schedule. The bus had sockets and WiFi, but I was too weary to do more than charge my phone. I could do the ATL-Gville trip again. Most of the rest? Not in this lifetime.

Here are some of the things I took away from the numerous hours in the custody of Greyhound:

1. Passengers are too accustomed to being treated with little regard. Some of this is because of the quality of the passengers. Most is not. Who cares about bus travelers. Real people use airplanes. Common people learn to accept mediocre treatment because there is no recourse? Like the baggage guy. I did what I was told to do and he assumed I was trying to get away with something. Should I respect that he was protecting his company’s assets? Only if he referred me to the baggage people for more money. Otherwise he was just being difficult.
2. Lacking any actual luggage one can still travel by bus. A tall kitchen trash can and a mostly intact cardboard box can be nearly closed with sufficient tape to hold just about anything.
3.  Having too many pieces of “luggage” is commonplace. See the comment above.
4.  There is almost enough room on the aisle seat on modern buses to make it nearly possible to sleep for as much as an hour, though not necessarily in concurrent minutes.
5.  If it is present Greyhound WiFi works.

Just more of the adventure.

What day is it anyhow?

Quitting wasn’t all that hard. There were too many obstacles I did not want to confront. My planning was not adequate. I may have carried too much and distributed improperly. Once I admitted that it was easier to see that I was likely to encounter more of the same and breaking down where there was not a bike shop wasn’t something I wanted to face yet. The only thing I can be sure of in the future is I am more than physically capable of the ride. I wasn't the weak link.

Riding a loaded touring bike isn’t just about how it rides and whether you can make it up hills. Eating each evening did not require having a stove and fuel and dried food. Using a tent was easy enough, but there were many things I did not consider, like the nastiness of some commercial sites. Had I  not been the only tenter at one location I might have had even greater difficulties when I determined that the “restroom” door could not be closed if I used it. Standing or sitting! Certainly not a game breaker under the circumstances of that evening, but worth knowing and considering next time.

The next time (yes, there will be a next time) I will carry at least 950 miles of knowledge. Not a lifetime, but a good foundation. Local trips will add to the database. Knowing what should go where to avoid overloading is something that I guess comes with experience, too.

The next months will be filled with contemplation and new planning. That’s the only certainty.

OK, there is one more certainty. No more Greyhound rides. My bus ride day began at 6 am and ended at 430 pm the following day. Three buses and untotaled miles. That story deserves a whole page to itself. For now, thanks for caring and following and encouraging. Now it is time to decide how next to handle someone my age.

Day 16, Buxton and Avon, NC

My adventure became much more than that. I wanted to make a statement about being 66 and still able to push myself to accomplish something extreme. As the miles passed and I became comfortable with the mechanics of riding I had an abundance of free time. Much of the scenery was, at most, tedious or boring, so thought came unbidden and disappeared like the last piney wood. One theme recurred, and I don’t mean to belabor the point, but the significance of Vietnam in my life does not lessen. Then, as mentioned in an earlier posting, I reached Wilmington. From there forward the whole ride developed a different meaning. Yes, it was still about making the round trip and seeing friends and the Skyline Drive and taking a chance on a route of my creation across NC and SC. Still, in some inexplicable way the ride became a metaphor of that Place.

Living in Gainesville puts numerous homeless men in my daily life simply because Randall is an excellent VA Medical facility and there are so damn many. I have no reason to ask why they are homeless. For those of my generation the most common denominator is Vietnam. “So what?” you might ask. Well, as I said previously, I am able to ride while nearly 60,000 men and women cannot.

When my equipment failed I was devastated. Get a new wheel and get back on the road was the obvious response. Yet, there was this coincidence (or irony) that I felt a needed to understand. How symbolic had the ride become to me? I spent a mostly sleepless night debating the meaning.

Did my wheel fail because of a structural flaw? What would I have done if I had been anywhere else on the map? Will I break a second wheel if the reason for breakage was that I was too heavily loaded? Was I physically capable of doing more miles?

I have no doubt about my ability. The ride has done that for me. 50? 80? 100? It’s just a matter of pacing and doing it. I would not have been happy with another failure, no matter the cause and I suspect it was my lack of experience and knowledge that caused the failure. About that word “failure” . . . nothing about 950 miles marks the ride as a failure. And then there is the metaphor. Maybe I need to reflect on the reality that the chances against victory were overwhelming. Maybe the metaphor applies more than I imagine. Maybe there are no coincidences, just lessons to be learned. How many of the nearly 60,000 would not have died if we had accepted that the could be no victory?

So, I decided to cash in, have my bike shipped back home, find a bus station and follow my bike. The East Coast was not yet ready to be conquered by me. I knew too little. I need to learn more about this touring stuff, so I can make the whole trip next time. I have enormous regrets. There are things I wanted to do; stop in Richmond and see Don, visit the Wall again, renew friendships in PA, ride the Skyline Drive, visit SJN, plot my own course and meet more interesting and special people. I do not regret facing the logistic, financial and other pragmatic realities.

At the same time I owe a lot of thanks and appreciation for the encouragement I have received. So, thanks to Karen and Vicki of Jewels by the Sea for helping me get to John and his wife at Island Cycles and Martha who made sure Norma Jean was OK. I owe much to Greg, Joe, Randy, Jeremy, Sonja, Judy, Diana, Kathleen, Silvestre, Janet, Jacob, Kelly, Heather, Kathy and Bernie for putting up with my obsession. Then there are Others like Rick and his smoker compatriots, Carmella and Lucky Lady Bug, and Steve, who can’t count to two, those who keep me on two wheels, most of the time; Christian, Chan, Keith, Dave, Brian, Michael and Paul, those who are mostly voices on the phone, but have always been encouraging; Than, Ken, Margaret, Alexis, Su, and Gaynor. Surely I have forgotten someone and I regret the oversight. The largest thanks is reserved for those who believed and who were misinformed, my brothers and sisters, “Some gave all. All gave some.”

Day 15, Buxton and Avon, NC

Rode to Island Cycles after putting spare tire on battered rim, a distance of about 5 miles.  I had used the Michelin city tire was on briefly before I opted for Marathons. That  brought a spare at all seemed like overkill, but clearly proved to be a good idea.

Island Cycle was busy with rentals initially despite persistent drizzle. John, the co-owner (with his wife) and local bicycle and para-surfing guru, arrived after the initial rush and was highly apologetic. No reason to be. I wasn’t going anywhere! He examined  my rear wheel which Bikes and More had built with my Shimano Deore hub and a Salsa cyclocross rim. His assessment? “I’ve never seen a rim break like that.” In a dozen or so places where the spokes joined the rim the spokes met the rim were cracks, each about an inch long. He said he’d seen similar cracks, but never more than one or two. He had no explanation. We spoke to Keith at Bikes and More. He was prepared to send a rim if one was not available at Island Cycles.

So, the facts are; the wheel is damaged beyond repair, a new rim is available, but not immediately, there is no explanation for the damage and I will be here for a few days.

This started as a germ of an idea several years ago, grew to a mind consuming event and then became reality has become even more. Processing what has become a life changing event is even more consuming than the preparation and anticipation. Just dealing with the coincidence of wheel failure so close to someone I could call upon and to a competent bike shop is enough for one day’s thought.

Day 14, Core Creek to Buxton, NC – 64.15 miles, Total miles, 951

Core Creek Lodge was not my first choice for an overnight. It was my only choice. With basic amenities, which nowadays should include The Weather Channel, it made departing easy this morning. Two problems developed. One, my red blinky light disappeared some where between Newport and Core Creek.. Two, The Weather Channel predicted scattered thunderstorms all day. Doppler radar showed a clearly defined line of rain to the East of the stalled front and the source of unsettled weather along the Carolinas. Lucky me!

Having unpacked very little, repacking was quick and I was able to be back on the road by 6:40. Loss of my blinky light was disconcerting since I anticipated being in rain ranging from steady to blinding. Steady soon arrived. Just short of blinding came later. Fortunately, traffic was relatively light and the paved shoulder was consistently wide. My hope was to reach Cedar Island for the 12:00 ferry to Ocracoke while still having time to stop for carbohydrates. When the near blinding rain arrived I began to doubt I’d make it at all. Ultimately, I missed the 10:00 Sailing by 15 minutes and was able to take the 11:00. One point for my team!

It rained too much and too often to take many pictures and the moment I tried to take pictures of the ferry debarkation point . . . deluge. It persisted up to the moment of boarding. The two and a quarter hour ferry trip leaves a lot of time to consider the next leg. Do I stop in Ocracoke? Do I continue another 2 hours (30 miles or so) to Avon?

Ocracoke Harbor

Leaving the ferry in Ocracoke I realized my rear wheel was making a lot of dragging noises. Looking down and back as I rode it was obviously slightly out of true. Being a new wheel I was disconcerted, but also knew there is a bike shop in Avon. Fourteen miles to the Hatteras Ferry then eighteen and a half miles to Avon. With some effort, I made the 2:30 Hatteras departure and suddenly  had cellular service again. Not good service, but some. In Hatteras proper, beneath a cellular antenna array I called Island Cycles. Yes they could true my wheel, but they close at 5. I had an hour an a half to make it to Avon if I was going to be a responsible patron and not expect the people there to work beyond closing. Could I make 18.5 in 90 minutes? On a good day, probably.

As I rode and time slipped away I realized I did not need the frantic pace, so I stopped and called Karen at Jewels by the Sea who I had promised to stop in to see when I made the trip. Could she call the motel where she said there would be reasonable rates despite it being in-season. Sure, she replied. I called Island Cycle and said I’d bring the bike by in the morning and would still have time to make the ride to Kitty Hawk tomorrow. Now, less encumbered by anxiety I set off at a more reasonable pace. The pace was reasonable but the bounce in each stroke said flat! Argh! And not just a puncture. A slice. Even a Marathon Plus can't handle that!

I called Karen and told her of my woes and asked for name of the motel telling her I’d visit while the wheel was being repaired. She immediately offered to arrange to pick me up and deliver me to the motel in Buxton. “I live in Buxton,” she added. A short time her able associate (and sister-in-law), Vicki, arrived in a large enough sport utility. Minutes later I was checking in and changing to my spare tire.

This isn’t what I planned, but it is part of the adventure. I’ll just have to hope for fair skies and a tail wind for the future.

Day 13, Jacksonville to Core Creek, NC – 72.37 miles, average speed 12.1 mph. Total miles, 887

Jacksonville, NC is the home to Camp Lejeune (Ooo Rah) which, in turn, is home to the US Marine Corps (One, two, three, four, we love Marine Corps). Passing through Jax, NC, was like an escape and evasion exercise. It was necessitated by the easiest route not being accessible to bikes, thus “Turn left at 1.5 miles, right at .5, left at 2.5 . . . “ After escaping Jax it was more of the usual; rural, agricultural.

Adding to the adventure was overcast brought on by impeding thunderstorms. This moderated temperatures and kept sun to a minimum. As I approached Silverdale (one convenience and a vegetable stand the first downpour downpoured. Instead of continuing I stopped just ahead of the atmospheric gush to get a drink. I covered my saddle and stepped into the store. “Excuse me. Do you have a restroom?” Might as well pee when I had the chance. “No.” OK, but I bet behind that door that says “Employees Only” there’s a restroom. Well, I didn’t need to buy more water or Gatorade anyhow. The  rain stopped downpouring and I hit the road again.

Swansboro, Cedar Point, and Cape Carteret were unimpressive visually, but I suspect the fishing is good. To my advantage was a suitable for bikes lane and I made good time against the growing dark clouds to the west and southwest. Rain held off and I reached Newport where I needed some local direction to Core Creek. “You might beat the rain,” suggested one of the gentlemen. I didn’t.

One of the guys who gave me directions mentioned “the high rise.” Forty-five minutes later I learned the meaning. In the rain. Heavy rain. Hold your breath or drown rain. No where to hide rain. And lightning right over THERE! And me on the “high rise.” Aren’t you supposed to get as low as possible when there’s lightning? Who wrote this script?

Shortly before the over-the-high-rise-god-it-is-raining-incredibly-hard-rain started I saw a sign. “Core Creek Lodge. Next Left.” There are no lefts on the bridge, so the next left must be down there at sea level. In the blinding rain. Too-fast-for-conditions cars and trucks. Me on a bike. A glance in my mirror suggested (nothing definitive about the view) that nothing was behind me as I clung to my handlebars at 25 mph on the downside of the bridge (Yes, in the rain. Isn’t that dangerous on a bike? Isn’t being near lightning at 500 feet more dangerous?). OK . . . it wasn’t THAT big a deal. I actually slowed on the shoulder, turned my head and confirmed that the road was clear. Seven-tenths mile later I was checking in for a hot shower. No WiFi. No T-Mobile coverage. But, also no tent and a dry bed.

Tomorrow is the dash for the ferry. I am less than 50 miles from the Cedar Island Ferry. I can catch the one o’clock sailing for the 2.25 hour trip. Next sailing is 4. Up early. Drink my meals and get there.

Day 12, Wilmington, NC to Jacksonville, NC – 51.35 miles, average speed 13.0 mph. Total miles, 814

The day started . . . weirdly. Entering Wilmington took me past the National Cemetery and its rows of starkly plain, white markers. Arlington on a lesser, but no less distressing level. In a week or so I will reach Washington and I intend to visit the Vietnam Memorial. As I started riding I recalled my moderately flippant statement when someone asked if I was riding for a cause, “Because I can,” I replied. This morning, as so often happens, I was reminded of Vietnam and its consequences and its pain and its never ending source of painful recollecti0ns and thoughts.

In the final pages of Hal Moore’s book, We Were Soldiers Once . . . and Young, he says he feels guilty because his troopers died and he did not. How many times do I feel the same simultaneous gratitude and guilt that I survived yet more than 58,000 men and women did not. How many might have embarked on a similar bicycle trip, or had families, or walked in the woods, or attended baseball games or argued about football or made mistakes, or apologized or cried or died of old age? In July of this year, 45 years had passed since I left Vietnam and never does a day pass that I do not think of those who died and those who did not and the reasons we were there and a myriad of other things about that time.

So, the rest of the trip is a small token directed toward those who died and those who did not. We ravaged a country and we were ravaged in return. Lost our youth. Lost respect of those around us. Hid our fears and feelings. Shared something inexplicable with other vets when we reached for a hand while saying “welcome home.” I don’t resent those who didn’t serve or had high numbers or just lucked out. I do resent those who brag about avoiding the draft by some chicanery. Maybe that’s small minded of me. My father had the idea that we owed something to our country. He’d been in the CCC then World War II. I figured it was what we were supposed to do too. Later, I also figured out that we should not have been in Southeast Asia. That’s what made it all so hard to handle.

I do go one. <shrug> When I get back to G’ville I intend to donate some portion of my left over money to one of the many Veteran related organizations. It may be $10 or $100. Depends upon how much Gatorade I drink, I guess. .

It’s hard not to feel even more drawn to the Vietnam issue since Camp Lejeune is right over there across the road.

Sorry for the lack of humor and information. It is one of those days.