Cycling Carolina

Pedalling over the wooded hill I breathe in the smell of warm pine heated by the sun and watch the road shimmer at the peak of the next hill. Beyond it, the road dips again and crosses NC 96 at the immaculate white wooden church just before a small tobacco farm on the left. I pull a wrinkled hand-written map from the pocket of my Pearl Izumi bike shirt and dexterously unfold it with my right hand without breaking cadence. 21.5 miles: Bailout Point #1, and all is good. I keep cadence and pedal on anticipating my PB&J.

There is something about peanut butter that puts me at ease. To say it is my comfort food would be the understatement of the century and unlike many, I have fond memories of eating it in MRE's (Meals, Ready-to-Eat) while serving in the Marines. In fact, a lot of things about this ride remind me of Parris Island: the smell of pine, the sun, the old white church and the old highway. Not many people know that Parris Island was once an airfield and much of our training was spent on the sun bleached tarmac that resembled many of the country roads I'd cover on this Wilton Ruins ride.



So many abandoned barns lay by the roadside covered with young trees and vegetation as if the earth was trying to reclaim what was once hers long ago. I couldn't help but think there were memories too that would finally be exorcised when the barns were eventually overtaken and decomposed back to earth. And, as I rode these Carolina roads, I knew too that Parris Island was trying to reclaim me.

I thought (you can't help but think when riding six hours) that maybe I really was like Wil. Maybe there was a deep-seated reason why I did this, this training that takes me away from my family and pushes me to my limits... just like Parris Island did. Parris Island was elemental and primal and if you could train your mind to dig deep and claw for every inch of ground, you would survive. Don't ever waste your thoughts on fanciful ideas there...

I reach back and pull out my zip-lock bag of clementine oranges. Gripping it with my teeth, I peel it open and hold it against the aero bars to grab a few slices and stuff them in my mouth. The sugar hits fast and I stop my fanciful thinking and check my map. 41.9 miles: the final Bailout Point and I am still strong.

I put my head down and push hard towards 50 miles and my first rest stop.

The Citgo was not quite the country store I pass at the beginning of each ride so no fresh fruit was available. Instead, I fuel up on a Red Bull and replenish my water and Gatorade mixture.

The further I get into the countryside, the closer the roads resemble the tarmac at Parris Island. The dilapidated barns are in increasingly worse condition and I soon realize that I am not going to make it either. It is too hot, I am too sun-burned, and I have been gone too long.

After calling Sandi on the cell, I make my way to the intersection of NC 56 and NC 96, where I am hoping there is another church or country store, but find only another Citgo. Before I can even sit in the shade Sandi arrives. From the back of the Odyssey I load my bike and talk to CB while realizing that there will be other rides and things are not so final as they were once in my life.