I finally left my house Wednesday afternoon. After reaching a certain point in cleaning and packing my stuff away, I gave up and texted everyone to come say goodbye. I asked Andrew if he would be willing to escort me out of town, because, frankly, I'm afraid of Fayetteville traffic. The fact that I would be riding through a park, and my 8 mph speed leaving my neighborhood made us realize it wasn't going to happen, however. He tripped the left turn light for me and waved goodbye.
The ride out of town wasn't nearly as bad as I thought it would be, and the park was downright enjoyable. I will admit I mostly rode on the sidewalk, which is a big no-no. At least those roads had sidewalks... Fayetteville isn't known for its' street planning...
I stopped at the Airborne Museum near downtown, because they had expanded it since the last time I'd been there. There was a whole new building and gardens commemorating those lost in the wars. They had an interesting visual display inside with dog tags for each North Carolinian who died for each war. WWII was by far the biggest killer. I went ahead and took the time to locate the tag for a fallen high school friend who was killed in Iraq the day after I got married...
The rest of my ride that day was pretty uneventful... Until I was ready to stop for the night. I had picked out Bushy Lake State Natural Area as a likely candidate to take a break at and maybe camp for the night. Unfortunately, the road to get there was blocked off and had a big sign that said "No Trespassing!" Well, the sun was setting, and I was starving and tired, so I kept going to the back-up road I had picked out, just in case the first one was blocked. It was protected by some half-hearted wire lines and some sand dunes, but I was pretty determined. There were no actual signs saying I couldn't... The road leading back was lumpy and sandy, and I knew from the beach at Wilmington that my bike and sand really don't get along. But Jones Lake was so far away...
I had to keep going as two cars passed me. Then I turned around and slowed down to let another car pass me. Damn end-of-day traffic! As soon as that car was gone I sprinted my bike down the road as far and as fast as I could to get out of view. I had to drag my 100 pound bike through the sand about 75-100 feet into a clearing, and I do mean drag. I found some trees that were hidden from the road as fast as I could and drug my bike over some logs to get it closer. The ground was too spongy for my kickstand to do anything, and I eventually gave up and let it stay on its side.
As soon as the sun set, the temperature plummeted in a matter of minutes and an uncomfortable dampness immediately settled on everything. I was reminded just how much I actually don't like camping. Not primitive camping anyway. And this was about as primitive as it gets, with the added element of trying not to get caught. I gave up trying to cook or give myself any sort of shower to seek refuge in my sleeping bag.
Most of the night was spent listening to the hunting dogs across the street bark at me and worrying about meeting the hunter whose tree stand I was camped out under first thing in the morning. When I was able to fall asleep, however, it was good sleep.
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