I woke up early to watch the sunrise over the Inter-coastal Waterway. I made the guys eggs and sausage on their skillet, and someone made some toast and brought out some apple butter. I got a little tired of hearing them telling me over and over again how dangerous what I was doing was. All they could do was tell me how last year someone disappeared from Myrtle Beach, or how this person's last cell phone signal came from just up the road there, and this and that. One of them told me to go ahead and throw my stuff in the back of his truck and he would drive me back home. The camp host came by and tried to teach me a few ways to kill a man with my bare hands. It was honestly really ridiculous how much fear these guys had! If people took them seriously, no one would leave their houses at all, and those houses would have 5 foot thick lead and steel reinforced concrete walls! If I got anything out of it at all, I'd say it was that living in the cities was far more dangerous than what I was doing.
We talked a little bit about routes, as once again I wanted to get a feel for the road and bridge conditions up ahead. They wanted me to take 17 all the way in, because "the backroads are creepy! You don't see anyone or anything for miles!" When I told them "Perfect! That's my favorite kind of riding," they only gawked.
I did end up taking the backroads and they were absolutely fantastic. I felt like I was riding straight through a painting for over an hour. I made sure to follow the route this time: no more dirt roads for me. I had considered taking 17 for about a minute, and only because of mileage concerns: this was going to be my longest day yet, close to 50 miles, but I eventually reasoned that what was the point of getting there with less mileage if the stress from riding on 17 was so great that it counteracted the benefits of taking the "shortcut."
Eventually, I had to get on 41 to go down into Mt. Pleasant. That road wasn't all that fun. It was back to a too-busy 2 laned highway with absolutely no shoulder to speak of. I lost my hat on the bridge when a big semi went past me going the other way. I stopped right after I got off the bridge to see if I could see it even though I knew it was gone. I put my kickstand down into a fire ant mound and an angry storm of ants immediately bubbled up from the hole I made in their pile of dirt. I quickly picked up my bike and moved to a paved parking lot. There was a gas station across the street where I decided to take a small break and watch the traffic. As I was standing outside eating a Cadbury egg (it was green inside for Halloween), a guy in a truck asked if I needed help and we got into a little conversation about my trip. I could tell he felt sorry for me but respected that I felt this was something I needed to do. He offered to buy me another hat, which I declined. That was the second hat I'd lost in less than 2 weeks.
I decided to skip riding through Isle of Palms for mileage reasons, even though I really wanted to. The huge bridge into Charleston was awesome. It was very steep, but had a whole protected lane set aside for walkers and bikers and the views were amazing. Another biker came up beside me and started asking questions about how much weight I was hauling and where I was coming from. I was really laboring even though I was in my granny gear, and had to stop for a break. He hesitated for a second-I know he wanted to keep talking and I wouldn't have minded-but I guess he had somewhere he had to be.
I eventually made it to the top and coasted down the other side. All bridges should be like this: with a nice protected area for people and bikers. I went ahead and decided to ride around the bottom of the peninsula despite my mileage concerns, where I found battery park and had a small break. It was such a gorgeous day, and it was still relatively early: about 4 pm. I had to do a little backtracking and re-routing when I got to the major expressway bridge to cross over another river on the other side of Charleston, as my hosts lived on James Island. Eventually I found the bridge with a sidewalk I was able to ride on, even though there were a few death traps on the way: deep gaps 5 or 6 feet long right where one could easily catch their tire and be thrown off balance if they weren't paying extreme attention. In fact, I had quite a time navigating around them even though I saw them right away.
After that bridge, there was yet another bridge to cross. This one was downright scary. I had to dismount and walk my bike across, and my handlebars were exactly as wide as the raised sidewalk. My bags didn't help. I raised the pedal on my side up to 90 degrees so I wouldn't be tripping over it, and I slowly inched my way across with traffic squeezing past only inches away. There just was not enough room on this bridge, plain and simple. Although I did my best to "keep my arms and legs inside the car at all times," it just wasn't possible, and I know I was hanging over the edge by a few inches in several places: the handlebars, my bags, my hips, and my elbows. My brakes and bags scraped on the guardrails a few times. It easily tied for the worst bridge yet with the one going into Georgetown: the one where the shoulder and raised sidewalk together gave me just enough space to get across.
I took the sidewalk the rest of the way without much trouble, and thought about the fact that I was beginning to really like sidewalks to ride on because they give me some respite from the horrible roads and traffic situations they create, and how once I hit Georgia this sidewalk riding would need to stop as it is illegal there. I found my couch surfing hosts easily enough, and enjoyed a nice hot shower before they took me out to the Poor House for a drink and some music before we headed across the street to Zia Taqueria for some dinner. I slept peacefully in their spare room on a blow up mattress without having to worry about the cold or wild animals.
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