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Go! See! Do!

January 22, 2002

As of New Year’s Day, I’d never ridden in South Carolina . That’s in spite of the fact that I lived in North Carolina for the entire spring, summer and fall of 2001. But opportunity knocked, as the scheduling board at work decreed that I go to SC for a few weeks. Sure, it’s January, but what a convenient time to check another state off the Ride List. I hauled my bike down in the company van, rode around here and there and got ready to ride home after we wrapped up the job.

It should have been a short scoot from the beaches of SC to the foothills of NC. By I-road, it would take less than five hours. However, I have a fondness for the backway and I consulted Rand McNally for suggestions. I hoped to be in NC before the sun dipped below the horizon, and since it was January, I was pressed for time. But due to work commitments, I didn't leave the Isle of Palms until the crack of noon. To compensate for the late departure, I began my ride home on the highway, skirting Charleston, and closed in on Lake Marion. From there, I jumped onto the secondary routes. The roads weren't especially curvy, but the simple act of navigation prevented my mind from wandering, as it’s prone to while I’m droning along on the I-roads. Still, I looked forward to the terrain becoming hillier and the roads more interesting north of Columbia. From I-95, I took 15 to 297, 297 to 601. These byways sliced thru farmland and I enjoyed the closeness of the scenery, the sights and the scents. And I noticed some things that I don’t see everyday.

An old man crossed the street as I approached, looking at me over his shoulder. I reckoned that I was as strange a sight to him as he was to me. His gaze followed me after I zipped by. As his image shrank in my mirror, I wished I had my camera. I pictured myself standing next to the old man, with my bike parked next to me and his massive, green tractor parked next to him. In these parts, it’s not often you see a black man, dressed in an Aerostich, wearing a full-faced helmet, riding a Transalp. But where I’m from, you never see a black man, dressed in coveralls, wearing a straw hat, driving a John Deere. I laughed in my helmet and wondered which sight was further from the ordinary.

A short while later, I caught a glimpse of something else I’d never seen before. I knew what it was instantly and quickly pulled off onto the shoulder for a closer look. In the fields on my right, the leafless scrub bore fluffy white scraps in the dried carcasses of flowers. Cotton fields! I stood on the side of the road for a few minutes, snapped off a few seedpods and tried to imagine how much fun it would have been to pick the fluffy stuff by hand, under the summer sun. I could only shake my head in awe at the fortitude of the people who could do such a thing for their entire lives. I wondered whether my privileged, Gen X self would have had the strength and resilience to survive those days. I plucked a few dead flowers to take home with me and continued my ride.

I plowed thru Camden and made my way to route 97. My theory was proving to be correct; the landscape became more rolling and the road more entertaining. I was just beginning to enjoy arcing thru the gentle bends when I sensed the bike squirming beneath me, as if we were on a metal grate bridge. I chocked it up to the rough pavement. But when the asphalt improved, but the squirming continued. Strangely, I noticed this feeling seemed to emanate from the rear, vice the front. I’d never had a rear tire go down before, but I imagined it would be a similar feeling, so I stopped to check the tire pressure. I didn’t have a pressure gage, but I didn’t need one. When I pushed the tire with my boot, it was as soft as my abs. I had a spare inner tube, tire irons and the know-how to use them. But of course, two of the three were locked safely in my garage. Just as quickly as it started, the fun was over.

At this point, the medium sized town of Camden was about twenty miles behind me. I didn’t really know how long the tire had been losing air, but I was confused by the fact that I was able to ride it for a couple of miles whilst scratching my head about the squirming. I've always thought inner tubes would go from 30 psi to zero psi in one, alarming instant. But this one seemed to be holding some air. Not that I was complaining. Since I was in the middle of nowhere without the means to help myself, I decided to slowly ride on in search of a gas station or some place useful. If the inner tube failed, what’s the worst that could happen? A rear wheel blow out at 35mph wouldn’t be a catastrophe and I’d have a shorter walk to meet my Good Samaritan.

Eventually, I rode up to some kind of country store/bait shop near the intersection of 97 and 200. There was nothing available to patch the tube. There was an air compressor, but the hose was leaky. Though by then, it was a moot point. The inner tube had given up its last ounce of pressure and retired from the wheel support business. I was riding on the strength of the sidewalls. The Lady Behind The Counter pointed to a shelf and mentioned Fix-A-Flat. It was worth a shot, I thought. I pumped the goo into the tire and listened to it leak out of the puncture for a few seconds, then the hissing stopped. The tire rose. The tire hardened. I waited a minute for the goo to set, geared up and headed down the road, wondering how fast I could ride with a rock hard tire. Not very. Evidently I waited too long to get rolling, as the goo seemed to settle in one spot and the balance was horrible. The bike vibrated terribly at speed, but this turned out to be just one more minor detail that didn’t matter. This tube was serious about retirement and completely let itself go, slimy goo oozing all over the rim. I turned around to try and ease it back to the shop, but the newly lubricated rim/bead interface allowed the wheel to spin inside the tire. There was no way to ride up and down hills the cover the mile or so back to the store. I started to push, but that was one heck of a task as well. Gently rolling hills aren’t so gentle when you’re a scrawny runt and pushing a 450 pound motorbike against gravity.

I got to the top of the first hill, maybe fifty yards distant, and locked the bike and my riding gear to a utility pole. Then I pulled out my South Carolina map and pondered my options as I walked back to the bait shop. It’s times like these when I become very conscious of the skin I’m in. When I’m in the saddle, the only possibly visible skin is on my face and my neck. My neck is well obscured by my collar and my lid, and my face hides behind a dark smoke shield unless it’s overcast or dark. But walking along the roadside, in SC, in this hide, made me nervous. Normally, I’d say that the main reason I’ve never ridden South Carolina prior to this trip is that getting to SC from NC requires that I ride… south. This is a problem because the mountains, and hence the good roads, are north and west. But the other reason is that the thought of being stranded down there is scary. Sure, I’ve ridden in places far away and places where I barely speak the language. But no place have I seen as many Rebel flags as I’ve seen in SC. It makes me nervous.

So there I was, exposed, with no witnesses around, making my way back to the bait shop. I stepped away from the lane whenever I heard traffic approaching. Some juvenile joke and how many points I’m worth in a video game came to mind. I stepped briskly.

On the way to the shop, I considered my choices. It was approaching 5pm and any motorcycle shop I could find would be closing. I figured the nearest shops would be in Columbia or Rock Hill. Either would be a long and expensive tow from where I was stranded. I thought I’d do better to leave the bike overnight and drive back home in a rental car. Then I could fetch the bike with a trailer the next day, or return with my spare tube and ride home, depending upon the rental deal.

Eventually, I made it back to the shop without any close encounters of the chromed bumper kind. The Lady Behind The Counter was surprised to see me return to the bait shop, sans riding gear. I told her the Fix-A-Flat didn’t, and my bike was down the road apiece. She asked what I was going to do and I told her I was leaning toward the rental car option. But as luck would have it, she knew of a motorcycle shop in Lancaster, which was only twenty miles away. She found the number, made the call and lo and behold, they had an inner tube in my size! Furthermore, they had a trailer, which was dispatched to fetch my steed and me posthaste. Of course, they were delayed; another customer came in just as they were leaving the shop. But they made it out to me eventually. Mike and Dennis picked me up at the bait shop. I thanked The Lady and we headed up to where the bike was waiting. They loaded it into the trailer and away we went.

With good things happening, I was feeling pretty happy and chatting it up with the boys as we rode to their shop. They suggested I eat dinner in the greasy spoon next door while they replaced my tube, but I elected to stay and munch on an apple so I could be ready to ride asap. Good thing, since Mike had the new tube in lickety-split. The old tube was completely severed. Broken. It was a line instead of a circle. And there was a headless nail in the tire. Mike adjusted the chain and the brake while reassembling everything and had my bike off the lift in no time. They charged me the in-town towing fee and gave me a discount on the inner tube. If you’re ever stuck near Lancaster, call DC Cycles.

I found more than one Good Samaritan. The guys at DC Cycles worked well past quitting time to help me, and did it with a smile. The Lady Behind The Counter dialed many a phone number and allowed me to do the same without charging a dime, in spite of the sign on telephone. And all the customers that came and went thru the bait shop offered suggestions; call this person or that person. Once again, I learned that the people who make me nervous are the rare exceptions to the rule. Every time I hit the road on a motorcycle, my faith in humanity is restored. Even in South Carolina. The license plates down there read "Smiling Faces, Beautiful Places." Yes, indeed.