Hitting Me Probably Broke His Hand

North Of Savannah, Georgia
May 20, `77

Morning found me ready to mount up and ride into a full day of
blistering sun. Afternoon found me sore and spent. When I reached
Savannah, I walked my bike up and over the Savannah River Bridge—a
long hike. The highway on the other side of the bridge that separated
Georgia from South Carolina was suicide. Highways 95 and 17 merged
into a northbound two-lane road. The semis were so thick that one
would be coming from the front while another was passing me on the
side. Any kind of structure sticking out from one of the trucks would
have been enough to decapitate me. My four inches of highway were
always a challenge. The shoulder of the road dropped off four to six
inches into loosely packed gravel. That would have been a disastrous
transition for a ten-speed bike moving at 20 to 25 mph to make.
Fortunately, I did not fall off the highway, but my nerves were shot
after an hour's ride.

When three or four semis in a row passed me, I would get propelled
down the highway. The initial push was always towards the shoulder,
but the secondary suction pulled me back onto the highway and forward
behind the exhaust reeking semi. At one point I almost lost it. All I
could do was hold on tight and let the suction have its way. Just when
I was beginning to get the hang of things and I thought I would
survive-- smack, something hit me from behind. My whole body shook
from the vibrations, and then the pain started. I was waiting for the
blood, but it never came, as I miraculously kept my bike on the
highway. Some asshole in a pick-up truck hit me on the ass with his
hand. I took the blow with my hip, but I bet the asshole broke his
hand. I made pretty good time, but it was amazing and I survived to tell
this story.