Silence Fell When I Entered The Pool Hall

Here comes the rain again
Falling on my head like a memory
Falling on my head like a new emotion
(Here is comes again, here it comes again)



Beer Garden Pool Hall
Beaufort, North Carolina

That night I camped in a pine forest just off the highway. The rays of
the setting sun on the fallen pine needles created a mellow
atmosphere, but in the middle of the night the rains came. With water
dripping from my tent seams, I was faced with the stomach-churning
dilemma-- put my rain suit on and pull up camp, or, lie in my tent as
it slowly fills up with water. Past experience had taught me that the
latter alternative was a drag, but while I was pondering my decision,
my tent fell in on me. The ground was soft to begin with, and with the
rain, it was not a surprising outcome. After I packed up my soaked
equipment and made my way back to the highway in the dark, I buckled
down for what would be a long, lonely, wet, hike until dawn. At first,
I walked my bike, but a fear of snakes and gators making their way
across the two to three inches of water on the road convinced me to
mount up and ride.

I came to a small town. On the edge of it was shelter--a
coin-operated car wash. I got out of my wet clothes and spread out all
my wet gear. I even managed a couple hours of uncomfortable sleep
(well maybe an hour). 7 a.m. found me packing up my still wet gear
(but not as wet), and heading north. 9 a.m. found me sitting under an
abandoned fruit stand, waiting out the downpour. 1 p.m. found me
miserable, wet, and hungry. I had had it. I was only a half days
ride from where I would board the ferry for the outer banks.
The forecast was 70% chance of rain for the next two
days, and, on the outer banks I wouldn't find much shelter, so I
checked myself into Mike's-- Beaufort's hotel-- the best $10. I ever spent.

Inside my room I spread out my wet gear, and then jumped in the
shower—the best shower of my life. Beaufort was a small coastal town.
It had no Laundromat, and, since it was Sunday, there was no place to
buy beer. As I was discovering that fact, however, I happened upon a
small pool hall that, through the window at least, appeared to be
serving liquid refreshment. When I walked inside, the heads of the all
black clientele turned in my direction, and the place got very quiet.
I looked at the black bartender and ordered a draft. The atmosphere
was uptight until the guy on the adjacent barstool turned to me and
said, "What's happening brother!" Everything seemed to return to
normal after that. I stayed for a couple of beers and then went back
to my hotel and ate a dinner of fresh caught flounder in the
downstairs restaurant (a treat to myself).

Back in my hotel room, the TV weatherman told me that 3.4 inches of
rain had fallen in the last twenty-four hours and more was expected.
Another disheartening piece of news was the bug bites that covered my
arms, hands, and legs. I was beginning to feel as if this whole trip
was a bad idea. I was not out to martyr myself. I wasn't sure what I
was going to do, but I decided to enjoy myself while I could. With my
bag of potato chips by my side, let it rain; who cares!

I settled in for a night of TV in my warm comfortable room.

A New Rebellious Movement

Inter-Coastal Waterway, South Carolina
May `77


This morning I went fishing with the George and Dave in their canoe and caught
the only fish, a catfish. After I said goodbye to the boys (they left for another
park), I washed my clothes and body with well water and started
preparing dinner. Boy, this R & R was just what the doctor ordered. I
think my skin and the sun have stopped fighting. I'm pretty brown now.
The memory of being sun burnt while biking in 90 to 100 degree
weather, bogged down in heavy blue jean wear, makes me want to puke.
I'm sure the edge on that memory will stay for a long, long, time.

George and Dave decided they didn't want to leave after all. When
they returned in the evening, we partied one last time. Early morning
however, found me on the highway traveling hard. I camped in the
welcome to South Carolina roadside picnic area, a stone's throw from
North Carolina, and met a nice retired couple from Victoria, Canada.
We talked for a long time, and then they got back in their motor home
and took off down the highway. They confirmed what I had already
suspected. The carefree and courageous way old people have taken to
the open road is reminiscent of the `60's young people. It could be
the beginning of a new rebellious movement. As one knowledgeable old
fellow said to me, "I'm just a high class bum." Anyway, the Victoria
couple had been all over the U.S.A., Canada, Mexico, and Australia.
They said they would send me information on how to fly to Australia
for half price.

Camping in the rest area wasn't bad. I worried a bit about the local
authorities, and I had to tell a gay desperado to find another trick,
but other than that it was okay. I had been traveling in overcast
weather for the last couple of days, and this morning it was
particularly gloomy. When I pulled into a restaurant for morning
coffee, and this fellow eating breakfast asked me if I wanted to throw
my bike in the back of his truck, I quickly agreed. The next 40 miles
were a breeze. When I got dropped off in Wilmington, North Carolina, I
went to a bike shop to get some advice. The bike guy told me, "You've
got some baring problems, but its not bad. To prevent that you should get a
steel hubed wheel." I thanked the guy and hit the highway.

After Wilmington, I rode all day, and had a rather difficult time
finding a campsite. I also stopped in Jacksonville for a beer break.
One footnote worth mentioning—every time I get close to a military
base, I encounter one or more assholes who go out of there way to make
my bicycling as difficult as possible.

Mistook Sharks For Dolphins

Inter-Coastal Waterway, South Carolina
May `77

For the past three days I've been doing about 90 miles per day. All
in all, things haven't been overly good. The highway has been cracked
and potholed (and likewise with the maniac drivers). Nobody in their
right mind would plan to ride their bicycle here. I have seen the
ocean once since I began this trip, and I had to pedal twenty-five
miles out of my way to do it. Anyway, at my last store stop, the lady
told me about this free park, so I have been camped here, on the
inter-coastal waterway, since yesterday. The place is really
beautiful. Large South Carolina pines surround me, the bustling
waterway is in front of me, and best of all, there's not a whole lot
of people camping here. It's hard to believe that I'm in a state park,
and the camping is free.

Last night, I saw a pair of dolphins swimming down the waterway. Dave
and George (my closest neighbors) told me I probably mistook sharks
for dolphins. If they were sharks they had to be 12 to 16 feet
long--not a pleasant thought since earlier in the day I had been
swimming almost in the same spot. I shared some dinner and some good
smoke dope with Dave and George before going back to my own tent. It
was a very pleasant evening.

Biking Over Charleston Bridge--A Three Humpper

Somewhere On The Other Side Of Cooper River
Charleston, South Carolina
May 21 `77


On my bicycle, in stop and go traffic, as the shimmering heat lines rise off
the trunk of the car stopped in front of me. Exhaust fumes choke me as I
turn and watch the sweat pour off the faces of the black city folk
walking on the sidewalk. Ahead of me are minor concrete rises, and
then the monstrous steel colossus. Steep, not just an incline--the
highway rises straight into the sky. I'm picking up speed now, trying
to make every inch of free ground count before the drudgery of the
incline.

On hot pavement, I'm in 10th gear, 8th gear, slower, switching to low
range, pump, pump, and finally 2nd gear. Get a comfortable grip
because you aren't going anywhere for a while. Zoom, Swwissh,
GrrrrroooooM, one after the other, the cars and trucks pass on my
left. Beads of sweat group and fall off my forehead. The sun bakes my
already well-baked body. It's getting congested now. Rra, Rra-u,
Rrauuuw, the trucks are inching past me, but I'm still going up and
I'm almost there.

Wa-la, from the top of the first incline, 3rd gear, 5th gear, still
going up, but it doesn't seem like it. The bridge is large, high, and
I wish I had time to look around, but the traffic is frightening. Here
goes high range. 10th gear and I'm bent over the handlebars, picking
up speed. Move over fellows. I have just declared equal rights.
Faster, faster, hot air hitting my face, shirt billowing in the
wind--the now eye-squinting wind. Wobble, wobble, stay true front
wheel; this is your first test—Hell—this is your first test! Down,
leveling off, and a new incline to begin.

Pump, pump, pump, pump, 8th gear, pump, pump, low range, 3rd gear,
pump, pump, and 2nd gear; it's steady as she goes, with burning,
sweaty eyes for company. It's up and over for a second time. High
range, 8th gear, 10th gear, and its not over till its over. No
excuses; I'm on my way down again. Make room for daddy! Coast, mighty red
rocket, coast; I need some rest time. Up ahead, more metal giant, and
more burning eyes--one last time.

Pump, pump, pump, 8th gear, pump, 3rd gear, pump, pump, pump; arrived
and waiting for the downhill, move over cars, I'm about to be reborn
again. 10th gear, pump, pump, and its all down and away from here on.
Fast and getting faster, hot air, wobbling tire, and more glaring, hot
pavement; if I had wings I could fly. Oh God, no traffic jams please!
I will not brake.

Down, faster, faster—oh no—Highway 17 left lane. Nanoseconds, look over
my shoulder and thank God there's no traffic; merge, merge—all the way
to the left lane. Honk yourself you asshole; at 50 mph I'm as much a
car as you'll ever see. Honk, honk; go fuck yourself. You can pass on
the right, left, or stay where you are. I don't give a damn! I'm
coming through. Move now oh lightening fast ten-speed. Let the chips
fall where they may.

Shoo—ah, on Highway 17, and I'm still alive! Okay pee-brains, the
road is yours again; you can have it, just give me my six inches, and
get out of the way. Swisssh, Zoooom, GrrrrrroooooM, I'm on the other
side of the Cooper River and heading north.

Sleeping With Serpents And Chiggers

South Carolina
May ‘77

I got off that highway as fast as I could, and the rest of the day
went pretty well (if you call pedaling another 80 miles in 115 degree
heat-- while wearing a blue jean jacket-- well). South Carolina was
pretty (if you call swampy, desolate, pretty), but it was a little
scary because of all the poisonous snakes. I haven't seen any live
gators (one dead), but biking along the highway I did see the largest
non-zoo snake ever. It was 4 or 5 inches around and about 6 feet long.
It was moving just off the highway at about the same speed I was
biking. I switched gears and left the snake behind.

The whole snake thing, to say the least, made camping along the
highway a bit precarious, which brings me to the point: I'm sitting
here in my tent, fifty or so miles out of Charleston, nursing my sunburn
and writing in my journal. I feel like a little kid hiding his head under his
blanket for protection. This was the best spot I could find to put up my
tent-- in the middle of bottomland, in the middle of nowhere, in the
middle of snake country. I know the critters are not far off. When I
think of a snake slithering under my tent, I get the heebe jeebies. Oh
well, such is life! Last night for dinner, I had a quart of beer, a
can of cold spaghetti and bread. Tonight I'm having carrots, bread,
and water. I wonder if the magazine, Good Housekeeping, would be
interested in a few diet tips?

P.S. Snapping Chiggers off my tent screen with my fingers. Goodnight
for now. See you tomorrow, I hope.

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.

When My Pet 200 lb Boa Constrictor Gets Mad

Swimming Hole
Southern Georgia

May 19 ‘77

This was bottomland, all the way to Savannah. It was hot, even for
here. I biked more than ninety miles, and my ass was (is) sore. At the
end of that day I happened upon a free park. I was sweaty and tired,
so it was no surprise when I jumped into the river as soon as I got
off my bike. The posted sign said, "Swim at your own risk," but it
would've had to say much more than that to keep me out of the water,
which by the way was fine. When I jumped in the river, a couple of
young kids were just leaving. I stayed in the water for quite awhile.
I even washed my hair (it needed it). I was still swimming when I met
this guy who told me why the “risk” sign was posted. Not because of currents
or things like that, but rather because of the snakes and gators. This
was the place my friend came to catch the snakes that he would then
turn around and sell to Savannah's Reptile Gardens. He had caught a
cottonmouth and a water rattler that very same day.

He certainly was an interesting fellow. He kept a 17-foot boa
constrictor for a pet. According to him, that was some kind of record.
Four years ago when he bought the snake for $70., it was only four
feet long. At that time, the snake ate two white mice a week. Now, he
eats five to seven rabbits a week, depending on how many my friend can
shoot for him. The rabbits are shoved down the snake's mouth with a
coat hanger. The big guy is kept in a closet and gets out once in
awhile. But, as might be expected, when my friend shuts the closet
door, the snake gets mad. "I don't like to be around him when he gets
mad," said my friend, "but after about five hours of cooling off
time, it's safe to open the door again." The 200 lb snake, according
to my friend, was capable of eating a man whole—some pet.