Carolina in our Minds

Our final day in South Carolina took us through more of the same...mainly swamps and forests. The morning chill lifted, and it became a brisk but wonderful day for bicycling. There was no traffic to speak of at all, and for the first time in what seemed like eons, there were actually small grades to ride. Nothing that required much effort, but a welcome change from the never-ending flat lands.

Since we had the road to ourselves, we spent a long time discussing our thoughts and feelings about our journey through the Carolina's. One of the wonderful things about a tandem is the ability to easily communicate with your partner. There are times, especially in urban traffic situations when it is difficult to hear each other over the din. But our guess is that for 95% of the ride, we could easily converse in normal tones. There are radio communication sets for tandem riders on the market, but in our humble opinion they serve no real purpose.

We both shared the same observation on the racial diversity of the South. Being from Montana (where 94% or thereabouts of the people are white), we have very little interaction on a daily basis with African Americans. It was refreshing to converse with different people, although we both had difficulty with the increasingly heavy Southern drawl. We often found ourselves asking each other "what did they say?", and generally had to listen two times before we could truly understand. But, we discovered that they had the same problem with our accents, and we had a good laugh with a number of them about the "foreign" language we were speaking. In fact, we found it more difficult to understand the white folks than the black. Don't ask us why. We didn't notice any animosity on a face to face basis...only the occassional "get yer ass off the goddamn road" invictives as a pickup truck sped by. But nothing of concern, really. It seems to us that Southerns don't consider people from Montana as "Yankees", but as some people who talk with a strange accent that happen to live far away. It was an interesting experience.

We also learned that hurricanes play a major role in the lives of folks from Virginia on down the coast. Like forest fires in the West, people remember hurricanes, and know exactly when they occurred, and the damage done. "Floyd, Irene, Ben, Inez"...all have meaning to those who lived through them. All through the lowlands there are "Hurricane Evacuation" route signs, meaning that these storms are not isolated occurances, but an accepted "risk" to living there. People often say to us that they could never live in Montana...it being too cold, or the risk of fire, or being eaten by a bear...that sort of thing. But after witnessing 10 inch downpours, seeing all the houses built on stilts, observing the "high water mark" road signs, etc. , we'll take cold over hurricanes any day of the week. You choose you're risk, and live with the consequences.

We've seen lots of roadkill on the trip, (which is something you notice on a bike) but about 30 miles from the Georgia border, we saw our first armadillo.

The armadillo first forayed into Texas across the Rio Grande from Mexico in the 1800s, eventually spreading across the southeast United States. Wildlife enthusiasts are using the northward march of the armadillo as an opportunity to educate others about the animals, which during the Great Depression were known as "Hoover Hogs" by down-on-their luck Americans who had to eat them instead of the "chicken in every pot" Herbert Hoover had promised as President. Armadillos are prolific diggers, and many species use their sharp claws to dig for food such as grubs, and to dig dens. The armor is formed by plates of dermal bone covered in small, overlapping epidermal scales called "scutes". This armor-like skin appears to be the main defense of many armadillos, although most escape predators by fleeing (often into thorny patches, which their armor protects them from) or digging to safety.

They have been officially declared, albeit with some resistance, the state small mammal of Texas where it is considered a pest and is often seen dead on the roadside. In the state of Washington, it is illegal to own an armadillo. Armadillos can be kept as pets, although they require moist ground in which to dig and catch insects. They are difficult to fully domesticate. They make common roadkill — jokingly described by some as "possums in a half shell" — and a burrowing nuisance to homeowners, cemetery caretakers and golf course superintendents. Armadillos have short legs but can move quickly, and have the ability to remain underwater for as long as six minutes. The North American Armadillo tends to jump straight in the air when surprised, and consequently often collides with the undercarriage of passing vehicles.

"Climbing" ( a gentle but steady rise) out of the Black Swamp, we crossed the Savannah River into Georgia, where we stopped at the "El Cheapo" (real name) gas station for a quick refreshment and mini celebration of sorts. Georgia had become the 12th state that we would traverse, and with one more to go, we actually began to feel as if the end was in sight.

We had learned a few days back that when asked the question "Where ya headin'?", it no longer sufficed to say "Florida". In 21st century terms, we were actually just a half day's drive on I95 to the Florida border. We found that people were now much more interested about where we came from, rather than where we were going to end up. After spending a brief respite talking with the patrons (who were mainly hunters), sharing stories, and listening to tales of hunting, fishing, and grumblings over federal management of wildlife areas, we bid adieu, mounted up once again and proceeded on.