Rode from Southern Comfort Campground to Rocky's Campground.
Originally planned to ride to Goose Pasture Campground--a 77 mile ride--but my body had other plans.
I woke up with legs that felt different than sore: they were lead. Difficult to move with a creaking deep in every bone from my toes to my hip. I tried to ignore it as I hopped on my bike and listed her forward to begin my roll. As an experienced touring cyclist, I figured the pain would ease as the day wore on. As I approached mile 20 I knew something was wrong; my left hip began to feel as if it was tearing. Not like pulling in the sense of tendon and meat separating and heading different ways, but just a slow tear in middle of my hip flexor that felt as if it was growing. I knew I had to cut my mileage short and try to figure out what was up or potentially risk damage. I'd rather take longer on the trip than push myself and suffer from a trip ending injury. The pain was also putting me in a stand-off type of attitude so I decided to only take a break once to minimize my interaction with people. On top of pain there the addition of headwinds as I weaved through sugar cane fields. I rolled in silent frustration battling these factors, hoping for some reprieve. When I finally had enough, I ducked into the nearest grocery store for a quick refill and a short break.
I was pissed at the World, at my bike, at my body, at God, at anything my brain could shove in front of itself cognitively. I quickly gathered some food from my panniers and plopped myself down onto the concrete next to my bike, leaning against a grassy side to the building, knowing I needed to alleviate my hanger. As I ate, I realized I was being unnecessarily hard on myself for cutting the day short. I was becoming focused on maintaining a high daily average in miles as opposed to enjoying the trip. I breathed slowly and reminded myself that making it this far, and still going, was already an accomplishment in of itself. Failure and quitting are always options I reminded myself, savoring my granola bar. Getting up and continuing the trip was a minor victory and getting through thirty miles, let alone fifty, was a good day was a thought I forced to bounce around my head space as I finished my meal and carefully swung my lead-filled legs onto Kona.
I continued on, turning down from a main back-country highway to, what appeared like, a smaller, quieter road. After a few miles of riding a man waved me down in his large black SUV heading in the opposite direction as me, and quickly swung to my side of the road and pulled over. He called me over and warned me about the logging road ahead mentioning. Despite what I thought, the man told me the current road was not quiet at all; but, rather was occupied nearly, only by large logging trucks going entirely too fast on a road with no shoulder. Fully loaded with logs or not was irrelevant, they easily outweighed me by a factor of more than 50. He offered me directions about what road I’d pop-out on and what I could expect on this road and the next. I tried to direct him to my cell phone with Maps open, saying that it was aiding me along that way. He continued anyways with a big smile, only giving my phone a glance. It was this point that I had a bit of a mini-epiphany.
This man helped me to wrap my head around "Southern Hospitality" and why it was fundamentally different than "Midwestern Politeness." Those of us from the Midwest generally dislike the idea of imposing or inconveniencing, in any way. We have a bad tendency of apologizing for everything and giving an odd "ope" sound as we realize we are, once again, in the way. To slow someone down even for a millisecond, at least in the Midwesterner's mind, is a punishable offense. We often say "no thank you" to things that are offered because we don't want to be a bother. Southern Hospitality is different.
Southern Hospitality has a politeness to your entire existence. No one is in the way, and you are never slowing anyone down. There is time to chew the fat and enjoy the world and wax poetic on the machinations of society, the world, life. However, there is an understanding that you will take any help offered. Saying "no thank you," doesn't register in the Southern code of politeness. There is no "no." There is "I'm offering help and you will take it." My Midwestern desire to not impose, and that special southern philanthropy mix as well as oil and water.
As I motioned again towards my phone, he continued to smile and talk. He reminded me of the logging trucks that run up and down the highway and how they are, on occasion, dangerous to deal with. The man reiterated front-to-back that I should be careful and that he would hate to read about a cyclist getting hurt in the newspaper. The man seemed genuine about his wish and I began to understand how I, as a Midwesterner, can work with Southern Hospitality. It began with understanding the man had genuine concern and wanted to give me, what he specifically, thought was the best advice in the situation. I had to graciously, and eventually earnestly, accept his wisdom despite nothing particularly new was being dispensed to me (. I listened and chatted idly with the man as I put my phone back into my pocket.
I can't hurt a phone's feelings.