Shameless

I should preface by saying that this was an eventful day and this entry will not just simply be my standard "I got up at this hour, ate this, left then, rode these roads with such and such conditions, saw this and that, and arrived at this time". Along with the usual, it's going to be more personal. It's going to deal with emotions and introspection and all that jazz. You have been duly warned.

But that comes later. The day began dragging myself out of bed by 7, eating a nice breakfast of eggs and toast, doing a group selfie with my hosts, and then heading out around 8. It was less hot today, with no real rain, only drizzle, and most importantly, minimal wind. As foretold to me, the shoulder on 17 vanished shortly after leaving my hosts'. When riding on 4 lane highway at 45mph with no shoulder, I remember three things that help. They don't want the trouble of killing me. I don't want to die. And adrenaline makes me bike a damn good pace. To my relief, the shoulder would come back...then I would get onto business 17 and it would be gone yet again. I have been surprised to find that so far in the South, while I've been worried a lot being on busy highway with little or no shoulder far too often, I have been impressed that drivers haven't blared at me much at all, and generally have passed me safely. I think it being 4 lane highway where they can pass without going into oncoming traffic makes some of that difference compared to say highway 1 on the Pacific Coast.

I followed the route my hosts laid out for Wilmington. As predicted, the left turn off business 17 to Military Cutoff was not fun, as no one was about to let me over to do it. There's a light there, and I was able to get off into parking area and over to the light to cross straight rather than making said left turn. But cars almost never seem to go straight through that light, and my bike and I don't trigger the sensor...so the light was never going to change. I ultimately had to maneuver back and wait for my moment to cross into the turn lane. From there though things were easy. There was bike path and later bike lane. I got on a designated bike route to get to Independence Boulevard and from there on to River Road, where there was a neat boardwalk area, and then a good bike lane all the way down, and even an adjacent trail for awhile, with lots of new housing and development going up along its run. It wasn't the most efficient route to take, but worth it.

There was a nice view at Snow's Cut along the river, with an exceptional view on the bridge over it, though no chance for pictures. Carolina Beach had yet another boardwalk, some fair stuff not in use, and of course more sandy beach. As had been recommended to me by the Korean bike tourist I had stayed with two nights ago, I went to Britt's Donuts and got a couple of their exceptionally good glazed donuts. For just awhile after that it started to not just drizzle but rain, and I found myself shouting out my joy to pedestrians and singing songs to passing cars, glad to be wet, glad to be alive. Then I came to Kure Beach.

And here, here is where I get personal. Because it is at Kure Beach where I decided it was the time and the place for something a long time coming. I have accounted my tours, but I account here what came before, how they began. The truth of it is that I was a depressed wreck into my mid twenties, doing not much of anything, feeling capable of nothing. But then finally, four years ago, with encouragement from my sister, I went to a free clinic in Lincoln and got on an SSRI. In the process, I saw a therapist who asked me what it was I wanted in being there. I told her that I wanted to stop hating myself. She asked me if that was enough, shouldn't I want to like myself? To which I told her that I couldn't imagine that, and it seemed best to handle things one step at a time. The SSRI helped, and I can not advocate them enough. It didn't make me suddenly not depressed, but it did give me back my motivation and make things suddenly feel possible for me when they had seemed so impossible before.

And once I had motivation, what I realized I wanted to do with it was bike to and settle in Seattle. I weaned off the SSRI, somewhat against advice in truth, before the tour, not wanting to be dependent on it when I left. The events of my adventure to Seattle are well recorded here. I found my confidence that trip. When I biked down the West Coast the next year, I etched my guilt onto a rock and tossed it into the Pacific. And somewhere then on the coast I realized I had stopped hating myself. On my last trip, I tossed my jealousy into each of the Great Lakes (though I only mentioned Superior on this blog). And somewhere then I realized I had accepted myself. And today, at Kure, I scoured the sandy beach for a rock and an implement to etch into it. It took me some time and some failed attempts to etch my "shame" on the right rock, but I did it. It ended up smaller than the one I put my guilt onto, but that felt appropriate in a way. I bore my guilt on a heavy rock in my pocket for miles to throw it into the sea at the right place. And today I bore the looks of many beach-goers as the weird bike tourist sifting his way unapologetically through rocks. Fitting, right? I've bore shame for too long. It was time to let it go.

Guilt and shame are two sides of a coin, guilt the cold ache at feeling you have wronged or harmed another, shame the burning feeling at the thought of letting others, and yourself, down. I realized back on the coast that guilt need be only momentary to resolve to not make the same mistake, and then if not let go after, can only do harm, building and growing to a constant weight carried with you. I let go of my jealousy of others, of any want for their life rather than mine. But I've held my shame, my embarassment, the flushed cheeks, the inner beratement, at my every mistake, every perceived failing, holding me back, the worry at how I'll be seen even keeping me from trying in the first place. I'm done with that. I'll do my best, I'll be myself, what others think be damned. And what I think of me, my own disappointment...I think I can lighten that weight as well. Because four years later, somewhere down the way, who can say when, I realize that I've gotten where I once could not imagine. I like myself, for everything I am, mistakes and failings and all. I'm a bike tourist after all. I haven't the room or the energy to be carrying around guilt or jealousy or shame. That shit is heavy. You've got to let it go.

So...yeah. All that personal stuff handled, I biked on with a smile on my face. Of course thanks to my time spent throwing a rock into the ocean, I had just missed the ferry and had awhile to wait, but I didn't care. It turned out far from a boring wait either. As I paid my $2 toll and asked the nice toll lady what to do, she told me I could wait over at the picnic table where the other bicyclists were. They weren't tourists, at least not presently, but they were fellow cyclists and great fun to chat with. They had all come over from Southport to do some beach biking, two on mountain bikes, one a beach cruiser, and one a sweet fat bike. We chatted about my tour, as well as the touring a couple of them had done across the country. I came very close to asking them if they might provide a fellow cyclist a place to stay, and in retrospect, I really should have.

After the beautiful ferry ride, I biked a little ways with one of them (having the rare experience of slowing down to be at his place), as he showed me the way to go. I biked to the Oak Island Campground. It was an RV campground, but I figured they must have tent camping. But upon arriving, it did not look promising. No one was at the office. I asked someone RVing there if they had tent camping and he had no idea. He asked me for help hauling his defective AC unit out of his RV window, then wished me luck. I called the number, got no answer, then got called back. I was told there was no tent camping. I asked if I could rent an RV as I saw advertised. I was told no, only if it was for two nights. I asked if any exception could be made for a bike tourist, and was again told no. I biked back to 211 and kept going to search for another campground, all of them around apparently RV parks. I called ahead to another as I got close to be told again that they didn't have tent camping, but another might. Nope, they didn't either. Why they wouldn't let me pay them money, way too much even, to put my tent on their grass is well beyond me.

But at this point I said the hell with it and I biked hard toward Shallotte to get a room at the Days Inn there. I was tired, and tired of dealing with RV parks. I knew the hotel would take my money, even if it was far more than I wanted to pay, to let me sleep. It was a hard push, and once on 17 again for the last 10 miles there was no shoulder, or at least none usable with rumble strip covering it all. But I made it. And sure enough, they took my money. I had to climb to the second floor with Bree, but then I was done for the day around 6, able to relax on my own in a nice, quiet hotel room. Once I would have felt ashamed, that I needed to get a hotel, that I didn't stealth camp, that I spent so much money, that I hadn't planned well enough to take a state park earlier or to figure out something else. But my shame is in the Atlantic. I make my choices. I live my life. And I am shameless.