Day 24: ‘Rack Up Them Miles!’
Distance: 77 mi.
Song of the Day: Elvis Costello — I Want You
7:30AM: Eleanor and Jeff are up before us, ready to bestow further gratuitous kindnesses as Liz & I pack and part off. I nest an extra 3 liters of water inside my frame bag in anticipation of an arduous day scooting down Eastern bank of Uharrie National Forests. Espresso and scones go down, we stow a raspberry chocolate bar in Lizzie’s handlebar bag for not-too-distant consumption.
Impeccable riding conditions, we pile on 20 miles before stretch break. 25, now 30 miles fly beneath wheels, making excellent progress before noon heat brings our dogged pursuit of 50 miles.
1PM: Food is the order of the hour, we set sights beyond Seagrove, on La Frontera Mexican restaurant. Arrive to find it boarded up. Bodega next door doesn’t look open, but a few drifters linger outside so we investigate — we’re in luck. Each consume two bananas, oranges, peanut butter crackers, yoghurt; split a ed bull, and gatorade. As we eat and shake out legs a sunscorched man with thin single braid goatee inquires into our oxen-like packs, and why we’re loitering in nylon in the middle of nowhere. The 63 year-old drifter is waiting for a ride south; he’s confident its coming; when or where unclear. Slurred but steadied by drink he gravitates over to upstart four or five short conversations, excitedly gesticulates one-off questions with each saunter — “How did you get yer bikes down here?!” “Where do y’all stay?” “How you know when it’s time to pack up and quit?!” — each time orbits away w/ coy remark, “I won’t bother y’all further! Be safe and god bless…Ha! Bicycles… I’ll be damned.” In final traversal he confides his luckiness to be with health, alive and capable. He warns of pitfalls of road travel, chides us to be careful; furnishes a small yellow foam ball from his pocket and gives it to me as a keepsake, rejecting my refusal. I place it gently in jersey pocket, as if fragile. We escape southward into narrow forested roads along Uharrie’s overgrown toe.
3PM: Standing upon pedals to avoid the building oppression of saddle seats, we flit through Ellerbe, a dainty ranch town, turn past a small assembly of cheerful chicanx folks outside ga as station and diner complex. 60 miles down, a healthy stretch of sunny sky remains, legs resilient after yesterday rest — I wonder, could today be our first 100 mile day?
4PM: Lizzie laments the days lack of breaks (my orig. word choice was ‘gripes’), I vow a substantial stop in Rockingham, at the conclusion of a seven mile stretch on Sandy Ridge Church Road. Lizzie threatens a roadside nap, jeopardizing my ambition to bike one hundred, but steep downhill winds kill the banter. On the resulting upclimb I notice a creature quivering in road side bushy overgrowth. I stop into the weeds and holler at Lizzie.
An emaciated Beagle hides in a shallow nest in the outgrowth, lays cautious eyes on us. We sat down in the hot grass, tired and cramped and coo to him, tail wags return but the hound is clearly frightened. Any attempted approach sends it crawling off into deeper brush, stiffly pulling its hind legs along as if damaged.
We set out water in a bowl; a few minutes later it gets sniffed but nothing more. I pinch some granola into the bowl and significantly back. The hungry thing hurriedly gobbles it up then quickly retreats into the brush.
In twenty minutes we’d exhausted granola treats & hadn’t persuaded the dog any closer. I phone two animal shelters; no answer; punch 911, who routes call to country sheriff, I report the dog’s condition and ask for a dispatch; am told “we’ll send someone but don’t wait up on us.” I tell Lizzie who vexes, “We have to save this dog.”
Impassed, we opt to hail down cars — slow going, they rarely pass. Finally a white sedan creeps back after passing once; they’d hesitated to stop but doubled back after sizing up our appearance (nylon!). Two mighty sisters Cathy and Pam Mack join our rescue party.
Pam Mack, it turns out, is a bona fide dog savant, owns eight, she’d take this dog under wing too but she’s leaving town first thing tomorrow and won’t return to South Carolina for two weeks. Cathy breaks almonds out of a Kind bar, picking off chocolate bits, and Pam advertises the treats in the bottom of our silicon bowl.
Another car slows, stops, an arthritic woman repines from car window “Is it a beagle you’ve got there? Heeeey Ruby, baby, is that you!?” Driver, husband is stoic behind the wheel as the woman relates the prior day spent driving around nearby roads searching for the dog, and how she knew the dog would never respond to calls, and how our attempts would be fruitless. Her interaction with the dog isn’t warm; it’s contrite; she wiggles from the car for a moment to beckon the dog in earnest; Beagle seems excited by familiar voice but does not defer from skittish behavior. Woman retreats to car seat after seconds, drives away without thank you or goodbye, darkening mood over the rescue party.
Twenty more minutes of repeat travails; we’re out of Kind bar treats, scrape crumbs from surrounding grass; Cathy reviews the grim situation, reluctantly ready to throw hands up; it’s not clear what to do with the dog even if enticed into grabbing range. Against expectations the “owners” roll back downhill, semi-circle behind Cathy’s car and offer up a bag of dog food. Pam takes deep breath and resettles into her magic. Her circuit of vocal queues, treats, and hand gestures start paying off. The beagle ducks in to eat from bowl at Pam’s feet; with the next treat, she pooches up to Pam’s ankles; minutes later, her knees. Pam finally is able to course a few fingers across her skeleton-thin back; then scoops the dog into her arms.
Joyous relief floods in, the painstaking task completed in a little over an hour. “Ruby” is gently placed into “owners” car backseat. Even then the owner is trying to give the pop away. Something was amiss here — its unclear if they were running a puppy mill, or declared the dog untrainable and abandoned it, or if the pup truly ran away; what is clear is that the dog’s been mistreated. Yet we must now trust the dog into the owners hands; there’s simply. No alternative at hand. Pam Mack leaves the owner with stern words: this dog is worthy of love and deserves a safe home. If you cannot provide that to her, you are obligated to find someone who will.
Having fed the dog, gained its trust, and returned it to its presumed owner, we are of course unsatisfied. There’s too much uncertainty to conclude the dog has been ‘saved.’ For all we know Ruby could be punted to the woods in a day’s time, possibly due to lack of money, or as an act of rancor in the wake of a domestic dispute.
Time to let go. What we will remember is that today we met Pam and Cathy Mack. Mighty sisters. Dog whisperers.
Seven miles further we coast into a lot behind Mexican restaurants off Rockingham’s main strip. 77 miles is less than one hundred, it’s true, but let there be no talking of “settling”. 77 is simply what we rode today. We drink glasses of horchata under a sunned awning; it’s early evening, we’ll rest well tonight and perhaps try for 100 tomorrow. Maybe we’ll only bike fifty. It can’t be known.
I drift into hazy, fatigued thought while waiting for plate of hot food; I think about Will Wolf; how would he react to our day, were he here? Think about Will’s eagerness to speak Spanish with passers-by; maybe in Bolivia, or at a parkside food cart in Harlem, doesn’t matter much; I smile as I order in broken Spanglish — the Spanish will come another day.
After dinner we check into a motel, pay $45. It’s clean, simply furnished, and we just manage to squeeze our bikes between the two beds if we turn the chair against the wall. It’s exactly what we need. I shower and laze around listening to a basketball thump the side of the motel. Thump…thump…thump…sleep overtakes me.
