After some good shelter from the storm, Wednesday morning finally brought the sun. Even though I would have loved to stick around for Thanksgiving, I had to get moving. I had a long way to go.

No matter all the research and planning (or lack there of), it’s funny how things turn out on the road. I had heard that November is awful for the Outer Banks: it was supposed to be wet and cold, with constant winds from the south to whip me in the face. That leg turned out to be one of the most beautiful parts of my trip, and it was very easy riding. As for Charleston, every time I had talked to my family down there, it was beautiful weather, and I was looking forward to riding in short sleeves. But as soon as I rolled into town, we got soaked in a multi-day cold front. If it snows in Florida, I’ll be pissed.

My Uncle Michael took me through the city and out to the other side to save me some time and dodge a lot of the traffic coming into town for Thanksgiving. We said our goodbyes at a gas station and he pulled off. My Aunt Elli had put a little parting gift on my bike to wish me well on my travels.

The next person I knew was a state and a half away, in the middle of Florida. Here we go!

I hopped on 17 and chugged along. That storm had brought some solid north winds, so I got to enjoy a tailwind for the first time in forever. I made some great progress, both due to the wind and also due to the fresh legs, and I made it the 50 miles to my planned campsite by 1:30. I figured I should keep rolling while I got this wind–I’ve learned you can’t trust the weather forecast, especially near the coast. You never know when the wind will switch, so I figured I’d take advantage of it while I could.

I made it another 15 miles, and then I got to a point where the shoulder got so skinny that I had to move onto the rumble strip. I hit it harder than I thought. My hands have it bad enough as it is–honestly, they’re one of the most brutal parts on 8 hour rides–but when you hit a deep rumble strip with numb hands, it really stings.

Then I looked down and saw the all too familiar “goofy tire” on the front wheel. At least that’s easier to change than the back tire. I pulled over and changed the tube like always–I’m actually getting kind of good at it. I typically use my hand pump and fill her up as best I can, then I’ll roll into the nearest town and find a bike shop where I can top it off. Mid-way through the tube change, I realized that today, tomorrow, and the next day I probably won’t be able to find an open bike shop. Awesome.

Riding with a partially-filled tube is not good. It actually makes you more susceptible to popping the tube, and you go WAY slower. I kind of liken it to trying to run with one shoe untied, you could totally bust that ankle and you definitely can’t go top speed.

Even with the wind at my back, it was much slower going. I made it to my campsite in Hardeeville right before sunset, on a partially filled tire. For some reason, I figured I’d easily be able to find someone with a bike pump. In “actual world,” no chance. Fortunately, it was only 40 miles to Savannah the next day.