8/22 N. Carolina- Winston/ Salem to Asheboro

I woke up with Friday’s sunrise; happy to see it- hoping it would warm me up a bit. I spent most of the night cold, but not enough to merit digging out the sleeping bag. I took a couple of pictures of the sunrise, and dozed off again until that old- familiar time: 8:30.

Packing was simple. Eating? A challenge! Generic, unheated Spam is not that great anytime, but it does offer many calories to go with the almost standard stomach upset. The digestive agony would linger most of the day. I went from my tree straight to the on- ramp and set up, having no idea how long I would be there.

Thankfully, it was not long at all, maybe a half- hour. I did not get the guy’s name, but he drove a fancy pick-up and said that he had stopped because he too “had been there, understood” and thought that he was doing me a favor by getting me out of Winston- Salem to the “better people” of Greensboro. The ride was quick. We discussed why people do not pick up hitchhikers any more, and his opinion was that people are simply afraid of “losing something”. I did not know what to make of that, but it made sense on some level. He dropped me off on the west side of Greensboro, just past the “Big Sandy” exit.

I lost an old friend when I got out of his truck. My coffee- cup lid fell off, never to be seen again after leaving the nomadic life for the temporary stability of the truck. I gave the rest of the cup- carcass a solemn, open- air burial there in Greensboro... just for the Hippies.

The new spot looked promising. It was on a high- volume ramp and came complete with good stealthing spots if the need arose. It was only 9:30 or 10am though, and I was feeling optimistic after the 270 miles the day before. I had visions of getting all the way to the Outer Banks that day, or at least through Raleigh to pick up US-64. I settled in after treating Spam Gut, loading up on water, and grabbing the first $1.80 pack of cigarettes I had seen in years.

Then, I waited.

And waited.

Nothing.

After a few hours of baking in the North Carolina sun, I made my way to the I-40 frontage road, following it the mile or so to the next exit hoping for better luck.

From the beginning I have avoided urban areas, or at least tried to be sure that I was dropped well before, or on the other side of them so that I could walk if need be. But now? Trapped. Unlike Oregon & Idaho, it is illegal to walk interstates in North Carolina, and the new vantage point was even worse than the old: an industrial area with much less traffic. The traffic that WAS there: business- to- business. So, back I went, again tending to the Spam's Revenge along the way.

I was resigned to fate by the time 4:00 came. I had been there six hours doing not much more than working on my sunburn, so on my final trip to McDonald's I picked up a piece of cardboard to make a little sign, mostly to feel like I was doing something rather than actually hoping it would work. It read “Raleigh/ OBX”, and as I sat back down, I had a strange, familiar feeling of defiance. It was funny in a way. I just laid back with my shoulders resting on the backpack, put on my headphones, and enjoyed all the strange looks I got from the commuters. It was fun! And, it worked.

After about 20- minutes, a car stopped driven by who I discovered to be Latino; one that speaks next to NO English. We could barely communicate. All I understood was “Asheboro”, and he nodded when I said “I-40”. I knew that US-64 passed through Asheboro, but again my lack of preparation bit me. I really had no idea where the town was in relation to Greensboro, other than “a bit south.” I DID know, however, that I was sick of “the better” stock of people I was supposedly going to find in Greensboro. I decided to take the “adventuristo” attitude. “Screw it”, I said. I wanted off the interstate and I liked the idea of playing the hand dealt me. I really wanted to get back to walking. Hitchhiking was getting old.

Into Francesco’s Cavalier I went for the quietest ride ever.

We could not communicate beyond simple phrases, so we just listened to the radio as he got on US-220/ I-73- 74 (one road) and drove south. I did learn that he was from Guatemala, and I wished that I spoke Spanish because I would have loved to pick his brain and learn a few things that would pertain to the winter trip south. No such luck.

Francesco surprised me a bit when he pulled off 220 and drove into a little town named Randleman. He never tried to express what he was doing, so I was a bit perplexed when he began driving into the countryside. He stopped at a house where another family of obvious immigrants lived, and picked up a license plate and what looked like registration. “That was a bit strange!” I thought to myself as we drove back into Randleman.

I really liked Randleman. It was nice to be in a small town again, rather than driving past it. The parallel of I-40 and Route 66 struck me, and I was so smitten with this little town that I was on the verge of getting out right there. I, to this day, do not know why I just didn’t.

From Randleman it is another 20 minutes into Asheboro. I envisioned it as being quite small. Not quite. It was VERY spread out. Francesco, trying to be helpful, drove me all the way to the eastern fringes of the city, 6 or 7 miles down US-64. As we rode through town, I felt lucky that he had not just dropped me at the intersection, although I noted that there were many places to sleep out of sight.

Francesco dropped me at a furniture store across from one of the omnipresent BP gas stations. (BP’s: locust of NC) I noticed something as I exited the car that I had observed before, but assumed it was an anomaly: NO shoulders or sidewalks.

Repeat: The entire state of North Carolina seems to have NO shoulders and barely any sidewalks!

This is a problem.

As I looked down a very busy US-64, I became horrified. This was a major 5- lane thoroughfare connecting Charlotte and Raleigh, therefore the traffic was very heavy. I just could not believe there was no way to hitch it OR walk it but as I studied the traffic patterns, I saw that the cars were hugging the right edge of the lane, and that there was no way to walk next to the road without stalking through people’s yards. In addition, it was getting to be Friday night. I saw the Stephens; their coolers loaded with Bud Light, and thought that it would be foolish to try it. Choose your poison: Hood ornament? Target practice?

This was new territory. The first time that I had NO idea HOW to hitch AND feeling unable to walk, despite being highly motivated to. I sat down by the side of the road, but I was just past a stop light so there was no way anyone could, or WOULD stop there. Unless they needed a new dinette set or coffee table.

After a few minutes, I realized the futility and crossed the highway to try my luck at the BP. The only luck I had there? A man who I now believe wanted to take me on a date, or role-play my now- LEAST favorite movie: Deliverance. Full of questions, praise, overly- friendly smiles, and all the while saying he had “done all of this back in the day”, seemingly enthralled with my story and most of all, my ‘courage’ and me. Yet, he never indicated he would help get me out of there, nor did I ask. It later dawned on me that he was looking for the Larry Craig “foot- tap”.

I managed to charge my phone and get a better geographical- bearing of the area, but NO luck getting out of there. After a couple of hours, the frustration began to get to me. After sitting most of the day in Greensboro, I was now having déjà vu. This time however, I was nowhere near a road that might offer ANY significant ride helping to get me past Raleigh, AND I was no better off than Greensboro in that I could not walk out of there either! Grrrrr…

After a frustrated phone call home, one that killed my freshly charged battery, I'd had enough. I topped off the water, angrily threw on the backpack, and started walking back from whence I’d come.

“Fuck the traffic; Fuck Asheboro; Fuck North Carolina! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!” I said to myself, repeatedly.

The traffic going west was much lighter, but frankly, I did not care. “I can sit on my happy ass in Greensboro!” I said aloud as I huffed back toward 220. I was angry that I had so far to walk just to get back there, and knew that the likelihood of catching a ride BACK to Greensboro that night was nil. Nevertheless, tomorrow was Saturday, and I knew there were places to stash myself for the night in preparation for a full day of weekend traffic.

This whole psycho- drama was VERY reminiscent of eastern Idaho, I later realized. I wish I would have realized it THEN but I was not feeling connected- just as the day before; going through the motions. I was growing tired of North Carolina, and the EAST in general. Feeling, and being aware of the negative energy that permeates nearly everything on that side of the Mississippi probably contributed to my lack of patience, but I held hope that it would pass.

The difference between Idaho and North Carolina was both obvious AND critical however. There was nothing NEW for me to see here! I knew what to expect when I got to the Outer Banks, since I had already spent time there as I had all along the east coast. An east coast that I was not exactly stoked to see it again. That being the case, what was the motivation to endure the frustration? I began to feel as though I was continuing this leg of the trip to satisfy expectations again, both my own and yours! These were the thoughts racing through my mind as I walked back into Asheboro. I had also had Shalain check the bus schedules for me in case I DID get back to Greensboro and wanted out.

Then something remarkable happened… again.

As I was walking, full of piss n’ vinegar, I reconnected. Just as in Idaho, that defiant anger that has always served me so very well (when not taken to extremes!) served to motivate me. I stopped looking for rides; quit concerning myself with my locale. I quit analyzing the fact that ANOTHER gas station AGAIN wanted money for water, and just laughed at her while I snuck outside to use their water spicket.

I felt like I was back in Idaho hoofing it down I-84 talking to cows, antagonizing dogs, jumping through irrigators, and taking pictures. This was the best night since then. I felt at one with AND completely separate from everything at the same time.

I eyeballed the train- yard for quite awhile, examining access to it just in case I decided to hop yet another freight, and I seriously considered it.

I paused to watch Asheboro High’s football game as I strolled by.

Finally, after 3- hours or so I came once again to US-220/ I-73, exhausted.

I collapsed at the gas station just before the on- ramp, sitting right next to the still shoulder-less road on the off chance that someone would deduce that I needed a ride.

The only attention I garnered was, of course, from the local cop. He asked me why I was sitting there, and I told him politely that I was resting--- which was the truth. He then asked what I was doing, and when I told him “trying to get the hell out of Asheboro”, he asked how. I told him I was hitchhiking then he proceeded to act like a 5- year old, “I didn’t hear that! I didn’t hear that!”

What... the... hell?

It seems that hitchhiking was illegal! I had checked on the state laws before I had left, but some municipalities have local statutes against it. Asheboro is apparently one of them.

Mr. Fife then sped off to thwart what I am sure he thought was a major caper. Probably some kids trying to buy beer, or an uppity black- guy crossing the street.

The gas station and I bonded for the next couple of hours, until I had finally had enough. Barney Fife had made me a bit paranoid, so with much stealthiness I snuck down the ramp to my familiar spot. Much to my surprise, I found “Hiders Paradise”: a grove of what I assumed to be Palmettos. I stand about 6’ tall, and these ferns stood at least 5’6” with a tapered- base, meaning that there was PLENTY of room for me to lie out. Perfectly concealed even from above! SWEET!

After being molested by spiders the night before, I fought off the Lazy Bug, and dug out the bivy. I had no idea how to set it up, and the fact that it was dark and I was literally up to my neck in ferns made set- up a bit difficult, but it was much easier than the tent had been. There was plenty of room within, and I was glad to keep the arachnids frustrated & hungry for the night.

As I contemplated the day, I realized that I am a fool. Instead of walking BACK to US-220, I should have aimed my defiant, ornery ass EAST and tackled US-64. I would have essentially made it to the next town and been closer to getting through Raleigh by then, and who knows? Maybe I would have gotten a ride. The realization of how much good walking had done for me forced the consideration that I should turn around… AGAIN… but I just could not bare that thought. I resolved to ride it out, and trust that I had “connected” while walking back for a reason.

Saturday would prove me correct in that final act of faith and provide me with, intellectually at least, perhaps one of the most interesting days of the entire trip. New perspectives seen. New doors opened. Different avenues- of- the- mind opening.

These days make life on the Road, or anywhere, worth living.