TTT23 #1: Ocracoke Island (aka Money in the Outer Banks)

Walking around making money having fun, cause even then I’m still number one…

That’s TWO old school hip hop references here to highlight THREE days on my April long ride that constitute the number ONE travel spot for 2023… and it’s definitely my time in the authentic, unadulterated Outer Banks of North Carolina. Right now you should be thinking to yourself, “well, it’s one of his bike tours, so there’s already really great words”. And you’d be right! We’re all winners here, so enjoy the account of what is probably the most relaxing and enjoyable three days of my life, navigating ferries and sandy roads of the more remote sections of OBX (we ain’t talking Kitty Hawk or Nags Heads here), the absolute highlight being the bridge-less (and thus nearly more vehicle-less) step back in time that is Ocracoke Island.

Be sure to read the surrounding days’ entries as well, just because they’re truly all so much better than the garbage I pass of as creativity in these year end wrap-ups… With titles like My Godless Commie Legs, who can resist?!

BUTT…

If you don’t wanna click, the main entry is pasted below. Just know you’re missing out… What I’mma do about my legs?!

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Days 11 & 12. 790 Miles. Money In The Outer Banks.

Aprils 19 2023 10:39am

If you could wake up in a different place, at a different time, could you wake up as a different person?

I come in the back door on the OBX. Come to find out even the most astute first timers and repeat returners all come down through the populated areas further north. Via Kitty Hawk. They rarely get past Nags Head, which is where all the really bawesome stuff is. Even an older gentleman from Virginia who owns property and has been coming his whole life admits he rarely get to Cedar Island National Wildlife Refuge. My entry point. Orcacoke, my current location, is seldom visited, because you can’t drive there. There’s a sign calling this “the authentic outer banks”. Fuck yeah. No bridges. Boats and planes only. Win.

I’m up before sunrise. The stars are gone, though they were out in the billions last night. Just solid black space fading into blue skies. Cool breezes all up in the palace. Also, it’s a goddamn murder scene in here. Blood everywhere, on the sides a floor. I sent a few infiltrating mosquitoes to their death — that’s my blood on my tent. Good sign I suppose. Not dead yet.

Campground coffee is so surreal and peaceful. Better than the yooshjz. I hear the ocean. And the songbirds. Life is alive. I hear no motors. At all. The air is fresh and clean. This is the place, David Byrne.

Pedal. Hours.

Ocracoke Island is an overwhelming step back in time, a mix of old traditions and community spirit infused with a steady flow of visitors from around the world. No community loves a good story more than Ocracoke, and locals can tell a tale with great expression. The island is a place of supreme solitude, especially in the off-season. Ocracoke has long been sought out by poets, nature lovers, and the tenderhearted.

That’s all from the sign at the visitor center. I love me an island. I’m looking at both of you, New Zealand. And don’t think I forgot about you, Cuba. The best islands have no bridges to them. I mean are you really truly on an island if any harry dick or Tom can get in their Ford Fucknut and drive to you? Doubtful. Here I am, island hopping in the outer banks. Cedar. Orcacoke. Hatteras. Pea. Bodie. To the next spot on to the next spot on to the next.

Pedal Miles.

Cape Hatteras National Seashore ruins all other beaches for me forever. I’ve got the place to myself. Miles and miles and miles of sand beaches juxtaposed right beside dense forest piney greenness. Ocean waves aka the most bestest relaxation rhythm invented. Courtesy Mother Nature. Thanks, boo.

Pedal. Hours.

“Take care in the sand” says a woman, passing me with a group of day cyclists. There’s sand dunes to my right for miles. Some of it had blown over the road itself, which doesn’t see much vehicular traffic. Sand everywhere. Beaches. Shoreline. It’s soft and squishy under my feet. Like memory foam. I find out later that none of this sand is from here. Not a one of these shells. All of it washes up from across the oceans or comes down from the Appalachian Mountains.

Ferry ride numero tres is an hour long. Previous ferry deux takes nearly three hours. This will be my last opportunity for an electrical outlet in days. As soon as we depart from Cedar Island en route to Orcacoke Island (yes we’re actually in the past now) I get the feels like I left something or forgot something. Yikes. I am out here. Outchyeah.

Pedal. Miles.

There’s word of hammerhead sharks near the (cold) showers at the Beach on the other side of this one hour ferry to Hatteras Island. This guy uses the word terrified. So I jump in and refreshingly cool my parts. I can tell it’s real though because adults and kids alike are in like ankle level. There’s dudes out there on whatever those stand and paddle boards are called, they are definitely all out of the water and looking around. So I’m in the water up to my waist — saddle sore stuff so sensationally soothed, seriously. I didn’t see any sharks, but I didn’t swim all the way under because I wouldn’t have been able to see them with goggles, and I don’t have those. So I get out and now I’m writing this. Plus, tbhonest, I’ve already swam with hammerhead sharks on a long bike tour before. It’s on this site from 2015 Florida keys. Look it up. Back to now, I take this photo and if you look closely you’ll see one of those paddle stand dudes, then look behind him to the right a little…

I gotta tell you, when I really look. I see Portugal. Maybe Morocco. Probably England. I left my globe at home.

Finally got some seafood.

Back on that ferry number three down here, i chat a great deal with a guy from Virginia. He’s clearly familiar with the entire outer banks and gives me great advice. I realize that what I actually left behind on the orcacoke ferry was everything I don’t need. All the baggage. Concerns. Fears. Trepidation. My confirmational biases. So much of what used to collectively create me, myself and I. I’ve got no schedule, no agenda, no needs. Just a few days to ride and sleep under an amazing amount of stars. Later I’ll pass a sign indicating the end is USBR 1 and the start of USBR 2. I take it as a sign. Which it is.

Pedal. Hours.

To walk back from the campground toilet and see your entire world in one single vantage point, splayed out in a tent or on a picnic table and next to a bike. A world under the sun. A world in motion in which everything in it has two or more purposes. With that one glimpse of myself, my feels are feeling for reals in a way no one will ever feel from reading these words or looking at this photo. Won’t get the feeling riding your bike around town or to work or school. Or my roaming around “camping” in your “RV”. You won’t get this feeling from running into burning buildings with a flamethrower (I can’t be 100% about that last part, because if Hollywood has taught me anything it’s that flamethrowers make everything way more awesome). Nope. You’ll only get this feeling of oneness from doing this. Liberated. Living outside. With nature and life. In motion. Under our own power while we can. However long we can. 3 days, 7 days, a month, a year… let’s not get me started on time…

Morning in Cape Hatteras Point Campground is wild tranquil. And moist. Dew point. Apparently Moms Nat got her wet dream on last night and me, myself, I and everything I possess is covered in it. Like Ghostbustin ass Bill Murray getting slimed — do not swallow, Bill Murray. Seriously though, I kinda blame deep blue Daddy Atlantic on this one. Believe me; dude’s clearly my right hand man on this ride. I fire up the jetboil — who still doesn’t pay me (at least send me a new stove!) — brew up some serious delirium goodness and set things out to dry, eagerly awaiting the sunrise on the Atlantic to burn off all the morning fog, word to the ol dirty Chinese restaurant.

Pedal. Miles.

Cold showers for three days is getting real old. I could add three dips into the ocean. The further north, the cooler the ocean gets. I smell as such. Three days of incomplete hygiene. Wait a minute, oh here’s Oregon inlet campground all up in my visuals. Shit, it’s like 1pm. I had this third national park service campsite on the radar, before adjusting my time space continuum, just a moment ago. I think long and hard about camping here. Orcacoke and Hatteras Cape National Parks campgrounds equal dope in my book, and this one is supposed to have hot showers. So cutbacks mean self check in and online reservations now. No entrance guard to talk to. I roll up and tuck behind the shower, behind the bathroom. Scout mission. Be prepared. $25 for a tent only loop, toilets, water. I yank on the shower cord and wait — warm water!! Got everything except power, yet I spy the GFI next to the bathroom sink. All this is legit. I say fuck it and sneak a quickie midafternoon warm shower. Wash it up good and fast, fire academy style. I think more about this campsite. It’s so early. I have a tailwind. I gotta take advantage. This is the end of the National protected seashores. Forward is basically the beginning of real civilization. More than one road. The non-remote and tourist-typical parts of the populated outer banks with towns cutely named Nags Head, Kill Devil Hills (not a cotdayum hill!), and Kitty Hawk. Bye bye remote tranquility and isolation period.

Pedal. Hours.

The lady at the Peas Island Wildlife Refugee Visitor Center tells me there’s really nowhere to camp past Oregon inlet. I believe and tell her that I’ve got a hook up for a backyard screened in porch up in kitty hawk. Power outlets and an outdoor and warm shower as well. Tits. 80 plus miles with the wind is better than 40 miles into the wind.

Pedal Miles.

I have a feeling this going to end badly. Not going to end well.

Kitty Hawk looks like every other suburb but with beaches, I suck down this Starbucks oat milk latte in their AC while charging my phone like a methhead sucks down anyone anywhere for meth. It’s small, this Starbucks. The barista, she looks like a Jan and asks “you aren’t from around here are you?” “I don’t look it huh?” “No sir.” She ogles my Jomon hand tattoo the way 55 year old men ogle DD titty cleavage. Jan’s got all sorts of love suck and bite marks on her neck and is not in high school. What the fuck Jan. I bet her dudes name is Han or Fran. This place is strange. I’m out. Food Lion around the corner is robust. Most I’ve seen in a while. My spot is 2 miles away, I grab some staples and decide to snatch up a small salad and rotisserie chicken. Rolling in, my hosts have told me they are not in town. I creep around the back of the house, nice deck. Screened patio locked. Fuck. That’s where the outlets are. Outdoor shower, not working. What the actual fuck. This is the worst. I house an entire chicken after rotting up their hose on a hook for yet another cold shower.

TTT23 #2: Cappadocia, Türkiye aka Anatolia So.

Yo. This is Barry the breakfast cat. Barry isn’t really in this episode (well, he is now), he’s just foreshadowing for something else. What that is, I don’t know – though the absolute fact of the matter is that last year I was legitimately actually metaphorically held hostage by the feline armies of the streets of Istanbul for a few days. Like for real for real. Like be-kind-rewind level last year. If you know you know, if not… take yourself to fka Constantinople and ask somebody. Instead, Timespace it to I mean he is cute and photogenic. Butt. This motherfucker swats at the first piece of cheese Suha offers him… swats it straight at my eye! Into my eye. He claws my leg. Fucking up the artwork and shit. It’s an all out assault, yet godamnn, he is a handsome little shit isn’t he?! I suspect Barry’s here to “send me a message”. Make sure to use air quotes whenever you “send a message”. This mos def is the leftover comeupins from 2022, those chickens coming home to roost. My eternal struggle with the cat armies here. Not with the breakfast. They call it Turkish breakfast, and it like it. Breakfast. Unsure of who’s really got the worldwide brand on humans eating food in the morning as a way to break the supposed fast of not eating while you sleep, I try every little thing that comes out, every single little morning tapa while Suha and Barry duke it out over our omellettes.

Our omellettes means they belong to Suha and I. Not Barry. All green eye bandit-esque, I never seen him before in my life son! However, having known Suha going on 20 years soon, I trust her with my life. She’s as qualified in the bestie role as Damon, and she’s never asked me to be in her wedding. We truly know each other in 3 different versions of ourselves in such abundant variance and dexterity – like a twentysomething law student and/or a veteran firefighter included. Or a music entrepreneur and/or a Dubai-balling expat lawyer – and during some of that her and I have hit just showed up together in many an international spot together. Kathmandu to Croatia, Kashmir to Barcelona, Budapest to Marrakesh. Our love and friendship is one of the most beautiful things in my entire life and I couldn’t be happier to be traveling together again with her post-Panda.

Spin-move back to Barry the breakfast cat. Hmmm. He gots no discretion, making a scene and shit. Japanese tourists are snapping pics of this pussy bullying me. I am concerned for the security of my shit. Burn me after reading. I think I better call my lawyer about this. What time is it in… Ah shit. Problem is, thats Suha. Fuck… She’s all caught up in this too, now Barry scratches her finger. “Ow, you fucker!” It ain’t cute to her no more either. Without proper legal representation nor justice via the law in anyway, I have no choice but to take matters into my own hands, er feet. Bee Tee Dub: Why is a firefighter called a firefighter whether they are paid to do a professional job or not, yet a volunteer police officer is referred to a vigilante at best or a terrorist at worst? Just some legal world food for thought as Barry takes another swipe at our olives. I decide to stand up, use my legs to push and keep him away. Nowhere to get in and nowhere to go, he’s in trouble and he knows it. Boxed out with no good move, Barry retreats in defeat, and that’s the end of his story. Suha and I take deep breathes and sip Americanos.

Alas. This obviously ain’t about Barry, Istanbul nor Turkey as a whole road trip. Even though it all really is. However, not really. Kinda. Really doe, my number two spot in 23 is Cappadocia, Türkiye. Kapadokya. And life in a hot air balloon and lots of pictures. I love this place so much and it was well worth the visit. Mucho recomendado.

From rip, understand that hot air ballooning is kinda like bounce house for adults. In my purview, anyhoo. Pure adulterated fun. Especially once we all agree that the science dictates that no one’s really steering anymore than up and down, right? The earth is most certainly not flat folks. We really know this to be true because if it weren’t, we’d have seen at least three seasons of Amazing Races to the “end” or “edge”of the earth by now. Back here in the 10 person space bucket, there’s nothing but the direction the wind is blowing to take us space and time. Up here, it’s the domain of my good ol’ long-ride-adversary — the wind. The wind is real. Really real. Not that’s it’s strong. Calm morning here, so it’s a breeze. Rim shot.

We snap snaps. We take photos. Flicks. Shot. Selfies. Everything. Always. I kinda just want a t9 texting flip phone and a new Macbook Pro. Definitely. I set a Gopro up on the basket, intent to sit back and watch the sunrise while we rise. Meh. Every other human in the goddamn bounce house needs something in their hand. Can’t we just enjoy. I give in and take extra extra shots. A Chinese couple fumbles through English, asking us to take a shot of them. Then we gotta recip. What. the. fuck. Suha and I talk about the phenomenon. She’s not very social media-ey; she does like to take photos. Lots of them, too. I give up and pull my iPhone out — still wishing the ghost of Steve Jobs would give me some money for this brand development – and get some extra extra shots. It opens the floodgates and a few days in a rental car from Cappadocia to Ankara to Istanbul mean my phone is out alongside the Gopro (also not paying me) all day. By the first evening, I regret not bringing the Canon and an entire time lapse rig as a check on, conveniently forgetting that I’d arrived here after three weeks in eight other nations — all in the name of good art I suppose. It’ll have to suffice until you get yourself on a hot air balloon ride in Turkey, and if you wander around a bit and find yourself out on the streets of Istanbul, look out for those cats.

TTT23 #3: Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

First off, honorable mention to Sao Paolo, Brazil. In many way that city could have its own ranking in the top ten or even simply be rolled into this same post as one entry for “BRAZIL”. Really, Sao is better than Rio. Sao is where’d I’d live, Rio is where I’d vacation. I feel like I will have plenty of time to explore the massive cosmpolitan juggernaut that is Sao Paolo – and goddamnit I am on vacation in Rio de Janeiro right now and the weather is absolute titties.

Rio… She dances on the sand, just like that…. um, river? twisting through a dusty lan
And when she shines, she really shows you all she can! Oh Rio, Rio dance across the Rio Gr?… er… Shit. Fuck, my bad… wrong rio! My bad. I do like that song though – just never enough to actually listen to much of what the lyrically-somethingy pop sensation’s Duran Duran had to say. Also, I’ve spent some time along the Rio Grande “River” on my San Diego California to Jacksonville Florida ride — it seemed pretty dry at the time. This Rio, though. Rio de Janeiro, Brazil — is far and away more worthy of a song from the early 1980’s, and really at anytime in my lifetime. Maybe we go back in time and plant the seed to get them to go to Brazil and create a remix with Milli Vanilli and Neneh Cherry.

Butt

Maybe we don’t.

Instead lets jump off of the jump off with the natural beauty. It’s everywhere. Everything. Everyone. Lush green jungle. Jagged black mountains. Crispy white beaches. Do I have to mention the people? Oh did I already? Everyone meant dogs too. They are cuties on leashes. The people don’t like much clothing (neither do the canines I would assume), but they do like fitness. There’s a small gym like setup every other block. People workout while waiting for the bus and shit. Not gonna even get started on the ill upcycled-fabricated gym and weight setup in the city park. I regert not snapping a photo, I was too busy working out. Everyone Brazilian is apparently born with their butt lifted, it’s the rest of the world spending money to do it. We’re just squirrels. The fucking vermin are better looking here. I spend 7 hours on Copacabana beach watching humans and dogs, mostly. They sit. They jog. They just stand and look at the ocean. They surf and play volleyball… well, not the dogs. And I just sit. Sometimes I read. Lin Yutang is schooling me from the grave On Conversation.

When it gets too hot or I get bored, I swim out in the South Atlantic Ocean beyond everyone else and do laps along breaking waves, dodging surfers and probably sharks alike. I become a Harmony Korine-style beach bum, at least for the morning. I’m not here alone, I came with friends. Well right now right now I am alone. Rewind or fast foward to my friends Damon and Riana coaxing me down here for four days. It’s Damon’s idea, and as he and Riana jump at a nice priced direct JFK to Rio flight I tell him I’m in too. Going big as fuck. The three of us hit an Argentina vs Brazil futbol game our first night in town. There’s World Cup implications.

Yet right now right now, they’ve joined my beach Buddha bash and Damon doesn’t beach much. He does like to sleep in, which a valuable skill on vacation which I do not wield. I’m out here at 7am for a couple hours of quiet beach time. By the time they find me, it’s 1 or 2pm and Copacabana Beach is jumping. I am crispy and salty too. I pack up and we head out on foot, in search of more of the most beautiful things Rio has to offer: Culture.

Me thinks that word culture is overused and misunderstood. The dictionary definition of culture is dry and/or obtuse, revolving around words like attitudes, religions, tastes, beliefs and aesthetics. All sort of example-based derivatives. Sometimes the definition is downright confusing, so scientifcially wordy and nerdy that it might constitute the exact goddamn opposite of the word. A “what-the-fuck” is called for. Culture is a living and flowing thing. It is human beings, alive, engaging in human things. Miriam-Web could through sex, drugs and rock and roll right in there with taste in fine arts, humanities, and broad aspects of science in their definition. Let’s put a pin in that and come back to it later.

Damon and I have traveled a ton together. This is the first time his wife Riana has joined us, which is supercool because I was Best Man in their wedding years ago and we all get along like peas in a pod. These are my peoples. Though this is the first time Riana has the pleasure of witnessing both the weird ass shit I say and Damon and I’s consistent debates over the strangest yet sometimes most significant of topics. Lately it’s been AI’s impact on the workforce – and humanity in general. I like to trigger him with words like “unions”, he’s fascinated with “scarcity mindset” and “abundance mindset” and encourages our robot overloads’ arrival.

Timespace continuums intersect and form a four-quadrant matrix depicting this moment. Distinctively, I’m currently nose deep in Brazilian culture. By currently, I mean right now right now. By nose deep, I mean a tropical evening outside in a small plaza, jammed up by beautiful smiling faces and dancing bodies – cheek to cheek and hand to hand in a space known as Pedra do Sal. By Brazilian culture, I mean Samba. This place is a sacred location it is the birthplace and heartbeat of Samba, and I am here I am. Almost by accident. Amazing, nonetheless. I’m pretty sure Damon and Rianna are both drunk off just one drink. I’m jaw dropped at how beautiful each and every women here is. And happy. The vibration is unreal. I’d prefer not to leave if I don’t have to. Is this the abundance mindset?

Pedra do Sal, at Morro da Conceição, is part of a region historically known as “Pequena África” (Little Africa), which originally spanned from current Mauá Square to the Cidade Nova neighborhood areas. Celebrations in slave houses and “forrós” (festivities in which forró – a traditional Northeastern Brazilian music genre – is the central focus) “choro” (“cry” or “lament”- an instrumental Brazilian popular music genre similar to New Orleans jazz) music was performed with flute, “cavaquinho” (small guitar) and guitar.

In slave house’s backyards, rural samba was performed, which included clapping, tambourine, “prato-e-faca” (a percussion instrument which consists of a knife and a plate) which was followed by dance moves. Urban samba in Rio de Janeiro was born from these events, as were popular samba musicians and the old samba ranches. Pedra do Sal was also seen as a sacred place in which African religion devotees would place religious offerings. 

Listed as a historic and religious heritage site, it provided, in the 19th century, stone – which was extracted by slaves – for paving streets and the port of the city of Rio de Janeiro. The area, by the sea, was also a place of salt loading and unloading, a product which was used for leather manufacture and canned meat production. Today, Pedra do Sal hosts lively samba jam sessions by Roda de Pedra group.

Quantum leap your ass to sixteen four hours into manana. Slightly tropical rainy, still warm. We’re hiking our asses up a mountain. There’s a Wonder of the World up there. All up on a cross looking down at the city. Then maybe a train back down. Slowly. Our trek to Christ the Redeemer, one in which I secretly hope to start a new form of moon bombing, is abruptly ended by a guy in what appears to be a Brazilian Army uniform. Other men are dressed similarly so I assume this shit is real. They tell us the trail is closed for today. Not reopening either. Well fuck. That’s not gonna happen, no new moon bomb influencing for me . Yet, after four score and something times around the sun, I now have quantifiable and irrefutable proof that I am indeed irredeemable! Praise Jeebus. Thank you Brazil.