The First Day of Cycling - To Albino Skunk Festival

Outside of Greer, South Carolina

We made it. I say so because there were some moments yesterday that we doubted. We doubted we would get out of Greenville Airport. There are 2 highways out of the airport, and no matter how many people we asked, we couldn't get anyone to tell us any different. So we had no choice but to bush-whack through the wet grass beside the Number 14 road to Greer. Did I mention it was raining? Torrentially. I discovered my glasses are not useful in warm rain, and chose short-sightedness over foggy lenses. Half blind, I followed Brendan's rig - bike and BOB trailer that held our fiddle and mandolin, through the red mud and tall grass beside the freeway. We turned off at the first smaller road available. It was 6pm and we were racing the approaching dark which we were told would come before 8pm.

Directions from a United States Postal employee who had a map, led us through the 'black town' in preference to the No. 14 freeway (against his advice), and into Greer. All we saw in the 'black town' were nice houses and not one black person. Empty, rain sodden lawns and homes.

Greer, like Greenville, was pretty, and to our Alaskan eyes, quaint. The historic buildings are a welcome relief to the monotonous strip malls of Alaska.

The ride from there was dusky. It took us back to the dreaded #14 road, and finally onto quiet roads - Belmont, Jug Factory Road, and finally to Jordan Road, which leads to heaven. From dense woods, huge oaks, dark streams, to open farms, Brendan wondered at the quiet roads and if we might have got the dates of the festival wrong.

Then finally rising over a hill, the sound of a chord, and the smokey hint of meat on a fire. The festival.

Whooping and pedaling faster now, we came to a gate and a sign, and other traffic, and music - a muddy red driveway down down to the festival ground. Blind with wet foggy glasses in the dark, I stumbled to keep up with Brendan who excitedly threw down his rig and rushed to the ticket tent. I carefully made my way to a tree to prop my bike. I moved slowly, because finally I did not have to rush. Drenched and depleted of blood sugar, I maneuvered myself delicately so as not to wake the demons. Finally free of the bike rig and helmet, I turned to meet our destination.

In the valley below, nestled amongst tall and ancient oaks, was a brightly lit stage, and from it, a cacophony of bluegrass erupted. It was Larry Sparks. Surrounding the stage, under the protection of the stage eves, were rows of audience in deck chairs, and further back, across the rainy field, were more audience in rain shelters, and rapt Skunk-attendees. Children, beers, dogs, and woodsmoke cluttered the area with a friendly, welcome atmosphere.

With pink bands on our wrists we were greeted by a man named Jordan, who saw our bikes and was inspired to come over and hand us a beer. We had arrived, and it felt so good. As I had discovered in 2001 riding a bicycle around Tasmania with Sess; on a bike trip you earn it.