Promised Land 200K

I have been to the Promised Land, and it has fried chicken.  Praise the Lord and pass the biscuits.

The revamped RUSA permanent program that started last year is great.  You schedule permanents online rather than having to coordinate with a route owner.  You can sign up for a permanent anytime, even up to the last minute.  You can start from any control.  You can change the route between controls as long as you ride at least as many kilometers total as the original route.  The one downside, at least here in Georgia, is that we have many fewer permanent routes now than under the old system.  I guess that's because most of the owners under the old system have not re-submitted their routes under the new system.  Oh, well.  I've mainly been doing the Athens 200K permanent because it's the closest one to me, especially being able to start at the control in Eatonton.  However, I decided to shake things up a bit last weekend and do the Promised Land 200K.

I did the Promised Land route once before, as a brevet on New Year's Day 2017.  It was cold and overcast then, but last Saturday it was warm and sunny.  It starts in Evans, GA, but it's only two miles to the state line.  The rest is in South Carolina.  I think this was the first time I had been outside of Georgia since before the pandemic.

I got up early that morning, wanting to sleep as late as I could but trying not to start my ride too late.  It was about a two-hour drive to the starting control, a Circle K.  Then, it would be a long day on the bike, followed by another two-hour drive home.  I got on the road at about 8:45 AM, not too bad.

Several cars carrying bicycles passed me in the first few miles.  I soon discovered why.  Not too far into South Carolina, I passed the Forks Area mountain bike trailhead.

A few miles later, I passed a pick-your-own strawberry farm.  It already had a lot of customers.  I would have liked to join them, but I didn't want to stop, and despite my Yogi Bear picnic basket, I didn't have a practical way to carry strawberries.

It was a beautiful morning.  The sky was bright blue, and it was getting warmer.  I started out with arm and knee warmers, but I didn't need them for more than a few hours.

Many roads during the first half were state highways with those horrid rumbles all along the white line.  Fortunately, traffic was light, and so the rumbles weren't a big issue.

I was amused by this sign:

I'd joke that this is truth in advertising, but the church gets its name from being on Republican Road.  Although both the road and the church predate the current political nastiness, it's still an unfortunate name.  I definitely had not yet reached the Promised Land.

The first control was in Edgefield.  I was carrying plenty of food and liquids and, therefore, didn't need to stop there for supplies.  I did stop for a few photos, though.

Who's that turkey riding a bicycle?

Maybe I was prescient.  The night before I had dreamed that my friend Kathleen was governor of Georgia.  That would be an exponential improvement, but I was concerned about when our group of friends might get together for dinner.

I continued my journey to the Promised Land.  Promised Land, SC, that is, and, more particularly, Promised Land Grocery, which was the next control.

Pedaling down the road, I remembered an old hymn I hadn't thought of in forever:

        I am bound for the promised land,
        I am bound for the promised land,
        Oh who will come and go with me?
        I am bound for the promised land.

I could only remember the chorus, but it was fun to belt it out a few times.  That was one good thing about riding by myself - no way I'd sing if others were around.

Promised Land Grocery was about halfway through the route.  When I had done this as a brevet, the organizer was Gator, a fellow randonneur whom I think created the route.  Gator had recommended the fried chicken at Promised Land Grocery.  Someone named Gator surely would know about good fried chicken.  I had gotten some on my first visit and also remembered his advice last Saturday.

All I was missing was hot sauce.

As I sat outside eating my chicken, several nice local people greeted me.  One guy named D.B. was particularly friendly.  He apologized if he was being too personal, but he wondered how far I was riding.  (That didn't bother me at all; people often ask that question.)  He was amazed and asked if a camera was following me.  I laughed and told him I do long rides all the time and that lots of other people do, too.  Then, when I said that I know I'm crazy, he disagreed.  He said he'd love to be out riding a bicycle if his health allowed it.  He played football and boxed when he was young, and he remembered the adrenaline he felt from those activities.  He imagined that it was the same for me riding a bicycle.  That was really cool that we could relate to each other like that.

Fueled body and soul, I continued toward Abbeville, an out-and-back spur on the northern end of the route.  It was relatively uneventful.  I didn't even stop in Abbeville as I still was carrying plenty of food and water.

Around mile 90 I was ready for another stop.  I found a grassy area with a nice view of a field across the road.  I took off my shoes, not because I was on holy ground but to minimize the chance of hotspots on my feet.  Still, as I sat on the ground in my stocking feet, eating a cheese sandwich on a beautiful spring afternoon, I sensed the sacred in the everyday.

The latter miles were one of the prettiest parts of the route, through Sumter National Forest.  Then, I saw a sign.  It wasn't from heaven but from the South Carolina DOT: Road Closed Ahead - Bridge Out.  It was late in the ride, and I was getting tired.  I didn't want to add miles with a detour, and so I forged ahead, trusting that I still could get through on my bicycle.  I mentally prepared to walk through a creek if necessary, something I've done several times before.

I continued on the road through the national forest, even quieter than usual, I suppose, because of the detoured traffic.  After a few miles, I reached the spot where the bridge was out.  A man and two teenage girls were sitting in front of a barricade.  I thought they might try to deter me, but they did just the opposite.  As I approached, the man moved one of the road signs so that I didn't even have to get off my bicycle!  I thanked them and kept riding.  The bridge repair was mostly complete.  I only had to dismount at the far side, and I didn't have to get into the water at all.  It was pretty easy as far as bridge-outs go.

Thankful to be through that tricky spot, I focused on the approximately 20 miles remaining.  I was feeling pretty good - probably because I had fueled well, including electrolyte drinks - but I needed one more water refill to get me to the end.  I figured I would pass a church fairly soon.  Yep, within a few miles, there one was.

I rode around the church looking for an outdoor spigot.  I finally found one on the last wall I checked (that's the way it always goes).  Next step - would the spigot actually work?  I turned the knob, and...nothing.  Then I noticed that it was hooked to some kind of tank.  Also, there was a cap on top of an additional opening on top of the spigot, a strange configuration I hadn't seen before.  I took off the cap, turned the knob again, and water sprayed straight up like a geyser!  I got a slight shower, which felt OK on the warm afternoon.  I didn't want to mess up anything, and so I used one bottle to divert water into the other.  Not much MacGyvering as far as randonneuring goes, but I got the job done.

The last eight miles retraced the first part of the route.  I was glad to make it back to Georgia and, more specifically, to the Circle K.  Another safe and successful permanent.  Hallelujah!