Saturday, 19. May 2007, 21:30:10
The first half of the ride, the part before the visit to BOB’S PLACE, was beautiful! The weather was perfect, the route exceptional, and the pace was conducive to many little side conversations. As the day wore on, however, the road turned up more and more vertical, the weather turned south, the route became a little brutal, and the pace was, well, too monotonous and laborious for much talking. As I, finally, crested Route 215 from Rosman to the Blue Ridge Parkway, all alone, and long after most in our party had already started back down, the bottom fell out on the ominous looking clouds which had parked overhead, unleashing a downpour. Lightening cracked and thunder booms shook the air just as I rode up to the small overpass bridge our SAG vehicle was stationed under. “Angel” Becky gave me a sandwich as she was loading up a few of our hypothermic riders (Tom and Mary) to take them back down. I realized my form must have been suspect after she asked me, for about the third time, “Are you sure you want to ride back down—I could come back for you.” Already feeling more than a little disappointed as the very last one up the mountain, freezing cold, dripping wet, and thoroughly miserable, it was her last very empathic and serious question of “So, are you sure you are feeling strong enough?” that convinced me I would be riding the rest of the day!
I descended carefully down the mountain in the pouring rain stopping only once to put the sandwich bag left from lunch on my head under my helmet. It made a significant difference once I customized it appropriately. I proceeded to the bottom and stopped at the first Gas Station/Store at the base. Inside were Dave and Pirate Pete, clad in their black garbage-bag body suits with plastic grocery bag bandannas tied about their heads. They huddled in a little hypothermic group, shakily spilling coffee on the floor, while they awaited SAG. I joined them for a cup of coffee, which, due to my own violent shaking, was very difficult to pour. As they appeared fine, and were going to wait on SAG, I explained I would go on to the next rest stop. After the coffee, I proceeded to the Pure Store stop.
The only one left at the Pure Store stop when I got there was Billy Ray. He was cold, miserable, and going to wait for SAG. We talked for a moment and I explained I was going to ride to the next rest stop. He agreed that if there were no room in the SAG vehicle when it got there, he would ride with me at least to the next stop. Becky arrived shortly after that with her hypothermic cargo of Dave and Pirate Pete. They were heading back to the Park, so Billy Ray and I would ride the route. As they pulled away, I told Becky to look for our bikes as she did her sweep back because we may stop at a Saloon or Tavern on the way back. All of us laughed at my little joke, not appreciating the ironic foreshadowing of our spandex clad date with destiny…
So, anyway, we rode our bikes, in the rain, back toward Table Rock State Park. We descended, climbed, descended, climbed, descended, and then climbed again, but probably not in that order. We climbed back up to the Continental Divide sign, and then descended many, many banked curves, to then climb some more. At first, I kept trying to engage Billy Ray in small talk about this and about that. Now, you must understand this about Billy Ray, he is a very nice, extremely friendly, and talkative guy from Cherryville (pronounced “Chair-vul”). As we rode, he kept saying less and less and he was getting increasingly quiet and withdrawn…I began to get quite worried about my not-so-little Chair-vul buddy when…
…we came roaring down a descent, and there, on the right-hand side, was BOB’S PLACE. The fact that they sold beer was easily deduced from the large “Pabst Blue Ribbon” sign that hung next to the road. I shouted, “I am buying beers” and raced ahead. There was a patron on the front “deck” who confirmed that, yes, they did in fact sell beer at this establishment. We parked and I proceeded in immediately to retrieve cold beer. I narrowly averted committing a serious BOB’S PLACE faux pas when I tried to order two Miller Lites. The patrons very quickly informed me they do not have Miller Lite here, just Bud products. I ordered two, talked with the bar maid, and paid with my wet, dripping money. The blue smoke in the bar was so very thick I could only view about 20 feet half-way down the bar, but I could tell the locals’ definition of “biker” probably did not include brightly-dressed men clad in spandex. The third patron down the bar, a very fine geriatric slightly obese chain-smoker told me “ I rode a bike for 15 years and they would never let me wear those pretty shorts.” We all thought that was pretty funny! I explained to him, “We wear these pretty shorts because they have pads in them to protect our equipment. If we ride our bikes without protecting our equipment, then our equipment won’t work. Even more fun than riding our bikes, is using our equipment.” We all laughed at that one, although when telling that little joke I may have gestured toward “the equipment” one too many times—and a few glassy-eyed patrons were spending a little too long looking after the joke! Billy Ray was in the bar by now, but as I was experiencing acute nicotine psychosis I had to step outside before I overdosed on the generic cigarette smoke which everyone seemed to be puffing. And I do mean everyone.
We sat in the plastic chairs out front sipping our cold beers and talking with many of the patrons who had followed us outside. They enlightened us that BOB’S PLACE was, in fact, the “oldest bar in South Carolina.” They shared that Time magazine had done a feature on them and “too many newspapers to name” had done articles on them. The proprietor of BOB’S PLACE joined us outside (Bob?) and reported he had a travel DVD that featured his establishment. We talked about the fine dining available in close proximity including the “Road Kill Grill” and the fine live entertainment featured on the nearby concrete block stage. One of our new friends from the “deck” explained he had slept many a night right there on the ground next to the Road Kill Grill! I noticed what appeared to an old-fashioned outhouse behind BOB’S PLACE and the patrons confirmed that was why it was called, “Outback.” If you weren’t sure which side to use, they were clearly marked “Hers” and “Shakers.” We enjoyed our beers and the company until Becky arrived in the SAG wagon.
We introduced Becky to our new friends and tried to buy her a beer. I took a few pictures of her and Billy Ray, and the place, and, of course, the outhouse. I covertly explained to her that I felt Billy Ray really wanted to be SAGed, but if I told him I was riding, with the size of his heart he would feel obligated to ride all the way back with me. We loaded his bike, got him situated in the vehicle, and only then did I say I was riding all the way back to “Clear my head.” He and Becky got ready to leave as I ran back up to BOB’S PLACE to get my bike and say goodbye to my new friends. They were all collected out on the “deck,” chain-smoking, sipping their beer, and waving goodbye. I clipped in, thanked them hardily for their cold beer and their warm hospitality, and they all shouted “Thanks for stopping and be sure to come back!”
submitted by Scott Hammontree
November 2009January 2010
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