My breakfast consisted of some peanuts and water. The inside of the tent was already starting to get hot and I was ready to hit the road. When I finally got everything packed it was 9:30. I DO know what time I woke up, I’m just not telling you.

People were still looking at me suspiciously. One couple waved at me before I waved at them, but another couple didn’t wave back even after I waved. Behind their baleful looks I started imagining hidden patches of marijuana growing all around, and moonshine stills secreted away in run-down cabins in the woods.

I hadn’t gone very far when I realized that one of my water bottles was completely empty, and the other only had about half an inch left. Even so, I didn’t want to stop in this town. The vibe was still off, and it felt good to be on the road, my skinny wheels moving me along to a different place.

Ben Wells and I had known each other since fifth grade. In high school his family moved to Gadsden, in the northeast corner of Alabama, and we’d stayed in touch. When I reached the junction of 79 and 72, I stopped and called to let him know what time I’d be arriving this evening.

About half an hour later I heard a sound that no cyclist wants to hear…

SPROINK!

On the rear wheel, one section of the rim started rubbing against the brake pads each time it rotated past.  …husssHUSSS…   …husssHUSSS…  …husssHUSSS…  …husssHUSSS…  I pulled over and took a look, confirming my suspicions. 

I had a broken spoke.

I pulled over in the shade and examined the wheel, then gave an exasperated sigh… it was on the freewheel side. Theoretically, there’s a one in four chance that’s where it’ll be, but in the real world it seems like an even 50-50. What makes it the worst place is that when it breaks there you have to take off the freewheel to be able to replace it. I had all the tools and skills I needed, and spare spokes tucked away inside my seat tube, but the task would take me a long time and it was already mid afternoon. That meant that I’d be getting into Gadsden after dark.

I needed to let the Wells know about it so I walked to the closest house. When I explained my situation, then asked if I could borrow their phone for a collect call, the owner of the house directed me down the street to a payphone....

(sigh) 

Alabama, I am not a criminal!

Mrs. Wells answered and I let her know that I wouldn’t be arriving until tomorrow because of the broken spoke. She told me she didn’t want me spending another night on the road…

“There are some real mean people out there, Mark.”

I started to suggest that she just try moving to any other state and it would be better, but didn’t think she’d appreciate the joke. Mrs. Wells said she’d be there as soon as she could.