St. George

Thursday morning we gave away around 200 pairs of shoes at the Holy Spirit church in Savannah with the Clarks. The four of us went down to the waterfront for a little while afterwards, and then got lunch in a local Mexican place, before the RV dropped us off across the interstate bridge, on South Carolina soil. We walked to Hardeeville for the night and set up the tent not far from the hospital.
In the morning, sitting across the street at the McDonald's gas station, we met Patrick, a crazy old guy who said he's riding his bike from Key West to D.C. He claims to know Obama because he's from Hawaii, shortly after claiming something about being a Kennedy relative. From the moment we met Patrick he never stopped talking, telling crazy stories and creating a plan to ride with us, as we walk, and be our public relations guy, or something.
As we started walking he tagged along for a while, weaving in and out of traffic on his bike and signaling for every single truck that went by to honk its horn.
"Do you see that?" he says. "Now all those truckers are going to get on their radios and tell each other that you're here. Word spreads quickly, that's the six oclock news. Do you see how that works?" He has a hunched back, wears a reflective vest on top of a flowery Hawaiian button up, has on a baseball cap that says deputy sheriff and is bald but has a fairly long, ivory beard. He leaves after a while, saying that he has to meet somebody or another somewhere or another, but promising to be back.
By the time we make it to the next town, Ridgeland, it's getting late in the afternoon, and before we've found made it to the first gas station a white van pulls over and Patrick, riding shotgun, hops out eagerly and loads us up in the back. The guy driving the van is younger, in his late thirties or so, and seems ready to help us out but already a little frazzled by Patrick. His name is Ryan and he drives us to the Piggly Wiggly, then to the Waffle House where we get some food, and lets us know fairly quickly that "That other dude scares me, for some reason. I'm about to try and lose him." The notion is good by us, as we've grown pretty tired of Patrick and his constant insane babbling about following us. "But you guys are welcome to crash at my place tonight," Ryan continues. "I've got a three bedroom place and it's just me staying there right now."
So we get back in the van and drive back to the Piggly Wiggly, where we, along with Patrick, unload our stuff and start walking. Only a block or so down Ryan parks his van at a bar, and we convince Patrick to stop for a bit and have a beer. He parks his bike and bags out front, and we throw our bags in the back of the van. After a while Ryan is ready to go, and we leave Patrick talking somebody's ear off at the bar.
Ryan, it turns out, lives in Bluffton, which is quite a ways backtracking and off the route. He lives in a gated community and has a house right on the golf course, and he feeds us brats and we watch the world cup. As the night progresses he drinks quite a bit and opens up, and as an ex-marine gunnery sergeant he has a lot on his chest. We get to bed late, him promising he'll be up by six to go to work and that he'll drop us off where we need to go.
By noon the next day we're still sitting on his couch, watching more of the world cup, and Ryan is still in his room sleeping. We let the Clarks know where we're at and they call a taxi and send it our way, and we get a ride up the road, back to our route.
Saturday we had a house to sleep in, as well, with some kids from Yemassee, then Sunday we got a hotel in Watersboro and slept last night behind a church in St. George.