Hold up, hold up. That's not really how we got home! Like we would end such an amazing journey with, "so we packed up the bikes and flew home"! Didn't go down like that, and we have the photos to prove it.
Alright, so we admittedly did pack up the bikes, and tried to go home, but when I said that our flight was canceled, it had actually burst into flames on the tarmac, apparently a spontaneous human combustion problem with the copilot. Unfortunately, at the time nobody knew that the copilot had a bad history with spontaneous combustion, and airport security began immediately questioning even remotely suspicious looking persons. Calling Sam and I remotely suspicious however was an understatement of the grimmest proportions. Perhaps it was a result of the climate of paranoia in our culture surrounding air travel, or perhaps it was our dark complexions from weeks and weeks on the road and in the sun, our scrabbly beards, and Sam's "I heart Obama" t-shirt, which had received a most unfortunate stain on the "b" in "Obama", that led to a massive security retaliation on our persons. Dog's were sicked, guns were drawn, and cruise missiles were fired. Sam and I beat a hasty retreat from the airport and hopped into a cab. The poor, oblivious cabby, of Lebanese descent, having no idea of the events that had just transpired, would be quickly implicated in whatever "plot" we were involved in, and certainly the authorities were already cooking up some beauties, to be sent to the Attorney General. When we got back to Charleston, we decided we needed to find new transportation to get us home for thanksgiving, and then out of the country. Keeping a low profile, we hired a local boy named Fitsy (for his frequent spastic fits of obscenities) to purchase what he could for fifty bucks. He came back with a beautifully ornamented but ultimately unsuitable children's bicycle, and a skateboard. We were pretty sure he had made a good profit on this deal. There was no time however to worry about this, as the chorus of sirens around the city was getting louder by the minute. Sam filched a helmet from a motorcycle parked in the street and, having chosen the skateboard, attached a rope to the bike. Fashioning a grappling hook from kudzu, bodyhair, and a garden claw, we began the arduous journey north, hooking rides behind 18 wheelers. We slept in ditches ate poison berries and drank fry grease from highway rest stop fast food joints. Our gloriously filthy and depraved return was documented by the local press (word having got out about our return, and unbeknownst to us, the charges against us had been dropped).
A new adventure awaits! Onward to the Moon!
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