From Wilmington to Charleston

From Wilmington to Charleston

Wilmington, North Carolina was a stopover, a place to hang our helmets for the night before the ride to Charleston.  On our way to Route 17 we drove through the historic downtown district, with block after block of beautiful and elegant Victorian-era homes and historical markers touting the celebrated people and events. Unfortunately, I couldn’t read or take pictures fast enough.

When we left Wilmington, it was under the bluest and brightest skies we’ve seen this week. The sun was radiant and the few clouds that floated lazily above were whisper thin. While it was a perfect day weather-wise, the ride to Charleston wasn’t distinguished by any breathtaking landscapes, rolling hills or perfectly manicured farms. The ride along the Carolina coast is low, straight and occasionally marshy.

And then we got to Myrtle Beach.

Route 17 through North Myrtle Beach is a two lane highway traversing mile after mile of retail repertoire included any number of elaborate miniature golf establishments, all-you-can-eat seafood buffets, pancake houses, golf gear outlets and bargain price beachwear superstores. It reminded me of Branson, Missouri without the tacky glitz.

We stopped at the first of four Harley stores we knew were in the area just to stop the madness.

As we neared the fork that determined if our route would continue on 17 through Myrtle Beach (proper) or via the bypass, Jason leaned back and said more than asked, “By-pass?” to which I heartily agreed. I’ve never been to or through Myrtle Beach before, but after the visual assault of its sister city, I was afraid my credit cards would simply melt in my wallet, and I just couldn’t take that chance.

The Boys of Summer are out in force in the south, or so it seems, as much of the ride from Myrtle Beach to Charleston was lined with orange cones and white hard hats.  It creates a bit of tension and stress for Jason to stop, idle and go on a regular basis, and at ninety plus degrees, it can feel a bit like sitting in a baking pan in a hot oven.

Our hotel is located in Charleston’s historic district, a different and much more pleasant sensory overload for me. I had planned a few things for our two days here, but as Jason handled the check-in process, I wandered to the wall o’advertisements, and pulled a dozen colorful brochures.

Decisions. Decisions.