A Taste of the West - In the South

Funny. You don't think so much about how slick a road is until you're on two wheels. I guess in a car, cocooned in plush dryness, you don't have to so much. On a bike, you're one slip away from grinding metal on asphalt.

At least the rain didn't last that long. It was long enough to get on the rain suit, at least from my perspective, but Lonnie refused. And got kinda wet.

The good news? Once we passed through it, everything dried quickly in the Florida heat.

Our path was deliberately out of the way, and took us around Jacksonville to the west. A good ride and pleasant, other than a little construction.

Crossing into Georgia, it was time for lunch and gas. The ride into Folkston on 301 took us right by a little BBQ hut that seemed all but deserted at 2:45 in the afternoon, but it had just the right combination of neon and funk, so we took a chance.

The patio added to the side of the original hut had a wooden deck, and as our boots struck the planks, it reminded me of so many westerns - minus the spurs. As we entered the hut, I half expected to find the sheriff playing Blackjack with a few townfolk.

Instead, the hut was deserted. At least it seemed so at first.

The warped floor covered in linoleum held a few mismatched tables and an array of chairs, enough space for maybe a dozen hearty souls. A few squeeze bottles of BBQ sauce and rolls of paper towels were randomly resting on the formica surfaces.

A fly swerved randomly, noisily about the space.

Across from the screen door entrance was a wooden half-door into the small kitchen. Next to the door, a rectangular hole about four feet high and six feet wide provided a view of the steam table with foil-covered dishes.

"Hello?" I ventured.

Appearing from the small hidden space in the kitchen was a young man in his twenties who had seen his share of beer, wearing a white apron over a white t-shirt and blue jeans. When he spoke, it was clear he was a southern man - cordial and polite, peppering his sentences with "sir."

I looked over the menu on the wall above the steam table and ordered the rib dinner and tea. Lonnie did the same, but asked for water.

You know you're in the south when asking for tea just means sweet tea. Period.

Now, I've had BBQ all over these United States, but I gotta say these ribs were some of the best I've ever had. And the sauce was tangy without being overpowering.

We washed up and thanked the young man, noticing that he smiled modestly at our compliments. I put a pin in my mental map, and we climbed on again.