SCAR Day 4: From Savannah RIVER Sunrise to a Trailside Rescue
Sunrise peering through the woods at our campsite, overlooking our motorcycles.
Day 4 began with a sunrise so peaceful it felt unreal. I woke up staring directly across the Savannah River into Georgia as the sky shifted through deep navy and into gradients of purple, orange, and soft pink. The water was glassy, disturbed only by the gentle lap of the shoreline and the distant hum of bass fishermen heading out for their morning runs. The air was crisp—low 40s and perfect sweatshirt weather.
Heath was already up, working on coffee for the crew, as usual. It was our final morning on the SCAR, and spirits were high. The plan was simple: ride the western side of South Carolina northbound, carve through the foothills, and end the trip on a high note.
Little did we know this day would go nothing like we had planned.
A Calm Morning Before Chaos
Before packing up, I took a quiet moment to photograph the scenery—the sun rising through the trees, golden rays lighting up the tall grass, and our bikes waiting like armored warhorses. After three days of sand, mud, dust, and long miles, they looked like they’d survived a battlefield.
They were filthy.
We were tired.
But we were ready for one last day of adventure.
Well… almost.
I had been losing 5–10 PSI in my front tire each night. No big deal—every morning, I’d top it off with my cordless compressor. So I set it to my desired PSI, left it running, and continued packing.
Once the bikes were loaded, we geared up, fired the engines, and eased out of camp.
A few feet later—
whack-whack-PSHHHHHH!
I instantly knew.
I had forgotten the compressor was still attached to my wheel. The auto-stop feature had betrayed me… or rather, I had betrayed myself by forgetting it. The valve stem snapped clean in half, the core ripped straight out.
And just like that, I earned myself the title of Donnie of the Day.
The fate of bugs spattered across Matt’s headlight guard and windshield.
The Swinging Donnies, Ray, Matt and TJ at Keystone Bike Park in Colorado.
What’s a “Donnie”?
Within our riding group, “Donnie” is the term reserved for moments of pure, unfiltered foolishness. Something dumb, goofy, careless—anything deserving of a laugh and a call-out.
Our buddy Travis coined the term years ago at Keystone Bike Park in Colorado after snapping a photo of three of us swinging on a chairlift looking like “three swinging Donnies.”
This moment?
Compressor attached, riding away, valve stem detonated?
Yeah… Certified Donnie.
One last photo at camp, moments before the disaster of leaving my air compressor attached to my front wheel.
The MacGyver Phase
The bad news:
None of us had a tube.
And even if we did, this failure wasn’t fixable trail-side anyway.
It was Sunday—no shops open.
Roadside assistance couldn’t help.
A proper repair was off the table.
So we spent nearly an hour trying every idea we could think of until Matt came up with the winner.
The broken valve stem still had a few threads left. If we:
Over-inflated the tire,
Quickly removed the compressor hose, leaving it attached to the valve stem,
Shoved a piece of tire plug into the hose end,
Capped it tightly, with a valve stem cap,
Zip-tied the hose to a spoke,
…then maybe—just maybe—the tire would hold enough air for a little riding.
Amazingly, it worked.
Not well.
Not safely.
But it worked enough to try.
One Last Push Into the Gravel
The morning’s scenery was incredible. Rolling dirt, gravel winding through the woods, the kind of terrain we had all been excited for. My mind said “go,” but my front wheel said “be careful.”
Every few minutes I checked the pressure with the “hand test,” and it was slowly losing air. Still, for a brief window, I was actually riding—cautiously, but riding.
About 90 minutes into the day, we hit a washed-out bridge and had to reroute. It was the perfect time to check the tire again.
It was almost flat.
And that’s when reality set in.
We still had nearly 230 miles remaining for the day.
My tire wasn’t going to make it another 10.
I made the call—I was heading home.
I filled my front tire once again, Matt and Heath would continue on the SCAR. I’d limp my way north on backroads, keeping speeds low and stopping before disaster struck.
At the next stop sign, they turned left.
I went straight.
One last wave to the guys.
Then I was on my own.
Stranded on the side of the road in Greenville SC. The bead of my tire separated from the rim and my ride was over.
The Final Failure
Northbound toward Greenville, the wind picked up—big gusts pushing me and the bike from the side. Still, the weather was warm and the ride was pleasant.
But the ticking clock of air loss continued.
I decided I’d ride about an hour before checking again. As I approached White Horse Road, the front end suddenly dropped. The handlebars shook violently. The bead had come fully off the rim.
Somehow I kept it upright.
Fought the wind.
Nursed it across the street into a patch of dirt.
My ride was over.
The Rescue Chain Begins
I called my buddy, Eric first. He picked up immediately.
“What happened?”
Because he already knew—if I was calling from the road, something went wrong.
Without hesitation, he said,
“I’m on my way.”
That’s a friend.
Next, I called my wife to let her know I was safe.
Then I messaged Matt—
…and got hit with yet another twist:
Heath’s bike wouldn’t start.
At this point, it felt almost planned.
My breakdown put me within reach when they needed help too.
Divine intervention?
Coincidence?
Doesn’t matter—it worked.
Eric arrived within an hour and a half. We loaded my bike and headed south to rescue the others, who were at Parsons Mountain OHV after taking a brief detour from the SCAR.
Matt had met Eric before.
Heath had not.
But motorcycles create instant friendships, and introductions were easy.
We loaded up Heath’s bike as the sun dipped below the trees. Matt took off on his own and Eric, Heath and myself settled in for a long ride back to WNC in his trusty Tacoma with our bikes in tow. By the time we dropped Heath off, it was well past dark. I didn’t roll into my driveway in North Asheville until around 9:30 PM.
It was a long, strange, unforgettable final day.
Text thread between Matt and myself.
Eric to the rescue – Heath and I loaded our bikes and we were off in his Tacoma
The Unexpected Ending That Made the Trip Complete
The SCAR didn’t give us the ending we expected.
Instead, it gave us one we’ll remember forever.
Four days of riding with incredible friends.
Four days of sand, mud, forest, coastlines, and backroads.
Four days of problem-solving, laughing, battling the elements, and helping each other.
Adventure riding isn’t just about perfect moments.
It’s about the unpredictable ones—
the breakdowns,
the teamwork,
the friends who show up,
and the stories you’ll tell for years.
This trip had all of it.
And we’d do it again tomorrow.
FULL TRIP SLIDESHOW
