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North Myrtle Beach, SC: South Cackalackey

Wed, 8 Jun 2005 12:49:30 -0400

If you believe the map - and I’m not saying that anybody should ever believe a map, but if you do – then we’re about ten miles from the border of North Carolina. That means we’ve got about 3 miles left on Highway 17, which is only three miles too many. We've come more than 1000 miles so far, but over the last 400 miles, we’ve developed a real love-hate relationship with 17. We spend a portion of every day on it, and you never know whether it’s going to be Jekyll or Hyde. One day, it's all open spaces and gentle drivers. Next thing you know, it's 85-mph maniacs delirious with a lust for blood. But the thing is, even when it's good, you know it could go bad at any minute. Even when it's Jekyll, you know Hyde is coming. Tomorrow, we get to leave them both behind. That's a huge relief.
There’s not a lot of time to write today because even as I type, my cousin Matt is one of those drivers barreling down Highway 17, coming to pick us up, and probably mowing down cyclists with his pickup truck along the way. We’re going to spend the evening with him and his wife, Susi, eating seafood and trading tall tales and getting the inside story on South Cackalackey from some natives. I’ll post photos of that adventure later.
Tomorrow, we’re off to Wilmington. And Cape Fear. We get to take another Ferry ride, just like coming into Fernandina. Hopefully this time, it won't dump buckets of rain as we disembark. . .

Georgetown, SC: Southern Comfort?

Tue, 7 Jun 2005 12:46:46 -0400

Now I know why the South lost the Civil War. It was the horseflies, obviously. I mean, you can concoct all the convoluted theories you want about faulty resupply lines, or military leadership styles, or low industrial output, but when a man has to spend 3/4 of his time swatting three-inch biting horseflies, none of that stuff makes a damned bit of difference to him, and silly abstract concerns like nationhood and secession fall by the wayside in the face of pure uncomplicated self- preservation. Who has time for war, anyway?
I'm perfectly happy to put this theory into book form, by the way. For the right price.
Anyway, it turns out that Georgetown is not a bad little place, in a run-down, sooty kind of way. As grimy industrial little marina cities go, it's got a lot of heart. That probably sounds like a backhanded compliment, and it is. But that's better than no compliment. When we first got into town, past all the smokestacks, I was prepared to write the place off. But we cycled around for a while, out of curiosity, and found some corners that were pretty nice: Old colonial mansions with wide porches and rocking chairs, lots of picture windows. People working in their yards, my all-purpose yardstick of civilization. There's a grimy side to the place, I guess, but there's also a healthy dose of give-a-shit, and that's what counts to me.
Horseflies notwithstanding, today's ride was just about perfect. Whoever laid out the route today must love riding bicycles. We spent about 40 miles, which was almost half the day, on tiny back roads winding through the National Forest, entirely undisturbed by traffic. It was almost like a really wide bike path, there was so little traffic. We took over the whole road, and took our time, and just cruised along and talked. By the time we finally popped out the other side of the forest and hit US 17, we were well-braced for the hectic traffic. But there wasn't any. It was a four-lane highway with almost nobody on it - which meant that we could use the entire right lane and not even worry about who was behind us. After we finished that stretch, we were back on tiny roads for about another 15-20 miles, and if we saw three cars during that whole part of the ride, I don't remember them. All in all, it took a lot of hours and a lot of effort, but when the route is so carefully chosen, it's joyful work. Also, it didn't hurt that the ride was a few miles shorter than we originally expected. That's always welcome.
So there's a little seafood joint just outside our motel, down by the docks. We've seen a lot of shrimping boats in Georgia and South Carolina, and I'm looking forward to rustling some up. I just hope the place is screened in. I'd love to eat some shrimp that were alive this morning, but preferably without being eaten alive myself.

Charleston, SC: Dog Day Afternoon

Mon, 6 Jun 2005 12:43:16 -0400

Today we killed a dog. We didn’t mean to, but I’m glad it happened. At least, I think I am. The whole thing was a blur. I just remember seeing these three white dogs on the road ahead, on the left side, circling around and snarling as we approached. I don’t know what it is that makes dogs hate bicyclists, but they totally do. There were cars going by in both directions, but these dogs had totally fixated on us. They were rushing around in circles, growling and barking and snarling, just laying in wait to tear us apart.
Actually, laying in wait doesn’t even begin to capture it. It was more like flipping out in wait. Every time there was a break in traffic, they’d race out into the road, howling and barking furiously, wanting to rush down the road to meet us, but the cars would lean on their horns and swerve all around, and the dogs would dodge out of the way at the last second, slouching off to the side of the road but still barking, still howling, never taking their eyes off us. If there had been just a tiny bit less traffic, they’d have gotten to us easily. And these were not all-bark dogs. You can tell. I don't mind saying that I was scared shitless.
We decided to use a car for cover, so the next time one came past in our lane, we cranked on the pedals and tried to keep up with it, to keep it between us and the dogs. But the car was too fast. It sped right past us, and past the dogs, and the dogs jumped off the road to get out of the way, but then the car was gone and we were a whole lot closer to the dogs, like maybe 100 feet away, and totally exposed. I felt my skin get hot. The dogs lunged. It was like slow motion. I was bracing myself for them to reach us when I saw the 18-wheeler barreling down the other side of the road. There was this booming noise, and after a second I realized that it was the driver leaning on his horn. Between that blasting sound and the barking of the dogs and the sound of my adrenaline surging through my head as I tried to pedal my ass off to avoid getting chomped, the air was lit up with white noise. Then I saw that the truck driver waving at us. At first, I thought he was mad at us, but then I realized that he was trying to help. He was going to get the dogs off our tail. I dropped my head and got back to pedaling while he kept the horn blaring. And I heard the horn stop, and there was an awful CRUNCH. A sickening mixture of shattering and splattering. I didn’t see it happen, but the sound was image enough. For a few seconds, I resisted looking back. When I finally did, all I could see was a tangled mass of white in the middle of the road. At least one of the dogs was still alive, racing around, still barking, so we couldn't circle back. We just kept on pedaling. And then the strangest thing happened: I felt guilty. Or if not guilty, awful. Sad and broken and sick. The goddamn dog was trying to eat us for lunch, and I actually felt sorry for the thing. I mean, lock up your fucking dogs, rednecks. Anyway, other than that low point, it was a pretty good ride. There were some rough stretches of 17, but also some really beautiful parts. The highlight, by far, was the end of the day, when we got to spend 10 miles on a bike path called the West Ashley Greenway, which is an abandoned railroad track that's been reconceived with hardpack gravel. Very green, very peaceful riding, wildflowers everywhere, a perfect way to spend the last 10 miles of any day, but especially today. The dog thing still hangs in the air. Maybe tomorrow it’ll be gone. With a little luck, we’ll make it up to Georgetown for the night. That would be just less than 100 miles, which is a bit over our average, but if the weather holds I'm pretty sure we can do it. At the very least, I want to make it through Francis Marion National Forest, home of the Hellhole Wilderness. I have this theory that it'll look exactly like Fort Pierce.

Yemassee, SC: Another Day, Another. . . Day?

Sun, 5 Jun 2005 12:36:45 -0400

It’s funny how each state feels different. You wouldn’t think the difference would be very dramatic, but it is. In fact, sometimes even the county borders are striking. For example, back in Florida, I remember passing from Martin County into Saint Lucie County and almost at soon as we went by the welcome sign, the bike lane disappeared, the pavement went to hell, and all the drivers started acting like sociopaths. Until that point, through all of Florida, we’d run into maybe four or five aggressive drivers. By the time we left St. Lucie County, we’d seen another 30. I’m sure a lot of this has to do with socio-economic conditions and county road policies and other tangible factors, but still. It was weird.
Coming into South Carolina today was like that. We had learned to appreciate Georgia more than we expected, having spent an extra day in Savannah thanks to a flash-flood warning. Wandering about the old town, it was hard not to fall in love with the place. It’s just so spectacularly designed with the squares and parks, and it's not terribly over-wrought with ticky-tacky plastic historicity the way St. Augustine was. It left us with a good feeling about Georgia overall. But the memory of our grueling ride into the city was still hanging over our heads, along with the fear that our ride out of town would be similar to our ride in. And yet, even as we crossed the bridge into South Carolina this morning, it became obvious that this was something different, another one of those dramatic borders. To begin with, we had a 6-foot-wide shoulder, which was something we hadn't seen since Florida. Then there was the route, which followed a series of quiet roads along green pastures, with mostly pleasant drivers. Before we knew it, we’d arrived at Yemassee. Of course, there were a few idiots sprinkled across the day like acne, hanging out the windows of their cars and yipping at us like dogs as they passed, but you get those everywhere. What you don’t get everywhere are the 18-wheeler drivers like the one today, who tooted his horn and waved as he went by, actually happy to see us. It's probably hard to imagine unless you’ve been through this, but that kind of thing gives you a good vibe that lasts long after the driver has forgotten about you. It can be lonely, out there on the road with the multi-tons. Being passed slowly, or passed wide, helps.
Once we arrived at the hotel, we had a good bit of daylight left, and we talked about doing another bike cleaning, but the bikes don’t really need it. They’re holding out better than we expected. In fact, all of our supplies have. We haven’t had to make any major purchases, or change any of our gear except the plastic bags we use for waterproofing. We packed light, so this is a bit of a surprise. Other than my riding clothes, I’ve got two t-shirts and one pair of pants. When we’re not riding, I wear flip-flops. Sometimes, that means walking five to ten miles in sandals. So it's a pretty Spartan set-up, but it seems to be working. Jenny has about the same - two pairs of pants and three t-shirts. Also, we’ve each got a small bag with hygiene stuff: contact cases and toothbrushes and such. And I’ve got the laptop. All in all, I guess we’ve each got about 10 pounds of gear. Today, along the route, we passed a long-distance cyclist whose strategy was clearly different. She had front and back saddlebags, all bursting at the seams with who knows what. On top of her rear saddlebags, she had also strapped a bunch of duffel bags and knapsacks with bunjee cords. It must have weighed 100 pounds. I don't necessarily think this is a bad way to travel; I’ve always felt that, whether you’re hiking or canoeing or cycling, you should bring whatever you want. It’s just a question of whether the pleasure of having it outweighs the pain of carrying it. When I was younger, I used to bring a fairly heavy espresso maker, with coffee, on all my backpacking trips. People would always tease me, but not so much in the morning. So I can understand the decision to bring a lot of stuff and make sure that your down time is comfortable. Still, seeing her, I’m glad we’re light.
So tomorrow we’re hoping to make it to Charleston. The biggest obstacle, unless the roads go to sand again, or the drivers turn maniacal again, will be the weather. It’s been storming almost every day for a week. I’m pretty sick of it by now. But we’ll slog through whatever comes. What else can we do?

Still in Savannah, GA: A Thousand Words

Sat, 4 Jun 2005 11:53:40 -0400

Still in Fernandina, FL: And not sad about it!

Wed, 1 Jun 2005 18:15:39 -0400

Not much to post today. We spent the afternoon tuning our bikes and working on a new waterproofing system, but mostly just lounging around. Fernandina is fantastic. Just the right combination of old and new, dilapidated and tended. Hopefully the pictures capture some of that. Tomorrow, we're hoping to reach the town of Meridian, which is halfway up the state of Georgia. We feel strong and rested. Almost too rested. We're going to try to get back into high gear, and knock off Georgia in two days. It was nice to spend an extra night here, though. Fernandina is easily our favorite town on the Florida coast. Did I mention how much we like it here? Fernandina: Your next vacation.

Still in Fernandina, FL: And not sad about it!

Wed, 1 Jun 2005 18:15:39 -0400

Still in Fernandina, FL: And not sad about it!

Wed, 1 Jun 2005 18:15:39 -0400

Fernandina, FL: Swimming to the Border

Tue, 31 May 2005 18:12:25 -0400

What a day. As I write this, I'm sitting behind a little wooden desk in a dry, cozy room in the town of Fernandina, just across the state line from Georgia, looking out a window over little colonial houses and the industrial docks, with everything golden in the evening light, and we're comfortable for the first time in about eight hours, and safe for the first time in about eight hours, and relaxed for the first time in about eight hours, and suddenly the last eight hours seem lost in my mind like some incoherent dream evaporating in the first blush of dawn.
We woke to the sound of rain. That I remember. Actually, we went to sleep to the sound of rain, and slept to the sound of rain, but the sound we woke up to was more like the sound of urine, since the rain was coming down in thick, voluminous streams, pouring straight into the flooded parking lot. Worse was the forecast, promising another week of the same. We'd been looking forward to getting out of St. Augustine ever since, oh, about the time we arrived. Another week?
After a couple hours staring out the windows and watching the parking lot fill like a cup, with some areas more than four inches deep and cars hydroplaning around wildly trying to get out, we decided that pretty much anything would be better than watching the situation deteriorate from the helpless vantage point of our prison cell. So, we decided to ride. As in, in the rain. Seriously. I'm having a hard time just now thinking of a way to explain why this seemed like a good idea, except to say that it totally didn't. It seemed, even then, like a terrible idea. But it did seem better than sitting around St. Augustine for a week. I'd also like to point out that the person who first mentioned the idea, and suggested that it was our best alternative, was named Jenny.
So we spent the rest of the day underwater. Gasping for air in a putrid tide of acid rain. Yup. I mean, I guess there were a few moments during which I wasn't swallowing huge gulps of water into my windpipe, but I can't remember any of them. Perhaps because I was in a stupor of water toxicity. What I can remember, with astounding clarity, are the many times that life seemed not worth living, and how the roads were flooded, and the water was pounding my back like the "massage" setting on one of those expensive showerheads, and the trucks were whizzing by at about 60 knots, inches from my gurgling mouth, and the lightening was in cahoots with the trucks, thundering at us from all directions at once. Not that I'm complaining or anything.
There were, however, two great points of consolation to this torture. The first was the cheering of bullfrogs along the way, who had lined the road and clearly thought the spectacle was marvelous, burping their delight. And the other consolation was that moment when - I swear to god - Jenny turned around and commented that the whole thing was, "nice," and the rain, "felt great."
I know. I know.
Anyway, to get to Amelia Island (where Fernandina is situated) we took a ferry ride across the St. John's River, which was a surprisingly fun trip. We met a pair of guys on the boat who seemed really nice, not least because they assured us with big warm southern smiles that it was just about done raining for the day and everything would dry up soon, which was such welcome news that it almost made me cry, especially when it turned out to be completely false. Almost from the minute we disembarked and said goodbye to them, the rain came pounding back, harder than ever. Right now, I'm trying really hard not to be bitter about that, or blame them for TOTALLY MISLEADING US AND GIVING US FALSE HOPE, because after all, it's not their fault that they were born liars.
I'm kidding. It was actually nice to meet people in mid-route, and not just at the big-town stopovers. We got a little better sense of what life is like in northern Florida for people who aren't in the tourism industry. And life sounded pretty good. One of the guys, Cliff, was heading out to meet a friend and put some new fiberglass on a boat, into the evening, over a few beers. Sounded like fun. Except for the boat and the fiberglass.
By the time we made it to Fernandina, I was not in much of a mood, but the town brought my spirits to heights unmatched on this trip. This is one beautiful little town. It's old and small and real and comfortable. Just about perfect. The inn where we're staying has a wonderful curved wooden staircase in the lobby that's straight out of Tara. And it's a good thing we like the place. Once we got up to our room, we discovered that virtually everything we own is sopping wet. The saddlebags don't seem to have kept a single drop of rain out, but they kept a whole lot of them in. We must have dumped at least a pint of water out of each one into the tub. And it's supposed to rain tomorrow. So we're going to have to rethink our waterproofing system. Or stop riding in the rain. Or both. For some reason, I'm just not feeling like riding in the rain tomorrow would be all that terrific. Don't tell Jenny, but I'm going to pretend I'm sick tomorrow. Far too sick to ride. But maybe not too sick to get new plastic bags and do some laundry and explore Fernandina Beach. . .

St. Augustine, FL: Last Day of the First Wave

Sun, 29 May 2005 18:11:01 -0400

The trouble with make-up is that it doesn't work. It almost never makes an ugly woman beautiful, but it often makes a beautiful woman ugly. Half the time, it's the creases and lines that made her pretty in the first place. They're the character, the flavor, the salt. They're what make her her, and not some plastic doll. Pave them over with a bunch of goop and gunk, base and foundation, and she starts to look fake and ridiculous. Cities are exactly the same.
St. Augustine is a beautiful woman with too much make-up. Somewhere underneath all the tacky colonial signage, the streaming mobs of tourists, and the too-fresh, too-bright paint, there's a glorious historic city just waiting to be admired. But you can't find it, or see it, or appreciate it. All you can see is the prissy exterior, polished and pruned and primed to oblivion. There's no rust or must or dust, no cracks or creaks or chinks, none of the things that make an old place feel magical. The fact that it's the "oldest continuously occupied settlement in the country" has become just an advertising slogan on pamphlets. (And a false slogan, as it happens. The village of Acoma, New Mexico has been inhabited for at least half-a-millennium longer than St. Augustine. But who's counting?)
At any rate, we got to spend a good chunk of the afternoon in the old town, inching our way through hordes of foot traffic and listening to people's astute observations, like, "That fort must be there to protect the shore." It didn't help that it was Memorial Day, the great American holiday in which we all pause to salute the sacrifices of our lost veterans by getting piss drunk in public places. After about three hours, Jenny and I decided that, actually, we hated every single person in St. Augustine passionately. So we set off across the Bridge of Lions on a hike. Lucky for us, Anastasia State Park was right there waiting for us, and we did a fantastic 8-mile hike. We saw huge turtles and lizards, fishermen casting in brackish water, kids running on the dunes and splashing on the beach. It was great, and it felt great to be out in nature, getting exercise. We should do that more often. Maybe tomorrow, on our first rest day, we can go kayaking. Or swimming. Or bike riding!

Daytona Beach, FL: The Daytona 467

Sat, 28 May 2005 18:08:04 -0400

The road between Vero Beach and Melbourne had two ommendable features today: It was short, and it was easy. What was missing, again, was beauty. This has nothing to do with the Greenway itself; the route was good and we had a bike lane almost all day. But I can't say I'd recommend this part of Florida to anyone who hadn't done me wrong. There's a stench of ruin that permeates the place, all this gnarled and sooty development that reeks of apathy. Trailers instead of houses. Strip-malls instead of public spaces. It's not that I'd want some boutiquey little shopping district, which I'd also hate. It's that the place lacks a sense of pride, or attention to detail. What it lacks is give-a-shit. I'm a big fan of give-a-shit. It doesn't take much to give a shit. All it really takes is heart.
We did enjoy our morning in Vero, sleeping in till about 9, having a nice breakfast in town and wandering up the beach, kicking sand and studying hurricane damage, but by about 11, we'd killed as much time as we could. So we jumped on the bikes and pounded out the distance, pretending we had blinders on. Lucky for us, the hotel in Melbourne is nowhere near as ugly as everything around it. When GQ books you a hotel room, they don't fuck around. We've got a kitchenette, a living room, two bedrooms, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean from about 30 feet up. It's about 75% more than anybody could possibly need, which is perfect. We spent a good part of the afternoon staring off the balcony, lounging on the beach, wading in the ocean, and enjoying the Chocolate Indulgence at the restaurant downstairs. I'm posting this entry a little late because, well, in between all that inactivity and indulgence, I didn't have a free minute.
At this point, we're eager to get further north, to some cool old towns like St. Augustine, Savannah, and Charleston. Old towns are the best. Little parks with stone walls. People letting their dogs sit on the porch unsupervised. Brick houses with no right angles. That's the good stuff. We've decided to power through the next two days and get there - to St. Augustine. That means we'll do about 100 miles tomorrow, and another 70 the next day. No easy feat, but we're getting used to it.

Melbourne, FL: Beach Cruiser

Fri, 27 May 2005 18:06:06 -0400

Palm Beach: It’s not the heat. . .

Wed, 25 May 2005 17:48:51 -0400

Today was pretty tough. Not because of the miles. We only did about 60. And not because of the hills. Definitely not because of the hills. This is Florida, bub. It was tough because it was NINETY-SEVEN FREAKING DEGREES OUTSIDE. Maybe more. 97 is what a guy on the boardwalk in Delray told us, but our bike thermometers registered 106. Of course, you can't really go by the bike thermometers, because they're sitting in the sun all day, getting hotter and hotter. Then again, so are we. So maybe you can go by the bike thermometers. Whatever the number, it was brutal. The sunburned spot on my nose is turning black and blue. Is that bad?
The best part of the day, by far, was stopping off in Fort Lauderdale to have lunch with my cousin Marnie and her little baby Cecilia. I'd never met Cecilia before, and Jenny had never met Marnie, so there was a lot of getting-to-know and chit-chat, which also served the larger purpose of turning a short lunch break into a gigantic lounge, which took up almost two hours and gave us a chance to do what we're best at, which is nothing. Instead of huffing away on some bike in the sun, we got to chill at an outdoor cafe on Las Olas, drinking sodas and playing with the baby and telling stories until it had become way too hot to even consider riding a bicycle, at which point we resumed the ride. Clever.
So Fort Lauderdale was great, but the ride out of town was the opposite. Harrowing. Just as we reached the oceanfront drive, we had our first run-in with a really nasty driver. I didn't even see the guy coming, but all of a sudden he was behind us, driving really close to our back wheels, and he refused to go around us, leaning on the horn and swerving all around, screaming out the window. That can be a little unnerving when you're on a bike. Fortunately, Jenny is 85% mountain lion, and she was waving her hands back at the driver and shouting threats, and I was sure I was going to have to find a safe place to hide if a fight broke out, but then I noticed that it was Marnie driving the car. My own cousin! I guess it just goes to show that you never really know someone. To act like that with a baby in the back seat? Shameful, Marn. We laughed all the way to Palm Beach.
In general, we spent a lot of time riding with traffic today. We've had a fair amount of experience with this, so we felt safe and it wasn't a problem, but it did remind us that the Greenway is very much a work in progress. I mean, road riding is a lot of fun. But it's not to be confused with riding a bike path. On the road, with fast traffic, you have to be hyper-vigilant, and you have to gauge what speed is safe and what speed is not. There are some roads where it's safer to go slow; on other roads, you want to go as fast as you can. For lots of different reasons. Also, when you're riding a road with a partner, it's a very good idea to have some hand signals worked out in advance. Otherwise, even if you avoid crashing into a car, you could wind up twisted up in each other. Luckily, we've gotten used to all of this back home, so it isn't a big deal for us. We enjoyed being able to do something a little more exciting, actually. But when the Greenway is done, and the whole route is as peaceful and serene as the ride yesterday, it'll be a lot more accessible to a lot more people. And that's the whole point.
So I'll end with this: Please, either now or later, or whenever you can, give a tiny little bit of your time or your money to the Greenway. It's worth it. Click here for info.

Palm Beach, FL: It Ain’t the Heat. . .

Wed, 25 May 2005 17:48:51 -0400

Miami, FL: The End of the Beginning

Tue, 24 May 2005 17:12:32 -0400

Coming across the Venetian Causeway into Miami Beach is probably not as majestic as, say, arriving at the Royal Box in the Coliseum flanked by attendants and trumpeters, but after 81 miles in the blistering sun, with a vaguely Native-American design etched on your forehead from the slats in your helmet letting sunburn through, if you squint your eyes and tune out the sounds of traffic, you can almost hear the bugles playing Call To The Post.
All day I had been smelling hot dogs. Everywhere we went. Spicy, smoky ones, too. Italian style. I couldn’t figure out what the hell it was until I saw the smoke trickling up from my handlebars. It was my arms, broiling in the sun. By the time I took off my gloves and shirt this evening, I looked tattooed. Well, I am tattooed, but these looked like new ones. Especially around the wrists, where the burgundy sunburn stops briefly to make room for my watch, then returns after the watch to fill the half-inch space between my watchband and my gloves, then stops again under the gloves, but returns again where the gloves are fingerless, so that my hands are getting whiter every day but the tips of my fingers are dark like I’ve been dipping them in beet juice. It’s very attractive. Also, there’s this random spot of brown on my otherwise white backhand, which is where the gloves snap together and leave a small hole. Who needs henna when you’ve got South Florida and masking tape?
One of the great pleasures today, for anyone who cares about the environment and the effects of development, was cycling through all the new-home construction above the town of Homestead. Had to be a thousand McMansions going up all at once, spread over about 200 acres, just rising out of the marshes like kudzu. It was awesome. Looking at it, you couldn’t help but get a warm feeling, just thinking about how soon the human race is going to annihilate itself and let nature start over without us. So comforting.
Altogether, the route today was shockingly good. We didn’t expect it to be so bike-friendly. Somebody at the Greenway has been doing some serious homework to put this thing together. The only guy I know there is named Eric, so I like to think that it’s all his doing, and everybody else there is just carrying his water. Eric has confirmed to me that this is true. Kidding. In reality, there are at least 4 or 5 people who have been breaking their butts on this thing for something like 7 years, so let me add that, if they ever get to wondering, up there in Rhode Island, whether it’s all just a bunch of goddamned maps, Jenny and I are totally blown away by the real thing, the cold, hard, efficient reality of what y'all put together. In fact, we have no doubt that this is the best thing you could possibly be doing with your lives right now, and when you’re done, you should work on a hiking path near our house.
A lot of the roads today were wonderfully desolate, no traffic going either way. Some of the time, we just cruised right down the middle of the road, weaving and bobbing for fun. When there was traffic, there was almost always a side path. So the miles were long, but not stressful - which is 50% better than we expected.
Anyway, it’s dinner time. We haven’t had a real meal all day. But tomorrow we’re off to West Palm Beach, another 70-75 miles. No worries. At this rate, we might even skip our first Rest Day, and plow through a couple more weeks uninterrupted. Yeah, right.

Key Largo, FL: Last of the Keys

Mon, 23 May 2005 16:54:44 -0400

The strangest thing we saw today was a giant iguana by the side of the road. Big bugger, about a foot long. Two if you count the tail. Fat, too. With a gigantic head. Must have been old. And he was absolutely terrified. The minute he saw us, he bolted straight to a chain-link fence and dove through it. But he could only get his head and his front legs through. His butt was too big. So he started thrashing around, halfway in and halfway out, flipping all over, totally panicked. I was sure he was going to hurt himself, and I was totally ready to tackle him and wrestle him free, but the problem was, I was scared shitless. Are you kidding me? I don’t want some gigantic lizard problem was, I was scared shitless. Are you kidding me? I don’t want some gigantic lizard shredding my hands with his eight-inch poisonous claws. So instead of helping, Jenny and I decided that the best thing to do was just stand there with our mouths open and stare. I’m not sure if this was helping or not, because before we could tell, another cyclist came screeching to a stop beside us and leapt off his bike, diving onto the iguana, grabbing the tail with one hand and both back legs with the other, then wrenching the thing back and forth, left and right, up and down, until little by little, it squeezed through and took off running at full speed, which isn’t very fast for an iguana. We were stunned. After a brief pause, Iguana Man stood up. He was smiling. He grabbed his bike, slapped us both five, and then disappeared down the road. He never said a word. God bless you, Iguana Man.
The other cool thing we saw today was a hawk, perched on top of a telephone pole. Normally, the birds you see on telephone lines are dinky little shits like sparrows and swallows. When you see a hawk instead, it’s jarring. Not because a hawk looks so terribly different from a sparrow, although bird people might think so, but mostly because the thing is just so freaking humongous. The scale was totally off. It was so big, it almost looked fake, like somebody had climbed up and put a lawn ornament up there. Which, this being the Keys, is possible.
Otherwise, the ride today was spectacularly uneventful. Just totally serene and quiet. I’d say at least 60% of the route was off-road, skirting the highways through a lush canopy of palms and bougainvilleas. The color of the water is almost unbearable. It ranges from blue-green to green-blue. From effervescent to ethereal. And the drivers were cool again. Very gracious. Except for one guy, who didn’t see us until the last minute and had to slam on his brakes and skid to a stop. That was almost like being home in Texas. Except he didn’t mean it.
Tomorrow, we ride to Miami, which is only 60 miles by highway but more like 85 the way we’re going. It’s gonna be a long haul, most of it riding with traffic. I think the easy days are behind us, but it was great while it lasted.

Marathon, FL: Ahhhhhhhhhhh

Sun, 22 May 2005 16:28:54 -0400

Man, that felt good. After sitting around doing nothing for the last few days, jumping on the bike and riding 59 miles was like coming out of a coma to a big kiss. What a relief. If I had to sit around on that tropical beach sipping margaritas and watching horse races and lounging around for one more day. . .
This morning we got off to an incredibly early start in our imaginations. It was 5:30 am, and the sun was just beginning to consider rising, but we were already packed and ready, fueled up on coffee and power bars, slapping each other five in the driveway of the Sheraton before tearing up the highway like Dale Earnhart on methamphetamine. Then we woke up, and it was a little after 8:00. So we dragged ourselves out of bed and ordered a pot of coffee from room service, and hung out in the room for a while. By the time we left, it was about 9. Lucky for us, in Key West, 9:00 is still pretty early. There was hardly anybody on the road. Maybe they were all in church. Right. We cycled first to the tip of the island, where a big mound of concrete painted in primary colors marks the southern-most point in the continental US. We decided that was a good place for a break. It had been about two miles, but the mound of concrete is the official starting point of the Greenway, so it seemed like a good excuse. We stood around, snapping photos of ourselves and wasting time until about 9:30, when we finally hit the road.
The ride between Key West and Marathon, once we finally got started, was fantastic. About as bike-friendly as we’re likely to find on this trip. Half the distance, at least, was on paths by the ocean. Shamefully serene. The water here is so blue, it makes all other blues enraged with jealousy. At some spots, we could see huge fish leaping in the air, dozens of them, maybe 5-feet long. I’m pretty sure they were giant man-eating killer hammerhead sharks, but Jenny says that’s unlikely.
Even the parts of the route that were on the road were pretty smooth. For one thing: Flat. For another: Drivers here are shockingly nice. Normally I hate generalizations like that, since everybody knows that drivers everywhere are big jerk-faces. But I can’t even count the number of times a driver did something deliberately considerate today - either waiting patiently for us to cross intersections, or slowing down at turns so as not to cut us off, or passing us wide for safety – thereby rendering my entire conception of human nature obsolete. Not one jerk in the bunch. A lot of these people are probably tourists, too, so it can’t be a cultural thing. All I know is that, wherever they come from, it isn’t Texas. When we ride at home, every intersection is a battle with some Dellionaire in a Lexus.
Anyway, I promised myself I’d keep these entries reasonably short, so there’s a chance that someone will read them. But before I sign off, there are two last things I want to mention, in case another rider stumbles onto this page someday while preparing for their own Greenway trip:
1) Sunblock, dummy. (Even with a tan and a helmet, even with my eyes pointed down at the road all day, my face is a pan-seared papaya.)
2) Sunblock, dummy. (It bears repeating.)

Still in Key West, FL: The Calm Before. . .

Sat, 21 May 2005 16:26:42 -0400

So. In the spirit of vigorous adventure travel and high-adrenaline sports, we spent the entire day, without interruption, at full throttle, doing nothing. We had planned to spend the day taking care of little odds and ends, like tuning the bikes and making repairs and buying whatever extra gear we need. But the bikes arrived in great shape and we already have all our gear and there's really nothing left to do but ride. Except we had a reservation here, for tonight. So we spent the whole day waiting. For tomorrow. Sat on the beach, and waited. Drank margaritas, and waited. Wandered around the Hemingway House, and waited. Watched the Preakness, and waited. All in all, a terrific vacation - just not the vacation we’ve been planning, or the one we want to be on. Actually, we kind of hated it. In a stuffed, satisfied way.
The most interesting thing we saw today was a pair of cats at the Hemingway House that were almost identical to ours in Austin. Freaky. Sleeping side by side, too. Paging Shirley MacLaine.
Anyway, tomorrow we ride. We're hoping to get off early and see how far we can make it before the sun turns the asphalt into soup. . .

Key West, FL: The Nightmare Begins

Fri, 20 May 2005 16:20:47 -0400

So we made it. Now what?
Key West is a trip. This is what happens when you give kitsch its own island. Elevator reggae oozing from tinny speakers in mounds of bougainvillea by the coconut bar. Cheap shit by the pound. It’s miniature golf meets the dollar store. Somebody here is making a lot of money on pink and turquoise paint.
Depending how you count, it either took us 12 hours to get here, or six months. Or our entire lives. I prefer to think it was our entire lives in some karmic way, but for the past six months especially, with the four- to eight-mile runs, the 25- to 65-mile rides, and the daily weigh-ins, watching lard dribble off, it’s definitely been a build-up. It’s nice not to be planning for it anymore. I don’t care how hard the rides are ahead, it’s nothing compared to learning, slowly, over the past six months, not to gorge myself on ice cream every night. Now that’s training.
Anyway, we’re feeling pretty good, all things considered. Even after six hours in airports and four hours in the car, we’re not too beat up. Some of that has to do with the travel arrangements. Somehow we ended up in Business Class all the way from Dallas to Miami. Which, I can vouch, was worth every penny that GQ spent on it. I’m actually not sure if anybody at the magazine realizes that they did that for us. Either it was an incredibly generous gesture, or somebody fucked up royally. In which case, better not to mention it. But between us, if you haven’t ever flown Business Class. . . well, you don’t even want to know what you’re missing. Sucker.
I’m posting a few photos from the last few days and today. Mostly, they involve taking bikes apart, putting bikes in boxes, taking bikes out of boxes, and then putting bikes back together. If you’re starting to see a theme, just wait till mid-July.
So that’s enough, eh? For now. There’s not a lot to report at this point, just gads of anticipation. Tomorrow we’ll spend the day getting our bikes in tip-top and making any necessary repairs, then on Sunday, it’s ride, ride, ride. . . to the town of Marathon, fittingly enough.