Hoping for a Tail Wind

Theres so many songs about love. Few have anything new to offer. The Coup’s Laugh/Love/Fuck pumps out of my Bluetooth speaker. With Boots Riley on the chorus stating “I’m here to laugh, love, fuck and drink liquor – and help the revolution come quicker”, this is not your typical love song. Harmonizing behind him, Pam the Funkstress has very few lyrics outside of the title’s three words. The ones my mind drills in on are “we can’t just talk about it, get all up in it now”. Getting all up into something is a thing. A thing that matters. A lot. It’s known as showing and proving.

It’s what gets the later revealed-to-be-an-undercover-cop Mr Orange in with the criminal masterminds of the jewel heist in Rezevour Dogs. His “commode story” that he’s gotta learn and memorize, thanks to Holdaway. You know, “something funny that happened to you while you were doing a fucking job, man.” When Harvey Keitel, not-Sean Penn and The Thing aka Joe aka Daddy posit that “you knew how to handle that situation: you shit yer pants and dive in and swim!”, it confirms his credibility is instantly. This is all it takes for the cops to beat the robbers. It’s a pretty good measurement of someone I suppose. Except Mr Orange didn’t really do what he says he did. He learns and makes it up as a lying ass piece of bacon. A made up story. A whopper. I literally go through a “dive in and swim” yesterday. I have to get all up in it now. Get up, get into it, get involved. Unlike Mr Orange, my shit was real. Or was it? Am I just writing this all to convince the puny little readership I have that I’m the real deal. What if I’m making it all up? Just a commode story. Worse. What if you’re all just a part of commode story? Or all even all of us? Living in mental matrix-like existence, fictitious characters in some undercover cops back story. Real only in our minds. You ever think about that? No? Well, then I bet you haven’t pedaled fully-loaded into 20 mph winds for 7 fucking hours now have you?

Get in the phone booth Bill and Ted, we’re traveling back to when I wake up on a porch in the woods. It’s coldern hell. Probably colder than Buffalo right now – which I hear has been gorgeous since I left. I brought this crap weather with me. Friends, colleagues and countrymen back home: you can thank me when I return, profusely and generously in fact. My new friends from here Fred and Renee arrive just before I dip out! Glad I get to meet them. Plus I get to go poopy in the potty, instead of out in the woods. Which. as an outcome, is sort of a Switzerland of good or bad happenings.

Northbound as yoozsh, on Georgia road 99 for now and yea the wind is still out of the north and in my… fuck! Logging truck full of logs scares the shit out of me like no other! They pass close and with their contents all exposed and barely strapped in? Christ with a chainsaw – it really puts the fear of science into me. Blinds me with science.

17 miles later I’m back on Highway 17, heading northeast — with the same headwind. Destination Savannah, hopefully. Wind wind wind. I’m done with it. I’m shortening the route. No more quiet road alternates, I’m going direct. It’s too windy to add mileage. Doesn’t seem to be any rain today though. At one point, I turn around to go back for a photo and really notice it how strong it’s blowing. If this wind were in the opposite direction I’d be able to coast the 70 miles into Savannah. What button this remote does that? Is there an app? Can I report this as trauma and shout down anyone who disagrees? I decide that’s the last time I turn back for anything. I’d rather not know how much easier it could be.

Smallest church and I am shocked, surprised and stupefied that I am not struck by lightning whenst entering. Probably because — spoiler alert — there is no more god in these manmade building than any other structure: casinos, crackdens and brothels including. Anyhoo I really really really wanted to get some of the old ass art juxtaposed alongside the stained glass, but I didn’t push my luck…

Taking a break in Midway Georgia, which is misleading because it’s today’s halfway to Savannah and also half way between the Florida and Carolina lines — but not the halfway point of my entire intended ride. I score some artisan jerky. Righteous Felon. I like it. The name and the taste. Though shit was $7.49 and from a gas station on US road 17 — smells legitimately like highway robbery if I’ve ever stepped in it. I blow the toilet up as mildly stinky form of payback.

I would say 17 is a real bitch, except I’m a dog lover and that would be an insult to females canines in heat the world over. Not that I have a problem offending… Fuck! Another logging truck!! After a dozen of these things I stop counting. The sun has finally come out and it’s warming up. I take off some of my layers from this morning.

Most times I have a 12-18 inch shoulder. Sometimes it’s more like 8”. Sometimes it’s more like 4” because of a rumble strip in the shoulder. The traffic definitely ain’t Easter traffic. It intensifies as I close in on Savannah. Happens with almost any American city really. An asshole in a fossil fueled death bomb comes way too close as I’m fighting the wind. I find a TA, I buy Lenny and Larry’s cookie. The 500 calories goes down quickly. I take yet another dump in what is very nice truck stop bathroom. I consider showering as it’s been a couple day. Nah, I’ll pass on that adventure for today.

The shit hits the fan coming into suburbia proper. No May Low Goose Tuh. It’s like every American city is an onion routing from the outside. Routing? I meant rotting. Country roads turn to strip mall roads turn to less and less space. Talking Heads Love -> Building On Fire comes on. Another great atypical Love Song. I blame David Byrne, as I should. A normal semi comes closer than Al other previously had, within a foot or two. It whips me around and feels like yesterday on that bridge. This fuck had an entire left lane, refuses to move over and nearly knocks me down only to get to red light. It changes before I can get there to give him or her a live of my mind — and probably get shot.

Finally Savannah! I’ve never been here outside of stopping at a Hooters on a long drive down to Tampa twenty years ago. Shoutout to the homie Angel aka Ketchup Samurai. That was also the only time I’ve ever been to a Hooters. This version is much nice. It looks a lot like New Orleans. People on bikes and foot. Lots of little plazas and town squares. Somewhere in what has to be the most hipster of neighborhoods, I found a $14 poke bowl and I devour. I mean crush it. It was good and worth every penny.

A photographer here named Robert has agreed to put me up for a night on his downtown apartment. I arrive, make a little chit chat and b min for a shower. Badly need. Stink like all hell. Robert’s also a fellow long distance bike tourist. We talk about how poor all of the options heading north out of the city are. The sun sets and I feel like I want to spent at least a half day here tomorrow to enjoy Savannah a bit. Shortly thereafter I’m out like a light.

Math quiz: how many carbon fiber centuries equal 76 miles in direct 20 mph (40 mph gust) headwinds on a 50 lb bike with another 50 lbs of gear? And please, express your answer in milligrams of ibuprofen. This counts towards our final grade.

My first morning on the road, I wake up in Florida and it’s fucking 50° and raining. As it eases into more like a mist, I head out. Wearing pants. And a long sleeve. And a jacket. Wtf? It’s not bad riding weather, though the steady direct headwinds remind of days through western Texas. This ain’t too fun. After a few miles I hit the state line. Gil Scott-Heron on blast, Hello Sunday Hello Road. It’s as if the ghost of Steve Jobs inside my iPhone knows everything I like. It’s Sunday. Easter. I’m positively staying peachy over preachy.

Georgia. The Peach State. 🍑. It’s a great emoji too. This particular one is now code for a booties. Behinds. Rumps. Rears. Back sides. Butts. You know. We all got ‘em. What’s a butfer? For pooping silly. And you probably know what’s coming next.

I push on down Highway 17. 45 miles in I spy a TA stop near I-95 has a Starbucks and a Subway. T&A. I indulge. In food and drink; they’re ain’t any tits and ass – and even if there was I stink like all hell. I’m gassed and have another 25 miles directly into a now intensifying wind. Needs fuels. The oat milk latte is muah. The sammich is meh. Moving along. I regroup and prepare to push on. I was hoping for a tailwind and didn’t get it. Now I’m hoping to take advantage of Sunday/holiday traffic volume to get through Brunswick Georgia with minimal issue. This is one stretch of the lauded highway 17 that is noticeably setting the inter webs ablaze in anger over it being considered part of the “East Coast Greenway” yet its really a 4-5 line highway who’s 18” shoulders have been obliterated by rumble strips. I admit it has sucked and continues to suck now — though I can tell there’s likely a tenth of the vehicles flying by me as there will be tomorrow. A rare occasion for less suck. I even pass up on a non paved rail trail that runs parallel for a few miles.

Let’s talk about the Sidney Lanier Bridge into Brunswick. It is a cable-stayed bridge that is the longest spanning bridge in Georgia and is 480 feet tall. It is named for poet Sidney Lanier who was hailed in the South as “the poet of the Confederacy. And here I am thinking he could be Buffalo Braves legend Bob Lanier’s cousin — RIP the Buffalo Braves.

This massive engineering marvel spans 1,250 feet and is like 200 feet over the water. It has four lanes of traffic and I see it coming literally 3 miles away. It’s the only way forward and it is daunting. I think back over the years of the various friends I’ve bike toured with and only 1 or 2 come to mind that would actually do this. With 50 miles already in on the day, I slowly push up the incredible incline into 40 mph winds gusts. I’m moving like 3 mph and there’s no room in the shoulder to slalom up. I’m realizing that maybe even those one or two brave souls might have waited this out. Maybe I should have. I can’t even hear the roaring traffics next to me. My Apple watch is telling me that loudness is making this is an unsafe environment for my ears. And the rest of me too. Well, I suppose my sphincter muscle is getting a workout. I’m fortunate the ridiculous Atlantic coast wind is directly head on – if it were from either side it would surely knock me over. I’d have to walk. Or take the midnight train. As it’s happening, I know this is in the top five of single most intense experiences in my life — and certainly number one for experiences wasn’t paying for or getting paid for. And only if I don’t die doing it. Yeah. I chose this. For free. Even coming down is treacherous as I still have to pedal with enough resistance in order to even maintain my balance. Holy fuck. Afterward I personally need to check for proof that I didn’t shit my own pants. I didn’t. I’m a big boy. Yay.

25 more miles through Brunswick and I arrive in Darien. Fred here has agreed to put me up for the night. Fred’s not here though. So he’s letting me camp out on his screened in porch enclosure in the middle of the woods. It’s got water and power and wifi and tranquility. Boom bam pow. Perfecto. I don’t get to meet Fred; I’m grateful for his blind generosity and this instantly conjures up all of the help I’ve gotten over the year from total strangers.

Ultimately my mindset and mind power get me through today. Not much room for snark or sarcasm when it’s this rough. At least not yet on day two. I try to stay positive plus persistent. Persistently positive. Set and setting. I have lots of what my cousin might call “brainy chit chat” with myself to keep me going. Most of it doesn’t end up typed because I’m busy riding. Don’t fret though, plenty of cutting cynicism is to come.

There’s a carbon copy day forecasted and routed for tomorrow. I boil up and wolf down some ramen, pop up the palace on the porch and get down into it. Lights out with sundown.

Oh look, we’ve time travelled back into that same day of driving, Day 0, where I’m now stopped and taking a piss alongside my cousin’s open passenger door, Bills game tailgate style. Huguenot Memorial Park, my selected insertion point, is a Jax City Park northeast of the city on the Atlantic Coast. It’s pretty dope to get back to the ocean. Tony G and I stand roadside and chat; it’s nothing nearly as cinematic as some Jules and Vincent or Dale and Brennon. Our most intellectual conversation revolves around how the rest of the world has intellectual conversations, while typical American chatter centers around the sale on at Home Depot or the Bills off season moves the goddamn weather (is foreshadowing time travel?). I ask “What time you got?” “Four eleven in the pm.” “Nah it ain’t quite time yet. C’mon let’s hang back.”

This drop location is calculated. The Mayfield ferry is closed just down the road from this coastal park. This boat that crosses just 2000 feet of St John’s River not far from its Atlantic Ocean delta is closed until May 1, even though it was supposed to reopen April 3. I’m still blaming Obama just because. The closure would mean 30 miles of suburban and then urban riding inland and then back to the coast for anyone approaching from the south. My original plans involves picking right back up where I left off in – about 9 miles south of this ferry in Jacksonville beach; that plan is now poop.

If you’re keeping score at home — and we all know you should be — this is my first mention of poop on this ride. What’s the over/under on doo doo references or discussions by the time I get to DC? Don’t delay, send your picks via carrier pigeon today. Or even just comment if you’re the lazy type.

Anyhoo. That nine miles is gonna have to wait. In true firefighter spirit, I’ve several plans, most of which I expect will fail. Standard issue. Nonetheless planning happens. Just like shit. Pre-planning I’m fact. This park is a good choice, considering I had no idea when the death rockets would get me to the coast. “What time you got?” There’s actually camping here, in case of a late arrival from Orlando. Also, probably toilets, though I’m not using them right now. Also, Little Talbot Island state park campground is 7 miles up, right on the ocean — and with Florida’s no-turn away walk up/bike up camping policy — also a very attractive option.

It’s about that time. I zip up and load up and hug my cuz. It’s 430ish and I’m realizing not only do I have some daylight, I got hella energy. My homegirl Carmen would call this Jimmy Legs. I am read’ to-go. Caffeinated too. My further planeth unfoldeth, like that creepy Mad Magazine foldy thing. Some pricy Oceanside hotels 15 miles up, then crappy motels at 30 and 45 miles. The plan’s big prize: a covered bike campsite 50 miles up in Woodbine. That’s a long shot. But this day kinda represents most of my days pedaling our on the road: lots of contingencies on where and when to stop for the day. My Jimmy Legs push out, the first miles cruise by through the aforementioned parks bike trails. Playlist on point as Jurassic 5 gets my mind right and the journey of a thousand two hundred fifty miles begins with a single pedal. Want more than wisdom?

A few more miles up; Blackalicious and the White Stripes contrast sounds in my ears like the actual contrast their names conjure. Landscape changes always enthrall me. The pristine white sand beachiness gives way to green wet marshy funkiness. James Brown and Open Mike Eagle are hitting hit hard. The air is crisp and the wind is whipping but hell yeah this is that feeling. The good good. It come straight away now. Back in the saddle.

Light rains come as daylight dwindles. After a few beautiful miles on A1A, I’m now on what is US Bike Route 1 and it stinks. We are off the coast people and it is no longer paved in gold. Liquor stores. Churches. Heavy vehicular traffic. I find a quieter side street. Cutting across town, I come upon a T in the road at what will become my close acquaintance over the next few days: Highway 17. Hmmm. The town is just south. My direction is north. That campsite is still 20 miles up and the sun is getting low big guy. I consider going on. I consider heading into town for a cheap motel where I can probably make friends with addicts and truckers and sex workers. I’m not trying to ride in the dark and so it’s not looking good for that bike camp site. I got. I no good options when the rain picks up. I have to make a decision and I really haven’t when I look over my shoulder for traffic and begin to roll out without knowing left or right. Fucking A. A Patel motel is right behind me. I thought I smelled curry and overpriced accommodations. Done-zoe. Take my money I’m good for a first half day — more like a third day — I’m a day which was originally zero.

Tomorrow I push out on 17 toward Savannah. Tonight I shower. Eat. Map. Eat. Hydrate. Sleep. That’s what I do. The Empire Strikes Back is on the motel TV. Big day tomorrow.