Hoping for a Tail Wind

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.

What in the actual fuck is this? No diving sign below a 0 feet 0 inch sign? Not one but two. I consider diving right in. It is my signature style after all. It doesn’t work. Are we this dumb that we need this at a wading pool. KRS-One was wrong: Stupidity reigns supreme over nearly every one. The babies meandering around in this splash pad section of the pool can’t even read anyway. Who the fuck? What the fuck? Why the fuck? With more questions than answers, this whole thing smells like the briefcase in Pulp Fiction.

Departure is upon me. The dearly departing. After earmarking three days pre-ride to relaxation and decompression, I am ready. Soy Listo, which I believe is a vegan entree. I got some sun and some sleep and I’m solid. Laying poolside in this resort-like enclave of life, I’m waving goodbye to all of the abundant sunshine and swimming and sloth. To be honest though. It’s not a total waste of life if you don’t have to exist outside of the gates here. I haven’t even left, except once for food. I see how I could see how I’d adapt to living in this hell hole, making do with whatever is still inside the walled like a ravenous vulture thriving in the desert. Nothingness is my prey.

A bikini clad MILF struts by, still eye-fucking me without shame. Not the stank eye version, the fuck with your eyes version. She looks like a julie. Gotta be her name for real. Really though Julie? Draw a sketch. Take a picture. Something else, it’ll last longer. Hopes and prayers that she doesn’t come up and ask me how many tattoos I have. Please. I can’t really complain about being objectified though; I’m genuinely impressed by how toned and fit Julie’s gorgeous body is — as her three kids waddle behind. They look like they got three baby daddies. Like some UN shit. I mean, I’ve never been called a motherfucker… in Siberia… but no thank you ma’am. I pass via inaction. Julie passes like that chick did the Pharcyde. Yeah, South Florida will keep you looking fit and young I suppose. If you can tolerate the tolerance of the preferred haven of serial killers, sexual predators, fascist gun-toters, geriatric drivers…

Tirade tangents and sexy shenanigans aside, Julie’s really less than 7% of the residents around here though. In my third eye, I’m waving bye to her. I’m waving bye to all of them, most of whom are Boomers who think they are cool. My old man likely being one of them. Maybe some of them are cool. Cool Boomers. Coomers. Koomers. I dunno. Seems like a contradiction at this point. At least irrelevant. Someone’s gotta be 70 or 80 or 90. And these are the types of folks who get way too excited about nudist beaches. Even for a naturalist like myself. Show up at a nude beach thinking you’re getting young hot and tantalizing tits and dicks and asses and nope — here in the US and A, 4 out of 5 times it’s nothing but gravity defeated boobs and knee-level balls covered in way too much thin gray hair. The boobs have gray hair too, I should mention. Should I have though? It’s a horrible experience, even if I was paid as a researcher. Was I though? This all makes many of you offended. It makes me yearn for a retirement in Europe, where the hot folks do get naked just to tell you about the weather on TV and the old fogies get to die with their dignity, should they so choose. And everyone gets housing and health care. Either way, it is clearly time to go. Before I can wave goodbye to them all I’m whisking away at 80+ mph in a gas guzzling death rocket – destination Orlando: where I’ll be handed off by my father Anthony to my cousin Anthony. These two Tonys (Tonies?) are goddamn human traffickers I tell you.

Let’s not get going on Orlando, like I didn’t get going on that mother!! I wonder why they haven’t made Orlando the Capitol city. Definitely of Florida. Maybe the entire USA. Did we give the Earth have a capital yet? Is there a nomination process? Orlando is not my kinda place, but in a world where I’ve seen 45 different countries and only two have neither a Starbucks nor a McDonalds – “American” culture is “winning”, worldwide. Tiger blood. I forget who’s side I’m on. I’m happy Cuba and Myanmar have the Wu-Tang Clan. Silver lining —- Fuck it, I’ve sold myself: Orlando for world capitol! We arrive. Lots of time in a car. Yuck. Rinse. Repeat. My cousin Anthony — aka Tony G or Dr G — has become a recurring character here on this site, and is probably commenting below. He also signifies my continued presence here in the land built by Walt D. Or he’s the reason for it. He doesn’t signify shit. Whoa. I almost forgot I’m driving right now. Like ahora. Traffic happens. It’s horrible. What a waste if life. Too much car for my mentals. It’s getting deep for me. What does it mean, triple rainbow?! Does this mean I’m getting old? Hell no. Does this mean I’m here to save my cousin from the grips of a consumption ouroboros? Hell no. Though both are probably true, my brain won’t allow me to believe. Does not compute. I’m ready to write it off to cosmic coincidence, when it hits me… Orlando, Cape Coral, the entire syphilitic penis of America that is Floriduh… it’s all just a real life MacGuffin…. Triggering my plot into existence. Yeah that’s it. That’s what I’m going with. I must really be here to fuck shit up. Let’s get to it.

Surviving and arriving into Orlando, the handoff between Tonies of the living cargo that is me goes smoothly. I’m now in another vehicle. Like right now. Not driving! Insertion point is along the Atlantic Coast. Having bicycled Miami to Key West in 2015, San Diego to Jacksonville in 2021 and Miami to Jacksonville in 2022, I’ve decided to begin the 2023 two-wheeled journey in – city — yet another one — named after Andrew Jackson. This motherfucker. Gimme a twenty dollar bill and I will give you a good piece of my mind. No really, gimme $20. I’ve spent a lot in gas money just to ride my bike 1,200 some miles. Most of it probably on the flight down. Neither my dad or cousin takes my money. It bes like that sometimes. I can’t control the rhyme. Everyone lowers the bar down here it seems. Even me. I’m grateful for my family’s help, otherwise I’d have had to fly in to Jacksonville. Yuck. I get to see them, chill for a bit and start where I left off, which is gonna super connectify the long ride map I keep back home. All of the above is usually the right answer. With my flight, my shipped bike, and these car rides, I’ve got a lot of carbon off-setting to get to. Let’s Get It Started. Hammer not BEP.

It’s legit Ramadan, Lent, Passover and the Full Moon all at the same fucking time. Bee tee dubs, that’s listed in reverse order of fabrication, for those of you that observe time as a reality. Or goofy religions beliefs. 30% of Americans now identify as Atheist, Agnostic, or None — I think it’s up time that we rise up and take our the holidays due us by the cold, dark lonely abyss of existential nothingness!! Nevertheless, I digress. Master Yoda says “time traveling, we are” and it’s… time to fast? Wait, time too fast? Wait, maybe thyme two…? No no no. Repetition is not good. Not even a rhyme on rhyme with time, er thyme. Sequels and sophomore slumps. Seriously sucky. Alliteration tho?!!?? ….all my mind sees is the Drake meme, while all of you pathetic souls out there on the inter webs suffer through my mental’s writer’s rust/block shake off while deeming this a blog. I meander slowly onto the spacetime continuum sardine can of a sky convoy packed with veterans and snowbirds that is Allegiant Air. Science damn you Time Child!

I’ve finally quit the brutal winter cold — in April. That’s some Buffalo New York shit right there. Read it again if you like. I will never. An entire season has disoriented and depleted and exhausted me and it is called winter. Apparently she’s coming, but honestly dog, I hope this bitch never climaxes again in my lifetime. After all that suffering, I get out on the right side of the bed and a cheap and direct flight later and — behold!! Praise the Spoke Gods, my environment haseth-changeth 180°, to 93° Fahrenheit, specifically. Uncanny and unreal and yet… 100% appropriate.

It’s my first morning in sunshine state and I beat that lazy fucking ball of fire to rising. For whatever reason, I’m most definitely in full punk mode the moment I set foot outside in southwestern Florida. Like John C Reilly and Will Ferrell farting and wearing matching tuxes to job interviews, my feels are all “we’re here to fuck shit up” — then I realize this state is already so fucked the fuck up — between guns galore, delusional politicians, that whole not saying gay thing and what not. Can I fuck it up? I also realize there’s no “we”, it’s just Me, Myself and I. 🔌 . Despite the De La references, it’s Stiffed’s “Run” flooding my audible sensors as I calm this beast with a 3 mile, 85° morning jog. Sets the playlist off right, title and all. If you haven’t heard of Stiffed before, it’s probably because you have zero digging proclivities and digest whatever crap music is fed to you. Yeah I said it. I mean for. Imagine a dub-punk band from Philly in the aughts led by Santi White (aka Santigold before she was Santigold) with skateboard OG Chuck Treece on drums. What is their lone released album, Burned Again, was produced by Darryl Jenifer of Bad Brains. Shits got a couple hard hitting, driving cuts on it. Maybe you wanna check it out. Maybe you think I’m a snob. Maybe both. I don’t care. Perfect soundtrack to get my remaining wintertime stress out. None of the boring old fart, well-off, cracker-ass crackers in this manicured gated community could give a flying fuck though. That’s for sure. The only shit they rage against are increases in their HOA fees or any sort of information that clashes with their insulated culture of safetyism. They see me inked up and sweaty as balls and literally move the other side whilst giving me the boomer-stank eye. It’s easy for me to open my heart and receive them with compassion, knowing they’ll probably need effective CPR sometime soon.

So, the inter webs, we’re all on them right now. And I’m on them. Like now. Right now. Like a madman. Dr Wiley if you smell what I’m stepping in, Mega Man. I been had been on them like this. Days at a time, site after site, I read tale after tale of bicyclists after bicyclist moving along the south Atlantic coast often on US Route 17. It’s not a pretty picture. Crazyguyonabike says it all. Warmshowers folks message me about their last guests horrific time on it, I think. Florida’s A1A aside this will be my primary route for the first week or so northbound through Georgia and South Carolina. There’s not too many other good options and if I can knock out multiple days on I-8 and I-10 in Cali and Arizona (east coast fascists say I can’t ride I-95) then I’m fairly certain I can manage this. Petra the Pool Noodle is joining me on the journey to create space and this chick has got a whole new glisten and sparkle since I’ve joined the ranks of those that have walked through the ancient city that bears her name. Definite plan to negotiate timing between rush hours, utilize all off-17 shortcuts — at times turning an 8 mile stretch on 17 into a 23 mile stretch off of it — and take the lane where needed. I even got some high vis gear. And of course I’m hoping for clear skies and full visibility… and a tailwind.