Day 11. 659 Miles. Hodgepodge Pedaler.

Posted on March 26, 2022 by anthonycaferro

Bottom of the shift chat with Gustavo. He’s the engineer and paramedic. Really great guy. Educated. Married with kids and coming off a 48 hour shift. I’m surprised he even wants to chat with me, but he’s waiting on relief. Sitting around the lounge talking with him about the job. Even in Budapest, firefighters put the wet stuff on the hot stuff. Fire science. The same gig everywhere, mostly. Over some great coffee, we discuss the intricate differences between our workplaces. Basically our employers and our unions. They have a brand new station coming. The have two mandatory 24 hour shifts per month and are having trouble hiring people. The career isn’t as attractive and I soon find out it’s probably because they make less than I do. I already feel like I’m underpaid. Inflation is out of control. Rap is out of control. Wages been have been stagnant, mostly since right around the time I came to be alive on earth. Sorry not sorry. I didn’t do it. It ain’t my fault. So the firefighters at Polk County Fire have top of the line equipment, apparatus and houses. And also shit pay and what I consider a shitty schedule. No wonder they aren’t lining up to take the job. Gustavo says it’s also like this in orlando as well. He’s hopeful that they might get that 24/72 rotation that I have. I hope so too, because those guys deserve it. Tell a friend and tell a neighbor. Join or create a union wherever you work. If you’re retired or self employed, let your local government leaders know you support better pay and working conditions for the fire fighters that your tax dollar pay for.

My mind is wide open and relaxed. Thoughts arrive and I think on them and then they leave. I process and pedal. Mind and body both working congruently, at a scientific frequency in time with the living world and universe. It’s all so inexplicable and indescribable, so I’ll just say that this long ride shit is the cure. Not the band The Cure, an actual cure. Certainly the cure for my tendency to be pulled in many directions at once; a sanity refreshment. A mental rebirth. Probably the cure for the growing wave of ADHD. Maybe even peanut allergies. Definitely digital dependence. Pretty much everything everyone is getting. Attention here and now matters. Missing a turn can be costly. Doesn’t feel good at all, going back 5 miles or more. I can only measure time through space. Time isn’t real. Fight me about it. Timespace is the realest thing happening. It’s happening right now. It just happened and is still happening and is about to happen. Wrap your puny human brains around that. Through only the lens of distance can I tell how much time has passed. Pioneers of time measurement use the sun and it’s effect on a fixed space to measure time. There you go. I realize I didn’t take note of my mileage after a turn, I have no idea how much longer until the next turn. Only with both time and space considered can I be certain where and when I am and where and when I am going next. I make the next turn, there’s isn’t even a sign for what road I’m on. Get on this level.

A brief little route and wind update: it’s windy AF out of the west. Clear sunny day. Big same as yesterday. My route is not though. It’s turn after turn after turn through gridded out rural roads. Pythagoras would have a god damn brain aneurysm if he saw it. Zero hypotenuse available dude. Also, 90% of it is through farmland, citrus groves to be precise. I’m passing what must be millions of dollars in orange juice commodities. Looking good Billy Ray! Feeling good Louis. I stop and grab one. Not sure how ripe it is. Might give it a day or two. I catch a field worker harvesting. It’s straight ninja steez with their head to toe sun coverage and how quick they’re pulling fruits off the tree. Karate man cries in the inside.

I make it to Lake Wales. “Historic”, of course. I chill at he public park. Eat a snack. Cruise the lite downtown for signs of interest. I nice example of architecture and a nice example of street art. I move on.

“Historic” is baffling. People throw the label on everything they can. Historic cities and downtowns. Historic buildings and swaths of grass. I live in the historic Fruit Belt neighborhood. Just my neighborhood? The entire damn city up to North Street is historic. Isn’t each and everything that has ever happened at any time anywhere historic? It’s part of history. I sense false motives. Not to mention my timespace concerns. The entirety of the USA is a historic cemetery for millions of Native Americans. I could use the slave trade as another example if I need to. I don’t mean to rain on the rich (or “pretend rich” folks parades; just for cherry pic history and we’re good. And stop trying to make an extra dollar of throwing “historic” at the end of shit.

So yeah, looking at the map one might think I was going south and eat all day. Look again the map is not of the normal “north as up” variety. Adventure Cycling Association maps are oriented to maximize mileage per panel. It confuses some. I love it. So I’m going south and west most of the day. Which equals headwinds about half the time. Not too bad.

Peace River is, well, pretty peaceful. Nice break from farms and oranges. After 80 miles or so I arrive at Pioneer Park in Zolfo Springs, Hardee County, USA. Did Hardee’s pay for naming rights to the county? They’ve got tent sites and showers and don’t take reservations. The sign says vacancy but the office is closed. I call and no answer. I take a site on the water. I haven’t seen a single gator and so I figure this site is the most legit. Thoughts? Unfortunately, molesting alligators is prohibited, so I’ll have to control my animal instincts. The sun is setting so the pop up penthouse goes right alongside the water feature. I lay out the feast on my nearby picnic table.

A little about what I call tour gourmet before zonking out. I kept simple and effective. Thanks to my BFF and last year’s coast to coast compaction Damon, Lenny and Larry’s cookies has taken a spot on the menu away from pretty much any sort of cliff bar type thing. They are dope, I like the white chocolaty macadamia. Trail mix full of nuts and dried fruits all day or course. The peanut butter banana burrito has been my personal long ride go to since 2004. Quick ramen noodle has been a great addition for a few years too. For saltiness, I dig either Frito’s or plain old pork rinds. Whatever refreshingly cold and bubbly beverage I can find. That’s pretty much it. Easy and effective. Minimal effort or cleanup, maximize caloric nutrition. Oh also, electrolytes because you know — it’s what plants crave.

I knock out a PB-B-B and a bowl of Ramen and a bag of pork rinds and then I knock out myself in the tent, happy to be on a much quieter swath of earth for the night.

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Day 10. 576 Miles. The Blowout, The Brew, and The Brotherhood.

Posted on March 25, 2022 by anthonycaferro

My cousin gets his kids up for school and gets out the door all while setting me up to make some morning coffee. This is how I know we’re related. He’s a pour over OG. Like since way back. Classic style. I love it. I pour like I’ve never poured before. The simplicity speaks logically to me… be the coffee machine. Plus gravity. Plus then I hit the Publix 4 miles up. It’s 2.5 miles further than another one, but this one has green lines on the Google maps all the way to it (which is back online, in case I’m your source for updates on the suite of Google products — pay me, Google). Except the first/last 1/2 mile or so has no green line. Challenge accepted. Shit is real deal Holyfield, so I leave my helmet home and Pool Noodle Petra and I let these motherfuckers know that streets belong to people… and pool noodles.

Mother Nature let it all out yesterday and is in a much better state of being today. Beautiful riding environment. 70° and blue skies. The wind is calmer this morning, yet still noticeable, and noticeably out of the west. A lot of noticeability, ya notice? Oh yeah. Guess which direction I’m headed for the first thirty miles? Loop full of headwinds, for cereals.

Oh winds and hills. Oh hills and winds. Hot tub time machine yourself to the end of the day and then back here right away, just to learn that I somehow gain 1,500 in elevation today. I’ve gone off about Flat Earth Floriduh riding in the panhandle exactly one a year ago, no need to time travel there when you can read it here. So this West Orange Trail is pretty great. Without vehicles, with some shade. Very nice, Borat. What’s up vanilla face? Between this and the soon to connect with South Lake Apopka Trail, at least this headwinded 30 miles is all non motorized. A passing cyclist waves and looks and exclaims “nice!”. I can’t tell if the comment is because I’m fully loaded. Or because of the flag. I really honestly think it’s Petra. Even though she’s all tucked straight back like Buffalo Bill in Silence of the Lambs on account of this trails lack of four wheel vehicles — she’s still pretty awesomely on display in all her traffic calming glory. Ah shit. And damnit. I miss the trail connection back two miles uphill.

Lots of passing cyclists and joggers and walkers. Only a few acknowledge. Now that’s strange. You see me. I guess. Certainly I at least nod to them, yo. Probably 50 times today. The shit that makes your head nod. Keeps my neck muscles loose too. I’ve documented the holy trinity of nod, wave or spoken hello on this site previously. Can’t link it, look it up. It’s not happening much here. The nodding. Maybe the looking things up as well. I dunno. I don’t care much, it’s a glorious trail. The winds are mos def now at much more strumpf. Probably gusting to 18-20. In my face. I push it. Ah push it. Real good. I’ve got no shirt, no cap, no helmet for the entire afternoon, all the way to Clermont Brewing Company for an early afternoon caloric refresher. Hold the salt N pepa.

Somewhere around mile eighteen I stop in the shade of a highway underpass to top off the front tire. I like touring at the top of the pressure range recommended for flat protection purposes. Woo. It needed it. I take it all the way to 8.5 bars. Somewhere around mile twenty Black Thought is going in on his 16 bars on Common’s “When We Move”.

BANG! Shits fired. Nope. Front wheel down. Blow out. Wow that’s a loud one. I pray to the spoke gods old and new that it’s the tube and not the tire as I come to a bumpy stop under a tree. My mind flashes back to rebuilding my back tire with duct tape near Ticonderoga circa 2006. I scan worriedly. Definitely just the tube! Gracias spoke gods. Also grateful this happens on a non motor trail and not a highway shoulder, so I swap out the tube, fill only to 7.7 bars and pocket the rest of the miles on the trail into Clermont.

A touristy little historic downtown is jumping with folks who are not at work on a Friday afternoon. I am one of them. Hell yes. The strawberry blond here is fabulous. Not too strawberry at all. The beer too. Crisp light and refreshing. I handle some short bike ride biz (code word for slow roll buffalo) and check the route maps. I’m back on the ACA map and happy about it. Back with the fossil fuelers though. About 30 miles of sprawl left. The state park 10 miles up is full with no campgrounds open. I could stop there and plead my case. Plenty of daylight left today. I decide to push out into the unknown, or more specifically the entire Walt Disney World thingamabob.

Sidebar your honor. So I’ve been to Walt Disney World probably seven times at least. I was a kid and I still can’t keep count. Family vacation shit. I remember when Epcot opened, people were bugging out. And it was kinda cool. Maybe that’s why I like nation hopping. Since then the whole thing multiplied one attraction after another. The ouroboros again. It got corny. Maybe it always was. I could probably get down with any of it for one day, then it’s played out. The best shit I ever got out of all this whimsical corporatist propaganda was a wonderful profile pic. The MF OG unicorn, bitches.

This state park ranger is a total douchebag right about now. Like right now. Like now. Now. There’s no “primitive” sites available so he wants me to pay $50 to set up in between RVs. Fuck all that noise. He gets no name and I move southbound on the shoulder of highway 27. Vehicles in full force, vrooming and showing off their insecurities on the roadway. It’s now Friday rush hour; Petra is vigilant and so I am. The wind is now on my right and having a non headwind is absolute “muah”. The hills and rolling and I’m pedaling at 16-20mph, eventually jumping off to smaller roads and skirting easy; catching the tailwind for the next 6 miles.

just a mile or two away from the “happiest place on earth” and what I’m guessing is typically a slow quiet road is now a detoured highway reroute — jammed up in an hour-long 3 mile stretch of nearly standstill traffic. It’s difficult for me to get through because there’s not even a shoulder. When traffic moves I dip in and move the same speed in between cars. Then they pick up until one finally gets impatient and nudges past me. Some try it and then get stuck next to me. Some others do that and are large 18 wheelers going 10 mph next me, squeezing me off the road as the dirt half of his truck passes me. What the fuck yo!! No pool noodle can save me now so my first instinct is to shift up and stand up and burn rubber up ahead of him and let him know how I really feel. I said it I meant it. What?

The sun’s getting low big guy and I’m concerned about advanced remote sleeping locations. Not a lot of good spots, honestly. Still in the resort suburb sprawl around whatever part of being near the magic kingdom this is. Literally I’m on Ronald Reagan Parkway waiting for my trickle down. 40 plus years later and still nothing. Ronald Wilson Reagan. 666. If you’re confused, I’ll let Michael Render tell it.

Yeah. It’s getting dark dark. My best plan right now is to set up behind an unoccupied new build with a for sale sign out front. Not my favorite idea due to the potential of a waking up to a loaded shotgun in my face at 1am, bu…. Oh shit! Polk Country Fire Station 20.

The captain on duty has no problem with me setting up camp behind the station. He lets me know it’s not very quiet. I let him know I’d rather not be on the road after dark and I have have earplugs. There’s a train and a road and they are all going to make noise all night. Whatever. I’ll make do. I thank them and pop up the palace. Shoot the shit with them as well. They’re a paid department, working for the county. Used to be volunteer, that got phased out years ago. I guess this is a byproduct of all that sprawl? Maybe there’s a silver lining. They cover a larger area and all those people need EMS and Fire response so the county deems it feasible to pay professionals. They’re fully nationally certified firefighters and run three people on the engine and are all EMTs (like my department) with one paramedic on duty as well. Firefighter Kyle tells me they work 24 on and 48 off. Yikes. I’m fortunate to have 4 crews for a 24/72 rotation, what he calls Delta schedule. I pop into the tent. The roar of traffic 50 feet in one direction and the earth rumbling from passing trains 50 feet in another and what sounds like wild animals fighting or fucking in another direction set me up for what might be an interesting night under the stars.

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Day 9. 507 Miles. Bender, No Fender b/w Strange, No Stranger.

Posted on March 24, 2022 by anthonycaferro

I wake up and forget where I am. Weird. Also goddamn my head is pounding. ¡Aye aye aye, no me lo gusta! Part sun blistered dehydration and part hangover, I’d bet. I don’t gamble though, well only with my life. It’s taking me a while to shake the sluggishness. Next to me, in bed, is a piece of tortilla I guess I was eating before passing out last night. Damn shit got real. I should have my phone examined. I’m in no rush, it’s coming down buckets outside. Cats and dogs. Puddles of poodles. I take a shower to further clean out the cobwebs. Pop some ibuprofen, don the rain coat and head out on foot to break the fast and feed the beast. I’m hungry as fuck. “Thinking about the past week, the last week…. Hands go in my pocket, I can’t speak.” Science damnit! I didn’t leave my wallet in El Segundo; I did leave my credit card at the bar last night. Again, I should have my head examined. Luckily, our capitalist democracy blesses me with two (more like 4) thin forms of debt inducing plastic cardery… Chicanery… Chicory….Mmmm. Coffee and a spicy breakfast sammich and I am ready to rock out with my smock out. You know, like third grade art class. Does art class even exist anymore? I’m instantly re-humanized —- the humanity! So yeah I’m ready, Mother Nature not so much. She’s giving us all the precipitation she finds possible. I check my weather app. Well fuck me without a reacharound Moms N, there’s lightning and the word tornado comes up. This is worse than the dolor de mi cabeza, this deep seeded phobia shit rearing it’s head. Rattling around in there is an exchange between Chappelle and Garofalo. “I must seek Buddha. I must seek Christ.” “You must seek therapy”.

Tell me your deepest darkest fears, why don’t you? Nah for real if someone asks you what you’re (most) afraid of, does it take some time to figure out? Or does one obvious thing pop right up? I use to struggle with an answer. Now, for me it’s plain an d simple: I am afraid of tornadoes on long bike rides. Like out in the middle of nowhere – with nowhere to run to baby, nowhere to hide. No Martha Reeeves. No Vandellas. No no no. No sir I don’t like it. This clear cut phobia has its origin story in grainy sepia filtered flashbacks set more than a decade ago, seeing a tornado on the northern tier route in Minnesota. Then again just feeling like one is coming during a storm in rural Louisiana last year on the southern tier. I don’t wanna play this game. Check out is 11am, I don’t care. I resign myself to the indoor holding pattern while I study the radar.

Al Roker ain’t got shit on me except tho use designer frames. A gap in the weather forms and I head out as soon as the downpour let’s up: destination the worst bicycling city in American aka Orlando aka whatever nickname the local use. At least the outer edge of it. Less than twenty miles up a size lane road. Pool Noodle Petra is in full position and ready to rock, wearing her Sunday best – even though it’s Thursday. Seven minutes and seven seconds in and evidentially I am not the professional meteorologist I think I am. Like crystal fucking clear. Weatherman are dumb but firemen (at least this one) are even dumber, proudly. One more dump of drenching rainfall manifests in blinding sheets of water and I am thoroughly soaked in three minutes. Its cooling yet sort of hurts. I pull off and head under a park shelter to let it (hopefully) pass – maybe it’ll still open up into the actual window I think I have.

It works. Sort of. The heaviest rains subside. Plenty of drizzle. Still some serious storm clouds and lightning on the radar. Trucks fly by and spray me with mist from dirty gutter road water. Typically, I’d never leave out on a long ride with out fenders. I’m so atypical. Fenderless. My drive train is filthy. My legs are caked with various debris off the shoulder. Probably a new variant in there somewhere. Yum. I push the short distance to the rendezvous point, linking up with my cousin, Tony G. He’s the oldest grandchild and I’m the youngest grandchild on my dads/his moms side, separated by some twenty years – yet pretty similar within the family comparatively. I imagine he might have been the strange one before I came along. Now he’s second fiddle. Ok maybe now I’m second fiddle, since we’ve added a lot more weirdos to the clan since the 70s. I consider it his more carefully and I realize neither of us probably even qualify for a chair in the orchestra anymore. No fiddlers. No roofs. None of that. We’re tame by Gen Z standards. Weird has gotten a whole lot weirder ever since Al Gore invented the internet. To remix some content from a sign I’m seeing a lot: “Don’t Blame Me, I Voted For Nader”. Ouch. Too soon?

So yeah. I strip the Summer Horse of its baggage and toss it into Tony’s SUV. We whisk away the last whatever miles at 55mph to his house on the outskirts of orlando. All of Orlando is sort of one big outskirt isn’t it? Like just one big giant suburb popped up around that human popsicle Walt Disney’s megalomaniacal dream come true. I haven’t seen him since he ventured up to Gainesville last year on my second to last day riding coast to coast. I haven’t seen his kids since they were tiny so they really have no idea who I am. Tony, not Walt. Pronouns problems.

Cuz is a professor with tons of books on books on books with two every teenage kids who really don’t know me. Haven’t seen them in over a decade. I’m instantly stranger danger. And yes I am strange. By the end of it we agree on things like art and “cool” and that when his youngest comes to visit me in Buffalo, he will be the stranger. Rain has once again starting bucketing down and I’m grateful to not be in it. We shoot the shit and whatever and he hooks up some amazing jackfruit tacos for dinner. Despite the low mileage today, i crush like 5 of them. Tacos not miles. My plans to head into the city to see friends and seek ink dissolve into a couch turned bed and right now you’re realizing that a short day equals a short entry and I’m realizing how these last two days are a fantastic holiday.

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