Hoping for a Tail Wind

I’m in this campground til after 10am. Latest roll out so far. Getting my twenty dollars worth of primitive. I make what for various reasons is somehow my first campground coffee of the ride. It’s exquisite, unlike my plan for the next couple days. Jive turkeys invade my space.

I map out some things. Orlando is apparently the most dangerous place to bicycle in. Challenge coin? I decide on a short day toward historic Mount Dora. Anywhere “mount” and “historic” in Floriduh is intriguing and amusing. I hear there are hills. I want them. I know there’s wind. Coming from the direction I’m heading. I don’t want that. I pack it all up an head toward the water station and ferry.

Hills and winds are my copassengers on today’s fantastic voyage. That and my belief in pool noodle. She keeps me safe. I name her Petra. Pool Noodle Petra and I are like Wilson and Tom Hanks. Except I’d never treat a her the way Tom did that soccer ball. Dirty. You’re wrong Tom, so wrong.

Pedaling downhill and upwind is like missing the best part of something. It ruins what should be much more fun, so much so that it’s nauseating. I’m legitimately nauseous right now because of it. Or maybe it’s because of the entire bag of hot Takis that I ate last night. So much red number 4. Eventually I get to some nicely rolling hills. I’m up and down and I’m and down. I’ve hit the sweet spot, where I’ve normalized riding 70 miles a day, so a short 35 mile day helps me align my thoughts a bit. I’m in that happy spot, in tune with the environment and the natural world. I’ve got a turn coming up that I’ve been anticipating. Thrill Hill.

It doesn’t disappoint. A couple long climbs and one big old thrilling downhill. I hit the top of the climbing and let out a loud whoop. Cuz I’m whopped. I shift gears and begin the roll down. I just hit 37mph. Like just now. Im pretty sure I should not be texting and riding this fast at the same time. The front bags keep my horse steady as I push it to 40mph. It’s a rush and I take a slight decline all the way into tiny historic Mount Dora, elevation 184 feet. Looks like rain for the evening; I’m eager to explore a bit on foot and could use an evening lounging — so I opt for an historic cottage for the night, a nice little treat indeed.

Fast forward that ass way past all sorts of things that I’ve been blabbering about the last week. Bike ride stuff and all. Keep hitting FF until the point on the space-time continuum where I’m on actual vacation. This coffee slash craft beer spot is cool slash awesome on tourist slash visitor barometers. Ask Slash — Kordell or the dude in Guns N Roses, I don’t care. I bet either will back me up on this assertion. The young ladies working here are way more intriguing than the product they’ve been serving me. Like 90% of it is sours and IPAs and I don’t really like either. I get a barley wine. My intrigue I partly because of gorgeous smiles and friendliness, though mostly because Jaide here does small stick and poke tattoos. And I need a travel souvenir. Poke poke poke? I’m working out the deets with her now. It’s gotta be tonight or bust so it’s probably not gonna happen. Hard timeline. Meh. Her coworker Mera is actually the diamond and they definitely should unionize. Unless one of them owns the joint, then they should worker coop it for sure. A warm fuzzy feeling takes hold and I realize that this is what totally vacating feels like. Holiday! Hurray!

Later, some young dude with dreads walks by and tells his girlfriend how astounded he is that his dad something something the BMW and something something insurance – and I right now really actually realize I am really really on vacation now. Really. No riding. Just hanging out. Here the fuck I am. In the present moment and cashing in on my floating paid time off for this experience. My old pup Isis would have a sissyfit right about now. About this dumb ass deadlocked white boy, not my time off. Isis been a down ass bitch since way before Islamic terrorists stole her name — she’s never been very accepting any sort of cultural appropriation, especially the whole white people with dreadlocks variety. Barks at them hard, every single one of ‘em. Dogs know. I think of her and miss her. Wish you were here. You and Banh Mi. I walk on, checking out five blocks of this tiny little downtown. The sun it setting slowly.

Fast forward again and the staff is apologizing because my dinner is hella delayed. They tell they are shucking my oysters ahora. Really? Ok. They arrive. Creamy as fuxk. Yum. I order a negroni. I’m still on oyster Number three. It’s getting dark. This doesn’t feel like a bike tour. There’s all sorts of formal wear folks doing all sorts of shaking of cocktails in this open-container historically designated so and so. I’ve got some Grant work due back home, I consider heading in to knock it out… Butt.

I walk around more of this cutesy tourist haven, catching excerpts of tender moments from young lovers, interactions between retirees, and other little tidbits. I’m pretty sure I’ve covered all of it. I think too much about the sociological experiment that is my life. Sociology? Mixology? Numerology? Don’t know much about history. Don’t know much biology. I dunno Sam Cooke. I can’t call it. I continue bar hopping. I head back to the beer/coffee place. Jaide’s gone, Mera is still working. Putting up with tourists shit. Like mine. Eventually I finish up and head home. No souvenir today. I’d describe me passing out but I don’t remember it.

It’s the morning of my 7th day on this long ride so call me back at at the god hour, I’m studying 120 right now. If you don’t understand, I’ll lie and tell you that it means I’m digesting janet’s glorious sunrise feast of French Toast, bacon, fruit and coffee whilst sitting on the shores of Daytona Beach — self-stylized as the “World’s Most Famous Beach.”

Sexy, fit blond people jog by smiling at each other, I am fairly certain I’m not in Sweden anymore; I check my 360 to see if it’s a Hollywood production. Does anything self-styled really matter? Did it ever? It’s sorta like how saying “I’m cool” is the least cool thing one can do. Becoming cool is uncool. What is cool? Cool is what? Is what cool? I turn down the acid-jazz in my head for a hot second and realize that cool is this breeze coming off the ocean at 8am. Here on this park bench it’s 77° Fahrenheit and all I hear is the sound of waves crashing. It’s the not sound of cars and people and shit for sale. At least down here.

In due time the pool noodle is put in full capacity position and I’m back up A1A for a bit, bearing witness to the endless flood of stores and shops and sales and so much stupid shit. Spring Break sells everything; everything sells spring break. The infrastructure and process to relieve one of every dollar possible is in place. Over and over and over until no one can resist. What is simply a beautiful holiday locale is instead an affront to vacationing American citizens; a one percent wealth-increasing wet dream come to maturity in the 80s and 90s. Abs and glutes and empty your wallet, working man. Fucking Eric from the Grind, we all know Heather B was the one who always kept it really real — all glocks down.

Twenty years later it turns out 50 is not the new 20 in the real world and feels to me like there might not be enough dollars to go around. Squeezed dry for every bit of juice. Even on spring break. This wrinkly dried up peace of citrus. It smells like an oroborous to me. A snake eating it’s own tail. Or a dog actually eating a dog while it’s being eaten by another dog. Probably not a good smell. The kids call this late stage capitalism in all their memes. Yet that’s just propaganda no different than the stupid flags that are now everywhere. And look, just now… here’s a new sign in big bold lettering “everything the corrupt communist democrats touch turns to shit”. Wow. You better ask somebody, comrade.

With civic vitriol the highest it’s been in my lifetime, I cruise northbound toward my turn inland. My time in the ocean limited, I’m focused on a state park on an island requiring a ferry ride. The last ferry leaves an hour before sunset and is 80 miles away. I’m leaving the beach life behind; the wind has shifted AGAIN; I now have a 12 mph tailwind. Yay! Yet. I’m basically going north, then west, the southwest, then south. So yeah this means headwinds soon come. The route looks like this:

Riding is not driving. My route is not direct in the typical sense because I want to enjoy my ride and also not get killed. And I’m not a crow, flying as it does. So 30 miles to west in distance (which would in this case also provide me with a total tailwind) becomes an 80 mile adventure, much of which is of the fighting-the-wind variety. It might sound absurd. Bike touring crazies like myself accept this and move forward, one pedal at a time. It makes sense. It happens all the time. It hurts. A lot. Physically. Mentally. We push through and do it again and again. Others, maybe not so much. It’s takes a special kinda person to choose the long way AND and the hard way, especially when the world is wired for quick and easy. Therein lies why I love doing this. Put me on the short bus.

The scenery switches up and I move away from the Atlantic. Ferns farms get more shade than I do. I realize I’ve gotten to my first actual “hill” on the ride. Takes a second to notice because it’s downhill and upwind. Hills are fun. Wind is much less fun. I dread when it goes back up. Uphill and upwind. Fuck. I drop gears and just spin. Gentle rolls. I’m back to navigating via ACA maps, which is my jam. Theres pretty much nothing in this current 36.5 mile panel outside of a couple turns and a store. I set mini goals and grind it out. My mind drifts with the miles. Back into the deeper meaning and purpose for these long rides. Getting comfortable being uncomfortable is what we’ve been saying for years. Rap shit with Drease and the Brain. Now with bikes, I’m out here pocketing each chunk of distance at a time, I learn to unexpected the expected. Get outside my bubble. We’re programmed to associate and enjoy the company of others with similar interests, ideas and perspectives. Geographically speaking, we are simply closer to others like us, basically because together we’re already subjected to the specific cultural distinctions that develop in whatever location we’re in. We have to make the choice to get move beyond. If it’s gonna really happen. Everything is a choice. I choose to engage people different from myself. Especially out here. I choose to fight this wind, my legs sore, my hands numb, my skin cracking and peeling and dry and…. Oh fuck…. I miss the turn on to county road 3. I circle back and for about 77 seconds, I get a vanglorious tailwind. I make the turn and CR3 bends to parallel the busier state road 11. Less traffic. Same headwind.

Fast forward a bit and I’m on the ferry to Hontoon Island State Park where there’s a “primitive” tent site available for me. And cold filtered water at the ranger station. His name is Peter. I’m pretty sure he goes by Pete with his friends. He’s Ranger Pete. Ranger Pete, probably 25 years old, is straight out of Super Troopers. He’s got the cop mustache and soul patch combo down and I can tell he really loves his job. Pete’s a cool motherfucker and he captains the ferry and runs the museum too. So yeah. I make it in time to get there. So close to an advanced stealth remote sleep, I decide instead that $20 is a fair price for all of this legal primal living here on Honsoon Island, especially with the picnic table and outlet in the bathroom that has showers. There’s a van that bring people and their shit from the ferry to the campsite… Primitive, lol. Everything I need. Nothing I don’t. I pop up the palace. I eat trail mix. I eat Ramen. I look at maps. I crash the fuck out.

Sitting here in this funky coffee and popsicle shop in Cocoa, there’s a cool girl across the room wearing ripped jeans and a leather jacket. She has her sunglasses are on inside, which makes me thinks she’s so cool. Though she’s gotta be so hot even in this AC. I’m on a short break on a long day. Oat milk lattes are definitely my guilty pleasure. Guilty as charged your honor. English is strange. People are strange. This latte is really good. There’s a whale on the mug and it had a slightly seafoody taste, which sounds weird and is weird… and I fucking like it.

Excellent adventure yourself back to early monday morning. Lunes. Day of the moon? I wake up and it’s still dark as fuck. Maybe 5am. Slumber superb. Long day to make happen today. A short while later and Lori hooks up egg sandwiches and coffee. Devin is out the door. Bailey is chilling. We talk more routes northbound. Apparently questions surround whether the military check at cape canaveral will allow bike passage on A1A. Lori questions why I’ve been on it at all, offering quieter alternates. I agree to take heed of the advice: a small, shoulder-less low traffic road up 20-22 miles, then 20-22 miles on Highway 1, then 30-35 miles on a gorgeous off road paved bike trail. Then 15 to my intended destination – a condo in Daytona shores. Then I implore they all come visit Buffalo sometime, smash the fast-breaking, and peace the fuck out by 830, destination Daytona. Spring Break, forever!

Shit is peaceful for a minute on this tiny little strip of land of an island between other strips of land of islands. It’s an isthmus-like inception, as I don’t know if this qualifies as an isthmus. Chris Nolan would know. Whatever’s, I still remember being sub-average in Geology 181. Shit! This mffka almost clipped me! What the fuck yo. A few more vroom vroom demonstrations of fossil fuel-crazed small dicks/loose lips and I’ve had it with this bullshit. My flag isn’t enough, I set the pool noodle up for full effectiveness. Fuck y’all, these three feet are mine. Slow your asses down.

I feel so much better. Not only due to this pool noodle —- also, about how well I pulled off being not only offensive, but gender-equal in my attempt at humorous storytelling above. Feminism is back, did it ever go anywhere? Like breakdancing. Or vinyl LP records. Give me grants please. It feels like the beginning of the Harmony Korrine joint, Spring Breakers, where Selena Gomez and Vanessa Hudgens are all having a good time, well before corn-rolled James Franco comes and fucks it up. Anyways. I’ve read the long list of lore dedicated to pool noodle usage on bike touring. Lots out there on the matter. I’ve never employed it’s usage. What better place than here? What better time than now? All hell can’t stop us now!

Miles and miles and miles and I’m nominating pool noodle for president. After we get Eric B elected, of course. Now we’re back to that amazing coffee break. Afterward, I bring it back to only about 50% clearance as I’m back on a road with a shoulder, it’s still quite nice though. Another 20 up and I hit Titusville, where this amazing off road rail trail picks up. I reduce the pull noodle to 0%, remove my helmet, hat, sunglasses and gloves and take all the quiet non motorized awesomeness in for the next 35 miles. Much more wildlife too.

Two adults and two teens approach me while taking a trail mix break. They’re fully loaded and tell me they’re trying the whole bike-pack thing. It’s not the man’s first time, and I’m having a hard time figuring out whether he is the father, boyfriend, brother or just a tour guide. I wish them luck as we roll out in opposite directions on this trail. The wind is still howling, more out of the east — so it only hit me at certain times from the side and occasionally head on. Around mile 75 on the day, I reach the end of the trail near New Smyrna.

I’m gassed. I need water. I hit the Circle K, no sign of Rufus but I remain faithful to be excellent to each other and party on. So it’s a topo-Chico sort of moment before pushing another 15 miles into rush our traffic and headwinds to meet my hosts Dave and Janet.

I arrive. Meet my new best friends and they are in an amazing Oceanside condo. I literally park my bike on a zebra skin rug. Vegans shudder. I rejoice. I wanna set up my tent right there. But the ocean view dinner table is set up so seductively that I reserve my inner animal. I domesticate the savage. Self colonization. It’s gonna be alright, because right now – like right now — here is this sensationally cool air conditioned kitchen — overlooking the Atlantic, Billy, Ocean — Dave hands me a beer… in a coozie. It’s a Shiner Boch. It’s delicious after something like 90 miles. I have not care in the world, especially not about my run on sentences or exacerbated usage of hyphens. One gourmet dinner and lots of tour stories later (Dave has done the Northern Tier and Great Divide routes) and I’m ready for lights out in my own personal wing of this enormous place. I thank my hosts and tuck in for the night.