Hoping for a Tail Wind

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.

I wanted to title today “And Then You Don’t”. Moron that later. However, I traditionally kick off the first Sunday of any good traveling situation with Gil Scott Heron’s classic tune:

I’m up and out on the road early. The winds don’t pick up until late morning so I wanna get 30-40 miles by noon. This 180° maneuver by the wind direction is due to a cold front that moves through. “Cold.” That’s what John tells me as it’s 70° at 8am. I bid Laura and him adieu, heading north. Winds probably only 5-6 mph. At first it’s a lot of public beaches. Nice. Then the headwinds pick up, sooner than I expect. Pushing 13-15 mph. I’m considering changing the name of this website to “Trying For A Headwind”. Maybe that’ll shift the winds in my favor. The public parks give way to more private residences, small town kinda stuff. Then that third lasagna layer comes back with a vengeance as I hit the big money underbelly. Lush shit. More wealth than can be described. I roll alongside gates and locks and so much money. There’s an old Rolls Royce for sale.

I cruise on. Small beach towns. Big beach resorts. I stop and jump in the ocean. Am I getting used to this? Am I becoming a beach person. I stop and feel like maybe it’s all rubbing off a little. I stop and check my bank balance… nope. Still proletarian. Maybe next time.

Still on A1A, I finally see an East Coast Greenway sign. It’s pretty weathered. Nothing special about where I am, just a bike lane on a road. I suppose I am on the east coast and there’s a lot of green. The internet would have you think there’s a separate trail all the way up the coast.

I eventually see a US Bike Route 1 sign. Right at that sign, my bike lane get an extra stripe. Oh shit the federales done went and got involved by adding more paint. Two white stripes for me? Are Jack and Meg in on this? I thought all my federal tax dollars went to feed the military industrial complex. Take that Dwight Eisenhower. I wonder if Ike likes bikes. Shit is strange because these ECG and USBR signs aren’t at turns or very frequent. One couldn’t navigate these “routes” whatsoever based on this minimal and consistent signage. So what the purpose?

I turn a corner it’s and sweet respite from the headwind. My entire being is overwhelmed with the smell of McDonald’s French fries. There’s no Micky D, not that I’d eat that shit. Damn it’s the exact scent though. Probably copyrighted. I pass a bistro I assume has wonderfully tasty fried potatoes. Frites. Why I got associate that shit with giant worldwide corporate exported and falsified culture and general mis-nourishment though? Shit gets deep, I mediate on the existential nature of my conditioning. I’m a victim, brother. Of brainwashing. Even my conditioning has been conditioned. I can’t watch Chameleon Street right now so I throw the BlackStar album on and it washes it all away. Im pretty sure all of that goes over your head and all this over thinking is interrupted by quite a high skyway bridge I’m now going over. Like at this moment. Cars don’t want me here. Back down I go, make a right and then another right and I’m crossing another one headed back east. Right now. This one’s a drawbridge, so a little less steep. The cars still don’t want me here. On my way down, I spot a dead fish or two in the shoulder. I don’t stop to take a photo, though they serve as a reminder of what I really wanted to talk about…

Roadkill… I don’t wanna be it. Please cars don’t kill me. I intended to try a pool noodle and forgot it in fort myers. Then I find one in the lane. Score. So yeah roadkill, or to more broadly telescope out of the world of the dead for a second — wildlife. Ain’t seen any gators. Mostly birds and reptiles. Lots of those. A couple tortoises. One massive. One tiny. I spot a third — another biggie — and it is dead set moving toward the street on the other side. Biggie is up on the shoulder about to step into traffic when A truck whirs by and it shells up. I yell at this Christopher Wallace looking creature “you’re not gonna make it — go back!” And cruise on, never knowing how that saga ends. On that tip, I’ve seen minimal roadkill thus far. A mangled armadillo, a truly annihilated 3 foot iguana. And this little bunny now at my feet. So much murder in these streets, all in the name is speeding to the next red light. I take another beach break and jump in the ocean to clear my mind and cool my body.

Sunday late afternoon up this little isthmus of island beach everything and the sun ones are definitely up to 20mph. Smacking me in the face. Howling so loudly I can hardy hear the traffic or The Police – wrapped around my finger. Blondie is singing about “In The Sun” while the wind competes with every note. It pushes back hard. Right into my face. Every mile is easily twice at hard. Moving 8 miles per hour and dreading bridges, I’ve never felt like an old lady on Slow Roll more.

Some guy is fishing on the non ocean sign of this windy strip of earth. His name is Candy Mike. I didn’t meet him but I stop near his truck and it’s on the back window of his pickup. I really want to make fun of him and can’t. So I take a photo, eat some trail mix and move on.

A couple more hours and I make it to my destination. I meet Lori and Wayne and Devin. Lori and Wayne are definitely engineers. Wayne is a massive gearhead so we talk bikes. Lori has completed 131 triathlons. Crazy! They got a carbon fiber tandem touring bike with wireless gear shifting. It’s tubeless and has an elliptical chain ring. So it’s about as specialized as you can get. I admit that I’m just too old school for all of that. Devon has a ton of corned beef and cabbage and shepherds pie for us. I get my Irish feast on and wash it down with a Guinness. We joke about distances and mock arbitrary distances of runs and rides that people geek out about. Like “centuries”. There’s also the most adorable pup named Bailey and he won’t stop licking everyone. He’s super chill and loves to wait for crumbs to fall.

We chat a bit and call it a night, except Bailey because he’s not talking much. I hope by the gods of old and new that the winds shift again, because I’ll be pushing nearly a century up the coast mañana.