Hoping for a Tail Wind

Bumming. Beach bumming. I should have brought one of those goggle-snorkel combination thingamabobs (does goggle even look like goggle now after google?). Fuck Google, at least yesterday. I really wanted to thread this entry with Harmony Korrine references, notably to his last film, Beach Bum. McConaughey and Snoop Dogg? Yes lawd. Yet. I’m not big on beaches, moreso moved by mountains. Or canyon crazed. Though I don’t hate em and admit that when when life’s a bitch and you need life to be a beach, the beach comes through in spades. Shoutout to female dogs in heat. This ocean cooling effect alone is clutch in the playoffs. Straight money – no chaser, my monk. I take a dip and lay all salty in the breeze for a bit, drifting off, wondering quietly how I could ever live this lifestyle.

Bring it back one time selectah, to when it’s 4am on the dot and the robots fire the first shot, enacting their vengeance upon me. There an old saying that is a dish best served dark, wet, and paired with an auto timer on unbeknownst lawn sprinklers kicking in. The first shot wakes me out of a blissful slumber. Two seconds later and I’m suddenly laying in two inches of water, relieved I know how to swim, alarmed at how much water is coming out of the one closest to me. It’s like 5 inches out the screen door from my head. Fuck, it shot me in the eye! We’re under attack, whoever we are. I been a seeing Evacuation route, so I evacuate the pop up penthouse, promptly.

It rains so much here, why are there lawn sprinklers? This ain’t Dakota or Arizona. In a small town park in Montana, a sign informs tent campers that there are sprinklers and where they are. I manage to move everything minus a couple stubborn stakes over to the dry side of the pool. This would be more funny if I wasn’t “cold”. Now what. I’m soaked. My shit is soaked. It’s dark. I hang things as best I can around the patio, towel off and waddle inside on onto the couch for two hours. It takes me until 11am to recover, gratefully it’s viable due to the space Goonie and his crew provided. Thank you all.

Physically recovered yet emotionally scarred, I head back out and hit A1A pavement northbound. I’m still technically off route, as in a don’t have a map. But I do have the ocean on my right to keep me heading north. I’m technically on the Atlantic Coast route, the East Coast Greenway and USBR 1. None of these is signed. It seems much more like and actual trail online. Here in real life, it’s mostly just bike lanes on A1A, Ocean Drive meanders and the occasional off road section. Regardless it is pleasant as fuck today, despite the tumultuous start. It must be a weekend because 1) vehicular traffic is negligible 2) all sorts of other traffic is in effect. The amount of bicycles alone give me flashbacks to Copenhagen, though the humans riding them here are pretty much 95% MAMILs and FAMILs. Some are wearing numbered race bibs? They pass me all nice to start. “On your left” gently. I give ‘em a “g’mornin”. Lots of folks out doing paradise weather shit. Walking. Jogging. Kayaking. Paddleboards. Shit you can’t do for at least half the year in Buffalo. I pedal on, also wondering if the weekend has anything to do with this amazing tailwind directly behind my behind. If not maybe it was The Weeknd? Meh. Whatevs. Hoping for it and got it. I’ll take the power of intentional mental effort for $1000, zombie Alex. 17 mph winds take me north without hardly pedaling.

Holy shit. This is how the other half lives. Or something like that. That beach life. Lots of mammal shit happening on a Saturday afternoon here on the coastal enclaves of affluent south Florida. Real mammals. Bodies and body parts. Anatomy. Biology. Butts. Cleavage. Things humans with nipples enjoy. We’re just babies man and I am the beach baby, just figuring out how everything works. People are attractive and happy and smiling, though sometimes cosmetically. And by that I mean surgery. So it’s not quite Sweden, even with all the bikini teams playing volleyball. It is wild scene. I chill for a bit and then cruise through it at 12-13, letting the breeze do the work. Beach after beach. I take little breaks at some of them. The MS race that’s happening passes me. Then I pass some of them. I dunno. It’s certainly pleasant and relaxing, a short mileage day to boot. Can’t complain at all.

40 miles up, bicycle adventure tourists John and Laura have offered to let me camp on the Oceanside backyard of their beach house. On the Atlantic Ocean. For free. Maybe it’s not theirs but they are there for the weekend. They insist on taking me out for dinner too. All I have to do is show up on bicycle. Unicorns ain’t got shit on me.

Ok. Things done changed. I think I’m where the other other other 1% are at. At least by my rolling equational theory analysis. Like massive estates and houses and money money money that the Ojays couldn’t believe until they must have seen it. Scary shit. I mean for real though — at some points, each address has two separate driveways, two little signs with the number. One has some cute little catch phrase with the number and another has the number and “service”. Yo. Eventually this final boss levels up to like “south” and “north” whimsical things and “service” as the third. A private jet lands on a field next to me. Shit just feels expensive. I’m either losing or gaining money by osmosis right now is the way I’m seeing it. I’m not sure how I feel about all of it, which is probably the root of the problem. I drain my bladder and fill my water bottle and mosey along in the northbound direction.

Eventually, normal houses and a town come into view. At least more normal that yacht and jet club. Ooohhh. A nice non motorized bike trail? Yes. I get that for a few miles and happen upon a much smaller turtle. Teeny tiny. It’s actually a tortoise. Smaller than my hand, I scoop the little dude up and move him safely across the path onto the grass.

A couple bridges later and I’m at the beach house. John and Leah are super cool. Sure hospitable. A lot of hosts just wanna live vicariously through me, others actually tour just as much. I’m busy living vicariously through myself, so the awesome stories from fellow tourists are relatable. And they get the basics. Wait? What? Now there’s even a spare bedroom for me. Indoor sleep?! Ok I’ll do it. Some formalities and one shower later and I’m crushing $1 oysters, Mahi Mahi “fingers” and some wonderful horseradish crusted grouper. Short mileage and a tailwind today was dope, though heavy heat and sun still kicked my ass. Looks like that tailwind is turning to a headwind tomorrow, with many more miles to make. I don’t delay in hitting the hay, especially after the rude awakening this morning. I thank my hosts and crash out hard.

Don’t say you didn’t see it coming. Picture me dragging ass out of camp today. Sore and exhausted. Getting my moneys worth. I haven’t paid yet but I intend to, despite knowing i can easily wiggle out of these obtuse accommodations. I’m going with it though. The bathrooms and picnic table and electricity help me transition into another realm of this ride: I’m going off route. I’ve actually been “off route” since the Lake Okeechobee Scenic Trail closing detour, figuring out the best way forward, and balancing what Google maps tells me with what other people tell me with what is practical. The Google maps may suggest horrifically impassable dirt or mud roads or the Google maps maps may suggest a terrifyingly heavy traffic-volume highway. I seek the middle way. Over coffee and a date.

The Adventure Cycling Association map that I’ve acquired (see above) has me routed out of South Bay via good ol’ Highway 27 aka “bloody 27” aka “That’d be suicide” through the Everglades into Fort Lauderdale. I don’t need to go there anymore, since I got peoples with a landing spot in West Palm Beach. It’s a little further up the Atlantic coast so I have the option of heading due East rather than southeast on the death road. There’s some canal roads and another highway running east. Looks like I could avoid a majority of Highway 98/80/something else, at least until it becomes a striped bike lane through the suburban sprawl. I’m pondering the options when Squirt approaches. He looks me up and down and asks me how much all my ink set me back. He doesn’t say it that way though. I laugh and let him know it’s a collection and definitely an expensive addiction, though not too unhealthy, comparatively. Squirt insists his addiction is to sugar and it’s good for his pancreatic health, which is the key to his being alive at 92. He doesn’t have die-uh-bee-tuss and has “been drinking cola Pepsi” his whole life. I can’t argue with the old man. He’s 92. He’s ambulatory, has got decent vision and all the ladies in the RV community seem to love him. Go ahead, Squirt – you’re cool because you’re not a Boomer.

A shit and a shower later and I’m finally packing up. Still figuring on a route, I’m thinking back canal roads as opposed to the higher volume road. Either way there’s very little in front of me for the next 40 miles, a promise myself to take it 10-15 miles at a time. I think by this point Squirt has made the full loop — something the group of grannies does in one eighth the time — because he’s twenty five feet away gabbing with Debbie. He waddles back over, “let me give you some advice young man, I’d stay away from 880”. 880 is the canal route. Now he’s suggesting I take the heavier road, Southern Blvd. What the fuck, sir? I implore he elaborate on his advice. Squirt is concerned about the berth of trucks and myself. Basically how wide this back road is. There will be farm and machinery trucks on it. He tells me he’s afraid two trucks would have to pass each other and that not leave any room for me. It’s valid and it warms my heart Squirt… and you’re wrong old timer. There’s a real discrepancy with folks understanding bicycle travel or not. All of the experience and supposed knowledge of of the region and its terrain from speeding along in a car is moot when it comes to me being on a bike. I tell Squirt, “I’m going to take a look and play it by ear, thanks”, wishing he had walked or ridden a horse and given me advice off of that.

So now I’m standing in the office trying to pay. I’m already behind schedule, I should have just taped $30 to the little electric outlet and bounced. This lady is asking me the most obtuse questions for my situation. Vehicle size? Pets? She’s just reading a computer without any context, despite me sliding in my having-rode-on-a-bicycle at the start. Taking furrevvvvvver. Oh. There’s a nice sign hanging there: “A lot of people just need someone to be kind to them today”. I take a deep breath, muster another patient smile and read my card number out loud to her. She hasn’t gotten up from her desk and is behind a plexiglass wall. Finally, she gets up to hand me the printed out 8.5×11 receipt of my stay, adding to the absurdity of this entire experience. I push off into a long and hot and sunny day toward the coast.

Lots of sugarcane, canals and general Everglade-farmland type scenes invade my eyeballs. It’s really not much of anything, other than short lush wet green and flat. Direct headwind socks me in the jaw like Mike Tyson did Zach Galafinakos in The Hangover, except it’s for real, not Hollywood. Or Bollywood. Or any of those. So really nothing like that. More like Tyson did any of these chumps. The 80s and 90s were wild.

Miles and miles stack up like rounds in a fight and I realize this ain’t no boxing match, this is an MMA fight with the heat and sun and this fucking wind! With my mind wrapped around this ultra proper descriptive metaphor, I can now accurately gauge just how badly I’m getting beaten down. And the specific science says that it is a helluva whooping. The headwind has brought me down to a 9-10 mph pace. The sun has done a number on my legs for sure. If I stop heat and bugs overtake me within minutes. Like music clubs on Frenchmen Street, there’s no cover anywhere — so I just gotta keep on keepin on, Syl Johnson.

Let’s talk about it. I always rely on paper maps. Specifically waterproof paper maps. Always. Until today. Google maps hasn’t been bad so far, keeping it quiet, yet navigable. No impassable crap as I sometimes check the overhead imagery for striping. Thinking this could become a thing. Thanks robots, you’re really starting to make life better…

Butt…

I go to punch of the next 15 mile leg and bam! Like old school Batman. Or that chef Emeril with seasoning. Or The Turners… really any sort of outdated, dry and ineffective simile would work here – I’m too overwhelmed right now to think of anything actually clever: because Google Maps is down! What the fuck?! I’m leaning against a guard rail in the Everglades with just my memory of what I thought about doing earlier. This route is so fucked.

See this is that shit I’m talking about. This is how they get you. Whoever they is. Paralyzed by my own doing, I finish the last couple miles in this piece of back road and head toward the Highway know as Southern Boulevard. There’s nothing around me, hasn’t been for miles. A good 25 miles without even a store or a coffee shop or an abandoned building or a tree along the road. It reminds me of a couple stretches through Arizona due to the heat and few others in Texas for the lack of services. Just shorter in mileage: 25 miles ain’t bad, compared to 90 miles of nothing in west Texas. On the 26th mile I stop at the very first thing I see: a Dunkin Donuts. Gross. But I’m no snob. The coffee is standard but the ac and shade is primo. Muah. Everything is relative and this indoor seat and iced coffee is my cousin right now.

Eventually with no other good option, I realize I have to head directly east on Southern Blvd. so I do it. I’m doing it. Right now. Through space and time. The scenery changes more than I’ve changed clothes in three days. Here we go yo, here we go yo – so what’s the what’s the what’s the scenario? Swampy farmland gives way to suburban strip malls. Yuck. Deadly fossil fuel burning missiles fly by me at almost $5 a gallon. I take solace in the constant striped bike lane. Suburbs then to airport bypasses. I cross 95 south, whoomp there it went. 16 miles of this commotion right into west palm beach. Whew. The heat has me beat. I hit the convention center where Goonie is setting up for some rich folks art show. My man stays hustling. It’s been five or six years since I’ve seen him when he rolled through Buffalo doing trucker work. Always good to see fam, we hug it out like two grown men should. I meet Cookie from the crew and I’m given the door code. I hang a bit and then I head out, fully intending to make a b line to the spot for a dip in the pool and a shower and maybe a celebratory beer — I’ve made it from the west coast to the east coast of the state that is the syphilitic appendage of America, and it did it without getting an sort of disease. Man, I couldn’t be more wrong.

About the B line to the Airbnb part, not the disease part. I’m still clean. Well, actually I stink like all hell. That’s a whole other thing though.

Downtown WPB. Damn it’s good to be on the coast. Good to be anywhere with anything. This is especially great though, so much happening it’s like an overload of aesthetics and seduction and tranquility. Life, normally a bitch, apparently is a beach today. I’m only a mile and a half from the convention center and a food truck/brewery pop up event summons me. There’s no resistance, it feels a little like the day I got to Gainesville last year. That’s a good thing, bee tee dubs. Cisco Brewers are down from Nantucket just for me? No. Some sort of Sun Festival, let’s just say it’s all for me though, life is truly better that way. A nice light lager, a couple of fish tacos and some live music and — as the kids might say — I’m feeling the vibe. I push off making progress the 8 miles to my landing spot before the sun gets too low.

By almost 630pm, “Friday morning” is hitting just right as i hit this little city park beach in west palm. Like another 3 miles away. Public space, yay! Good vibes are good vibes. These are great vibes. Be warned though, this is definitely much less chic and hipster — which is code for much less white. So I turn down the Khruangbin yo. Take a big sip of water. My wristband from earlier makes me stand out more than the water spilled all over my shirt. Some black dude and his family spring up. He’s got some hipster ass sweatpants. Damn. I’m digging it. But I can’t get down with flip flops and socks bro. I don’t get his name but his name is definitely Al. He looks like my tenant Al even, for real. Shout out to Al. Except this Al got a wife and kids. Like 5 or 6 sons. Damn Muhammad. He says “I like yo number man!” My face definitely lights out – my sunglasses been off. I’m like, “yessir, I was born in 77 so what else could I do?” I give him a solid terrorist fist bump and blame Obama. And of course he’s all “#metoo”. Him and his wife. Both born is 77. That’s all we needed. Totes bffs fo sho Al. For real fur reel though – I’m fully immersed back into solo long ride lifestyle after three days. Run The Jewels with Pharrell and Zach from Rage Against The Machine plays softly in this public family space. Just loud enough. Deep down inside I’m elated to have reached the Atlantic Coast on bicycle two years in a row…

Yeah and for really real, these three days were definitely not those three thousand miles last year. Ask Damon Bodine. This is almost a vacation. I’m going to the Airbnb with pool, it’s a celebration, bitches.

I arrive and instantly go pool plunging. Shit is so refreshing right now. Words can’t express, so picture this.

The crew comes home. I’ve been hanging in the patio after setting up my tent. It’s a good evening catching up with Goonie and making new friends. We have both jovial and whimsical conversations and serious talks, gracefully interweaving the two over cheap beer. Eventually everyone except Cookie and I are left, and he starts oil painting on canvas. My peoples. I salute him and crawl into the outdoor palace. It’s quiet and dark and cozy and I’m so ready for some solid zees.

“…in the sunshine.”

Roy Ayers Ubiquity sets the tone…

“Folks get down in the sunshine.” These rides are so much about people. The people I get to know a whole lot or just a little bit. Myself included. My friend and fellow bike tourist Daniel put me on to the phrase Trail Magic a couple years ago; I had known the phenomena but had never named it. Folks will seemingly come out of nowhere to help you, the way some rando in west Texas named Dale did one frigid windy morning, landing me at La Loma Del Chivo. Today the people and their serendipitous sensibilities and soul are the principle actors, the soundtrack is fanatically curated and the view from my handlebars couldn’t be better.

Day two starts around 1am, as rain drops increase in volume. I jump up and pop up the rain fly, grabbing my laundry off the paracord clothesline I set up. The rain doesn’t last long and I pass back out. Take it as a lesson to have everything ready for rain. In Spain, it falls mainly in the plains. Here it’s anywhere at anytime. Still dark around 6 and I rise, shit, shower, pack up and put rubber to pavement. I don’t even caffeinate, which is insane. Crazy talk. Or maybe we both just noticed the lack of a lighter or matches in my packing list? The dumb fireman forgot fire. Your taxes pay for me to go on vacation and not fight, nor apparently start, fires. You’re welcome. Thanks. Better than bombs. Better than oil. For real though – books, hospitals and bridges should be alongside me on holiday. Ask somebody.

There’s a light fog and good cloud cover so I push it to LaBelle Florida for coffee and breakfast, where’s there no sign of Patti. There is however a great coffeeshop in town, so this town gets an da instead of a duh. Oat milk latte and breakfast sandwich minus the cheese. I’ve entered the word of a dairy free lifestyle, not just for this trip but perhaps for the long haul. My gut is pleased both inside and out for this. I have no precise destination today but eyeball a couple strong possibles, destined toward Lake Okeechobee, I cross Caloosahatchee thrice more, the final time it’s a become a canal. The upcoming levee around Florida’s largest freshwater lake is a bomb ass multi use trail know as LOST. Lake Okeechobee Scenic Trail, Floriduh.

I get the text from my longtime homie Goonie. His real name is Owen, but you know – rap shit. He’s been back and forth between Arizona and work locations lately; we missed connecting last year when my long ride went through Tucson instead of Phoenix. Goonie is working a gig down in WPB and has crazy space at the lush poolside Airbnb. I’ll be in stroking distance to the Atlantic coast tomorrow and have been striking out on places to legally overnight when I get there. Do I wanna come kick it? Hell, yeah. The answer is sí! ¡Mas magico!

“Just bees and trees and flowers…”

Picture me rolling. All inspired. 16 mph. Head nodding hard AF. Playlist flourishing like flowers all around. Shoutout to Sly & The Family Stone, Hall and Oates and The Coup. Then Vibes and Stuff. Special special special special dedication. The flowers turn to farms. On one side heavy commercial truck traffic at 50. On the others, serene majestic horses and cows. Don’t have a cow man. America didn’t listen to Bart Simpson, so we have a lot of fat cows. Everywhere. Right here, under a fucking palm tree. Steaks and sugars. The horses are here too. They are gorgeous. On some, there’s still a Drumpf flag. Only spotted five flags or signs so far – much less than years rate, but still bro. Bros. Get over it. I’m not much into either side. How is that we have more gender identities than political parties? Ridiculous. And Y’all gotta get a new thing. I pass an identically branded Let’s Go Brandon flag, giggling at the propaganda. Ain’t shit funny. Theres a minimum age to be President of the United States of America, there should be a maximum age limit as well. Also, every elected official at every level of government in the nation should be held to two term tradition established for the presidency by George Washington. If it’s good enough G-Wash, it’s good enough for everybody. Except wooden teeth and slaves, fuck that.

“Feel what I feel when I feel what I feel when I’m feel in’”

Goddamn federal government. The US Army Corp of Engineers is slackin on their mackin. I’ve shouted them out before, a few hundred miles further north in Georgia. This trail is actually shut down!? I ride up to the peak and some dude in a white pickup truck who won’t even get a made up name tells me “closed in both directions” as I’m standing there watching construction vehicle doing construction vehicle shit all around me. No shit Sherlock. Ok… he gets a name… and it’s Sherlock. The federal engineers are taking longer at fixing shit, which relegates me to a stint on Highway 27 and/or winding busted up back roads. I can’t really tell if I can even get through any way but the vrooming highway I been straddling or on much of the day. Tim Maia joins me for this segment, “Nobody Can Live Forever”. You’ve likely never heard it. Listen to it if you’re still not dead yet.

I’m still peeved about this trail closing. Like 30 miles of non motorized awesome sauce along the lake down the crapper. I’m now on old highway 80 and then old highway 27. Seems better then the trucks going 90 mph on the new highway 80/27. Anytime you’re on “old highway” anything you’re on a road they’ve stopped maintaining. It’s usually busted up and broken and this one is no different as I bump along at 9 mph. It gets much worse after this massive cock and balls spray painted on the street. It is the universal signal for big pothole. Seriously. Bike nerd guerilla tactical street maintenance. A colossal erection points my direction, the biggest I’ve ever seen — 6 or 7 feet long, with enormous balls to boot.

So I know what’s coming. A big old fucking. Prison tape style. Another closure? What in tarnation. I’m getting dicked into riding that frigging Highway. Not today Nixon/Cheney/DeVos. With so many assholes named Dick, I say fuck it and ignore the barrier, blaring My Philosophy so loudly that the handlebars are rattling with bass. I’m refueling mid flight on a ClifF Bar (send me a lifetime supply why don’t ya?!) and I have to stop to make sure it’s not a mechanical issue.

3 miles up and another cyclist is coming the other way, pulled over. Day rider in Lycra. Nice bikepack setup. He looks like a Steve. I’ve got miles and miles to go so I just slow to cruising speed, reduce Boogie Down Productions to not-scary-for-old-white-man level and ask if I’m able to get through the closure, to which Steve replies “barely”. Good enough for immigrants! Gracias Esteban. I roll on, happy enough to be away from the active highway I hear droning to the north, with that damn levee path behind that and behind my reach.

So right now I’m at the section where I can see on Google maps that I have to jump up the the roaring highway for about a half mile to get over a canal and then back on the old highway. The satellite view also reveals that the half mile is nearly shoulders and the old highway appears to go to rocks and dirt and for the next few miles. Fuck. Both of those suck. I see large construction cranes on the levee. Doing whatever it is the army engineers do. I’m legit at this T in the road back to the divided highway when a grizzly motherfucker in rusted out pick up gives me a little beep. At this point I’ll take any advice to get me through the next 10 miles so I stop and turn down The Sonics. He pulls up next to me, puts it in park and turns the truck off. Damn. My man has time. He’s a few teeth short and his name is definitely Jeb or Clem. Jeb’s drawl is thick. I dive deep and drastically decipher. He tells me he’s lived here 50 years. He lays out my options. The one I was going with – get on the highway – he calls “bloody 27”. He doesn’t suggest it. The old road continues after this canal but gets really bad. He’s lukewarm about it. Most importantly, he affirms that I can go around barriers and ride the levee path. And that’s it’s gorgeous. This section is actually open or at least not under construction. I thank Jeb profusely for the magical wisdom, I’m pretty sure he tracked me down to tell me because he goes back the other way as I head up the levee path, dip dodge duck dive and dodge and I am in heaven!

This path is wonderful. I’m LOST. There’s tranquility and water and greenery and the most ballingest turtle, chilling by the side of the path. Turtles shell has gotta be 28-30” long. Beefy guy. Or gal. I didn’t check and they weren’t talking much, just soaking up the vibe in the sunshine.

Just under 80 miles on the day and I am ready to relax. I’m not gonna make it to the campground I had hoped though. I turn a bend and see and RV park down there. I explore and its closed. With gates. I find a way around and cruise the loops for a possible gatehouse host. This ain’t really my soon, many times I’ve been turned away. Despite the word “campground”, no one is sleeping outside. This is a parking lot full of RVs with bright LED lights everywhere and a roaring highway in the background. I am on the southern coast of Lake Okeechobee, in a town called South Bay Floriduh. I meet I man named Squirt. Legitimately. I’m honestly not making this one up. I introduce myself and we shake hands and he says “Squirt”. He’s got a flip phone and an Army cap. He corroborates the horrors of riding Highway 27, “well, that’d be suicide” he tells me. He’s been coming here for 30 years; the folks that run this park are very professional and I should take a spot. So I do just that. In between the rows and rows of RV’s and next to the showers and bathrooms that nobody here really uses. There’s electricity. There’s water. Wifi. This is far from anything remotely primitive. Cool with me though, I’m utterly gassed. Probably a little dehydrated with a touch of heat exhaustion. The door on the RV next to me flies open as a couple dogs and a woman come out. Her names Debbie and she tells me she’s got cases of seltzer water. Would I like one? Does the pope shit in the woods? Does a bear wear a funny hat? Yes ma’am. Ice cold. Later she brings another one. She’s doesn’t even wanna talk much. I like the cut of your jib Debbie; I am too tired to talk much either. Ramen and retire.