Hoping for a Tail Wind

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.

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.