Damon the packed the 99 miles into Jacksonville yesterday. Then someone stole his bike and all his shit, including his passport. Fuck whoever did that in their ass with an 18 wheeler.
It was an 80’s red Peugeot bike. Front and back rack. Fenders. Straight bars. you know anyone in Jacksonville Florida or any social networks for stolen bikes in Jax, please share this information.
Morning coffee from an airstream with cousin Tony. Dr G as the student at UCF apparently call him. He’s a professional media megaman. He’s studying and writing about the political implications of the Purge movies. I’ve only seen the one film shot in Buffalo and made to look like Staten Island. Wu-Tang is on your brain. The airstream is next to a waffle spot, and he quotes one of the characters of one of the Purges I may or may not have seen part of: “All I can think about is Waffles and pussy.”
Not a bad combo I suppose. We hug it out and I hit the non motorized path out of Gainesville and have a lot more to think about for a majority of the day. Vehicle free. Fuck yes motherfucker.
I think I can smell the Atlantic at this point. Or maybe that’s my stanky shirt. Thinking about how I wanna end this amazing ride. Or if I ever want to. I feel like I could ride forever. Butt. I do have a few more days off work, I could turn left and head north as far as I can get. Butt. I have a shit ton of a lot on my plate the moment I am home either way, so taking the train might be the best option. Maybe ride another 1500-2000 mile ride later this year? I think. And think. And think.
I think about the other bicyclists I pass. I usually just smile or nod or wave. Sometimes i ring the bell. Bicyclists so often clash or mock each other, even thought we’re all in on the amazing secret of how great riding feels in so many levels. I think about acceptance and tolerance of people and situations and such. I’m at the point where any other approach just feels like too much work to me, even compared to these 80-90 mile days. I try to keep a right mind about simply accepting whatever comes my way, rather than putting a value on it or dismissing it. Some times this is people; we all should learn how to explode our empathy and tolerate and accept and celebrate differences. In fact. I would argue that disagreement is very American. It’s kinda sorta part of Democracy. Some times this is more of occurrences and events. Shit will go wrong at some point. The going will get tough. Let’s accept it as it comes and direct the change rather than continue to go through the change. All of this includes me accepting today’s nearly 90 mile day. I quiet my mind and pedal harder.
Later in the day I am greeted in the route by Rob and his dog Blanca. Rob is riding the southern tier east to west in segments. Today is their first day out and they’re going to Biloxi on this segment. There. See how easy it is to use there, their and they’re correctly? This makes the list: Nick, Jim, Chelsea w/ Taj, Justin and Rob w/ Blanca all on the cross country route. Not nearly as many as I met ten years ago on the Northern Tier, but exciting nonetheless.
I win a game of chicken with a butterfly. Then I lose against another. You win some you lose some is what the boomers say. This day worth of rail trail feels like the C&O and GAP Trail from DC to Pittsburgh. I pass streets with names like Carter Crabtree and Cracker Swamp. Rest stops. Quiet times in small towns. Snacking on an apple make the world go round. What’s the over/under on how many minutes until the core becomes a squirrel’s feast?
After many many miles I make it to St Augustine. In my mind it’s streets are paved in gold. I’ve been anticipating arrival into the oldest city in the USA. What happens in reality is that I take a break by the water and witness two bums fight. That was quite the change up, but entertaining as fuck nonetheless. I realize that it’s me and all the other bums watching. And that in the eyes of all the tourists, I am undistinguishable amongst them.
With nowhere to legally camp and a desire to not completely fall into bum life by tenting with them, I grab another motel, shower up and head down the street to the Blackfly. It turns out to be an amazing seafood restaurant and a conversation with a local provides proof that is is in fact one of the two best places in town. I sit at the bar and annihilate three plates of food. Shrimp. Scallops. Mexican street corn. Mmmm.
Time travel back to when Damon and I first met working together promoting concerts in the early to mid aughts. Eventually we also become friends and he moves into the house above my office and studio. As a full blooded entrepreneur, he uses the office for his business as well, which furthers both our friendship and our business relationship. Damon eventually moves down to NYC. When he gets married, he asks me to be Best Man. This guy has a five year old passport with no stamps so I accept under the condition we have a four day bachelor party in Amsterdam. I show up to Damon and Rianna’s wedding reception in a costume lion onesie and sneak the kids drinks. Since then, we keep up via traveling once a year: hanging three days in Juneau Alaska one year and three days in Medellin the next. Last year we pandemic-ally flip the script. I find him a brick solid 80s Peugeot, it’s the right size for his 6’2” frame, and he tries this here bike touring thing for two weeks with me and tow other friends. He likes it. And here we are. All caught up.
Damon is not feeling as good as I am this morning. I think his body is breaking down after all almost three thousand miles. The heat is definitely getting to him. He’s ready to be done. He’s opting out of the tour prematurely, riding directly to Jacksonville to hop on a plane back to Denver. Due east. I’m headed south east toward Gainesville and then to what I hear are some nice bike trails into St Augustine. I’m not surprised though. He has been telegraphing it the last couple of days in different ways. We are the same yet we are very different. I’m happy that he got this far and proud that he’s ready to go out and do a day on his own too. We enjoy one last campground coffee and he heads off. I take a second shit and eat a banana before chatting with a few other campers.
One camper camper can only talk about all the bugs. Can’t run from em all she says. I’m joking with her how I brought my bicycle just so I can escape the mosquitos. She should try it. Every camper wants to know how far or how long. I’m no longer amused by this. I show them my beard. “I was clean shaven. So that many days”. “That many miles”. I do answer the ride-day-average question though — by guesstimating.
We now return to our regular programming of dogs barking at and chasing after. It’s on like season 10 of it I think. Doesn’t bother me much, but gets me thinking about my recently departed and the universally dearly beloved pork bellied pig bull Banh Mi. Almost 4 months ago to the day. By “thinking about” I mean reliving our short 18 months together and crying about how she truly deserved more time. She was the sweetest dog and got the best send off a group of humans could imagine her. The pain is still in my heart. Her absence is prominent in my life, even out here while I’m absent from my life. A part of me will never recover honestly. I take solace that both her and my 16 year pup partner in crime, Isis, have both been with me every mile and moment, a small part of them riding shotgun on my front handlebars.
With Damon Jacksonville-bound, I pound the ground round Gainesville. It’s about 90 miles up. Rolling solo reminds me of 2019, the last time I was out by myself. I am super glad to ride with Damon for 44 days, and the tour last year with him, Chad and Daniel was fun. However. Or should I say. Butt. Rolling solo on tour is definitely a vibe I enjoy. It’s my original steez. The comparisons are really futile. I do like the time to think. Less time talking. Time to be still. Time to write. Space within space within space.
I stop at a small state park for rest. I find a portable toilet. Not as bad as my last but the mirror really let’s me know I need to clean up my appearance as soon as I get home.
After almost 90 miles in the heat I am in downtown Gainesville. I check into the local Patel motel and head out on foot. Within a quarter of a mile I find a store and grab a refreshing beverage. I turn another corner and it is outdoor food trucks galore. Parking garage murals galore too.
My cousin is driving up to visit from Orlando. He is the oldest grandchild and I am the youngest grandchild; his name is Anthony as well, because no one on my dad (also named Anthony)’s side of the family could get creative. I think at one point there were six or seven of us. Yeah. There were different variants. He was Tony G. I was simply Anth. It didn’t really matter much to me because I didn’t wanna talk to anyone.
Anyway, he makes it into town and we proceed to hit the food truck rodeo. I put on quite the show of devouring four or five different things. I am hungry. Hungry. Hippo. We haven’t seen each other in years and so we hang and catch up for quite a bit. He’s had a lot going on lately so this little two hour away getaway is good. I get to hear a bit about my grandparents, whom passed away years ago when I was young. My cousin is older so it’s nice to hear stories about them from when I was too young to remember. I often think of my grandparents, and how as an adult I’d love to sit and listen to their perspective and their wisdom. Unfortunately none are still alive, and I didn’t value elder wisdom much as a kid. My older cousin’s stories of his time with our grandparents are a nice insight, though.
We retire to the motel and I’m pretty sure I dose off mid-conversation. Tomorrow I hit the bike trails and hopefully the oldest city in the USA!
Hoping for a Tail Wind 