Day 13 - 50 miles (723)

Today has been utterly surreal.

My body was thankful for the shorter day I had yesterday and I rolled smoothly for four hours without a stop or worry. I originally planned to ride seventy-eight miles, but the Universe is strange.

My first strange interaction of the day (because apparently the Universe thinks I have a quota to fill) was with a fellow tourer. He was also on tour but heading East. He crossed Florida 98, a fast moving rural highway, with zero regard to traffic or his well being. He yelled for me to stop. He "spoke" at a decibel level similar to that of a jet engine and spoke in sentences that spent the first-half re-iterating what his last sentence just conveyed to me. He began to scream-tell me that there was a woman ahead, also on tour, that I should try to catch. He was worried that by virtue of her being a woman that she was incapable of safely defending herself on a trip from Florida to Las Vegas. Immediately afterwards he told me that she had done a solo tour across China, was an accomplished tourer, and, in his words, "built well in the chest, so you should make sure she's safe."

Huh.  

I incredulously stared at the human bullhorn and wondered "this is some weird prank, right?" I understood his concern, but she was fifteen miles ahead and I had no idea what she looked like. Not to mention, she had more experience than me so I doubt I would do anything but slow her down. To be honest, I didn't know how to process the entire interaction and was trying to wash the sexual implications and latent sexism off of me by trying to focus back on my trip. The man yelled for me to have a great day and continued on his ride back from where I came, presumably an early `00s romantic-comedy. I pushed West.

I was then immediately handed a second plate of weird.  

While I was stopped at a convince store to stock up for the next few days, a gentleman was admiring my bike. I walked out and following the rules of Midwestern Politeness I nasally said "hey, how ya doing?"

Shakespeare once wrote: "All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely [actors]." I wasn't aware that me asking "hey how ya doing?" was the verbal purchase of a ticket to the weirdest performance I had seen thus far.

So the man and I began talking. He asked through the same three questions I typically receive on this trip--where'd ya start, where ya goin', and why are you doing this?--and I answered him honestly. His face lit up a bit and he told me that he really liked the idea of my trip. He insisted he show me the area and that we talk about mental health and how to understand and deal with it. He even offered me a spot to camp in his backyard, something he does frequently for hikers on the Florida Trail. Or so he claimed. I was suspicious. He seemed pleasant. He was a bit eccentric, but seemed to have a positive attitude that radiated relaxation; but, I also had no clue who this stranger was; but, I also was tired of biking for today.

I agreed to stay the night at a complete stranger's house.

Sorry mom.

What entailed was interesting.

The man is named Jim McCormick. He was a former “real estate investor” and now helped run a music school with his wife. He showed me the local area, we had some good cheap food, and he talked. Extensively. I learned more than I care to about Jim and some thing's I'm not sure I believe--or actively work to not believe. I deeply regret not recording our conversations because Jim is such a character on the stage of life that there is no way to script him. He is life's version of improv. The recordings would also prove that everything I write after this point was indeed told to me by a man named Jim McCormick. That this is not fake.

Jim's philosophy on life, well existence, is simply complex and complexly simple. From what I can gather, his basic life philosophy comes down to: 
⦁    Love everything, for we are all everything
⦁    Wake up in the morning chasing your "Supreme goal" (peace, happiness, or bliss)
⦁    Have thoughts and actions that only allow you to attain that goal.  

It's a philosophy that has cropped up from Zoroaster to Jesus to Walt Whitman. It's a fundamental base of a lot of hokey motivational memes that pop up across the Internet, but it's also a huge basis of the current mental health field: meditate, live in the now, and replace negative thoughts and actions with positive ones. Mindfulness. This is where Jim immediately veers the discussion to the odd.

Jim, however, has an extra touch of madness in his outlook; and this madness became clear as the sun began to set behind the horizon. This madness lies in his first point. I can't describe it like the eccentric, health conscious Colonel Sanders I know as Jim can, but I'll try. Essentially, everything that exists (rocks to humans to space itself) were all connected from one inter-dimensional being. This being disintegrated itself, out of sheer boredom, creating life, the universe, and everything else. The being sees it as a game to re-assemble itself and that's all any of us on this "plane of existence" are doing. To simplify this idea down, Jim calls his concept "Dream Sport." Everyone is just playing "Dream Sport" until the being we are all a part of re-assembles. A very peaceful apocalypse he assured me.

Jim told me he got the idea after reading some books about Paramahansa Yogananda. 

And after dropping seven hits of acid in a hotel room in Pensacola. He told me that the acid helped him to unlock the ability to remove his consciousness from his still-living body and transport it all across the galaxy. He claimed to see stars light-years away while also living once as a butterfly. He also claimed that he had known "enlightened individuals" who could float and turn dirt to meat before his--Jim McCormick, not the eternal being--eyes. These were things he believed, down to his "red-blooded American pumping heart."

I prodded Jim on his ideas. I would ask questions regarding religion and philosophy. I even flatly asked if his whole ideology and beliefs were built upon the basis of a crazy acid trip. I will admit fully, I was trying to trip up Jim. Trying to find some sort of weak point in his logic. However, Jim countered with a new level of ridiculous that I didn't know how to counter. Jim claimed that these were not ideas, they were facts. He had seen it himself and it's clear as day. Then Jim began to rant about how my upbringing, education, own beliefs, political ideology, and everything else was clouding my ability to see the truth. 

After his rant, he turned to me and asked what I thought about now knowing the truth.

I believe I responded with no response.

At this point Jim told me more about his life as we drove back to his home. Before real estate he slyly mentioned he did imports. "Well, specifically it was the narcotics trade." Somewhere in my head a tiny little voice called out: "Ya should've listened to your mom dingus!" I was now an unwitting passenger on a ride down the rabbit-hole of a former drug dealer's history. Jim told me about his background, how he got into the "narcotics trade," how he laundered money through his real estate, and his subsequent end to the drug game after his opponent tried to kill him but was arrested with piles of guns and money in a hotel room. And I was absolutely fascinated, but now worried.

As Jim told me his harrowing tales as Marijuana Jones, I formulated my escape plan the next morning. As I headed towards my tent, Jim followed and asked me if I would like to be his business partner.

"Excuse me?" I asked with confusion and a tinge of panic. He excitedly told me his plan. He wanted to write a book about his theory of Dream Sport and use it as a self-help book. He told me that "we'll be partners 50/50. I'll take the smiles and be a smile-millionaire. You can have the money or we can donate it or do whatever!" After telling me this he loudly proclaimed we would call the book "The Gospel of Dream Sport." He wanted to sell the book to show the truth to the masses and create a group that would want to discuss how best to begin reassembling the inter-dimensional being we all believe to. I had been asked to create a cult.

The morning can not come soon enough.

Day 12 - 53 miles (673)

Rode from Southern Comfort Campground to Rocky's Campground.

Originally planned to ride to Goose Pasture Campground--a 77 mile ride--but my body had other plans.

I woke up with legs that felt different than sore: they were lead. Difficult to move with a creaking deep in every bone from my toes to my hip. I tried to ignore it as I hopped on my bike and listed her forward to begin my roll. As an experienced touring cyclist, I figured the pain would ease as the day wore on. As I approached mile 20 I knew something was wrong; my left hip began to feel as if it was tearing. Not like pulling in the sense of tendon and meat separating and heading different ways, but just a slow tear in middle of my hip flexor that felt as if it was growing. I knew I had to cut my mileage short and try to figure out what was up or potentially risk damage. I'd rather take longer on the trip than push myself and suffer from a trip ending injury. The pain was also putting me in a stand-off type of attitude so I decided to only take a break once to minimize my interaction with people. On top of pain there the addition of headwinds as I weaved through sugar cane fields. I rolled in silent frustration battling these factors, hoping for some reprieve. When I finally had enough, I ducked into the nearest grocery store for a quick refill and a short break.  

I was pissed at the World, at my bike, at my body, at God, at anything my brain could shove in front of itself cognitively. I quickly gathered some food from my panniers and plopped myself down onto the concrete next to my bike, leaning against a grassy side to the building, knowing I needed to alleviate my hanger. As I ate, I realized I was being unnecessarily hard on myself for cutting the day short. I was becoming focused on maintaining a high daily average in miles as opposed to enjoying the trip. I breathed slowly and reminded myself that making it this far, and still going, was already an accomplishment in of itself. Failure and quitting are always options I reminded myself, savoring my granola bar. Getting up and continuing the trip was a minor victory and getting through thirty miles, let alone fifty, was a good day was a thought I forced to bounce around my head space as I finished my meal and carefully swung my lead-filled legs onto Kona.

I continued on, turning down from a main back-country highway to, what appeared like, a smaller, quieter road. After a few miles of riding a man waved me down in his large black SUV heading in the opposite direction as me, and quickly swung to my side of the road and pulled over. He called me over and warned me about the logging road ahead mentioning. Despite what I thought, the man told me the current road was not quiet at all; but, rather was occupied nearly, only by large logging trucks going entirely too fast on a road with no shoulder. Fully loaded with logs or not was irrelevant, they easily outweighed me by a factor of more than 50. He offered me directions about what road I’d pop-out on and what I could expect on this road and the next. I tried to direct him to my cell phone with Maps open, saying that it was aiding me along that way. He continued anyways with a big smile, only giving my phone a glance. It was this point that I had a bit of a mini-epiphany.

This man helped me to wrap my head around "Southern Hospitality" and why it was fundamentally different than "Midwestern Politeness." Those of us from the Midwest generally dislike the idea of imposing or inconveniencing, in any way. We have a bad tendency of apologizing for everything and giving an odd "ope" sound as we realize we are, once again, in the way. To slow someone down even for a millisecond, at least in the Midwesterner's mind, is a punishable offense. We often say "no thank you" to things that are offered because we don't want to be a bother. Southern Hospitality is different.

Southern Hospitality has a politeness to your entire existence. No one is in the way, and you are never slowing anyone down. There is time to chew the fat and enjoy the world and wax poetic on the machinations of society, the world, life. However, there is an understanding that you will  take any help offered. Saying "no thank you," doesn't register in the Southern code of politeness. There is no "no." There is "I'm offering help and you will take it." My Midwestern desire to not impose, and that special southern philanthropy mix as well as oil and water.

As I motioned again towards my phone, he continued to smile and talk. He reminded me of the logging trucks that run up and down the highway and how they are, on occasion, dangerous to deal with. The man reiterated front-to-back that I should be careful and that he would hate to read about a cyclist getting hurt in the newspaper. The man seemed genuine about his wish and I began to understand how I, as a Midwesterner, can work with Southern Hospitality. It began with understanding the man had genuine concern and wanted to give me, what he specifically, thought was the best advice in the situation. I had to graciously, and eventually earnestly, accept his wisdom despite nothing particularly new was being dispensed to me (. I listened and chatted idly with the man as I put my phone back into my pocket.

I can't hurt a phone's feelings.

Day 11 - 59 miles (620)

Not much to say today.
Today's ride was pleasant.
Florida, stay beautiful.
 

Day 10 - 79 miles (561)

Heard a car accident in the night. Sounded like someone trying to prove that their truck was the fastest and loudest in the county and was having a solo-race of decibels to prove this to their constituency of no one. I can tell only these facts: A diesel engine spluttered through the natural sounds of night. The diesel engine suddenly worked very hard to hurl itself towards a large, seemingly inanimate object. A loud crunch, with the diesel quieting down to a whisper as it realized the consequence of its actions. A male human voice murmured a series of words, presumably in English. The diesel engine began to roar again, this time running off into the night with two new metal friends, rubbing together as they ran off into the black veil of night sounds.

I fell asleep shortly after.

I woke up early after a great night of sleep, ready to tackle the day ahead. I was heading to a campsite just outside one of Florida's large cities: Gainesville. I was going to be back in an area where I could effortlessly restock on food and gear, and I had just enough food and condiments to get me through today and tonight. I got onto my bike and began looking up the directions I would need for today and was pleasantly surprised by what I saw: I'd be on smaller, side roads for half the day. The other half I would be on bike/pedestrian trails.

This, was a revelation. 

There were so few cars and obstacles in my way that I easily got into a solid rhythm. There was a little wind but it was more than welcome as the day approached a high of 85 degrees and humidity at 100%. Without the wind, I would have been an even more sweaty mess than I was; but it was an enjoyable ride. Except for one moment.

This is a moment that confirmed to me that my bike, Kona, was as much as a character on this trip as I was. A moment where it seemed as if she reacted to me under her own accord. A moment, I'll admit embarrassingly, in which she dominated me.

In the final few miles of my ride I slowed to take a snapchat of the trail ahead of me.

I had just taken and saved the above snap when I decided I should try to take a good picture of the area. I had my phone in my left hand, my left wrist resting on the handlebars, and my right hand on my brake hoods in a typical, relaxed manner (Exhibit A).

Exhibit A

I stood up on my pedals and stroked down with my left foot, causing my right foot to rise. As my left foot crested past the bottom of it’s stroke path, I shifted my weight onto my right leg, and with no left hand to offer cross-support to my pedal stroke, I stuttered awkwardly. This awkward stutter caused my right foot to slip off the pedal. My right, and left, foot were adorned in sandals. First: I am not a sandal fan. I dislike open-toed anything, for no logical reason in particular but for every illogical reason in particular. I prefer to either be barefoot or have fully covered feet. The only shoes to bridge the gap successfully, to me, are the Keen Uneeks. A horribly, ugly and wretchedly-colored shoe. I enjoy them earnestly.

I was once in a store with the shoes on and the customer service associate commented to me that they were “nice shoes.” I replied with “oh wow, really? Thanks!” The associate responded with: “Nah, they ugly as hell.”

I wore these ugly as hell shoes down to zero tread, leaving a permanent musk of feet. The shoe and I were at the end of their working life and I decided that wearing them for most of my ride through Florida was a worthwhile way to retire them. I had spent a portion of the day battling the non-existent tread of the shoes as my feet had slipped around my platform pedals on nearly every stroke. This stroke, the one where I only had one arm available while riding to the Gainesville-area, was the end of my shoes’ and I’s working relationship. As my foot slipped off the pedal and landed on the ground, the last bit of traction on my shoes held fast to the ground. Being mid-pedal stroke in an awkward position, I was bent over nearly 90 degrees, chest on my handlebars, when I slipped off my pedal and my foot glued itself to the rough asphalt beneath. I suddenly became stationary.

My bike, however, was still moving at 12 mph with a gross weight of 85 pounds. Doing the math, that is roughly 555 Jules of kinetic energy. I had zero. The front of my bike seat, as physics dictates, continued along it’s trajectory towards an unwitting human target bent into an interesting arrangement. As the bike seat moved forward on its trajectory, the right pedal made purchase with the thin piece of tendon that connected the heel bone and calf muscle, named after a famous figure of Greek mythology (a major tendon in the functioning of normal actions like walking or riding a bike). The pedal, in conjunction with the seat, forced me to into an unbalanced state and I was caught in a strange flail of limbs and bike that led to me continuously stumbling for several seconds.

Eventually I jumped away from Kona, barely clearing my body from her as she tried to fall atop of me. It was as if she was rolling with laughter at what she had just done. I was now yelling at my bike, cursing at it and calling her names with blood coming out of my ankle and my rear now hurting badly. Even as I picked Kona up—awkwardly—she seemed to want to lunge at me as her handlebars followed gravity and flopped towards me, ala Bill Watterson’s tale of a boy and his bike in Calvin & Hobbes.

I never sent the snapchat.

Day 9 - 60 miles (482)

I had a heartfelt goodbye today as I departed from Anita's. I had a time doing what her and I do best, having rambling conversations that we get lost in. We talk about everything under the sun and always leave our conversations satiated with laughter. Now, I was returning to my bike and the loneliness that that entailed.

I rode through rolling hills and quiet fields, all fenced off and demanding trespassers stay out. I never knew Florida was so beautiful in the interior.

I also had the opportunity to test out my bike's off road capabilities. 

Passed with flying colors. 

As far as my video blogging abilities go though, that's a failure.

I apologize for this very quiet video that has no real quality or substance.

Today was spent split between the urban and rural. I weaved my way on top of the sizzling stones of gravel to the hot, fast ribbon of asphalt, moving between houses, amusement parks, and areas devoid of immediate human activity. It was a day very reminiscent of riding in the middle of anywhere else in the country, solitary views of surroundings punctuated by pervasive people with fast moving cars and buzzing scooters with a incessant engine whine following you for miles and miles with chatty mouths all the while following along, inches behind your ear and rear until—and all at once—emptiness. People complain that the Untied States is far too spread out to make public transit efficient. I declare that’s not the case, but words are just hot air.

A long day of riding lead me to Ocala National Forest. In Florida, I ignorantly assumed the state consisted of beaches and Disney World. I don’t even particularly like Disney World, but such is the state of the far-reaching tentacles of the Mouse. To my pleasant surprise, the day was full of tall, thick forests rife of evergreens. While the air still had a salty, sea-like quality, hung heavy with humidity, and was full of unfamiliar fauna; I still found myself reminiscing of the familiar woods that surrounded my grandparents home in the far reaches of Up North, Michigan. I eventually made my way to a National Forest campground, proudly showing a sign that was begging for the perpetual group of ne’er-do-wells in the nearby area to vandalize.

The sign read:

BIG
BASS
CAMPGROUND

Day 8 - 0 miles (422)

I got a new phone.

Got organized.

Ready to roll out tomorow.

Day 7 - 6 by bike, 120 by car (422)

Last night, being out on my peninsula to nowhere, I didn't have a place to charge my phone. I decided to simply turn it off and get up early to charge it. There was no sense in stumbling into an alligator after dark.  I awoke this morning with this plan firmly in mind. I broke down camp, rode to a gazebo in the middle of the campsite that had a power outlet. I plugged my phone in, began eating breakfast, and quickly washed up. After a few minutes I leaned over to my phone to check my route for the day, eager to get cycling. I clicked the power button and turned it on. 

I began fiddling around with the maps, looking for a place to stop for lunch or even a quick nap when I noticed something: my phone wasn't charging. Huh. I reached over with my other hand and began my form of Cro-Magnon maintenance: jiggling and pushing on the end of the charging cord hoping to make some form of contact. with something My luck isn't that good. I couldn't charge my phone at all and I was so off my original route that my maps were useless.

I suddenly felt very lost and very alone. My phone was my map, gps, communication tool, entertainment, and main work tool. Outside of Kona, my cell phone was my most important tool for this trip. Now, it was nothing more than an expensive brick of plastic, silicone, and glass. I sat for a second, confused and lost. Some local campers walked by heading towards the showers to begin their day. I asked them what direction to the nearest phone store. They politely gave me directions and asked me about my bike and the phone. I explained my situation and they congratulated me on tackling this big trip and wished me luck as they sauntered off. I quickly pedaled off, reminded I could rely on strangers friendliness to help me get through this minor speed bump. 

I waited in a nearby park, lounging in some grass, until the phone store opened up well into the early-afternoon. Once open, I went inside and asked the lady behind the counter if I could borrow her computer and phone. I quickly explained my situation, pointed to my bloated bike, and told her I understood if she couldn't. She, fortunately, had no problem with it. I had the foresight to save my phone contacts, photos, and maps to my Google Drive. I called up my friend that lived in the area and asked for some help. As I was waiting for her to pick up and I looked up where my nearest phone carrier store was. I was, unfortunately, not in my carrier's store. The nearest store was sixty miles to my East and South, the complete opposite direction of where I was going. I began to feel as if today was going to be a wash and I'd have to improvise a plan to continue. My friend, finally picked up.

I explained the situation to her. I was hoping she had some local knowledge or a place she could point me to to set up for the night. Instead she told me to sit tight and wait for her to get off work in a few hours. She said she had no problem coming down, picking me up, and whisking me up to her place so I could get my phone situation cleared up. In this moment of frustration and isolation, she was offering a helping hand. I waited in a McDonald's for her to come pick me up, I thanked my stars for a friend so genuine as Anita.

When she arrived, I was sure to give her the biggest hug in appreciation. I loaded up my bike and we headed off in the night, back towards Kissimee. We traded stories and quickly caught back up on the time we had missed since we both began our adventures into adulthood. Those years of minimal communication melted away and it felt like we were once again two teenagers driving into the night talking about nothing somewhere in the back-roads of Michigan. Once we arrived I unloaded my bike and Anita offered up some beers. Tomorrow, my friend's roommate graciously agreed to take me into town where I could get something done about my phone. After a few beers, we headed off to sleep. I was thankful I would have a full day off from cycling.
 

*Quick note on my mileage from this point forward. When I first wrote this blog post back the day it happened (March 5, 2017) I added the car mileage in for the day, and continued with that total number going forward (no clue why). That means there are over 100 days of me referencing mileage that is technically 179 miles off. Additionally, this is the only point in the trip that I count any "mechanical miles." So, I'm going to leave the mileage as I originally wrote it and not fix it just for simplicity sake on my end.

Day 6 - 70 miles (296)

After an all-too-short visit with Kevin, I was prepared to get back on the road. Kevin gave me a huge hand by sending back some gear that I decided I no longer needed and exchanged it for some snacks I could eat on the road. I carried Kona and all my gear down his apartment steps, gave him a big huge goodbye, and set off North to Lake Okeechobee.

Today largely consisted of me riding North on US-441. As I headed up the road on my left laid an endless patchwork of protected wetlands and miles of farm land. On my right, I rode pass miles upon miles of nameless retirement villages. They all seemed to pop-up out of the endless miles of farm fields as independnet islands all isolated from one another. Fortunately I took a left turn after a few dozen miles and peeled off towards the protected wetlands. I rolled past throngs of pedestrians and mounted up onto an off-road path and continued my way North, hidden away from the road and the cars amongst nature. After an hour on this trail I returned to empty, grey ribbon of road for the final twenty-mile haul.

And what a haul it was.

As I hooked West heading straight towards Lake Okeechobee, the wind had shifted. I was no longer riding with the wind hitting me laterally along my right side, it was now at my back. And while I may be loaded-up with eighty plus pounds of gear, a twenty mile per hour tailwind is a welcomed change in luck. As I turned, my computer showed me my average speed for the first fifty miles of the day: 12 mph. Then, as the wind slammed into my back and surged me forward, my average spiked to 22 mph. I was now doing what some experts would call: “hauling ass.”

Then BAM.

I came to a wobbly halt. My rear tire had gone flat. My first one of the trip. I quickly jumped off and began the tube-repair ceremony. Fortunately I had plenty of experience changing out tubes and having a touring bike made that process only easier. However, what I failed to notice during my ride was that I was taking a gradual hook from North-facing to West-facing. A subtle shift in wind direction during the repair process had me back on Kona facing a stiff headwind.

Great.

I trudged my last handful of miles into camp, desperate for a shower and some sleep. I rolled up to the campground front office and got a tent site. The lady politely pointed me towards where I'd be sleeping for the night: a small peninsula sequestered away from all the other campers. "You'll be here darlin'. It's quiet, just mind the 'gators." She wished me a goodnight and I shakily walked out of the office, reminded that at night I was never truly alone in my tent. Despite being on a small peninsula potentially surrounded by alligators, I'm still at peace. Being on a lake of this size makes me feel like home. Between swatting annoying mosquitos and the lazy lap of boat wake on the land, I was almost convinced I was standing on Lake St. Clair during a quiet, peaceful summer sunset.
 

Day 5 - 15 miles (226)

After yesterday's short-day, I should be preparing myself for a regular, fifty plus mile day today. Instead, I'm only riding fifteen miles. Not that I'm complaining.

I'm having a bit of a minor "homecoming." Today's terminus is with my former-youth leader: Kevin. Kevin was one of the people instrumental in making this trip possible. He helped form the youth Church group that my brother would join. In my brother's first year in this group, he was invited to bike across the Canadian Rockies. He returned with a new vigor to exploring the great outdoors. He shared photos that had stunning vistas and stories of danger and doom. A trip he was over-the-moon about, and eagerly invited me along for more. So I joined the group and had the pleasure of riding across Michigan with them on three separate occasions and one trip to the Amalfi Coast of Italy. And all of these experiences had laid the experience for this six month long nightmare I was now on.

So I had to pay my respects to Kevin.

And after a lazy short-ride, I met Kevin at his apartment before he took me around Pompano Beach and Fort Lauderdale. After some dinner, a drink, and some wandering around while chatting we made our way back to Kevin's apartment. As we approached his car, we were treated with the spectacle of a married couple arguing. Directly in front of Kevin's car. So we awkwardly shambled up to Kevin's car and slunk in as the wife screamed at the man, causing him to scream back. We pulled away just as they began yelling about the possibility that their relationship might be in a bit of trouble. 

And once we returned to Kevin's, him and I spoke before parting ways for bed. I regret not planning my trip so I could take an extra day to enjoy some more time with Kevin. He has been nothing but a gracious host and an exuberant partner in conversations about everything under the sun. Unfortunately, I have to get from where I am now on the East Coast out to the West Coast in the next few months; there isn't too much time for stopping.

Regardless, I'm thankful for Kevin and his hospitality. I hope I can pay it back in-kind eventually.

Day 4 - 33 miles (211)

To wake up to a warm, soft sunrise with birds chirping overhead is an absolute pleasure. To then move your legs even an iota of an amount after cycling one hundred miles plus is an absolute nightmare. Everything below my navel was in some sort of state of sharp, sore pain. Fortunately, I had an easy day of cycling ahead of me.

And it was easy. 

After saying my goodbyes to wonderful host, I shakily got back on my bike and lazily began pedaling. And it turns out that Florida, away from the beaches and tourists, feels remarkably similar to Michigan in the Summer. A nice warm, humid day full of green trees and people wandering about. I pedaled through fancy neighborhoods and along bike paths, really enjoying the day. After only three hours of cycling, one third of yesterday's, I was at my next location: Nova Southeastern University.

There I popped in to see an old friend from my undergraduate days. I also gave a short, very small talk to her graduate school cohort and warned them of the danger's that the head can have when we're not careful.

Overall, it was a relatively unexciting day. The most exciting bit being me finally watching the cultural juggernaut that is "Frozen." 

Compared to yesterday, today was a much more enjoyable day. And tomorrow, it will be just as enjoyable.

Day 3 - 112 miles (178)

I woke up at 6 a.m. to a world that was sunny and cool. The raccoons had made their retreat at some point, fearing the water. The tide had came in, washing over the semi-dry soil that the mangrove roots had settled in. The smell of tepid sear air filled the boardwalk as another camper and I packed up our campsites. The man on the boardwalk across from me had already broken down camp and was in the final steps of preparing his kayak to head out into the ocean. He moved mechanically as he broke down his camp, everything seeming to have an order and a place in his dry bags. I talked to him as I too packed my life onto my human-powered vessel.

He was quiet and answered in tired tones. He was paddling up to twenty miles each day in the ocean. He was going to Key West, having started in Miami, and he was training to one day paddle the western coast of Australia. He told me all this in a quiet voice with mild-accent with short, concise sentences. It was clear he merely wanted to get in his kayak and begin his ride for the day.

"Goodbye and good luck!" I called out with all the energy of a Golden Retriever as he got into his kayak. "Stay safe friend." He responded as he carefully and slowly, pushed himself off into the sea like a turtle. I watched the kayak-man slowly paddle away from shore as I slowly broke down camp. After some quick clean up and stuffing of various camping gear and body parts into their appropriate covers and bags, I began my push North towards the Florida mainland in what could only be described as wicked stellar weather.

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After a few hours of rolling past sandy grass and open water, I pulled my phone out of my bag to check my ride for the day. Thanks to the beauty of human kindness and enjoyment of shared activities, WarmShowers exists. A way for touring cyclists to communicated with one another about their location and if they can offer you help on a tour or even join you. The deal being, when your tour is over you offer up what you can. I was crashing with a fellow touring cyclist at his home in North East Miami and knew I would have a longer, but manageable, day ahead of me. The pixels lit up and, little did I know that, in that moment, I would suddenly become incredibly bad at all understandings of mathematics and time. My phone blipped on, only a few electrons of power left, and I read that the day would be a total of 63 miles. I also knew, based on the Route 1 mile markers, that I had already ridden roughly 20 miles. Alright, doing great Rivard! I thought to myself. Biked 20 miles. Fortyish left. Only 10am. Feel good. Keep pedaling. I exited Islamorada functioning under an assumed reality. A reality where my phone read that my day of riding would be 60ish miles and that I had already pedaled a good chunk of the map away. I’ll be done by 3 I cheerily said to myself. However, I was in an assumed reality. A reality built on scanning things over reading them, and, choosing to rely on memory over writing things down.

But Islamorada was pretty and I felt good so who cares.

I rode past similar looking fishing towns and tourist villages, all dotted with groups of people out enjoying the sun. There was a long string of beautifully paved, smooth pedestrian pathways that zig-zagged over the keys that gave me a reprieve from having to ride on the rough asphalt roads. The reprieve of the pavement came with a trade-off.

As time passed there was more and more land. Land tend to has an effect on weather, particularly humidity and wind. The sea air slowly came to a rest as palms and other trees began to move Poseidon further and further away. With this came stagnant warm air that became bloated with the thick, stickiness of moisture. The smooth black surface of the bike trails was throwing the heat of the sun onto my face and chest while the sun beat hard on the back of my neck. I was extremely exposed, but I was living in my reality. In my reality, I felt undeterred and pushed on. I pushed on, spinning at a steady tempo and gobbling up miles at a good pace. I considered stopping and loading up on groceries but decided it would be easier once I got to Miami, considering I only had a short ride left. I made a quick pit stop on the South end of Key Largo at a market and refilled on water as I paused my day for lunch. I found a power outlet, and charged my phone as I snacked.

After a hearty break I grabbed my phone and began to open up GoogleMaps. In the infinitesimal time between my phone screen displaying my route for the day and my brain being able to process that information, lives a Schroedinger’s Box. Until that exact moment, I was existing in a reality where my phone and I were both correct. Then, as my brain registered the text on the phone screen, I opened Schroedinger’s Box and learned about the status of my trip for the day: I was nowhere near done. The cat in the box was dead.

The death of Schroedinger’s Cat ushered in a sea of negativity. The sky was set to go dark at 6:30 p.m. and it was already getting into 1 p.m. As the error in my thinking dawned on me, I realized the multitude of the REAL reality: how much further I had left to go; the dull thumping of soreness in my legs a reminder of how far I have already ridden today; a phone low on battery; not much food; not much time to shop; soreness in the saddle area; etc. I began to think about having to find a place to stealth camp in the alligator-infested Everglades or a dangerously cheap motel on the outskirts of Miami so I didn’t have to complete a 100+ miles by bike. However, I wanted to stay on track. I decided to keep moving. I quickly inhaled my meal and continued riding, determined to get to my scheduled destination.

I sped through all of Key Largo, pushing at a difficult but manageable pace. My pedestrian pathways that had ushered me this far into Florida suddenly ended and I found myself on Highway 1, crossing onto the mainland of Florida via a very large and very exposed bridge. I scanned ahead of me onto the bridge and saw that the six-foot wide shoulder I had would shortly turn into a two-foot wide one. I quickly consulted my phone, the battery now down to a percentage that was the equivalent of the US drinking age. The maps said that the only other option I had was to get off of Highway 1 and add an additional dozen plus miles to an already exhaustive ride and still cross a few bridges along the way. I decided to take my chances.

I pedaled my bike and myself up the steady incline of the bridge, cars whizzing past me at sixty miles per hour with only a foot to spare between me and the mechanical beasts. If I wasn't careful and fell over, I could get myself into massive amounts of trouble. I concentrated hard on staying as straight as possible while battling the increasing wind speeds that were hitting my right side. It felt as if nature was actively trying to push me into traffic. To anyone in their car, they saw a man with a lot of bags on his bike heading up the overpass. I'm sure I didn't even register a second glance to most motorists. Meanwhile, on the bike, I was white knuckling the handlebars and focusing on breathing and staying as straight as possible. 

I crested over the overpass and felt the gentle pull of gravity begin to take over. I began to relax, until I began to worry. I was still not quite used to my bike with all the weight on it. I was a clumsy mess that found it difficult to maintain a straight line; and given the flatness of both Michigan and Florida, I had never gone faster than twenty miles per hour. As I quickly surpassed that speed I found myself constantly over-correcting as my camping gear's weight shifted inside of my panniers. I was moving in a small zig-zag pattern within the tight confines of the shoulder while also veering around large drainage grates. Grates that consistently popped up on my descent, eating up half of my allotted three feet and offering the potential to bend my front wheel into a taco shell shape. Fortunately, as my speed increased I found I was beginning to stabilize and could easily maintain my center of balance. My zig-zags turned into soft, rolling lulls. When I hit thirty, I was riding straight-and-true with a large grin on my face.

The overpass softly let me down onto the mainland of Florida right inside of the Everglades. I was maintaining my speed well and had a clear stretch of road ahead. I reached into my jersey pocket and pulled out my phone to see how much farther I had to go until I got to a place where I could hide in the shade and grab some more food. I was still without a substantial food supply and I had already drank all the water on me. I was praying for a gas station or restaurant to refuel at and that it would be a few miles away. I was guessing I maybe had six to ten miles until I could get food and water.

Nope. Twenty-six miles across a long stretch of highway that had no shade, no wind, and was infested with apex predators.

From Key Largo to Florida City there is nothing but swamp, road, and beasts.

Me neglecting to buy food or spare water, at this time, was an insignificant issue. I had drank enough water and had enough calories in me to traverse twenty-six miles fine. It would suck, but it would be fine. However, if I didn't correct this behavior now, then it would be a major issue. To go without food or water, even for a short distance, was guaranteed dehydration and death in the desert. So I rolled on, taking note of my unpreparedness and that I needed to absolutely stop and get food.

I rolled into the first gas station, twenty-six miles later, now understanding the depth of my trip. My muscles hurt down to the bone, my tongue felt like sandpaper, and I had a headache like my brain was trying desperately to drill out of its bone prison through my forehead. The sun had absolutely pummeled me leaving me drained and the long, straight, boring stretch of road left me mentally numb. I was hungry, desperately needed to get into some shade, and needed some electrolytes and salt. I was running on fumes. I parked my bike and slowly shambled into the gas station. My muscles were so sore that as I moved it felt as if my bones were creaking deep to their core. I picked up ramen, potato chips, two large liter bottles of water, bread, peanut butter, an apple, a banana, and a few cans of tuna. I dumped the food onto the counter as I ripped open the bag of potato chips, apologizing for the eagerness to eat. Salt, potassium, and water were necessary first so it would stop feeling like my leg muscles were trying to peel off my femur as I pedaled. I left the store and sat on the cement in front of the building tearing into the food as if I had gone feral. After a short twenty-minute break and some stretching, I pushed towards Miami.

After a flat tire, some strange, yet friendly, interactions with some locals, and a short-spat with GoogleMaps, I rolled into my location for the night. I had pre-arranged to stay the night at a fellow cyclist's house. He usually let cyclists sleep on his couch or sleep in his yard if they wanted. He himself had done a trip from Florida to Denver. He completed it while attaining a unique goal: he wanted to generate only a volley-ball sized bag of trash. I asked him the mechanics of the trip and he dispensed some valuable wisdom to me: the little things matter more than the big. I nodded my head, knowing this fact would expose itself sooner or later to me on this trip.

After a beer, a delicious meal, and swapping stories I headed into my tent. I looked at my phone, curious as to how far I rode today. I had been too focused on other problems throughout the day to properly add up my mileage. I knew it wasn't my average goal of sixty miles, but I really wasn't sure how many miles I rode. I hoped it was more than sixty given my exhausted legs, hands, shoulders, and neck. In the end though I went to bed satisfied and shocked after discovering I rode 112 miles today.

Day 2 - 51 miles (66)

A good night's rest.

A big, healthy breakfast.

A smooth morning routine.

This is all it takes to wake up on the good side of the bed. And to do all this requires a bit of work from the night before; however, if I choose to do no work I find myself on the wrong side of the bed. Those behaviors are:

Staying up late.

A calorie-defiicent breakfast.

Being completely unprepared.

I cemented these two opposing sides into my head as a matter of principle. The good side and the bad side were going to make or break my mileage on this trip. This was only a minor issue on previous bicycle trips where I totaled ~300 miles. On one as long and intense as this, it would magnify the results several times over the course of the ensuing months. As I laid down after my long day of traveling and rebuilding my bike, I had already completed two of three criteria for a good morning. So when I packed in some bagels, cream cheese, bananas, and trail mix at 6:30am on my second day, I knew I was going to have a good day.

And it sure did deliver.

The water is so clear and the weather so beautiful that they were filming it. I’m not exactly sure as to what they were filming, but there was a car with a camera rig attached to the top of it filming another car on a closed road. It was making for an interesting day.

Even my lunch was an interesting. I was trying to juggle my brain's processing power on how the hell to work a P38 can opener. The can opener is a standard piece of equipment for lots of hikers, campers, and the military. I was an idiot-civilian travelling solo across the country, so I may as well have been a chimp trying to start fire with a random river rock. I ended up stabbing the can with the thing until I had a hole big enough to slurp tuna and tuna juice from. It was at this point that I received a phone call with my car insurance company:

"Good news Joshua, you're turning 25 in a few months so we wanted to inform you that your insurance rates will be dropping. Hooray, isn’t that fun?!" This stranger and I had a very different idea of fun.

"Fantastic! Unfortunately, I'm canceling my insurance for six months."

The air of excitement left her voice as if I had told her I was dying. She seemed genuinely concerned to my existence to where I wouldn’t be needing a car. Once I explained the situation was temporary and really needed to get back to eating lunch so I could continue on did the tone finally change. My insurance dealer moved from genuine concern over me not driving a 2.5 ton piece of steel to jovial relief. I never confirmed I would continue to do business with her but she acted as if it was already a done deal. I told her I would call her at the terminus of my trip and coordinate “something” before I politely hung up and continued my lunch. As I ate my tuna, bread and peanut butter balls, and a bag of Ramen I realized I had cut the final rope that connected me to my car. I wasn’t complaining. After lunch I got back on my bicycle and continued my ride towards the Pacific Ocean.

I pushed East heading straight towards the sun when a headwind began to develop. The wind was slightly cooler than the air and felt nice, but as it picked up speed I began to struggle. As I rode through the wind my bike began to feel heavier and heavier. I kept downshifting and downshifting to a more comfortable gear but I was quickly running out of room on my cassette. I was very steadily heading up hill. While this “hill” was nothing more than a smooth incline, it still caught me by surprise. As I crested over the hill, I saw that the wind and incline was only going to get worse.

Photo Courtesy of Marinas.com

Seven Mile Bridge.

It was something my father, motorists, fellow cyclists, and many others warned me about. It had its own mythos of awe that complimented its size. It appeared in the distance with a single, massive hump that felt like it was the source of the headwind. I could make out shining windshields and blobs of colored steel heaving themselves over the sharp incline. I would have to heave myself over that hump as well, but I didn’t have a motor.

As I pedaled towards the expansive beast ahead, I saw two very small and thin blobs of color moving towards me, tight to the wall on the Key West-bound side of the road. As I got closer I saw that they were fellow cyclists, their bikes also loaded up for an adventure. In this moment I panicked. I was so focused on my first incline of the trip---like a toddler's first flailing step---I had forgotten about cycling etiquette. Do I wave or nod my head? Should I say "hi" or be quiet? Does my outfit look dumb? Do I look dumb? A sudden deluge of concerns crossed with a pang of Impostor Syndrome had flooded my mind.

I managed a sheepish wave that was either unseen or ignored.

After that failure of social interaction, I crossed onto the bridge proper and began riding over open water. While the scene was nothing short of gorgeous, the wind had picked up and was making the ride difficult. The cars, only a few inches off my elbow, were considerate, but traffic was only picking up as I got closer to the large hump. As I began my ride up the solitary hill, I reflected on all the research I had done about bicycle touring and going uphill. The advice given on managing breathing, the arguments made in the great "standing up vs in the saddle" debate, and the past experience I had on previous trips suddenly left me. I felt like I had forgotten how to shift. The bad day I had tried to avoid through careful preparation was now here.

I was running low on fuel.

The headwind was only getting stronger.

Cars were buzzing by, inches from my bike.

In a moment of existential clarity, I realized how dangerous this trip was.

Cars were very big and heavy. I was very small and light. The only thing separating me and these large beasts was a white line, about six feet of air, and a lot of trust in human's ability to control that vehicle. It wouldn't take more than a few degrees to the right on their steering wheel to end my existence. Not to mention I was trapped on a thin long road over open water with guard rails only a few feet high. With these thoughts my heart sunk into its anxiety-chamber somewhere in my gut. A gut that was also loudly demanding food and was threatening purging what was inside of it if it’s demands weren’t quickly met. Fortunately I was nearing the crest of the hill and heading towards a nice downhill where I could get some rest.

That didn't happen.

Once over the hill the wind had gotten considerably stronger. With the surface area to weight ratio I had while on Kona, I found myself coasting downhill at a blistering five miles per hour. Instead of a relaxing coast, I was now working to bike downhill. Then, as if someone wanted my obituary to say "Josh got off his bike when shouldn't have" my left calf collapsed into a cramp.

A bad one.

I got off my bike at the bottom of the hill and did my best to stretch my calf out without ending up as a hood ornament. After a few quick stretches and the final couple of miles off of Seven Mile Bridge, I stopped in at a local FAST FOOD™ joint and tried to refuel my body and mind. At this point I have to admit that I got lazy. I sat in the store for an hour and a half, just watching the world go by, enjoying sitting somewhere that wasn’t Kona. The sun, battling wind, and trying to move 250 pounds of man and bicycle uphill will take a fair amount of energy out of a person. I needed this time to recharge. However, this had consequences.

It pushed my arrival time at my campsite to just before dark. The time I spent in a fast food restaurant was time I could have spent looking for a grocery store to buy a proper amount of food. Even with a pit stop at a gas station to grab another night's worth of supplies, I still didn't have a solid reservoir of food on my bike. Meaning I would be slowed down by constant stops again tomorrow. Being under-prepared was killing me on the minutes and those minutes would quickly turn into slowed miles and then those become missing days. I want to stay on target, so I absolutely have to fill up on food tomorrow. I recognized this chain of thinking as I finished up my meal and re-mounted Kona, eyes pointed North.

After a final, grease-laden, gut-churning sprint to camp, I was now in the woods on a small strip of land in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean called “Long Key State Park.” The sun was setting quietly over the trees across the street and the rhythm of life was winding down for supper then sleep. It was also the time right when the ranger station at the park I would be staying at closes. Fortunately, I have impeccable timing and I slid in under the wire and snagged a primitive campsite. I asked the ranger if there was any place I could charge my phone and he shook his head. "Primitive's primitive man." To anyone reading this, it appears as if “well, duh. Primitive IS Primitive dingus.” This is true. Additionally, it made me take a step back and realize how I would have to adjust on this trip. I was presently camping in a state park not far from homes full of fresh water and electricity and a secure structure. However, I may as well have been in the middle of nowhere. While I had known there would be times I would be without my cell phone or cell service, access to clean water, or many other pieces of modern life, I didn't realize the depth of this situation. Now, with nearly no phone battery, and no way of knowing where I was even going tomorrow I was understanding this problem. I walked all around the park looking for a stray outlet outside of a building and found nothing. Fortunately, there is also a positive side.

The night sky was beautiful. The water lapped quietly against the mangroves as the shiny, black water merged with the blackness of the sky. It was a new moon and the world was as dark one could hope for, except for the sky. A tapestry of stars had filled the sky. They shined more brilliant than I had ever seen. I stood on the beach, staring out to the ocean in awe and reverent silence. The Universe was giving Earth a show, and I had a front row seat. I sat outside staring at the stars and pondering the big questions and how my trip would handle these big questions and how I would produce content and how I would come home a different person and how…and how…and how…. After a few thoughts of trying to race to the next “step” in my quickly approaching future, I decided to let my brain have its rest as I watched the ocean and the stars without a thought between my ears.

As I headed back to my tent, flashlight in hand, I saw two raccoons eyes flash by, staring at me from the thick weaving of mangrove roots. I ignored them and headed into my tent where I made an important discovery. I had left an empty tuna can in my tent from dinner and the raccoons were drawing near. I threw the can of tuna away but knew that the smell was going to be lingering in my tent for the rest of the night. I yelled and gestured wildly to the raccoons, telling them to head off, hoping they'd head to another campsite. The shine of their eyes turned and darkened. I lied down and sat in silence for several moments. The primitive campsites I had camped on was a boardwalk that served to keep us above water, even if the tide or a storm came through. Through the silence of the night, I heard the wood being lightly scratched by paws, slowly inching their way towards me. I popped my head up to see the raccoons coming to investigate my tent zipper with more of them coming out of the mangroves.

In a bit of a panic, I kicked my tent where the raccoon was on the other side. The raccoon panicked, the other raccoons panicked, I panicked, and a lot of swearing and raccoon chattering began to fill the night air.

The sea quietly lapped in the distance as the Universe continued its show.

Day 1 - 15 miles (15)

It's early.

It's cold.

It's rainy.

I'm a little hungover, and I'm functioning on minimal sleep. It’s 4 a.m. and my father is driving me to the airport.

"Nervous at all bud?" My father asks. Optimistic concern in his voice.

"Nope." I replied, still wiping sleep from my eyes.

When I said “nope” I don't think my dad believed me. I don't blame him. To him, my family, and friends, I was about to embark on an insane trip that they learned existed only a few months prior. When I would tell someone of this trip, an assault of questions began. At first they were all scatter-shot questions ranging from the simple to the personal: "What about bathing?", "What if you get hit by a car?", "What if you get diarrhea in the middle of nowhere?" It was unmitigated curiosity, something I thoroughly enjoyed. As the departure date got closer the questions became more general rather than any specific facet of the trip.

At my going away party, just a day away from starting my trip, everyone asked the same thing as my father; and I had the same, honest response. In my head, the trip was this big, nebulous of an idea. It didn't have texture or a taste or a smell or a color. It wasn't a real thing. If anything, it was simply non-existent. It was the blank pages of a book I knew I was just starting to write. It was the first time I had experienced a lack of anxiety in a very long time. If anything, the only thing I felt about this trip was peace. I was prepared and was now merely awaiting for what the World would throw at me, confident in my research and practice.

We pulled into the parking garage and began the final haul to the check-in counter. I had carefully prepped the bike box for this section of my trip. I had triple-checked the weight to keep it under 100 pounds, memorized the check-in procedure for over-sized luggage, and even reinforced the handles on the box thanks to the advice of other cycle-tourers. We pulled the box out of the car and began our awkward-short-step-shuffle to the check-in counters. Immediately, the handles ripped. 

Careful preparation didn't even make it fifty yards.

So we readjusted our grabbing positions to something more awkward and continued our move. Along the way people glanced over at us to inspect what the hell was going on. I often wondered if they were thinking: "what's in the box?" or "why don't those two idiots just get a cart?" I hoped for the former but it's probably the latter.

Fortunately, the actual check-in process went extremely smoothly. Kona was placed on the scale, coming in at a trim eighty-nine pounds and then shipped away into the meat grinder that is airport luggage processing. I then moved over into security and said my final goodbye to my dad, who patiently watched as I waded through security and throngs of other travelers to my plane. In my hands I had one pannier filled with a notebook and pencil, some snacks, a bandanna, my ID and credit cards, and a sweater. I reached my gate with no drama and sat down and closed my eyes begging for a nap. My role in this part of the trip was over. Everything was now in the hands of the Airplane Gods, and hopefully not in the Airplane! Gods'.

For the most part the flying went smoothly. We landed in humid Fort Lauderdale just before ten a.m. and I had thirty minutes to catch my next flight to Key West. I awkward-jogged across the entire airport, even having to run outside through the parking lots to get to the opposing terminal. I got to my gate with time to spare just to see the plane rolling up to the terminal. Then, I'm not sure what happened but all I know is this: 

Passengers got off.

They called us up for boarding.

We lined up.

The plane left.

We continued to stand in line confused for 10 minutes.

The microphone clicked on and it magnified the tail end of a conversation before someone stammered into it. "--riously? Wow. Uhm--I'm...sorry passengers but there has been...uh--?...a change of planes. Please be seated and we will notify you when we will begin the boarding process." We all looked at one another with slightly nervous smiles before returning to our own little worlds to pass the time. I busied myself with a nap and watching YouTube videos of reassembling bikes to prepare for the work to do in Key West Airport.

Two hours later we finally finished the boarding process and flew to Key West. 

And it was a beautiful flight.

It was a short one though. After only forty-five minutes of cruising along the Florida coast the familiar ding of the seatbelt sign came on and the flight attendants began buckling themselves up.

The intercom clicked on and the pilot informed us that we would be landing shortly. I began running the steps needed to get out of the airport ASAP through my head. On paper, it was fairly simple: Assemble Kona; bike to the nearest gas station or grocery store and load up on calories; get to a campsite. The two hour delay seemed like a minor inconvenience but began to grow into a larger problem. I was originally supposed to land in Key West at 1pm. Assembling Kona would take roughly an hour and my campsite was fifty-some-odd miles away, about a six hour ride. The sun sets at 7pm. Landing at 1pm makes this itinerary possible; landing at 3pm does not. I could bike at night. I could also get hit by a car. So, as soon as Kona was assembled I would bike to the first gas station and search on my phone for a new campsite while refueling. It seemed like a slam dunk plan.

Instead, I ran into the problems that life always throws. Our plane landed safely and everyone got their luggage quickly. Given that the walk across the tarmac from the plane and into the hole the luggage handlers were throwing our luggage was only thirty yards away, getting your luggage in only a few minutes makes sense. However, bicycle boxes are apparently sent somewhere else for an hour. No other plane landed so I assume Kona was being investigated. It was was now just shy of 4 p.m. and I was beginning to really sweat from the anxiousness of needing to get my bike assembled and hit the road.

Twenty minutes after four, my bike box finally jammed its way through the luggage hole. I ran over, grabbed the box, and returned to the only area in Key West airport that I had any room: the front entrance. I tore the box open and immediately unpacked everything I could. I now realized that my meticulous packing operation had a major flaw: It made sense for space saving, but it was just chaos for assembly order. My assembly process was: getting my tools (top of the box); then put my disc rotors (bottom of the box) onto my wheels (jammed awkwardly into the sides); next I had to put on my handlebars with the cap (shoved into a box inside of a pannier, somewhere); the wheels could go on with their axle skewers (attached on the drop tube); and finally the seat could be assembled (upside down and wedged between my front fork). Keep in mind that as I am digging for these parts, I am also sifting through pounds of camping equipment and clothing. The airport quickly turned into a mess as I tried to unload and organize my life for the next six months. After an hour of working on my bike a security guard told me that I couldn't assemble my bike here. I looked at him, my hands covered in chain grease and holding a tire, and said:

"...uh..."

"I'll give you an hour. Can you get it all packed up and out of here by then?"

"Absolutely."

And what began as a precise, calm bicycle assembly immediately exploded in an anxiety ridden dash. I became a sweaty mess as I began to just throw parts at my bike and slapped gear onto a half-assembled bike. Despite the security guard being completely reasonable and very calm, I worried I was going to be thrown out of the airport. Eventually my contraption I called bike could be half-pushed/half-carried to a park rife with homeless people and did a proper, final assembly. I wiped the grease away from my hands and finally mounted Kona.

It was now 5:30 pm. 

I spun through resort village after resort village as the sun slid towards the sea. People were out enjoying their days while I sprinted to the nearest gas station. I had barely eaten all day and I absolutely needed to get any calories into me. I hurriedly bought some bananas, cans of tuna, bread, and a Gatorade from a shop no larger than a thimble. The sun was now lighting up the Ocean sky in pink and orange hues behind me to the West. I shoved a piece of bread in my mouth and began riding East into the darkness.

After what felt like a few hours of cycling, I took stock of my situation: There were no parks near me for camping, I wasn't comfortable sleeping in a random nook of trees or a parcel of random public beach due to how small the keys are. It was also the day of a New Moon and to say it was dark would be to depreciate the utter lack of light there was around me. My headlamp and tail-light were the only sources of photons and they were eagerly eaten up by the darkness. I couldn’t see anything outside of the small beam of security that my lights offered. I decided that the next available location to sleep, whether that be a gross motel or a hostel or an open dog house, would be my stop for the night. After a few miles of riding I saw lights struggling to glimmer in the distance. I rolled towards them.

I dismounted my bike at a small motel just West of Sugarloaf Key. There I met a man named Kofey. He was short with me and was taking his sweet time slowly typing information into the computer. I handed over my Michigan ID and he commented that his son had attended some small college out in Michigan. "It was like...Saginaw State or somethin'.” The words were falling out of his mouth, colored in a New York accent.

I perked up. "No way. Saginaw Valley State University?"

"Yeah, that one!" As a large smile began to grow on his face.

I grinned as I told him I attended Saginaw Valley. He told me of his son's short tenure there as a football player in the late 90’s. Our conversation then meandered into random directions. I told him of my trip, and life in Michigan and Colorado.He told me of his life in New York and how he came to live in the Keys and own the hotel. At 11 p.m., I finally got the room keys and wheeled Kona to my room.

After nearly nineteen hours of traveling, I can finally collapse onto a bed. It may not be a tent in the wilds like I wanted, but I'll still take it.