Day 34 - 79 miles (1,817)

Last night was a calm and peaceful sleep. The trees above formed a protective canopy as a warm, lazy breeze rustled the leaves in a soft melody. And getting up this morning to the sunshine and birds was reinvigorating. And so I quickly broke down camp, got on Kona, and took off. I passed through the small town of Sealey, Texas before I found myself riding on a frontage road adjacent to the expressway in the middle of nothing. It was a pleasant sort of nothing, but it was still nothing. Mostly farm land scattered with squat trees and the occasional cottonwood forest. 

I stopped at a gas station to reload on food and water. I was taking my time eating a snack when I spotted a cyclist in the distance, heading the same direction I was. I sat for a minute, trying to see what kind of cycling they were doing. There was plenty of dirt roads and hills for some mountain biking as well. As they approached I saw that she had panniers and was on a touring bike as well. She was probably heading where I was heading, following the Southern Tier Route. I got back on Kona and made a friendly wave and approach.

The woman was named Michelle. And I was right, she was biking the same direction I was going. She had started in New Orleans and was going to Seattle. She told me that she had lived in New Orleans for a few years and was now tired of it. And she left New Orleans in the same fashion she arrived: sold her stuff, got on her bike, and struck out for her next home. She mentioned that she wanted the quiet mountains of Washington as the partying of New Orleans had started to become too much. She asked me what I was doing. I'll admit, I was jealous of her dramatic and bold move. I meekly told her I was just on a long ride and was going home eventually. She mentioned she was jealous as she wish she could just a find a home. I mentioned how the grass is greener. We both agreed life was weird.

Michelle and I rode together for a few miles and I learned a lot from her. She was traveling at a slower, more relaxed pace than I was. She had less gear than me--granted she was doing far less camping--but felt no need to go faster than ten miles per hour. In fact, the concept of quantifying her own speed was rejected. "I don't like to know how fast I'm going. It turns into math. I don't like math." That's heavy stuff. And in that moment I realized the value of taking it easy on occasion and just enjoying the ride. My next lesson came when a pack of dogs charged at us.

Michelle taught me the value of remaining calm. As the dogs sprinted towards her, she merely pointed her finger back towards their home and sternly said "no!" Meanwhile, I had become a ball of tension entering into fight or flight mode. Michelle told me to relax and that most of the time the dogs just want to play and only look menacing. Most of the time. Being stern and maintaining control was an easier way to control the dogs than hitting them with your heel. I wanted to disagree, but I knew that was my brain still on adrenaline and I wasn't thinking right. And as we pedaled away from the dogs, I noticed that they were no longer even barking at us, they had returned to playing with one another. She was right.

Eventually I peeled off from Michelle. She was bound for Austin and was covering another twenty or so miles. I pulled off on the rural highway and waved to her as she waved back, heading into the distance alone. I said goodbye to my new cycling friend and said I'd maybe see her in Seattle. "Keep the rubber down!" she called out as she continued her ride into the horizon.

Hope you made it to Seattle Michelle.

I rolled into Buescher State Park and was once again pleased with the beauty of East Texas. The hills and forest of the state park made for an entertaining ride in and offered some gorgeous views. I happily setup camp on a small plot of dirt and grass and made a fire. I carefully planned the fire in an experimental way to maximize cooking coals. And after some minor success in getting the coals, I cooked up some toast, smoked some canned tuna, lightly toasted some crackers, made a big batch of rice and beans, and even managed to cook up some deli ham. It tasted like a gourmet meal.

I made some dinner and checked the weather while I had some service for my phone. The last few times I checked it looked like a 50% chance of storms through the night and into the morning; now, the percentages were at 80%. There was going to be some rough storms rolling in in the next few hours. I would have a small break the next morning to get as many miles in as I can before my parents' plane landed. They would then come find me and whisk me away in a weird motorized, four wheel bike. That would kick off the start to a shared vacation with my parents. But first, I was going to have to survive the thunderstorm that was quickly rolling in. I double checked the tie-downs of my tent and prepared for a storm. I'd have to worry about tomorrow's storms tomorrow.

And as night fell, a storm menacingly approached. Lightning slithered through the sky as thunder echoed off the hills and trees, threatening the entire region with sound and fury. The wind was doing its best trying to rip my tent off the ground as it relentlessly beat against the walls. The rain beat hard at the ground and the tent's rain fly, trying to force its way through. And through it all, the tiny, one person tent held fast. I was dry as a bone and felt safe. Once again, I slept peacefully that night.

Day 33 - 62 miles (1,738)

After a few lazy, food and booze filled days with Dave, I was feeling slow. Waking up was a more arduous process than it should have been. Packing my bike was a disorganized nightmare. Even getting my bike out Dave's apartment was a clunky, awkward process. Kona felt like an extension of me any other day; today, we were a couple in one long, passive aggresive argument. And the world was just as difficult.

The flooding that occurred in Houston not long before I arrived was still causing problems all over the city. Roads and utilities were being worked on everywhere. The pedestrian and bike paths weren't fairing any better. I was forced to slowly wind my way through Houston until I eventually emerged to the suburbs in the Northeast. And from there, the bike paths were plentiful and empty. After a quick stop at a grocery store for some food and a pleasant chat with some fellow local cyclists, I felt myself loosening up. I was now getting back into the groove a bit. And as I meandered out of Houston towards a state park, I began to feel better. I was looking forward to being back in a state park and that my parents would be visiting in a few days. 

And when I rolled into Stephen F. Austin State Park I was blown away by the quiet, hidden beauty in Texas. The trees stood tall and proud as a cool, lazy breeze wound its way around the branches above and the tents below. I sat for a bit in my tent after dinner, just sitting and looking around. It was the first time in a while I had truly just sat and enjoyed the scenery. And it was just so gorgeous. "Excuse me, you're the cyclist guy right?" A middle aged man called out, smiling.

I snapped out of my peaceful lull and quickly greeted the man. His name was Steve and he was a geologist. He had been basically living in the park, doing contracting work for various companies and had become familiar with the camp host. When I arrived at the camp, I had talked to the rangers in the visitors station. They asked about my trip and I told them about it. They must have told the camp host and the news spread. Not that I thought of myself as news or even vaguely important, but this man seemed to disagree. When the camp host told him about me and my trip, Steve wanted to chat. He had completed a long bike trip himself all over the country. He talked about how the Rockies were easy compared to the Ozark Mountains in Missouri and that he had even done one trip on a titanium tandem bike with his wife. Him and I swapped stories for a while before he had to return to camp to make supper, making sure to get my blog before he left. 

And then another gentlemen approached. "Yer the cyclin' guy right?" he eagerly called out, right hand already extended for a handshake. "I guess so" I replied as I shook his hand with a smile. I quickly found myself in another conversation about my trip, this time with Tod. Tod was a very nice man who was with his kids' boy scout troop. He politely asked if in the morning I would talk about some of the basics of the outdoors with the boys. I wanted to immediately agree, but I had to be mindful about my timing. "What time is wake up call for them?" I asked. He told me that the troop gets up early, but that I wouldn't really talk to them until about 10am or so. I unfortunately had to turn him down as I had to get up early to crank out as many miles as I could. I was on a schedule for this portion of my trip. Tod understood and shook my hand before grabbing a photo of me with his son. And I returned to my tent as the sun disappeared, returning to a meditation-like state as I stared up at the trees and stars above.

And I only really have one thought about today: this country and it's people are beautiful.

Days 31 & 32- 0 miles (1,676)

It's always nice to be with a familiar face. 

Especially one that is enthusiastic enough to show you his new home. 

I got to spend two days hanging out in Houston with my great friend Dave. He is also a Michigander, but has since begun working in Houston and has really embraced the lifestyle change. And he gave me a taste of it.  

Literally.  

The food and beer in Houston was nothing short of amazing. After a while of bland camping food (mostly tuna, peanut butter, and bread) I was excited to try the legendary, and enigmatic, Texas BBQ. I was given an insider's view of the city and had a whirlwind tour. I say whirlwind partly because of how disorienting the city is with its criss-crossing expressways and strange street layout. I couldn't tell anyone exactly where I went in Houston, I just know I had a good time.

I don't have much to say about my time in Houston. I'm more than glad I got to bother Dave again, even if only for a few days.

Day 30 - 93 miles (1,676)

Here is a key frustration with cycling.  

From Winnie to Houston, via car (or the crow flies in this case) it's only fifty-some-odd miles. It's mostly a straight shot and takes under an hour.  

However, on a bike, I'm not cycling on any expressways. It may be legal in Texas, but the odds of me getting hit by a car increase exponentially. So, the next best route is to divert North on side roads, find the highway, and follow it back South into the city center where I can jump onto bike paths. That is something I just have to accept as I live off this bike. And, to be honest, that is a minor issue--on its own. But as frustrations compound and add up, those extra miles can make or break I day. I knew today was going to be long so I believed I was prepared for the frustration. 

Then I got a flat. Okay, I've handled those before. And as I pulled off under some shade, I saw that my tube was a minor problem. My back tire was shredded. The road type I was on--looked like 50 grit--compounded by the weight of Kona, my gear, and all my insecurities lead to me wearing through the rear tire far faster than I had hoped. The tire was still usable if you ignored everything in your head telling you this was a dumb idea. I wasn't sure if it was going to make it to Houston; but I didn't have any option. The nearest bike store was in Houston. I was headed that way anyways. So I made the change and tried my best to not worry about the potential blowout that was sure to come any moment. And as I approached Houston, I had to zig-zag across the puncture-prone minefield that is highway shoulders. 

Then, I arrived in the city limits of Houston. In the Fifth Ward.  For those unaware, the Fifth Ward is the low-income, high crime area of the city. I know nothing about the history of Houston, nor even its layout, so all I could do was trudge along and be pleasant to any people that came across my way. To be honest though, I think a lot of the people assumed I was homeless or insane. I didn't have any problems beside the insane headwind that tried to push me out of the city. 

Fortunately, I made it to a very good friend's place with some sunlight to spare. I also had the next two days off to rest, get some new tires, and see what Houston has to offer. I also got to do it with a familiar face I hadn't seen in a long time, and I was just excited to catch up with the guy who took my passion for the outdoors to the next level. 

Great to see you again Dave. 

Day 29 - 61 miles (1,583)

A long day of headwinds and the lovely industrial views of oil refineries.  

A boring day that was more a test in mental toughness than it was physical endurance. 

Oh well, I did get to have Whataburger for the first time. It's delicious, and you don't quite hate yourself when you're done. I highly recommend it if you want decent, calorically dense, fast food. Probably also good drunk. Probably. 

Day 28 - 55 miles (1,522)

Today was boredom punctuated with two milestones.  

I made it to Texas.  

And I saw the most amazing display of canine athleticism. 

I should backtrack lightly.  

I'm currently on the Southern Tier of a cycling route network from this wonderful organization known as the Adventure Cycling Association (ACA). When you purchase maps for the routes, they come with a long list of helpful hints, local services, and warnings and expectation for the area. Western Louisiana and eastern Texas are populated by wild and domestic dogs that tend to just kind of run free. I've already had my fair share of sprinting away from dogs and an incident where I had to kick one in the jaw as it got too close. Which is painful. All dogs are good boys; but I have to assume the worst when a furry missile bearing teeth is heading straight for my ankle. Dog bites are extremely dangerous for various reasons so it's understandable that when I hear barking, I get on edge.

At this point in the day I was already exhausted from riding and frustrated by the amount of dogs that were not fenced up. In the last week I've had several scares of dogs sprinting at me or coming very close. I was understanding more and more my very vulnerable position as a cyclist.Then I heard the familiar, aggressive barks of a dog that wanted to run. I looked over to see two dogs behind a six foot-high chain-link fence. I let out a sigh of relief as I assumed I was safe and my final two miles of the day would be a cinch.

Nah.

I witnessed one dog, from a sitting position, clear the fence that touches the neighbor's yard. And the dog's form was gorgeous. Without hesitation it wound up, fired off it's back legs, used its front paws to get a bit of leverage as the rear legs came up and over the top of the fence. That would get a 10/10 even from the Russian judges. For a second or two Kona and I coasted in awe at what we had seen. Even the other dog look impressed. I hurriedly checked the neighbor's yard for a fence. Fortunately, that yard was also fenced in. Or so I thought.

A half-second later, as I rounded the other side of the neighbor's barn, I saw that the other side wasn't fenced. OH COME ON I screamed internally. Fortunately, my bike pump is attached to the bottom of my top tube and is very accessible while riding. I unlatched my pump, swung it around, and tried to create some distance with the pump and me. I even sung at the dog and the doggo fortunately understood my message and backed off.

I want a dog.

Day 27 - 0 miles (1,467)

I check the weather every night and morning. I make sure to check the next few days as well in conjunction with checking it for the next cities I'll be in. 

With that said, I  knew thunderstorms were on the radar. When I had originally checked the weather for this stop, the thunderstorms were heading more North than East and would only be a problem for a bit. When I went to bed last night, the various websites said that the storms were going to be in the early morning with a lull until the evening. There would be plenty of time to get some cycling in and I went to bed, ready to ride through some rain. I woke up and checked the various weather sites. A severe thunderstorm warning had been issued in the Parish (read: County) I was in that would last until 9 a.m. I looked out the window and saw the fury with which mother nature wanted to unleash. The skies were black as the wind wailed against the parked semi-trucks in the parking lot. I went back to bed. 

I woke up at nine and the original warning had been pushed to eleven, along with a flood warning that would last until the middle of the afternoon. There was also going to be a second string of storms coming in at around 5 p.m. that was going to sweep across where I had planned on riding. I looked back out the window and saw no signs of the storm calming down. I waited around for another hour and checked the weather to see if the day was salvageable. It wasn't. 

So I'll take the day off. 

Day 26 - 61 miles (1,467)

I left Cajun Campground with little idea where I was going to sleep that night. I just knew that West was the direction I wanted to head.

The night before I had contacted a few hosts on Warm Showers--a couch surfing-esque app specifically for touring cyclists. I was hoping I would have at least one response when I got up this morning, but I was met with silence. I took a look on Google Maps for a state park or campground nearby and found nothing. I decided to call some of the numerous RV Campgrounds nearby. I asked if they had a place for me to stay and I was told by many of them that they didn't have room for tents or didn't allow tent camping. Okay.

I started to look to plan C, stealth camping, when I decided to look further along my route to get a better layout of other campgrounds. 

Turns out, I'm in a large camping dead zone. The entire region of western Louisiana and eastern Texas were geared towards RVers and not primitive campers. While there were stare parks, wildlife preserves, and the occasional campground they were largely out of my way or absurdly pricey. While stealth camping was still an option, I decided against it. This region of the country has a certain affinity towards their property and the guns. Michigan allows primitive, free camping in national and some state forests. Most of Texas and Louisiana is private property with enforce Castle Laws. I'll avoid trespassing instead. I decided to hotel hop for a few days. I have it in my budget and it would also give me the chance to get a good amount of rest in on beds that were thicker than my inflatable sleeping pad.  

So I booked a room at the cheapest hotel and headed towards Lake Charles, Louisiana. 

And what happen afterwards was a largely uneventful ride. I know I iterate how a lot of these rides feel like Michigan but I'm not joking. Between Eunice and Lake Charles, within the state of Louisiana, there is a lot of nothing. Much like riding on the expressway from Detroit to any direction leads to a couple of hours of tree and farm field-filled nothing. It's not necessarily a bad thing. It makes for productive snapchatting.

While on the road, only six miles from the hotel, I felt something strange churning in my stomach. I figured it was the gas station pizza I had the day before or the slightly brown "potable" water from the Cajun Campground. Regardless, whatever was had caused a potential nuclear weapon to magically move from my stomach straight past my intestines and knocking on heaven's door.

I was in dire straits. I knew I had to either find some bathroom or an outing of trees to hide in  to release this digestive demon. Unfortunately, I was in the middle of massive cow pastures and rice paddies. There was no bathroom.  It was either make it to the hotel NOW or ruin an article of clothing. Thankfully, something magical happened.

I took a left in the final three mile sprint to the hotel. I was desperate to make it somewhere public and revert from a 25 year-old man to a toddler. Suddenly, sitting in the middle of nowhere, was a port-a-potty. A port-a-potty along a construction site that had been abandoned, according to the sign, about a year earlier. I hurried to it and a second miracle had been performed: it was brand new and clean. Someone had delivered a fresh port-a-potty to no one in particular. And it was here waiting for me. I wanted to yell HALLELUJAH as I performed my exorcism but was too astonished at the series of events that had just happened. 

I was blessed by the gastric gods today.

That's how boring my day was.

Day 25 - 66 miles (1,406)

After leaving the strange nightmare that was Jim's Campground, I was beginning to realize my attitude needed some help.  

So I made a few phone calls to bolster my spirits and help pass the time. 

And it worked. I got to call friends back home and get updates about the weather and life, but also the latest gossip around the water cooler. I also was able to call my roommate Stephanie. I had called her already on this trip, but this time her and I had a longer conversation. At around the hour and a half mark I had to remind myself I was cycling along a dangerous two-lane bridge and wasn't back on the front porch of our rented house in Colorado. I was still on a slab of concrete and our conversation turned into lazy banter just like Fort Collins, but the context was much different.

After my pleasant phone calls and a terrifying ride through a bridge under construction, I rolled into lunch. I stopped at a quiet gas station that had plenty of shade. I hopped off Kona and went inside to find calorie-dense foods and some fresh water. I came back outside and sat on the concrete of a gas station happily eating a can of tuna, a slice of gas station pizza, and balls of bread and peanut butter. A lovely older woman walked up, and after seeing my bike, asked if I was following the Southern Tier bicycle route. I said yes and that I was heading to Seattle. I was excited to be talking to someone who was familiar with similar rides. We talked idly about the cycling season so far and she mentioned she already housed a few cyclists. She politely offered me her front lawn and a shower to use. She was happy to exclaim that she lived only a few miles down the road and that she had a "big ol' pot of jambalaya and you look like you could use a big meal hun."

Oh man jambalaya. That's my weak spot.

But as I thought about it, I knew I couldn't accept the offer. I had a rough deadline for this trip that I needed to follow. Having only gone about thirty miles so far today, I knew I had to hit my average or more. I also already had a campsite picked out and gave them a call telling them a cyclist was coming. A tip from some bicycle touring forums mentioned this particular website had a good relationship with cyclists. In the end, as much as I wanted that jambalaya, there wasn't enough reason to make me stop for the day. I thanked the older woman and told her I would have to, unfortunately, turn her offer down. I had to get another thirty or so miles in and the campground I was at had a shower. I made sure to finish my sentence with a "thank you so much though. I appreciate it." 

 She didn't like that answer. She slowly erased the smile from her face and carefully mounted her high horse. "I hope you noticed us people in the South are more HOSPITABLE than those in the North." She carefully enunciated through tightened lips. I remained seated on the concrete and the older lady was quietly looming over me. 

I stared incredulously at her. I began to wonder if this was some strange prank or a weird joke. But as the second of silence dragged on, I realized that she was seriously offended. I only became more confused. I responded to the old lady by mentioning that, where I'm from, these offers are nearly always politely turned down. "We don't want to be a burden." In a normal, Midwestern conversation I've had, the offer would be given a second time. At that point it is polite to take the offer or turn it down. I assumed too much of Gertrude here.

So she rode her high horse, nose turned up, into the gas station. I continued my meal in silence. I quietly thought about how tired I was. Then the older lady came out with a few snack foods. She got into her truck doing her absolute best to not look at me. Meanwhile I watched her back up and turn towards the road. She glanced at me. I waved and mouthed "have a good day." I was met with a stare. I knew what I was doing, getting my last dig, but it made me think about the interaction as a whole and I have this to say:

• This is an example of the double edged sword of "Southern Charm" that I was warned about. You can still be polite and charismatic while spitting venom, they aren't mutually exclusive. 
   
• There is no right or wrong cultural norm, even within the borders of the same country, there is only different. Even within Michigan there are cultural differences. Ask da yoopers way up dere.
   
• People are more than free to say "no" to offers, we don't know everyone else's agenda for the day. Not to mention, I still appreciated the offer. I just had to keep moving.
   
• I won't deny that in that interaction I could have performed better and with more grace. I was just taken aback that the situation turned sour so quickly. 

Fortunately, the people at my next campground were phenomenally pleasant. I rolled up and mentioned I was the cyclist--wasn't that obvious--that called earlier. They happily lead me to a tree near the office and told me to enjoy the free stay. There was even a power plug and water spigot within ten feet of my tent. And as I sat, comfy as can be in my tent, I wondered how delicious that ladies jambalaya would have tasted.

Day 24 - 44 miles (1,340)

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Today was rough.  

My legs weren't responding and my mood hadn't turned around from the previous day.  

I literally stayed in my room in this stranger's house so I wouldn't have to be in contact with him. He seemed like a super nice guy, but I just didn't want to interact with humans.  

So when he left, I slinked out shortly afterwards.  

And it then took over six hours to go 44 miles. And then everyone at the campsite was rude. And then I spilled boiling ramen all over my leg. 

The world and I aren't friends today. It happens. There's always tomorrow.

Day 23 - 76 miles (1,296)

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Baton Rouge presented a unique problem. There was a strange dead zone around the city where no campgrounds or state parks were available. Urban sprawl was making available land nearly impossible to find. Compound this with the South's preference of RV Resorts over campsites, and that puts me in my position--a position that I will be stuck in for, potentially, the next few weeks. I had two options:

• Ride only 30 miles to the next campsite 
• Push hard and ride 100+ miles to cross the Mississippi and gamble a campsite out there 

I instead remembered AirBnB was a thing and found a place for cheap in Baton Rouge. Thinking I had the next day of cycling set, I went to bed feeling good. As my body rest and I stumbled into dream land, my brain came alive.

That night I had an extremely vivid dream involving Cory. In my dream he was not only alive, but just so happened to be at the exact same campsite I was in. I excitedly told him to about my trip so far and how insane this whole thing was. As I rambled on he was uncharacteristically quiet as his big, dumb grin grossed his face. Finally, I asked him to join me on the trip. He agreed. At no point did I question the insanity of the situation. The fact that my brother was alive and well and had "coincidentally" bumped into me at a campsite in a state he had never been to, never made me consider I was in a dream. In fact, as my brother and I spoke, insane images dredged up from my subconscious dotted the background. I so enthusiastically believed what was happening that I was bordering into delusion. And as my brother and I mounted our bikes as a waning evening suddenly turned into a sunrise, I woke up.

And I was still excited and elated for him to join me. As I shook the cobwebs of sleep from my brain and came out of my dopamine haze, reality set back in. Cory was not going to be joining me on this ride. I was still on this trip, alone. My brain had lied to me. It hurts, but it's an unfortunate thing I've had to learn to deal with. While I've been able to better control and handle such mental health road bumps, it doesn't make them hurt any less. But there's something else in that idea I want to discuss. Something that I try to hammer into people's, and more often than not my own, heads when they ask me about mental health: You do not control your brain, it controls you.

I often refer to the one organ in our skull bucket by two different names. There is the "brain," the portion of the brain that focuses on pure survival. Everything from heart rate, breathing, fight-or-flight, bathroom usage, etc are controlled in this part. It is sometimes also called "the lizard part" of our brains. Then there's "You." You are the logical, rational portion of your brain that creates the thoughts in your head. The part that makes active decisions and keeps us up at night worrying about our own existence. More complex thoughts reside, for the most part, in this part of our head. These two parts may cooperate with your consciousness for the most part, but that's only because the processes that allow them to are functioning as intended. When they fail or have a hiccup, reality and logic are stripped away from one another. The funny thing is, we may not realize it because our brain creates those logics and realities. I mean, I spent a year and a half being miserable in Colorado because my brain was convincing me I wasn't. This happens to all of us on some level. We're all human and flawed and its quite easy to convince ourselves of anything. But for some with serious mental health issues, the constant shredding of their reality takes a toll psychologically and can have major physical and/or psychological repercussions. Fortunately, for me today, this delusion was only an annoyance.

For the whole day I had to sit in my saddle and try to battle the crushing, irrational sadness of realizing no one was waiting for me in Baton Rouge. It hurt and it still hurts. Part of me wishes I could stay in the delusion I woke up in, just to remember what it was like not to miss my brother. A brain's desperate grab at false happiness.

But that's not healthy nor safe. So I had to do battle with my brain all day. 

I am fortunate enough to have insurance coverage, for now at least, that allows me to go to therapy regularly. In those therapy sessions I was given a series of tools that make doing such battle easier. These tools allow me realize a problem--because often your brain will lie to you to protect itself/your ego, analyze the problem, and then either repair the issue or hunker down as I wait for the neurochemicals in my head to re-balance. 

This is something I try to make a point of when talking about mental health with the people I meet. Therapy will give anyone a special set of tools to do proper mental maintenance on themselves. While I would love to give help by offering my tools, the problems we all face are unique. What problem may require a hammer in my head may require a screwdriver in theirs or may require a chemical fix in the form of medicine. The only advice I can give, that I wish we all dispensed more often, is: it's okay to go to therapy.

Therapy does not mean you are crazy, that you are broken, or anything else. It only means you are paying someone to listen to you so they can hand you a set of tools. It doesn't matter to the professionals what kind of issues you have, they want to help and are getting paid to do so. Even if you want to go to therapy because you just need to unload on someone or are worried about something minor, go. We take our cars in for major and minor problems, maintenance checks, and the occasional questions. Why do we have such a problem doing so with our brains?

I apologize for the tangent as I know these posts are about what happened to me during the day; but, I think it's imperative I make it clear: 

You don't control your brain, it's okay to go to therapy.   

Otherwise, I can't say much about today.

Day 22 - 53 miles (1,220)

It was difficult leaving Gordon and Janette. They're a part of the family I rarely get to see and they are always amazing. Their wit and love of living the moment made this weekend a nice break from cycling. In addition to the fun we had talking and wandering the streets of New Orleans, they showed me unmatched hospitality and generosity that was filled with sincerity. A solid reminder that if I ever feel the need to return to New Orleans to learn more of its secrets and history, I have a place to stay. A place, I currently wish I could stay longer at.

However, the world doesn't stop turning and that means I can't stop moving.

Fortunately, the day after day drinking and walking all day wasn't as bad as it could have been. Today was smooth sailing and I don't have much of a story to tell. Just an easy day of lazy cycling.

Day 21 - 0 miles (1,167)

I visited NOLA today.

It's difficult for me to discuss a city without putting it into the context of Detroit. It is, after all, the city I grew up near and spent too long writing a thesis on. It's a city that suffers the unique humanity of enjoying a Renaissance while still collapsing at the fringes. I often make references to the impoverished areas when appropriate but often cite the positive parts as well. I can draw deep from the city's history to see it's future potential. And in many cities in the United States you can see bits and pieces of Detroit in them as much as you can see bit and pieces of those cities in Detroit. Those little bits of similarity help me wrap my head around the city and learn about it.

But I think I met my match with NOLA. The city kept me spinning. On paper, New Orleans and Detroit are a near match. They were both founded by French explorers before the country they occupy was even born. They both have long histories of conflict, racial and ethnic tension, and this strong desire to maintain its own unique identity. And as I walked the streets with Gordon and Janette, that unique identity became apparent. I was just as lost culturally as I was geographically as I roamed the streets.

Gordon and Janette were very open and honest with what NOLA was like. As I Iistened to them spin various cultural, social, and geographical yarns I failed to keep up. New Orleans was both poverty and gentrification. It was the artifact of man's creative abilities and acts of God. It was a city down on it's luck, but seemed to still have plenty of it left. It was French and English. It was modern, and also older than the United States. It's NOLA, and it's unapologetic about it. 

Maybe that's why it's so much fun.  

I can't begin to describe the city properly. All I know is that I was shown a wonderful time by two amazing people and I'll never forget it.

Maybe  one day I'll have the words (and after a secondary or tertiary visit) but for now, I'll lean towards brevity.

Day 20 - 100 miles (1,167)

I biked one hundred miles today. Again.  I guess I didn't learn my lesson the first time. Despite clearly remembering the tight tendons, achy muscles, and neck pain that comes from long days, I thought that my second "Century Day" would be easier than my first.

And I would be lying if I didn't say it was, on many levels, miserable. 

However, this trip isn't about being comfortable. Nor is it about self-flagellation. I knew that riding these high mileage days had to be approached with the right mindset. If I thought they were going to suck, they probably were; because that's all I'd focus on. Therefore, as an experiment, I approached this long day in the context of the reward. I was staying with family and was going to get to sleep in a bed, inside a building. I was also going to get to take a zero day and get to explore a new city: New Orleans. Hopefully this mindset would make today at least bearable. Or at least that's what I was telling myself. I ate my breakfast of balls of bread and peanut butter, ramen soup, another can of tuna, and several handfuls of random assorted nuts as I charged my phone and tried not to think about the negatives of the day. Then I straddled my bike and tried really hard to not think.

Then I really thought. 

And I began cranking.  

And everything began melting away.  

After twenty minutes of riding something changed. I fell into a steady cadence. A consistent tempo of gears and chains. Something familiar and nice that I recognized. A regular repeating of a beat. I was creating a sort of music with my bike and leaving the notes embedded in pavement as I eagerly rolled West.

 The first forty-five miles were beautiful as I rolled past cows and farm fields as a lazy fog slowly lifted itself higher and higher as time passed. It felt like Michigan on a cool, June morning. The type of morning many Michiganders relish in, including myself. And as I approached Gulfport, Mississippi, I began to transition from nature to city. Trees gave way to homes then buildings and the odd casino or two. I rode along the beach and stopped for, what I hoped, would be a quick lunch of a thousand plus calories then Kona and I could continue our pleasant melody of music. Then I was approached by Dwayne. A new member in my band that played a very different tone than Kona and I. If anything, Dwayne was playing in an entire different genre.

First and foremost, Dwayne was nice. He was a vet travelling to either his friend's place or his son's apartment (he wasn't sure). He spoke quickly and jumped between several different stories that had all began before he had even met me. His accent was difficult to understand as he garnished his sentences with French words and Louisiana Creole slang. For the most part, I understood about half of what Dwayne said. I also knew that Dwayne wasn't concerned with me understanding, he just wanted someone to listen. So, I nodded my head and said "yeah" as I ate Ramen and tuna. He would tell a bit of a story, laugh, and then point to his seat while talking about his "bike seat" (bahk-seeyt) with a tone of anger and wild movement of his hands. I reached over, tightened a ring for him on his seat post, and went back to my lunch as he continued his stories. He thanked me profusely in between his off-color political jokes and then rode off West. I'm still not sure if he knew where he was going, but he seemed confident regardless. I washed my pot and spoon in the ocean and carefully swung my leg over Kona, getting ready to mount her. I was just under halfway through the day, and I could already feel my legs tightening up as I began to push West again.

After a few dozen or so miles I had to make a stop to charge my phone and refuel. I pulled up to a water tower in a quiet area among empty lots. The perfect place to be left alone. I plugged my phone into the fortunately placed electrical outlet and ate my second-lunch of Gatorade and various granola and protein bars. After a short charge, some food, and a quick pump up of the tires, I began the final stretch of my journey.

I crossed into Louisiana. I was now only twelve miles from my final destination. I thought the worst was behind me and shifted down a gear to sprint the final bit in. I was now desperate for some food and a cold beer. However, I struggled the entire time. I couldn't recapture my steady tempo and I felt choppy. No steady spins. Just short. Choppy. Spins. And as I wrestled with my bar-end shifters I began to notice something odd about the world.

As I biked I felt myself sinking lower and lower into the Earth. Of course I knew this wasn't right, as my bike was made of steel and not some magically shrinking material. Additionally, it felt as if my pedals and handlebars were remaining in place, it was the rest of the bike that felt like it was shrinking. It was at this point I knew I had gone too long without food and hadn't had enough water leading to what medical professionals would call an "altered state of consciousness." I would call it "seeing things." Fortunately, I only had six miles left so I ignored the clear problem I had and proceeded my inconsistenet spin to a cold beer and warm shower. 

Eventually, I arrived to my rest stop: the Givens. They are family and welcomed me with more exuberance than I was prepared for. Their beautiful home, they informed me, was also my home for the next forty-eight plus hours. After some amazing food and beer, we created a battle plan for my first visit to New Orleans and drank as preparation for the event; because, it is New Orleans after all. 

The current state of my tan lines.

So I sit, at 2am, after some sharing of stories and planning,  heavily buzzed looking forward to tomorrow. I get to experience NOLA as both a regular and a tourist. It's a rare chance that I absolutely will not waste.  

Nor will I waste this moonshine.  

Cheers.

Day 19 - 61 miles (1,067)

Justin was kind enough to drop me off in Gulf Shores, Alabama before he went to work. 

Actually, let me be honest. Justin was insistent because, in his words,  "the roads are anything but bike friendly." I wasn't objecting, a ride was a ride. After a short twenty-minute cruise through, what were undoubtedly bad cycling roads, Justin dropped me off in front of a grocery store. He pointed me towards the bike path, and wished me luck on the remainder of my journey. "If you're back in Foley, give me a text. It'd be good to see you again." Parting words from an absolute stranger that I can now count on as a good friend. As he pulled away to head to work, I jumped on my bike and began my version of work for the day.

Only to immeditaely stop.

My rear tire was flat. 

As I flipped my bike over to change my tube, it was almost as if I could hear the state of Florida laughing at me. After all the days of battling wind, waking up to a broken phone, and having to pretend I don't hear alligators outside my tent, through all 900+ miles of Sunshine State, I thought I was finally done with Florida.

But this flat. This flat was Florida's one final parting gift to me, and I felt personally attacked by the state of Florida—even outside of its borders. I know this was from Florida because of the nature of the puncture, some broken glass causing a slow-leak. The only glass I had rode over was just before the bridge as I crossed out of Florida. Or at least that's what I like to tell myself I remember.

I quickly changed the tube and then began my ride for the day, hoping I can finally put Florida behind me. I began cranking down a quiet, tree-lined path among multi-million dollar homes. I passed by power-walking geriatrics and hard-working landscape laborers as I began to fall into an easy-rhythm. The forests and quiet temperament of the weather lulled me into a pleasant daze.

Suddenly, I was in Florida again. The lush bike path I had begun a few hours earlier had suddenly spit me out among sand dunes and beach bungalows. The sun overhead began blazing as I once again battled slight head-winds full of rough, coarse sand. I could hear the ceaseless lapping of waves off to my right as the sun slowly continued to sear my entire left side. Just like Florida. At this point I had developed an aversion to the open beauty of the beaches. I desired overhead cover or else the rest of this journey will roast me alive or kill me from worry over every mole and freckle that would develop. Fortunately, this is my last few days next to a major body of water for a while. I would no longer have to deal with the sun shining off of--what is essentially--a giant mirror, the sand grinding in my gears, and the throngs of clueless people that beaches attracted. I rolled into Fort Morgan, in the midst of a throng of clueless people and parked my bike on a small beach.

Great...

I carefully weaved myself between people and cars. I rolled up to the toll booth where a hungover teenager handed me a ticket for the ferry. "It's comin' at 11." He told me as he lounged in his shack-like-kiosk, sunglasses on for the sake of his headache. I quietly rolled myself to the water and waited patiently for the ferry ride. 

And it was a pleasant wait.

And it was a good ferry ride.

It reminded me a lot of home. Taking a ferry out to Canada or Harsen's Island or across Mobile Bay all felt the same. The loud burst of engines firing, the smell of burnt diesel fuel emanating from the smokestacks, and the rhythmic lapping of waves against the hull reminded me of many summers spent crossing the St. Clair River.

After the short boat ride and some friendly conversation with strangers, I found myself on the other side of Mobile Bay. I re-mounted Kona, crossed some bridges back onto the mainland, and began my strike out towards Mississippi. As I rode the beaches and open water quietly disappeared into thick marshes and, eventually, developed into tall pines and thick undergrowth. A sight that reminded, me once again, of home.

Eventually, after sixty plus miles of cycling, I rolled down a long, paved driveway. As I approached a cluster of buildings, I began to feel an uneasiness in my stomach. I was now in a "campground" called Presley's Outing. The website, and the person on the phone, both made it 100 % unclear as to whether they allowed tent campsites. All information was relayed to me as stories from years past or in a drawl that I just did not understand. I decided to just go for it and hope they took tents. Now that I was here, with the sun quickly setting, I realized that I made a mistake. I only saw RV's and mobile homes. There were no families out enjoying the sunshine or children running around as if on vacation. Instead, there were merely older couples, silently staring at the guy who, to them, probably looked homeless.

The sun was quickly setting and I had no idea where the office was. I knew I was dozens of miles from the next best option for a campground and I really didn't want to stealth camp tonight nor ride in the dark to the next campsite. I rolled up next to a shirtless man in a golf cart with a corgi sitting shotgun. Both pleasantly content with each other's company. In a less stressful situations, I would have laughed at the beauty of that image.

"Hey how ya doin'?" I called out in my Michigan accent as Kona and I rolled to a stop about six feet from the golf cart. "Good, 'n yew?" The man responded. "Good...good. Do y'all take tent campers by chance?" I asked, trying my best to look as desperately exhausted as possible. The man looked over lazily, eyed me from stem to stern, and replied: "Le'mee ask tha bawss." I leaned over on my handlebars and was prepared to follow the man to the campground's main office, and hopefully a bathroom. The man leaned over, whispered and pet his corgi, and turned back to me to say: "follow me."

He lead me over to a small depression just outside of the bathrooms and showers underneath a large tree. He pointed to the ground and shot me a big smile. "Yer free to stay her'. It ain't goin' to cost ya' anything, all we ask is yew pick up yer trash and take-off by eleven. Sound good?" I eagerly shook the man's hand and espoused thanks from the bottom of my heart. He merely told me "nah problem" as he, his golf cart, and corgi returned to their station near the end of the driveway. I'm not sure what that man's role was in the camp, or if he was even affiliated with the camp, but I'll trust his word. I mean, the man has a corgi.

I made camp, ate some tuna and peanut butter sandwiches, and quickly went to bed thankful for the generosity of Presley's Outing. I am also excited for tomorrow as I cross-off another item on my "to-do" list for this trip: Visit NOLA.

Day 18 - 62 miles (1,006)

I was awoken to Michelle's kids wanting to take a photo with me. By "awoken" I mean scared awake. Now, as a grown man that was in minimal clothing, this was an awkward beginning to my day. The kids, Michelle informed me, were chronically late to school so I had no option but to take the photo half-propped up and half-awake in bed.

I'm sure I'm on some list somewhere for this post. 

After getting ready and saying my final thank yous and goodbyes to Michelle, I began my ride. I crossed through Navarre Beach, a federally protected shoreline of white sand dunes, and was shocked by the beauty and quiet of the dunes.

 The roads were gorgeous. They were fresh, smooth, and had a large bike lane and, best of all, it was a Sunday and there was no traffic. I was able to relax a bit and do what I do best: belting out the chorus to some Disney songs in the same key as a dying cat. As Kona and I pointed straight West, the winds shifted and swung to push me on my back. I shifted down and spooled up to a comfortable twenty miles per hour as I began to truly enjoy the ride. For the first time on the trip, I no longer felt like I was struggling. I was no longer going to be dealing with Spring Breakers. I was no longer struggling with wind. My bike was running smoothly, and I was finally getting into a good rhythm of riding, eating, and camping over and over. Now with a solid tailwind, I began to feel like my ride was turning into a race to the Pacific; And I felt like I was in first.

 The quick jaunt through Navarre Beach set a good tone and pace for me to tackle the rest of my ride. I crossed back over to the mainland and kept my legs spinning as I lazily listened to podcasts under a warm, sunny day. Throughout the day I maintained a tight twenty miles per hour as Kona and I felt like a well-oiled machine as we crossed out first major milestones, back-to-back.

I, Joshua Rivard, have finally left Florida. I also have accumulated over 1,000 miles of cycling on this trip thus far. Mainly I'm excited to be out of Florida. After some roadside, rubber-legged dancing just across the river that separated Alabama and Florida, I sprinted hard to Foley to celebrate properly. Using the app Warm Showers--an app that connects touring cyclists with people who will house them for free--I found Justin. Justin had hosted many people before and had his number listed on his profile. After a quick text, I was invited to stay and make myself at home at his place. I graciously took up room on his futon and showered up while he was at work. When he came home him and I talked over beers and he told me about the history of that region of Alabama. He enthusiastically told me about Alabama's incredible biodiversity, his musings on the climate of the cycling market, and how he was spearheading grassroots campaigns that were getting bicycle paths put up all over Alabama. A conversation wit him was a reminder that even average folks, struggling to get by, love this country and want to right by it. Justin's passions seemed to almost explode out of him.

Eventually, somewhere between seven and eight beers and some jokes I collapsed into sleep. I knew the next morning would be a little rough from the beer, but Justin was just so interesting and knowledgeable on the local flavor, not to mention his generosity, that we got lost in friendly conversation. Honestly, I think it was worth it.

People like Justin keep the world moving. I hope I can repay him some day, despite his determination I don't.  

Day 17 - 51 miles (944)

My night stealth camping was successful.  

No one saw me and I left no trace. That morning however I awoke to near-freezing temperatures and beautiful rays of sunshine poking through thick leaf cover. I quickly broke down camp and began the push to my next stop. This stop was setup by my childhood best friend's mother, Tina. Tina has a friend living in Mary Esther, Florida that is a fellow Algonac native. As weirdly familiar Florida felt to Michigan, with its numerous forests and swamps, I still felt out of place in Florida. Being able to meet a stranger who knows the same physical and cultural references I do too will be refreshing; and, more importantly, she had a bed open and food waiting. I began cranking as soon as I could with the idea of a home cooked meal cemented in my head. Immediately I was greeted with a headwind. I had wrestled with the wind the last few days so I had the mental chops to easily ignore it and keep moving. I was not acquainted with how to deal with Spring Breakers yet.

I had to navigate slack-jawed crowds of families as they failed to realize that "excuse me, on your right/left" was targeted towards them. Even with repeated requests for them to move, people were so caught up in their own little adventures that I was nothing more than white noise in the background. It was frustrating, but most of the individuals were apologetic and genuinely just forgot about their spatial awareness for a moment. Eventually the families that were unaware, but polite, gave way to the true test: college students.  

Now, I know I was a college student too, and not very long ago. I was also a spring breaker chugging down Four Lokos for breakfast before heading to the beach to play volleyball and consume most of my calories in beer for multiple days. However, I was blessed with at least a modicum of some sort of self, spatial awareness. This was a skill markedly absent on 90% of those college-aged individuals as they zig-zagged across pedestrian paths. The cases of frat soda they managed to slam down their gullet while driving their legs in a straight-ish direction was both impressive and horrifying.

I eventually had a run-in with a student. They were playing catch in the bike lane, sidewalk, and front door to a hotel. They respectfully parted like the Dude Sea as I, Broses, approached. The wall of college students laughing and eyeing me as me and my bloated bike tried to carefully float by made me a bit uneasy. In an attempt to be funny one of the guys decided to step in front of me at the last second. I began to swing my handlebars back and forth to both dodge him and keep my balance from going so slowly. He then grabbed my handlebars and began laughing as he did a side-to-side shuffle blocking me. I have no doubt he was merely having a good time, but this crossed more than a few lines with me. I was furious, but what am I to do? I stared ahead, unamused as the guy laughed and began playing catch with his bros right in the middle of the bike path again. I unsteadily began to rebuild my speed as I left them. This became the pattern for the rest of my day. Stereotypical college students running around beach towns chugging beers and becoming moving obstacles.  

This was not a particularly tubular day and as the sun set I was, once again, low on calories and out of care to keep riding. Thankfully I was approaching a beautiful home right on the Gulf Coast and not a campsite. There, Tina's friend Michelle, awaited with open arms, food, and a bed. Michelle treated me like I was one of her children and my attitude did an immediate 180. After a shower beer, some food, and sharing stories I was an endless fountain of "thank yous." And I still am. 

Michelle and her kids are phenomenal people and I thank them for keeping me in their prayers and their enthusiasm in my trip. It was rejuvenating. And having to leave the next morning was hard. I mean that bed was phenomenally comfortable. It even made me smile long enough for a photo. A blue moon type event.

5/5 stars for Casa de Michelle, will stop by again.  

Day 16 - 52 miles (893)

The weather was better today. 

The world was still wet from the onslaught of rain yesterday, but the sun was at least trying to come out today. Since I went to bed so early last night, I was up before the entire rest of the time zone. I broke down camp and headed to the bathroom to charge my phone and finish drying my clothes with the hand-dryer. After a few campers coming to use the bathroom and seeing a beanpole standing with underwear near the dryer, I got my clothes and gear to "dry-enough," re-packed everything and waited for my phone to finish charging. Once the sun came up—about 60% battery—I began my journey for the day.

And as the day progressed it started turning more and more into the sunny Florida I know.

That all came with a trade-off though. A fifteen mile per hour head wind, aggressive traffic, and throngs of mindless, wandering pedestrians made today less than pleasant. Slowly, the amount of people wandering about in the sun rose as the sun crawled it’s way above the world’s head. More and more people began to crowd the sidewalks and shoulders, mouth agape looking at things. As I approached Panama City Beach, the crowd sizes began to reach a breaking-point. Throngs of people mindlessly blocking the pedestrian path or crossing the road without looking became a legitimate danger to the basic functioning of the city. People were EVERYWHERE. Even as I slowed down or moved away from the busy, downtown areas I was still dodging bodies. Drunk college students were buzzing around in rental mopeds causing cars to panic and sending them into the shoulder where I was riding. My head was on a swivel as I tried to keep an eye out for myself. I was only 250 pounds of man and bike going up against two tons of car, its panicked driver, and all the kinetic energy they possessed. 

As if this stressful situation wasn't enough there was also the flat tire and broken headphones that added to the frustration. I'm not sure what number flat this is in Florida--somewhere between four and seven--but I do know that I have had far too many in this state. I quickly pulled over into a grassy area and began the process of repairing my tire. Just as I got into the flow, a group of wandering Spring Breakers stopped to talk to me. At this point, I was in a dilemma. These people weren't responsible for my frustration, and my trip was all about exposure and visibility so taking a few minutes and speaking with them wouldn't hurt; but I knew my mood was anything less than inviting and I was racing against the sun and didn’t know if I would win the race today. So I took a breath, sucked it up, and had a pleasant conversation about my trip with some strangers as I hurriedly repaired my tire. After only a few minutes and an attempt by this group of strangers to recruit me to their church, I was back on my way towards the Pacific. However, I had no campsite for the night.

As the sun began to sink towards the Gulf, I made calls to campgrounds and RV villages to find myself a place to sleep. All my calls ended with "I'm sorry we're full. It is Spring Break season hun/bud/sir. Good luck though." After the fifth failed call and the sun only forty minutes from setting, I decided it was time to deploy my last-resort tactic: stealth camping.

"Stealth camping" is fancy outdoor jargon for what is essentially homelessness and trespassing. It is simply camping in a location that does not allow camping. This can be out in the middle of nowhere, or in a city park behind the right grouping of rocks, or even in a campsite where you haven't paid. It is a technique that is controversial in the outdoor world, for good reason.  Some people, like myself, see it as a last-resort option while others see it as a under-utilized method to cut down costs of camping. The philosophy I ascribe to allows it sparsely and only in times of necessity; the other mode of thinking deploys it frequently. Plenty of people out-right condemn the practice as the camper knowingly creates an unsafe situation for themselves, wildlife, emergency services, and owners of the property—valid concerns. Given the situation and location I was in though, I figured I could find a place that was plenty safe, hidden, and where I would be a nuisance to no one or anything.

As I biked down the highway I found a sign advertising a new suburb that would be going up in the Summer of this year. I biked in to a quiet clearing where a future cul-de-sac of $1.5+ million homes would be going. For now though, it laid bare and quiet, wrapped in the long boughs of tall pines, foundations of home without a home to sit upon it. I pushed Kona into the forest nearby until the thick underbrush made it impossible for me to be seen from the road. I quietly made camp as the last light of the day faded into the distance. Among the packed hotels, campgrounds full of RVs and tents, and bungalows filled with drunk college students I found a quiet, empty piece of land to borrow for the night. 

Day 15 - 40 miles (841)

Rain. 

Mid-forties temperature. 

Lots of rain.

Richard and I had neglected to check out what today's weather was going to be, and it was raining. A heavy, but steady rain. He wanted to leave his campsite today but decided to wait it out in his camper and shoot for Georgia in the morning. I had no such option and needed to get out of Florida sooner rather than later. Richard nodded, and made an excuse to clean some laundry in town and offered to drive me to town with my bike if I wanted. I agreed and we loaded up Kona and headed back towards the blue water of the Gulf.

As we approached town the wind picked up, and not in my favor. Richard and I looked at each other in silence, waiting for one of us to acknowledge the unfortunate situation. He shrugged his shoulders as he drove and muttered, "sunny Florida feels a lot like Oregon" as we pulled into the laundromat. I unloaded my bike and gave Richard the hug and goodbyes that a friend like him deserves. He gave me a trash bag to store my electronics in for the rain and told me to stay safe as I traveled. "Hopefully I'll see you in Oregon!" he happily called out as he turned inside into the warm comfort of the laundromat. "I'll see you sooner than you think!" I called back as I began to crank into the rain and wind. 

Riding a bike in the rain makes you appreciate the beauty an overcast day can offer.

I was still physically miserable though.

After an unremarkable forty miles of cycling, I showed up to my campsite: tired, wet, cold, and cursing this trip. I rolled into Rustic Sands Campground looking for any spot they had available that was even remotely dry. The camp manager was familiar with cross-country cyclists and had a special little hut on stilts for them; "though," she added while eyeing my dripping-wet clothes, "usually the bikers are going East, not West." Another reminder that the wind I battled today would be the rule, not the exception, as I moved towards the Pacific Ocean. I thanked the manager for her hospitality and hurried over to my spot for the night. 

The hut was tall enough that I was able to store Kona underneath away from prying eyes. I took my panniers, handlebar bag, and tent and quickly threw them into the hut. I wanted to get everything as dry as I could or else I'd risk the chance of saddle sores, blisters, trench foot and other wounds from soggy, cold skin rubbing on clothing in the next few days. I creatively hung my clothes around the hut to dry and made camp. My tent, sleeping bag, and packed clothes stayed remarkably dry. I made a soggy dinner of rice, a can of tuna, several slices of bread, peanut butter, and oatmeal over my small camping stove. As I waited for my food to cook I finally began to appreciate the graffiti on the inside of the shed. The most troubling writing was the hurried, scrawled writing of "what is ded???" several times all over the walls in what was clearly the writing of a child experiencing their first existential crisis.

Welcome to the team bud.

After hurriedly shoving my meal down my throat, I found myself with nothing else to do. At the time of seven in the evening, with the sun already nestling behind the horizon, I went to sleep.

Day 14 - 78 miles (801)

Today was rough.  

I got up as quick as I could and packed up camp. I wasn't necessarily afraid of Jim, but I didn't want to stick around for him to pitch me the idea of starting a cult again. I left before the sun rose and rode towards yesterday's original goal: Apalachicola National Forest.

I rode into a nearby town and refilled on water and bought a snack as I began my spin onward. I hugged the coastline as the overcast early morning cast a sense of malaise over the water. At one point I stopped and pointed my compass towards the South. Just two weeks ago I was 800 miles to the South, spinning my wheels for the first time on this trip. Now, as I sat eating a slop of beans, rice, and tuna on an abandoned dock, I tried to muster up the emotional capital to realize what I had accomplished so far. Instead, I just stared at the water thinking: "I should probably clean my chain." I guess the weather is filling me with a sense of ennui. I packed up my cooking gear and got back on Kona, heading West.

I crossed a river and hooked right towards the woods as the main road continued along the coast. At the time, I thought nothing of leaving US-98--a road with wide, cyclist-friendly shoulders, and turning down a road that was significantly less cyclist-friendly. I rode on the road for a short distance until it turned into a dirt road. That dirt road eventually rolled into a logging road. At this point the thought "is this the right way?" popped into my mind. I immediately ignored it and continued forward. Eventually the logging road lead me straight into being lost. There was no cell service and to return to the main road was a waste of two hours. In a race against the sun, those hours count.

I pulled up my maps app in hopes of catching a cached version of the maps or at least able to get some sort of GPS signal. To my luck, the map was still loaded up and had my last position marked. I lost service two miles South. The campsite I was heading towards was North along the logging route and then West on the first road I crossed. There was hope! I quickly miscalculated the distance to the town and began my haul North. I thought it would be a nice change of pace. A whole forest to myself. In the beginning it was peaceful. The clouds had cleared a bit and there was sun poking through, making me feel a bit better.

It ended up with having to haul my bike through thick sand, loose rock the size of my fist, and throngs of mosquitoes. Any sense of lassitude I had before now turned into anxiety. I knew I had to head North to reach a road that lead into a small town. I figured it would take two hours to get through the forest and back to a proper road. 

I figured wrong. Two hours in I ran out of water and food. I wanted to use my water filter on the ditch running parallel with the trail I was on; however, I was still close enough to the ocean that I didn't want to risk ruining my water filter on salt water and being left filter-less in the place where it really mattered: the desert. I figured the town couldn't be much further. I figured wrong, allowing my brain to convince itself that it could do it. Me, as a person and not the collection of neurons that are my brain, was long gone. I was functioning on lizard brain. My legs ached, my feet hurt, and my attitude was nothing short of hostile after two and a half hours trudging through the quiet pines. At one point, in utter frustration, I yelled as loud as I could to no one in particular just to vent the building tension inside. It did nothing. I had more trudging to do if I wanted to get to a campsite before dark. I had to keep moving. 

I finally left the forest four hours later after a long, aggravating, and exhausting haul. I was dangerously low on calories, exhausted, and with no real clear idea where I was headed. I only knew Sumatra, Florida had a single restaurant and about five or six streets. I didn't even know if that restaurant was open, but it was the only town for miles so I had no other options. My front wheel eventually rolled out of the pinkish-yellow sand and hit cracked, old pavement. Just a short distance down this road stood a small shack with the chimney and dumpster out back that implied some grease-laden food was served here. I made it to “Family Coastal Restaurant.”

Fortunately, the restaurant was open and had WiFi. I quickly tossed Kona to the side of the building as I stumbled in to a mostly empty restaurant and hid in the corner near a power outlet. I was able to re-calibrate my location, recharge my phone, and refuel on food. As I updated my friends and family to my location and inhaled all food placed in front of me, a gentleman behind me began to ask me about my bike and my trip. I quickly told him the bare facts of my trip, being unintentionally rude, hoping to get back on the road soon. As I finished my meal I asked him about himself, feeling the rules of politeness dictate my actions. He told me his name was Richard.

Richard had retired only a few years ago and decided to turn his work van into his travelling van. He was spending retirement traveling around the states, going to places he always wanted to see and leaving only when he felt like it. "I'm trying the nomad thing out for a bit," he told me with a smile. He mentioned he had a permanent address--"only for tax reasons"--out in Oregon. Otherwise, he was a man of the road. He did a trip of the nation's National Parks last year, this year he was doing forests and working his way back West. After chatting with him for nearly an hour, he invited me to stay at his campsite. Once again, I agreed to spend an evening with a complete stranger. As I finished my meal Richard told me how to get to his campsite and that he would follow along shortly as he had some planning to finish up. I got back on Kona and headed back into the woods, following along a paved road and the directions of a stranger.

As I approached the campsite, Richard passed by with a big smile and even larger van and pointed towards a state park, indicating to go right, not left. I found Richard's campsite hidden among the trees in Apalachicola National Forest. After setting up camp, having a shower beer, and chewing the fat, Richard told me he was heading over to another camp nearby to meet some of his friends. Me, with nothing else to do beyond sleep, agreed to go. Let me say that Richard has good taste in friends.

They were extraordinary.  

There was Emile and Mat, a Quebecois couple who traveled the US when the farm they worked at was out of season. They live out of a Toyota Land Cruiser that could barely make it to fifty mph on a good day. They traveled via country roads that stitched together enough small towns that they had traveled from Quebec to to Texas and then the Keys. They were now beginning their trip back to Quebec to prepare the farm for the next season. There was also Ron, a retired psychologist and programmer turned wood/metal worker. He too had recently retired and was on the same retirement plan as Richard: traveling the US and only leaving campsites when he felt it was time to. As we all took a seat around the campfire, something magical began to happen.

We shared stories of our individual pasts as the smoke floated into the air up to the stars. We were enthralled in everyone else's opinions and stories, each representing our own little corner of the North American continent. Ron told us of how a flippant woodworking job he took ended with him unexpectedly becoming a crew member on a sailboat in the Caribbean. Mat and Emile pointed out the absurdly beautiful qualities of American culture as we asked them what life in the Canadian Shield was like. Richard waxed poetic on the value of labor groups in the formation of the Pacific Northwest and how the sublime, dreary beauty of Portland was as mystical as people claimed. The group turned to me and asked about my trip and life in Michigan and if the mythos surrounding Detroit was true. I also chose to gush endlessly about the stunning beauty that is the ocean of fresh water surrounding the piece of land I called home and the resilience of the city that the rest of the nation seemed to make the butt of their jokes.

At one point the group began to gossip about an apparent police raid that occurred earlier in the day. A once-believed-to-be-abandoned boat that listlessly sat on the water only 100 yards away was apparently the local hot spot for meth production. While I was shoving my bike down the half-abandoned logging road earlier in the day, police were emptying the boat of boxes and boxes of chemistry equipment. This only sparked more conversation as we shared our own harrowing adventures with the law; or how good of a show "Breaking Bad" was. Eventually, the campfire mellowed into hot embers and we all parted ways, preparing to continue our separate adventures when the sun got up. 

As we returned to our campsite, Richard and I had a friendly talk. He told me to contact him as I approached the Pacific Northwest because he might have a place or two for me to stay. Thanks to him I know when I'm in Oregon I have a warm bed and cold beer waiting for me.

He as well in Detroit.