Guest Blog: Cross Country Bikepacking at 60

600-mile round-trip journey from Panama City Beach to Fruitland Park, Florida

Day Seventeen: January 23, 2020

This was my last day. Only 31 miles to ride from Youngstown to Panama City Beach, and I would be home. My internal alarm woke me at 5:15 am, and I was packed and out the door—with no coffee or breakfast—by 7:30 am. Immediately, I noticed that the ground was wet and the sky gray and dreary. It had been raining and was still drizzling. 

This wasn’t supposed to happen. It wasn’t supposed to rain today. Last I checked, the forecast hadn’t predict rain until Friday, which was the primary reason I had rushed to get home one day early. 

Although it was dark and dreary, I had little choice but to trudge on. I snapped a photo of the motel’s sign that had been damaged during the hurricane. Then, I pulled out onto the highway. Fortunately, the wind was to my back, and I was able to make good time on US 231. But morning traffic was heavy. Some vehicles crowded me. A few slowed when they couldn’t get over. Most just swept by me at full speed, thundering in my ears. 

But as I have learned to do, ignore them and just peddle, peddle, peddle.

Many times that first hour, I considered stopping for coffee, but I was making such good time that I decided coffee could wait.

About eight miles down the road, the rain drops grew larger and more frequent. I stopped at a closed business with a roof and put on my rain jacket. Then immediately I merged back into the bicycle lane to join the motorists, racing to their destinations. At SR 390, I cut across toward Lynn Haven. There was considerable road construction, but at this early hour, very few workers had arrived. Or maybe the weather had discouraged them.

Traffic was thinner, speed was slower, and the bellow of engines quieter. I began to enjoy myself a little more. I began to contemplate my trip, summarize some of my lessons.

Many years ago, I read some academic maxim that stated that the greatest mistake that travelers make is thinking that the people they meet there are like the people back home. 

There is a lot of truth to that. As travelers must be sensitive to new cultures and traditions, whether in foreign countries or right here in the US. We should be careful not to assume too much. And we should proceed cautiously when interacting with people, let them take the first lead whenever possible. 

On the other hand, I would argue that we commit a disservice to ourselves and those we encounter when traveling if we assume that the people we meet are very dissimilar than those back home. 

Everywhere I have traveled, I have learned that a smile and offer of friendliness can earn a smile and friendliness in return. Everywhere citizens are largely looking for the same things we are looking for: the ability to put food on the table, protect their families, and create a better future for their children. 

In the middle of the Civil War in El Salvador in 1984, I met my wife. I lived there for a year. Her family, friends, and neighbors treated me like one of the family. For a week at a time, I would forget that a war was going on. I would play basketball, read, and write. I would listen to my father-in-law play his guitar and sing. I would watch cartoons with the neighborhood children. Walk through the open air market and buy sweet bread and drink fruit drinks. 

At the height of the armed struggle between the Contras and the Sandinista army in Nicaragua in the late 80s, my youngest brother and I crossed over from Costa Rica to Nicaragua at a time when the US State Department has issued a warning that it was unsafe to travel there. At the border, two Nicaraguan soldiers were standing in a fox hole throwing a baseball. 

In 2000, I crossed over into Taliban-run Afghanistan on a Friday, a local weekend. Because no immigration officials were on duty, a janitor stamped my passport, allowing me to enter. I was conducting research on Afghan education. According to international media reports, the Taliban were refusing the education of girls. When I saw school after school in Paktia Province where at least half the classrooms were filled with young girls, I asked who these girls were. The response was “daughters of Taliban.” 

None of this is meant to say that there were not political and social problems, even atrocities in these countries at the time. My point is that most people are caring. They enjoy sports and exercise and music. They wish an education for their children. They hope and dream and struggle and fail and succeed, just like the rest of us. 

So has been my 17-day experience in Florida. In that period of time, I covered 680 miles, crossed 17 counties, and met people from 14 states and 10 countries. Most people were very friendly. Although I was a stranger, they worried about my safety. They were intrigued by my journey. They were hopeful. Hardworking. Dedicated. Honest. They loved their communities, careers, and children.

Intentionally, I did not broach topics of politics or religion. Or even sports much. I attempted to be sensitive and remain respectful. My interviews were brief. 

I learned a lot about Florida and the people who live and visit there. I learned that they study, aspire, work hard, care for their children and their jobs, love to fish and hunt and travel. They enjoy talking with friends and getting to know new people. They have their own world views and opinions and biases, just like the rest of us. 

I also know that I want to do this again. But next time, I want to do more research. Investigate more thoroughly the history of the towns I am going to visit before starting out. Study the flora and fauna before hand. I hope to go a little slower. Maybe spend one extra day in a few places, exploring, conducting more in-depth interviews, and visiting libraries and courthouses and landmarks. All with the goal of enriching my experience.

Today, I was focused on safety. I didn’t want to make a major blunder that could lead to an accident on my last day. As I got closer to Panama City, the traffic grew thicker, particularly when passing through bottlenecks created by construction. Vehicles largely gave me a wide berth or slowed when there was no space to give. 

When I got to the Hathaway Bridge, I realized it was not as tall as some of the hills I had encountered near Gainesville or Tallahassee. But I did not conquer it with any freshly-acquired strength or skills. It winded me just as much as it had three weeks ago. At the top, I stopped and took a photo. I was happy to be back.

Panama City and Panama City Beach are beautiful. 

The rest of the way home was fun. I went slow, enjoying the last few miles. And then, I was home. I needed to rest for a couple days and get warm. I felt like I had not truly been warm for the last several days.

This adventure taught me a lot about myself. What I can accomplish physically and socially in my sixties. How I can push myself out of my comfort zone and the rewards I can reap from such endeavors.

It would be disingenuous for me to say something like “60 is just a number.” I don’t believe that. I can no longer do what I could when I was 25. However, I see many men and women who are achieving amazing feats at the age of 70 and 80. Many exercise daily, play golf, work, write, help others, drive long distances, rehabilitate homes, and solve problems. Their achievements motivate me to continue to push myself. Who knows what I can accomplish in the next 20 years.

In Honduras, I exercise seven days a week. But I feel it. My knees and joints and calves and thigh muscles hurt every single day. Frequently my back aches. I largely eat a vegetarian diet. Don’t drink or do drugs. I don’t even take prescription medicine. But I can no longer compete with some of the younger people I met on the trip who rode 100 miles a day and slept under bridges or in front of churches. Nor do I want to.

Next week, I get on a plane and fly back to Honduras, where I assume my responsibilities on a job I love. With coworkers I respect and admire. I work with young Hondurans who inspire me. One day last summer, I knocked on a steel door of a school in San Pedro Sula, a city with a reputation for being one of the most violent in the world. A tiny black girl, maybe nine years old, opened the door to let me in, and then started to walk away. But she suddenly turned, and walked back to me and hugged me around the waist. She didn’t say a word. Just hugged me and walked away. Being the touchy-feely person that I am, that touched me deeply.

Back in Honduras, I will be with my wife, my daughter, and our grandchildren. On weekends, I lose myself in research for a genealogy and history book set in 18th and 19th century rural Indiana that I am co-writing with a cousin. And that world will envelope me day and night for the next year.

But I also need to clear my head and carve out a plan for my next travel adventure.

Day Sixteen: January 22, 2020

This day represents my longest leg of the entire trip: 54 miles. It was among the coldest too. The entire night before I kept thinking that the two greatest challenges would be headwind and hills. 

When I woke up at 6 am, it was 30 degrees. I had only slept five hours. That is less than I am accustomed to. I had decided to delay my departure until 9 am, allowing it to warm up to 35 degrees. A couple hours later it was to be in the 40s and eventually climb into the 50s. 

I was more than pleased to have real coffee for once. Plain black instant coffee is better than nothing, but only a little. It always reminds me of my grandparents who had instant coffee a lot when I was a child.

A few minutes before 9 am, I put the key under the cabin doormat and pushed my bike out to the Ochlockonee River and really looked at it for the first time. Yesterday, I had been too tired and too cold. 

At SR 20, I crossed over the Ocholockonee River again and saw the hydroelectric dam on the edge of Lake Talquin. I am sure this is all beautiful in reasonably thawed weather, but I was freezing and didn’t dawdle. 

I crossed over into Liberty County and a little later entered Hosford. I stopped at a Dollar General and got some water, carefully poking my head out to watch my bike the whole time. Dollar Generals are in almost every town in Florida. If there is a population of 300, chances are there is a Dollar General in the vicinity. When I got ready to check out, I couldn’t find the cashier. 

“Squeeze that pink pig,” a customer told me. It was a toy sitting on the counter. I looked at her and laughed, and then squeezed. It squealed as you might expect, and I heard the disembodied voice of the cashier holler, “I am coming.”

About a half an hour later, I ran off the road trying to take a photo of a turkey buzzard that was directly overhead. I plopped back onto the shoulder and skidded into the road, grateful that no cars were coming.

Lesson: Pay attention to the road and forget the photos.

At Bristol, where I had hoped to stay—but had trouble getting reservations because of the recent rash of bicycle vandalism inside motel rooms—I rode right through, figuring I wouldn’t buy anything that would contribute to their economy. I was still mad at them.

The bridge that crosses the Apalachicola River, however, was worthy of a few extra minutes. I had driven across it a few times with a car and a motor home. The bridge is about a mile-long monster that is awe-inspiring even in a motor vehicle. On a bike, the roar and rumble of the vehicles as they rush past reverberate in your chest.

Sand hill cranes are very common in the waters, lakes, and ponds along my route. But in this river, I saw some very peculiar cranes: mechanical cranes. It would appear that this bottom ground commonly floods when the river swells and somehow three backhoes were left to the mercy of the floods.

To be honest, I have not been able to come up with a really valid reason why you would leave three backhoes to the mercy of flood water in the bottoms near one of the biggest rivers in Florida. What do you tell your boss? “Hey, Bill. Sorry to have to break it to you, but you remember when it started raining last Friday? Well, I was in a bit of a hurry because I had a date, and I didn’t want to get wet… And then Monday morning when I came in…”

At the bridge you cross over into Calhoun County and at the end of the bridge you arrive at Blountstown. On the left I saw the Airport Motel that isn’t bicycle-friendly. In fact, a cynical man might call them bike-a-phobe. Or bikists. 

At Blountsown I was about half way to my destination. I stopped and got a horrible tuna sandwich at a gas station. I noticed the time had changed back. 

In town, I began to see the damage that Hurricane Michael left behind 16 months ago. The town is NE of Mexico Beach and directly in the path of the storm. Buildings still stand destroyed or covered with blue tarps. Outside the town, I saw acre after acre of forests snapped in half like match sticks like I did near Mexico Beach. 

Further outside of town, the concrete benches and tables are all that is left of a Rest Area. 

An hour or so further down the road, I entered Bay County. Although not quite home, it felt good to be back in my county. 

After several two-minute rest breaks, and one ten-minute stop, I arrived at US 231. I told myself, “You are tired. This is when people make mistakes. Be careful.”

At the intersection, I triple checked before pulling in front of a few cars to get into the left turn lane. It was a stoplight, so I was safe. US 231 is a very busy road. Perhaps the busiest full-speed highway I have driven on. I stopped at the Hardees to buy Beyond Burgers. When I looked on Google Maps, I found no restaurants near my motel. 

When I got to Youngstown, I stopped at a Dollar General to get some water. A man in his fifties came up to me and said, “You be careful on 231. I saw you out there. It’s really dangerous.”

I thanked him and walked to the counter. The cashier told me, “You are the one who got hit out here last month, right?”

“No,” I told her.

“Oh, I thought you were. There was a man riding out of the parking lot when a customer backed into him. He didn’t see him.”

I am not superstitious, but these two comments out of the blue within 60 seconds sort of felt like a portent of some kind. Although the Youngstown Motel was only two blocks down the road, I rode on the sidewalk, refusing to get back on the busy highway.

The motel only has about seven rooms. In the back they have a couple cabins. Behind the cabins is a small trailer park. 

Jay was petting a huge cat that was lying in his arms when I arrived. He had been exceedingly polite and friendly on the phone when I called Sunday, which was immediately after having the bicycle graffiti debate with the clerk at the Airport Motel. I liked Jay.

“I was born and raised right here,” he said in a strong southern accent. He’s been working at the motel about four years. 

Jay got a call from U-Haul, while I was there. He rents trucks and trailers out of the motel. 

He gave the interlocutor a license plate number of a vehicle and said, “I don’t know how it got here. Somebody just left it. It ain’t got no gas.”

Jay handed me the key of Room 4, and whispered the internet code to me. I was only too happy to get to the room. It had been a long, cold day.

The doors to all the rooms were open. The units are under renovation. 

Room 4 is really pretty. And tiny. The TV sits on a light blue dresser, and there are matching night stands on either side of the bed. The bed frame and headboard match the rest of the furniture. 

There is only one light in the center of the room. Appearances-wise, it is nicer than some of the other rooms I have stayed at. 

But there is no fridge. No microwave. The TV has not been set up. The cable laying on the floor had no signal. The room was cold.

The mattress was very comfortable, and likely new, but it sits three feet off the ground. I am not a small guy at six foot, but I literally have to climb into the bed.

The bathroom had only one large towel. No floor towel. No hand towel. No wash cloth. No shampoo. 

And worst of all, no hot water. I can say from experience, though, if you run it long enough, it will become less freezing. I could have chilled wine with that water.

The internet was horrible.

Jay came in to try to fix the cable. He brought a tool bag with remote controls, scarred Xfinity boxes, and an assortment cables and power cords. “I’ll see if I can get you some cable.”

He prodded and connected and disconnected. He left the room many times and returned. On one occasion, he swapped out my place heater for one that had wheels. That was a good idea because the bathroom was freezing. So I pushed the new heater in there for an hour to take the chill off. 

Jay brought in a digital antenna but couldn’t get it to work with the new TV. “It has 22 channels,” he said. He fiddled with it for about 20 minutes, then asked, “Do you think you can get it? I can’t get it to scan the stations.”

“OK,” I said.

Jay said, “I am going to go see if I can find you a power cord for your box.”

The digital antenna didn’t have any signal. So, I gave up trying to make it work. I climbed into bed. It took my three tries, but I was proud of myself when I finally got up there. I laid down and took a nap.

When I woke up, it was dark. I went out to find Jay and learn of his progress on getting me some cable. He was talking to another tenant.

“We’re still a Mom and Pap, you know. We didn’t get no help from FEMA,” Jay told him.

I do empathize with these small businesses. They have struggled with the hurricane damage, and it is a testimony to their spirit that they are even back up and running in any capacity.

“I think I found you a power cord,” Jay told me. “I sent my wife to get it.”

I asked him where I could get coffee. “Coffee?” he asked out loud and had to think.

“See that light up there?” It was about 3/4 of a mile. “There’s a convenience store there. You can get you some coffee there.”

I started up there, but it was cold and dark, and I still hadn’t warmed up from the cold ride. The sidewalk was dark on both sides of the street. My legs were sore. I stopped after a 50 feet, but the thought of going back to that cold room with no cable, crappy internet, no microwave, and no fridge, was too bleak. I needed coffee. I still held out hope that I could watch the Pacer game. And I had a cold Beyond Burger to eat.

After a hundred yards, that gas station looked too far away. I stopped again.

“It is not worth it,” I told myself.

Finally, I talked myself into finishing the walk by convincing myself that I would be glad once I got coffee. So I trudged on.

When I got to the gas station, I bought two coffees, placed them carefully in a plastic bag, and walked back. Surprisingly, I didn’t spill any on that long, dark walk back.

Back on the crest of the bed, I drank my lukewarm coffee and ate a cold sandwich. I tried to stream the Pacers game, but the internet sucked. So I read for a while and drank my second cup of cool coffee. Around 8 pm, I dozed off.

Day Fifteen: January 21, 2020

This was going to be a cold one. But the distance from east Tallahassee to my cabin at Riverside RV & Campground east of Hosford on SR 20 was only 30 miles. It was only 30 degrees at 6 am, but I planned to hold out until 9 am when the temperature would climb to 33. 

Last night I had hoped to watch the Pacers’ basketball game, but the internet was bad. Intentionally bad. The free internet option only allowed enough bandwidth for emails, and even then it was in and out. If you wanted the streaming option, you had to pay an additional $6.99. 

This morning, I read and watched the news. I was in no hurry to rush out into the cold. The freezing weather is what I had moved to Florida from Maryland to get away from. I try never to go to Indiana in the winter. I can visit family in the summer just as easily and enjoy myself much more.

When the time came to depart this morning, I put on a second pair of socks, packed up my gear, bundled up, and dropped my key off at the desk.

“I still can’t believe you are doing this,” Brian the manager said with a shake of his head and a smile. “I couldn’t do it.”

I shook his hand. He and Diana, his co-worker, were some of the kindest people I have met on this trip. 

Many years ago, I was at a work retreat on the Chesapeake Bay. For the first time, I took the Myers–Briggs Type Indicator, a self-evaluation that determines your personality type according to four categories: Introversion/Extraversion, Sensing/Intuition, Thinking/Feeling, Judging/Perception. I had heard about it a few years earlier, but I had never taken it. 

The test provides about 40 questions to answer, and the results categorize you as a certain personality type based on the four sets of opposing traits: Introvert vs Extrovert, Thinker over Feeler, etc. I learned three important things about myself.

First, I have an instinctive behavior and a learned behavior that are in constant contrast. Take a question like the following. “Do you prefer to plan a trip well or just make spur of the moment decisions?” My instinct tells me that I can derive the most pleasure by just hopping in the car and driving to find out where the road leads me. But my learned behavior has taught me that if I don’t make hotel reservations, check the route, pack for the weather, take cash and credit cards, I could experience much more frustration than pleasure. 

Second, of the group of five senior managers on the retreat, I was the only touchy-feely one. The others were more calculating and judgmental. For me, it has always been important to sense emotions in the workplace and motivate accordingly. Many of my colleagues often made decisions without taking into account the feelings and emotions of others. 

Finally, I am a nearly off-the-chart introvert. All day long at work, I talk. I coach. I teach. I participate, consult, engage, persuade, learn, rebut, acquiesce, and even chat a little. So my day is filled with conversation and dialogue. When I get home, the last thing I want to do is talk. I go to my room, turn on the TV, and unwind. I charge my batteries by being alone or being in the room with loved ones watching TV, sports, or engaged in some other activity that requires very little conversation. Some weekends, I enter the house on Friday and don’t leave again—except to go out to exercise early in the morning—until the following Monday. 

So this experience of riding a bike across Florida with the goal of interviewing people has forced me to engage, step out of my comfort zone. Talk to strangers. Likewise, riding a bike in the fresh air four to six hours a day has forced me to experience nature and the roars and perils of traffic—often close enough I can reach out and touch the passing vehicles—in ways I never have. 

Engaging and conversing with Brian and Diana at the hotel are examples of how I learned a little from, and shared a little with, complete strangers. When I left, we were not really complete strangers anymore. For me, that was quite an accomplishment. 

Off US 27, I rode on SR 61 South 1 1/2 miles to reach Orange Avenue West. From there, I struggled with a couple of monster hills before the road leveled off, for which I was eternally grateful. Very quickly, I was sweating profusely under the plastic overcoat, and the cold wind was making my chest and back chilly. I wasn’t necessarily cold, but my body temperature definitely dropped a little.

Orange Avenue curbs around south Tallahassee meeting SR 263 on the west side of the city. After a couple of miles north on 263, I reached SR 20 and headed west. This will be my primary route for the next two days.

For the next couple pf miles on 20, there are several gas stations. I stopped at one and met the very friendly Indian owner named Sami Bhai from the state of Gujarat. He made Hunt Brothers pizzas while a young lady attended the cash register. He seemed to know all his customers by name.

“How is your foot?” he asked one lady who was wearing a bandage and an orthopedic boot on her left foot. The woman, who appeared to be in her early thirties, put in her debit card to buy a pack of cigarettes. She explained to Sami her prognosis. 

“When are you getting that taken off?” Sami asked. Then before she could answer, he turned to me, “She burned her foot… with coffee.”

I sipped my coffee, trying to warm up and making a mental note to keep my socks on next time I drink scalding coffee. 

“It comes off Friday,” she said. “Then I have to keep it covered with only white socks.”

Sami loves Ram Nath Kovind, India’s commander-in-chief. “The president of India lived from here to here from my house,” Sami said showing me first his vertical right hand and then his left a yard away. “A one-room house. He is a very good man.”

After leaving Sami’s, the hills start again, but not as steep as before. These I can handle, but I continue to struggle with the cold. I continue to pull up the neck warmer over my nose to attempt to avoid frostbite, but soon my glasses fog up, so I have to pull it down. Traveling hills at greater speeds are my biggest concern because the wind is whipping into my face, my nose taking the brunt of the icy weather. It was still in the 30s. So I covered my nose each time I headed down a hill or the wind picked up, then uncovered it when I started up the next hill. 

A strong headwind was toying with me the whole day. Four minutes of headwind, then it disappeared. Three minutes of nothing, then the headwind returned for five minutes. 

About nine miles from my destination, I stop to rest. In the woods inside a thicket, I found a boot with what looked like a wooden leg cut off at the shin. I thought about pulling it out but decided against it. In fact, it was dark in there, and I couldn’t see clearly. But it had to be a wooden leg. Couldn’t be a real one. It would not have stayed long without decomposing. But why insert a wooden foot in a boot and then toss it into the woods. Some type of stunt? Practical joke? Why there? 

As I climbed back onto the bike, I went over and over in my head what I should do. Should I call the police? That is just plain silly. It is nothing. It didn’t look like skin and bone. Too rigid.

Finally, I made the campground. In response to a question about where I could find food, Nader, the owner of the cabin, had written me a long message telling me that his Sunoco station had “awesome food” and there was a food truck out front that had “awesome food.” But at the campground, I didn’t find a gas station.

“No man, my Sunoco” is back on SR 20 about three miles toward Tallahassee, Nader told me when I called him. I had passed it. I didn’t relish the idea of riding six miles round trip to get something to eat, but neither did I want to eat what was left on my bike: Can of mackerel and energy bars. 

“I can come and pick you up in about half an hour, man,” Nader told me. 

My jacked was soaked in sweat. I put it on the sole heater by the door in an attempt to dry it out. I noted that there was a Bunn coffee maker and filters, but no coffee. The cabin is equipped with a full kitchen, tiny living room, bedroom, and bathroom with a shower. The cabin was adorable, but cold. And I just couldn’t get warm. 

Nader was one of the nicest men I have ever met. He is from Iran. He has lived in the US for over 40 years. He is perhaps my age or older. He talks a bit like a hippy, using a lot of “mans” and jargon from the 60s and 70s. 

When asked what brought him to the US, he said, “The CIA is what happened to me. In 1952… The CIA kicked out our president and brought in the Shah… We had everything going for us [until then]. Gas and oil.” 

Nader was referring to the 1953 Iranian coup d’état, when the CIA overthrew the democratically elected prime minister, Mosaddegh, and installed Mohammed Reza Pahlavi as king, or Shah of Iran.

“We had to go outside to get an education,” he said. Nader was likely just a child in 1953, if born at all. I supposed his parents fled Iran to ensure freedom and a good education for their children. 

The best, most accessible book about Iran during that period is Daughter of Persia by Sattareh Farman Farmaian. Her father was a prince, but told her that he would have no legacy to give her, except education. So he sent her abroad to study. 

“People have treated me very good” in the US, Nader told me. 

“Always?” I asked.

“Always,” he responded. “Most people in any country are good… Just a few are bad.” 

If his customers are any indication, people love Nader and his sons. The men know their customers by name. 

Nader introduced me to “the best fisherman in the whole area… I would give him a three out of ten,” Nader joked, waiting for the man to respond. “No, I would give him a nine. No one is perfect.”

The man told me a story about bringing Nader fresh fish one day but he forgot to cook them.

I needed to buy two meals at Nader’s Sunoco because there is nothing else around for miles, and I will not leave the cabin the rest of the day. The temperature has not risen above 41 degrees by 1 pm. I bought water and a soft drink. Ordered a pizza. 

When I went to buy a can of coffee for six dollars to make coffee in the room, Nader told me, “I got this.”

His hospitality reminded me of the friendliness I have experienced all over the Middle East. In Peshawar, Pakistan, strangers used to stop me on the street and offer to take me to their house for tea or lunch. I even accepted the offers a couple of times. Once in Jordan, when my son and I had been searching for an apartment to rent for hours, a man asked us to come in out of the hot sun. We did, and they served us lunch. 

“You are number eight,” Nader told me. He and his sons just rehabilitated the cabin and put it on Airbnb. I was his eighth customer.

“Do you like the cabin?” he asked.

“Yes, I do. But it is a little cold.”

“Don’t worry. I will give you another heater to put in the bedroom. In 30 minutes, it will warm up.”

When we got back to the cabin, Nader gave me the second heater. It took several hours for the cabin to heat up, but by evening it was plenty warm.

While at the gas station, I also met Amer, who runs the food wagon. His parents brought him from Minia, Egypt to the US when he was two. After his father “was shot because he was a Copt [Christian], they moved,” he told me.

Amer owned two businesses in Melbourne, Florida, south of Orlando, but moved to Nader’s campground two months ago. “He built the whole wagon himself,” Nader said. “He’s amazing.”

Amer said, “there was only one season there… I wanted to do something different.” So he moved here and started this food truck. Today was his first day. 

At the cabin, I chatted with my cousin who is a Jackson County police officer in Indiana. He recommended I report the foot in the boot, even if it is nothing. I called the Leon County police, but the officer on duty was busy, so it sent me to voice mail, and I left a message. He never called me back. 

As the room warmed up, I watched Sunday’s Pacer game and part of Monday’s. I climbed into bed, but couldn’t sleep. I watched Netflix on someone else’s account, the last person who stayed here, I suppose. But sleep still wouldn’t come. I normally sleep with no problems. Maybe one night a month, I have difficulty sleeping. This was the one night. 

Finally, about 1 am, I got to sleep.

Day Fourteen: January 20, 2020

Yesterday (Sunday) was my Rain Day. I didn’t bike anywhere. By the time I woke up around 6 am, the worst of the rain had passed. It drizzled off and on but that was it. I read, then went to the office for coffee that the owner makes in his coffeemaker each morning at 7 am. At 8 am, I left the motel and walked down to eat breakfast.

An African American lady in her 40s was riding a bike in my direction. I heard her talking to herself loudly. When she got near, I greeted her. She said, “Good morning, sir.”

When I was working in Washington, DC, I came across many homeless people who spoke to themselves. Usually loud enough that you could hear them 20 yards away. I have no doubt that many of these people suffer from mental disabilities. However, I always wondered if talking to oneself was not also a defense mechanism that some homeless people used to keep thieves and bullies away. 

When I got to the restaurant for breakfast, I ordered at the counter. A large, friendly black lady took my order.

On the way to my table, I encountered a heavyset white lady in her fifties, who stood balancing herself with her hand on a cane and trying to shut off a screaming car alarm with the other hand. It took her a few tries, but finally she was victorious. 

I smiled at her, and she smiled back. She waddled with some difficulty toward me on her way out and said, “When I had my truck, it and my momma’s car would go off at the same time. And I would have to shut mine off and hand the clicker to her to shut her’s off.”

When I sat down, I started reading. A few minutes later the black lady who’d taken my order brought my meal, but tried to give it to another man, who was about a decade older than me. 

“Oh, it’s not yours,” she told him. She continued on with a good natured smile and handed me my tray. “You both had on glasses.”

Matt was running the Dollar General when I arrived. On Sunday morning things are pretty quiet. One person left as I was entering. Then Matt and I had the store to ourselves for a few minutes. 

He’s 39 years old and grew up in Orlando. But moved from Jacksonville to Perry last year because he wanted a “slower pace, friendlier people,” he told me.

Matt “was sick of” the city life. “Everyday, I turned on the news and someone was killed. Someone was robbed. Someone was raped,” he said.

Back at the room, it was time to make reservations for the remainder of the trip. I booked one room in east Tallahassee, which meant that I needed to find something halfway between Tallahassee and Youngstown, ideally around Bristol, which would give me about two 40-mile trips. Perfect! 

The options, however, were really limited. I only found two motels. The Snowbird didn’t have any rooms. So, I called the Airport Hotel, which was a tiny eight or so unit motel and booked a room. However, when finalizing, the South Asian clerk told me I would have to keep my bicycle outside. 

“No, I can’t do that. I have to take it inside,” I told him.

“You have to lock it up outside. They won’t let you take it inside,” he insisted. I was not sure who they was since the motel was so small he was likely the son or nephew of the owner. But I didn’t bother to ask. 

“Look, I have always kept my bike inside. Even in big, expensive hotels, I take the bike inside.” I know this was the wrong thing to say as soon as it left my mouth. I wasn’t trying to demean his establishment. But it was too late.

“People keep motorcycles outside and no one ever bothers them,” he insisted.

Yeah, but motorcycles are not easy to steal, I thought. Then, I thought that maybe he misunderstood bike as motorcycle. A flaw of the English language.

“I have a bicycle, not a motorcycle,” I told him.

“I know, but the last person who took a bike in his room left tire marks all over the walls.”

What? Tire marks on the walls? To what end?

“What if I give you an extra $5 to take the bike inside?”

“If we let you take the bike inside the room,” he told me, ”then people will be asking to take motorcycles inside next.”

What? Are you serious?

“I have to take the bike inside,” I told him.

“OK, no problem. I will cancel the reservation,” he said abruptly.

So that was that. I was out of options for motels, but I found a cabin at a campground about 30 miles outside of Tallahassee. That would make one trip 30 miles and the second 54 miles. Not ideal, but it was the best I could find.

The rest of the day was uneventful. I read until the NFL Playoff games came on. My teams lost. I ended up going to bed early.

This morning (Monday) I was up about 5 am. My 49-mile leg today would take me up US 27 to Tallahassee. I got my 7 am coffee and left the room at 7:30 am. The temperature was 36 degrees and I was supposed to have a 5 mph wind at my back. It was not supposed to get very warm all day.

Today was one of the hardest days to date because of distance, weather, and terrain. 

When you are in the morning shade, it is cold and a little dark. This morning I felt the cold through my tennis shoes and thick socks. I felt it through my gloves. I felt it on the back of my neck. On my shins and knees. I wasn’t numb, and I was moving a lot, but it’s still cold.

Shortly outside of Perry, I saw a gas station on the left and a sign on the right: Next service 15 miles. It was too early to stop, so I kept going, hoping to get some coffee to warm me up in 15 miles.

About ten miles down the road, I came upon the first Rest Area I have seen in the nearly 600-mile journey. Just before the Rest Area entrance, there was a sign that read: “No Security.”

That information does little to comfort the bike rider much. I plowed on.

The roads were good. Nice bike shoulders. I was enjoying the flatness.

One of the saddest sights on this trip has been the roadside memorials, often decorated with flags, stuffed animals, plaques, flowers, and other memorabilia. These landmarks commemorate loved ones who have died in car accidents at these very sites. I pass one or two a day. Sometimes more. 

When I reached Eridu, I stopped at the Sunoco. I got my coffee and talked to Amy. She’s 42 and lives in Perry, but grew up in Mayo. She likes the “friendly little community… the quiet.” She also likes working at this store. “You meet different people” from different places. “You see a lot of the same locals, but you also meet other people.”

This gas station and convenience store is a good location, but has struggled to survive. “This little store has opened and closed so many times. We are rocking on two years now,” she said. 

She’s only seen snow twice in her life. Once in Mayo when she was young. And another time in Kansas. “I would like to go to Tennessee and see snow in the mountains,” she said. 

Amy warned me that there were lots of hills ahead of me on the road to Tallahassee. I was hoping she was exaggerating, since I had seen mostly flatland the last couple days. Unfortunately, she was right.

No sooner had I left the store, than I hit both a headwind and lots of hills. These were larger than those I had encountered in central Florida. And it was slow going. 

Tallahassee sits at an elevation of 203 feet, about 30 feet higher than Gainesville. You reached the height much quicker at Tallahassee too, which means steeper hills. I suspect there were about 12 steep hills on the last 30 miles, each hill higher than the last.

I entered Madison County and saw plenty of signs of businesses selling pecans, pecan meal, pecan log rolls, boiled and roasted peanuts, Tupelo honey, peanut brittle, guava jelly, and sugar cane syrup.

I crossed over into Jefferson County. At this point, US 27 is running parallel with Interstate 10. 

I stopped at an abandoned gas station outside of Lamont to rest. The wind and cold and hills were sapping my energy. But it was too cold to stay in one place for very long.

At Cappa, I had to take another break. For the past 13 miles or so a heavy headwind had been making progress slow and painful.

Further down the road, I saw men in bucket trucks who were cutting back limbs around power lines while turkey vultures were flying overhead cawing at them, reminding them whose domain this was. 

I entered Leon County and saw the Gujarati Samaj Hindu Temple. But I didn’t dally. It was still cold, barely into the 40s, and I was really tired.

Tallahassee is the capital of Florida, but with a population of 191,000 it is much smaller than Jacksonville (900,000) and Miami (470,000).

Finally, I came to the Woodsprings Suites East. This hotel was designed for longer-term customers. The room has a kitchenette: full-size fridge, microwave, sink, stove. You can purchase cookware, silverware, plates if you wish to cook. I don’t cook. Three things that I don’t eat are licorice, celery, and my own cooking.

The attraction of the hotel’s laundry, however, appealed to me. I walked across to Walmart to buy some supplies—including a gallon of drinking water for $.80, a cup for $1, and a plate for $.50—and ate in the room. I was too tired to do much of anything, except roll my clean clothes and stuff them into a plastic bag.

Tomorrow is supposed to be even colder, but the trip is only 30 miles, so I plan on leaving around 9 am, giving it a chance to warm up a little.

Day Thirteen: January 18, 2020

Today’s leg from Mayo to Perry was shorter than normal, only 29 miles. The temperature had dropped to about 50 degrees around 7 am, so I decided to stay in the room, drink coffee, finish my book, and then leave about 9 am when it had warmed up a little. 

Perry would be the first town that I had stayed in twice. Although I rode through Gainesville on the way back, I didn’t spend the night there. Except for Perry, every other town I slept in would be different. 

I was also facing the likelihood of rain Sunday (tomorrow) morning, so decided to check the weather forecast when I got to Perry, and if the chance of rain in the morning was still good, I would stay an extra day in Perry. 

I put on my long pants over the riding shorts and hit highway 27 North at 9 am. Being Saturday, I guess, the traffic was not particularly heavy. Before long, I came across two dogs. I could see it happening 50 yards in advance but was powerless to do anything about it. A spotted white dog and a larger black one moved to the edge of their yard, poised for the assault. 

I didn’t have a club. I didn’t have pepper spray. I didn’t have a bar of chocolate. So I decided to speed up. Naturally, that didn’t discourage them. The black dog sprinted out into the highway to intercept me. He barked and growled and snapped at my left foot. Then he dropped back, came around to the other side, and had a go at my right foot. I growled and yelled back at him, which he wasn’t expecting. He eased off a short distance but kept growling and barking, until he was sure that I was no longer a threat to his territory. 

I had expected to have dogs running and chasing me throughout the trip, but this was the first incident in the entire 500 miles that it happened so far.

Shortly thereafter I passed the only gas station between Mayo and Perry. A few miles further, I found the Mayo Correctional Institution, which is an extensive facility that holds more that 1300 male inmates. That’s larger than Mayo’s entire population. The property is massive. Acres and acres. The facility has its own water tower. 

I was making good time when I saw two cyclists sitting on a concrete culvert at the side of the road, eating muffins. 

Marica and Bas are from the Netherlands. “We’re having a muffin break,” Marica said. She worked as a tour guide “for eight summer seasons” in the US for Dutch tourists. Back in Holland, she manages tour groups. “I turned 51 yesterday,” she said. 

Bas is a 51-year-old environmental engineer. They were in Day Ten of a journey from Miami to California. “We try to do 60 miles” each day, Marica said. They usually just camp out. Their bikes were encumbered with twice the saddle bags as mine. 

“In 2002 and 2003,” Marica said, “we rode from the tip of South America to Alaska.”

They told me when I go back to Honduras, I should take my bike and ride through Central America. “There were some [political] problems in Guatemala,” Marica said, “that since have cleared up. But through the entire trip from South America to Alaska, no one ever bothered them. “The locals come out and talk to you,” she said.

A little farther down the road, I entered Taylor County. Shortly beyond that, there was a fire tower on the right. The eleven mile-an-hour tailwind propelled me along. I made my best time of the trip, averaging about 12 mph by the time I arrived at the Royal Inn in Perry.

This is the same motel I stayed in a couple weeks ago on my way to Fruitland Park. It costs $51 per night, is clean, internet is good, and it is centrally located. I checked tomorrow’s forecast and it was supposed to rain all morning. I paid for an extra night. I remembered a used bookstore across the street. I figured if I had to spend an extra day in Perry, this spot would be ideal.

After checking into the room, I crossed over to Book Mart. I am glad I made it before lunch because the sign on the door said they close on Saturdays at “noonish.” 

I had finished my previous book that morning and thought I would see what the Book Mart had to offer. I have picked up some real jewels from used book stores all over the world. Last year, for instance, I stumbled across a copy of Liberators by Robert Harvey at Goodwill in Panama City. It proved to be one of the most captivating non-fiction books I have ever read. There is almost no possibility that I would have come across this book online, or any other way.

My love of reading developed very late in life. My cousins were avid readers from early ages because their parents always read. In our house growing up, however, the only book we owned was the Bible. And it sat on the coffee table unopened most of the time. So none of us kids read. 

Even into early adulthood, I didn’t like to read much. In 1983 or 84, I found myself in Mumbai, India, in advance of a long, boring 48-hour train ride to Amritsar on the border with Pakistan. While I was strolling along the street, killing time before my train left, I came across a used book vender who peddled his wares on the street in front of a shop. He had a couple dozen books in English stacked on a tiny shelf. I purchased a copy of Mario Puzo’s The Godfather and John Le Carre’s Smiley’s People. By the time I got off the train two days later, I was hooked. 

Polly runs the Book Mart in the office of an abandoned motel. Some of the former rooms have been converted into real estate or beauty salon or other commercial offices. She’s owned the used bookstore for about 25 years. In addition to rooms and rooms of books on shelves and piled on tables, Polly sells tie-dyed clothing and other novelties. 

“For 20 years, I sold only books,” she said. Then in 2014, the advent of “Kindles killed my business.” People stopped buying used books.

“I started tie-dying out of my home and bringing them to the store, and I couldn’t keep up. So that allowed me to keep selling books,” she said with a grin. You can tell she loves reading and enjoys sharing that love of books with others. 

I picked up two non-fiction books for a total of five dollars. 

“With the extra traffic, I sell more books. It’s not a lack of interest in buying books” that Polly finds troubling. “It’s the lack of books… The newer mass market books,” she said. For example, “Lee Child. You can pick up his books at Walmart,” she explained. But with so many people buying them on Kindle, there are no used books around. I used to have to turn books away. Now, I have to go out and look for books.”

At lunch, I was reading one of my two new books at a restaurant, and a man in his thirties sat in a booth near me. He was on the phone conducting business in a loud voice, explaining that the two-day training that the customer wanted would cost $100 per day plus the cost of accommodations in a motel. He explained the advantages of hiring his company and promised to be there bright and early Monday morning. His partner sat down and was quiet until the conversation had ended. The server brought their food and mid-way through the meal, the second man called his wife or girlfriend and put her on speaker phone. Eventually, the first man told his colleague, “I should fire your ass,” although I didn’t understand why. They laughed and joked before getting up and leaving. 

Day Twelve: January 17, 2020

Last night and this morning, I more than made up for the coffee I missed out on yesterday morning. I drank coffee and read last night. This morning I woke up at 4:40 am and decided to stay awake and read. I suppose I was a little anxious about the 47-mile journey: The effort and time involved—particularly if facing a headwind—can be exhausting.

At 7:30 am, I left the motel room in Alachua, rode out onto busy US 441 North. No sooner had I reached the outskirts of town, then traffic dropped off. The four-lane highway is newly paved, the bike lanes good and clean.

Before leaving 441 High Springs, I saw adult and teen joggers running against the traffic along the road. I assumed they were from the Cross Country high school team.

Downtown I was distracted by a busy intersection and misread the signs and took 27 South instead of North. This could have taken me miles off track before I realized it, but Karen (the Google Maps lady) kept pestering me to take a U-turn. So I asked directions from a man at a hardware store, and he put me back on the right track.

Two-lane US 27 was also well-paved. I cruised through Ft. White feeling good about the distance I was making. I had a 15 mph tailwind, which ushered me along. 

When I crossed the Ichetucknee River, I rode onto the bike path on the opposite side of the road. That’s where I met Josh. He’s in his mid-30s and from St. Angelo, Texas, south of Abilene. He is making a return trip from the Florida Keys. In fact, this is his second 4000-mile round-trip.

“It takes me about a month and a half coming and about a month going back because of the wind,” Josh said. I was learning that the wind always seems to be going north-west. 

“Today, I’ll make about a hundred miles with this tailwind,” he said. “I will ride until about noon or one, and then I’ll read and take a nap. Then, I’ll get back up and ride until I get tired.”

Josh sleeps mostly under bridges with his sleeping bag. 

“Do you have music?” he asked me. I explained that my iPod Nano stopped working a few days ago.

“These radios,” he said pointing to a little portable transistor radio dangling from his handlebar and blaring music, “you can only buy at one place: Family Dollar. I listen to FM and AM. AM mostly. Talk radio.”

I thought I would learn from an experienced cyclist so I asked him what he does to protect his bike when he goes into stores or gas stations. “I got a lock here,” he said pointing to his bike, “but I am always looking out. I am in and out fast. I can’t afford to lose my bike.”

He’s just like me in that sense: I am nervous every time I leave my bike outside for a few minutes. 

I rode ahead on the bike path for a while, but it was laden with potholes and huge cracks filled with gravel or sand or blacktop. So, I crossed back onto the bicycle lane on 27, which was smoother. I felt I was making better time there.

At Branford, I stopped at a gas station and spoke for a few minutes to Brenda, the convenience store attendant, while she stepped outside to vape. She looked to be in her forties, was born in Florida, and has been living in Branford for “thirty some years,” she said. When I explained about my journey, she said, “That’s really cool.” Then a customer entered the store and Brenda excused herself and went inside.

While I was sitting outside the store drinking my soft drink, a middle aged man noticed me with my helmet and biking outfit. He opened the door and paused. “You haven’t been run over yet, have you?” he joked. I explained that I hadn’t. 

“You know a number of years ago, I bought a motorcycle,” he said. “One day, I rode it about 80 miles. People were all over me.” He shook his head. “When I got back, I put a sign on it and sold it.”

As I climbed back on my bike and pulled onto 27, I saw Josh heading the opposite way. We waved to each other. It was about time for him to read and take his nap. 

A few hundred yards outside of town, I crossed the Suwannee River again. I had crossed it last week further south at Fanning Springs.

When you are riding with the wind to your back, you can’t feel it. Sometimes the wind swirls and it comes across you or presses against your face. Sometimes you see weeds or branches or the occasional flag or banner sway and you know the tailwind is present. But mostly you notice the absence of any wind and you just seem to have more energy than you expect. I was making good time. 

As I gradually rode west, I saw fewer and fewer large, sprawling livestock farms, and more and more pine plant forests. I also began seeing a few logging trucks. 

All across these vast fields, I saw these huge central pivot or linear irrigation systems. I have always been attracted by these sprinkler systems, particularly because I had never seen them in hilly southern Indiana.

Seven miles from Mayo, my destination for the day, I got a flat tire. 

The leak was slow, so at first I tried to pump it up. But within a minute, the air pressure loss was too great. So, I had to disconnect my three saddle bags, turn the bike upside down, take the wheel off, and replaced the tube.

At first, I couldn’t see what had caused the puncture. But eventually, I found it: A tiny wire about the size of a day-old whisker. A silver whisker. 

While I was mid-way into the tube replacement, a man about my age in a pickup pulling long flatbed trailer drove across the road and down into the sand path where I was working. He stopped and shut off the engine. 

“You okay,” he asked. I said I was fine.

“Okay,” he said, started the truck, and drove on. He just wanted to make sure I didn’t need any help. Country courtesy. I suspect I would have encountered the same in southern Indiana, Arizona, or New Hampshire.

About twenty minutes later, a man in his late forties rode toward me on a four wheeler. I waved to him, but he didn’t wave back. When he got really close, I waved again. Nothing. He slowed way down and stared at me. He coasted within five feet but didn’t stop. He was not interested in helping me. He was out for some fun riding, and happened to pass by, I guess.

“I am just fixing a flat tire,” I told him.

“Oh, okay,” he said and rode on. 

Forty minutes after I had started, I was back on the road with the filthiest greasy hands I have had in years.

Forty-five minutes later, I rode into the village of Mayo. As the county seat of Lafayette County, Mayo has a population of 1,200 people. 

Alexa runs the Cindy’s Motel. She moved here from San Diego, California about four years ago to be near her mother when Alexa’s daughter was born. Her mother lives in Live Oak about 22 miles north. 

“It’s quite a difference” between San Diego and Mayo, she said. I had to laugh.

“I bet it was,” I said.

After checking me into the motel, Alexa walked me down to Room 5. It was spacious and clean. Nice soft, quilted bedspreads on the double beds. For $59, this is quite a value compared to the other places I have stayed on this return trip so far. The only disadvantage was the internet. It was spotty at best. I couldn’t stream a game, upload photos, or work on my blog. So, I decided to dedicate the rest of the day to reading.

I showered and patched the inner tube, and walked to the Mayo Cafe in front of the motel. There is a large US flag hanging on a side wall next to a five-point buck’s head. On either side are two large mounted fish. 

A tiny lady with white hair, maybe in her 80s, was standing talking to people at a table when I came in. She wore a gray hoodie, black tights, white socks, and sandals. She couldn’t have been more than 90 pounds, but wore a huge, pleasant smile on her face. 

Her husband already had his plate and was eating, but the lady was socializing. 

At the buffet, I got my plate just as she shuffled up. “Go ahead now. You beat me here,” she said with that kind smile.

That smile was her default. We all know someone like that. I suspect she had spent the better part of her life smiling, which was just a manifestation of an innate kindness. And I bet she made most of the people around her smile.

I sat down to eat my catfish, white beans, rice, corn, and cornbread. When I looked up, she was standing over at a table near hers, talking to a large black man.

“Come on and sit down,” her husband told her gently. “You don’t want me to leave you,” he joked.

The black man said, “I am doing okay.” Apparently she asked him if he needed anything.  For a minute, I thought maybe she was the owner.

“Come on now,” her husband told her.

Then I began to realize that she may have been suffering from dementia or some other neurological condition.

As I was leaving, her husband introduced himself to another man about the same age.

“Are you local?” the other man asked.

“No, I am not from here.” He pointed to his wife and said, “She used to be from here. Used to…”

Directly across the street is a Dollar Store. That’s where I try to pick up my supplies for the day: Water, soft drinks, granola bars, peanuts…

As I was standing in line, a black lady who looked to be in her thirties strolled up behind me singing, “Then sings my soul, my Savior God, to Thee. How great Thou art!”

She carried a big smile and asked me how I was. I told her to go ahead. She only had one item, and I had several.

“You’re awesome,” she said. 

After a few seconds’ pause, she said, “I am dreading Valentines Day. My husband.” She shook her head and laughed. “It’s always the same. Christmas, birthdays, Valentines Day. He just gives me money and says, ‘Go buy yourself whatever you want.’”

The cashier looked to be about the same age was a large white woman. “I wish my husband would do that. I always buy my own present. And then I get yelled at.”

“I don’t want that,” the black woman said. “I want him to pick out something. Take me out.”

“I don’t want my husband to buy it,” the cashier said as she was scanning the woman’s item. “He always pays too much.”

“Yes, my husband just buys the first thing he sees,” the black woman said. “He doesn’t compare prices.”

“My husband too. That’s why I don’t let him go shopping. I got four kids. I gotta make sure I get the best bargains.”

“I got two in college,” the black woman said. 

That surprised me. She didn’t seem old enough. Not even close.

With two children in college, “I am gonna have to keep working…” the black woman said.

“Until forever,” the white woman answered for her.

“Do you do that?” the black woman asked me. “Buy the first thing you see?”

“Pretty much. Yeah,” I answered.

Some days, you just meet some really special people. 

Day Eleven: January 16, 2020

In 1896, local Ocala resident Percy Williams “invented a neat little contrivance to attach to a bicycle to prevent” a rider’s pant legs from getting caught in the gears. “It does away with the wearing of bands on the trousers leg…” read The Ocala Evening Star. I know from firsthand experience how dangerous clothing can be while riding. When I entered Gainesville the first time last week, my shoestring got caught in the gear. Luckily, I was not riding very fast so I was able to pull onto the sidewalk and attend to it. I also wrap my long pants legs into my socks when I used long pants.

Today’s 32-mile journey from Micanopy to Alachua was a peculiar one. Even for me.

Last night after hearing of the recent troubles The Micanopy Inn had faced that involved crime, drugs, and prostitution, I propped a chair up against the door. It wouldn’t prevent someone from entering, but it should wake me if someone tried.

I hand washed some clothes and laid them on the heater to dry. I stayed up watching the Indiana Pacer NBA basketball game and reading until late. Around 11 pm, I fell asleep, hoping to get up at 5:30 am.

At 1 am, the chair fell. I jumped up, looked around, went to the window and studied the empty parking lot. There were only three cars on our side of the motel, facing Interstate 75. No one was out there. The chair must have fallen on its own.

I propped it back up and laid back down. The roar of semi-trucks and cars rushing by flooded into the room, even over the constant hum of the heater and the low volume of the TV. (I always sleep with the TV on.)

At 6:10 am I was awake. I went outside to look for Ernest who had told me that while the lobby doesn’t open until 8am, “I am usually up. And I always have coffee. I like to drink it too… If you find me out somewhere, I’ll get you some coffee.”

But he wasn’t outside anywhere. And the lobby was indeed locked. And I refused to knock on their private residence door. So I went back to the room and packed. I decided that I would head out to US 441 and ride north until I found a little gas station or restaurant and then get some coffee.

The morning was foggy and would remain so all day long. I crossed under 75, the first of four times I would cross the interstate today. Suddenly, I heard the wail of a siren. A police car was pulling me over. I knew it would happen sooner or later, but I wondered what I had done. Was I speeding?

I pulled into a gas station parking lot, but the officer was not interested in me. He pulled another car over.

The temperature was 59 degrees and I felt a little chilly in the fog. There was no wind, but the humidity soaked right into my shirt. At US 441, I passed a line of cars waiting to enter the road. I saw a little break in the traffic, so I crossed over. The shoulder was wide but gravelly. I didn’t like it much, because I felt it slowed me down. Nonetheless, it was pretty safe.

I couldn’t find that ideal gas station or restaurant to stop at. I like the ones that have few cars and a few customers so I don’t have to worry about someone stealing my bike or plundering my saddlebags. The little convenience stores at gas stations nowadays have all kinds of posters on the windows so that sometimes it is next to impossible to keep an eye on your bike.

So I kept peddling past Paynes Prairie Preserve State Park and Lake Wauburg. And I passed under a big overhead traffic message board that read, “Low visibility ahead. Use caution.” This warning welcomed motorists (and cyclists) that they were entering the wetlands of Paynes Prairie. I happened upon two other cyclists, one a bare-chested man in this thirties. The other a little younger. I passed them, but when I stopped to take some photos, they passed me back. And I never caught up with them.

The mist over the wetlands indeed decreased visibility. The marsh is teeming with fowl.

A short distance further, I still had not found my spot for coffee. So I plowed ahead into Gainesville. A skateboarder skated onto US 441 ahead of me and went down a hill. I became distracted with one landmark or other, and when I looked back he had disappeared.

As I got nearer to the University of Florida campus, I began to see more and more bikes. Students on bicycles. Professors in a sports coat, tie, and dress slacks on bikes. Grey-haired cyclists. No one gave me a second look. When I got well onto campus, I stopped at a bus stop and ate an apple.

Last week when I entered Gainesville from the west on SR 26, some of the drivers refused to cede space to me. Today was an entirely different story. Accustomed to sharing the road with hundreds of cyclists, these motorists were courteous, slow, and cautious.

I made my way west on SR 26 for a few miles but still didn’t find my stop for coffee. Either the shops were too busy, or they just didn’t feel right. One bike shop had bicycles mounted on rocks to demonstrate the versatility of the bikes they sell and repair, I guess.

Northwest of the city, Millhopper Road leads through a remote wetlands area where I came upon a runner. She seemed to be in her early 30s and was running at a steady pace. I gradually passed her, but I was not traveling much faster than her. I continued a couple of miles down the road, where I decided on a short rest. I looked to make sure she was not coming. I stretched, checked my distance, and suddenly there she was. She passed me. I admired her, but also was a little miffed. Feeling a little like Mr. Bean in one of his adventures, I climbed back on my bike and peddled until I caught up with her. Then I overtook her and continued until I came to a hill. I picked up enough speed going down to climb the next one. Several miles later, I stopped to rest again. I typically make the first eight or ten miles in one go, but as the day wears on, my breaks are more and more frequent.

I half expected the runner to pass me again, but she didn’t. I am sure she had turned back. Then suddenly, a cycling couple passed me. I climbed back on hoping to keep up with them. I followed them for a couple of miles, but just before SR 241, they turned around and headed back.

At 241, I headed north for several miles. On both sides of the road are livestock farms, cattle, and sprawling fields of round bale hay.

I crossed I-75 for a second time. And then a third. Finally, I reached Alachua, a town of 9000 people, and home to the largest Hare Krishna community in the Western Hemisphere.

When I reached the stoplight at the junction of US 441, I found myself in the left lane next to a Mazda pickup in the right lane. The driver was a man about my age and had his window down with his elbow sticking out. My mom never told me what social convention was called for when you are on a bike in the left-hand lane at a stoplight and the motorist next to you has his window down and his elbow out. It’s not the same thing as two vehicles stopped at a light with the windows down. There is a lot of pressure there to speak. So I decided to strike up a conversation. I started by introducing myself.

“I’m Jimmy,” he said. “Be careful out there.”

“Thanks, I will.”

“Drink lots of water,” he told me.

“I will.”

There was silence, but the light didn’t change.

“Have a good day,” I told him.

“Watch out for those trucks,” Jimmy said.

“Actually, the trucks are pretty good-” I started to say, but the light turned green. Traffic was heavy so I wanted to get through as bad as Jimmy. We both departed.

I pulled onto US 441, the very road I started out on early this morning, but left in Gainesville. I am glad I made the detours through the University of Florida and the quiet Millhopper Road.

For the fourth time today, I crossed I-75, this time under it. There is a lot of construction going on here. Ahead on the left, I came to my motel: Americas Best Value. That’s where I met Sam. He’s a young man in his 20s from Gujarat, India. He is very friendly and was interested in my journey.

I finally got my coffee from the breakfast room. I drank it while I spoke to Sam.

He wanted to know the places I had visited in India, so I told him some of them. Many of them, he had never visited himself, like Kashmir and the old Portuguese colony of Goa. He said, “Even I don’t prefer to go to Delhi. Too much pollution.”

I told him that I wanted to visit southern India, like Kerala. He said that those areas were very nice. “Green places. No pollution there.”

I checked into the room and showered. I had made 32 miles in about 3 1/2 hours, an average of about 9 mph. Tomorrow is going to be a much longer day: 47 miles to Mayo. I hope to rest up, read, and go to sleep early.

At El Patio, I had shrimp fajitas and another cup of coffee. Then I walked up to Publix to buy some water and somethings. In the aisle, I met Reyes, likely his surname, a retired Cuban who moved to the US 25 years ago. Once he learned that I spoke Spanish, he unleashed. He asked me where I was from, and I explained what I did in Honduras.

“What do you think about the mess with the Democrats?” he asked. I had been intentionally avoiding all topics of politics and religion on this trip.

“No go ahead and tell me,” he said. “Everyone has an opinion. We’re just talking. I want to hear your opinion.”

Hardly could I get a word in edgewise, when he said, “I’ll tell you my opinion. These Democrats are shit. They are all foreigners. They want to bring communism to this country.”

I tried to change the subject by talking about my 600-mile journey.

“Yeah, that’s good,” he said, but I am confident that none of it registered with him. I could have easily told him, I just hit all six numbers of PowerBall, and his response would have been the same.

“Obama was shit.” Reyes took a bottle of juice off the shelf and feigned giving it to me. “He gave Iran all that money and look what they did. They turned around and attacked us.

“These Democrats are foreigners… Why do they let foreigners run for president? I wouldn’t want a Cuban to run for president. I want an American… I saw communism in Cuba with Fidel. All these people said, ‘We have to help these poor people.’” Reyes raised shoulders and put his hands together in a praying gesture and used his voice mockingly.

“When Fidel got power, these same people said, ‘Oh please help us! We didn’t know that is as going to be like this.’” He was using that same gestures and voice as before. “This is how it is going to be if a Democrat becomes president. They are going to bring communism to this country and they are going to say, ‘Oh please help us…’” He repeated the same mocking gestures.

“Communism is shit. You need to go tell those people in Honduras that Communism is shit.”

Day Ten: January 15, 2020

My journey today from Silver Springs to Micanopy was 32 miles.

This day started like most every other day. I woke up at 5:30 am. But the OYO Mustang Hotel doesn’t provide coffee in the room, and the lobby is locked until 7 am. So I dressed and walked across SR 40 to a gas station and bought an extra large coffee. The lady was very nice and talkative. I would have interviewed her and taken her photo if I had only been more awake.

Back at the room, my key card wouldn’t work. I had to push the buzzer at the lobby and one of the owners came out, a South Asian woman in her late 40s. I had woken her up, but when I told her what happened, she smiled. She and her husband had been most friendly, despite their penurious management practices.

I read for about an hour, drank my coffee, exchanged messages with two of my daughters, and finally packed up. Packing is a bit of an ordeal, but I have a system. It takes me about 20 minutes to get everything from the bathroom, hangers (hanger in this case), fridge and microwave, bed or desk or table, all stuffed into my saddle bags. I disconnect all my electronics: iPad and keyboard, GoPro helmet cam, bicycle lights, and other cords and accessories. I put on my riding socks, shorts, shirt, helmet, and tennis shoes. I turn on my flashing lights. Apply sunscreen. Activate my GoPro camera. Check my route about half a dozen times. Double check the room. Shut off the lights. And go.

I rode SR 40 West, which was busy and noisy, for a mile and then cut onto back streets, which were nearly unoccupied and quiet. Like most mornings, I saw school children waiting on the bus. I said, “Good morning.” I saw construction sites.

It was a beautiful day for riding. Sunny in the 60s, 7 mph tailwind, and no fog. I cut over onto NE Jacksonville Road, which was also sparsely travelled. This road took me through Anthony. Livestock farms were spread out on the west side of the road. I came across a pasture full of donkeys, which set my mind to thinking about my childhood. I lived with my grandparents, who raised livestock, mostly mules. I can’t say that I was an expert on livestock, but I was a specialist feeding, watering, and cleaning out stalls.

My GPS lady told me to turn onto NE 100th Street, but it was a sand lane. So I kept on riding, ignoring her instructions to make a U-turn. I stopped at a railroad crossing and sat on the track and took some photos.

At Sparr, I cut over to US 441 on SR 329 and took a break at a Sunoco station. The South Asian couple who ran it were not very friendly. I believe the man was complaining to his wife in some Indian language I didn’t recognize. On the counter, I noticed OG Chillum glass crack pipes for sale. I understand they are commonly sold at gas stations, but I had never seen them before. Guess I need to get out more.

I sat on the bench outside and ate my peanut butter crackers and drank a Diet Root Beer. A retired couple from New York stopped, entered the store, and came right back out. “Their restrooms are not working,” the woman told me. Like I said, the South Asian owners are none too friendly.

After a few minutes, I got up to leave. That’s when I met Seamus. He’s a 51-year-old cyclist, riding 200 miles from St. Augustine to a friend’s house down south, where he’ll work and save money to travel back to Israel. “I am gonna backpack on the INT, the Israel National Trail. It starts up near Lebanon,” he said.

Unlike me, Seamus looks like a cyclist. He’s thin and athletic. And he rides 100 miles a day in about 8 hours. Last night he slept “in front of a church. I was too tired to set up my tent,” he said. “My legs are also really sore.” I could empathize with him on that one.

“I got hooked on riding on trails in Florida. Then went Tennessee and Arkansas… Last year I rode from Pennsylvania to Kentucky to see my brother, but when I got there, he was gone. He’d left me a note.” He laughed.

Seamus is originally from Pennsylvania. “I used to drink a lot,” he confided. “I got sober six years ago, and I thank Jesus.” I shared with him that I stopped drinking seven years ago. I had stopped drinking for 17 years but started again in Iraq.

I left out the part about being in the Rashid Hotel in Baghdad when terrorists attacked on October 26, 2013. Deputy Defense Secretary Paul Wolfowitz was in the hotel when it was attacked. I left out the part about our hotel room taking two direct mortar attacks. The part about having shrapnel in my head, back, and leg. The part about holding a towel on my friend’s arm to prevent him from bleeding out until the military ambulance arrived. That night I had a drink for the first time in 17 years.

“The more I think about getting my license,” Seamus told me, “the more I think about bikes, and I can’t wait to get to Europe where everyone rides bikes.”

US 441 is a four-lane highway but still lightly travelled. On both sides of the highway are sprawling livestock farms. A little further north, Orange Lake lies off to the right, but you can’t see it from the highway until you reach an overlook near McIntosh. Also for the first time, I noticed a flock of cattle egrets near cows in a field nearby. These white birds cohabitate with cattle, eating the insects that the large mammals scare up as they graze.

I crossed over into Alachua County. At Tuscawilla Lake, I took a backroad to Historic Micopany. This is a charming little hamlet, with a half dozen antique shops, two cafes, Herlong Mansion, museum, and other attractions. With a population of 600, Micanopy boasts of being the oldest town in the interior of Florida that has constantly been inhabited. Michael J. Fox’s Doc Hollywood was filmed here.

Carl, a third-generation Floridian, owns the Stage Coach Stop. Born in Gainesville, he moved to Micanopy and has run the antique store for three decades. Carl plays 50s and 60s Rock music on the store speakers.

Across the street, a herd of retired people flocked into the Cookies n Cream cafe. This quaint restaurant possesses half of an old house. Most people were eating outside on the porch to the live music of a middle aged man with a guitar and harmonica. A young tourist woman in her 20s was playing the guitar and the man a mandolin when I arrived. They were singing folk songs.

When the tourist left, the performer sang Emmylou Harris’ “I’m Movin’ On” and Muddy Waters’ “Baby Please Don’t Go.”

I ordered a tuna sandwich and a tea, which set me back about $12. The lady made a mistake in counting out my change to my detriment, but readily corrected it when I brought it to her attention.

During one break, the performer asked another man walking past, “Hi Mark, how the heck are you doing?” Mark must have been a regular, because the servers knew him by name as well. Several people asked the performer, “Where’s Cat?” He replied that she was tired and stayed home today.

A couple miles further west down SR 234 is Interstate 75. That’s where you find the Micanopy Inn. Rooms are $39 a night, and it is really run down and has a troubled history: drugs and hookers. But the new managers, Ernest and Joanne, a couple in their 30s, are trying to change all that. They are from eastern Kentucky but came to Florida “for work and get away from the winter,” Ernest said. They ran motels for the owner in Pennsylvania and Virginia before coming to the Micanopy about five months ago.

The clerk at the Food Store on the other side of 75 asked me, “Are you staying here [Micanopy Inn]?” When I confirmed I was, she asked, “Are they treating you alright?” I said that they were. She went on to say, “That’s good to hear. They’re trying to turn things around over there.”

“I have three security guys,” Ernest said. “You’ll see one walking around at night with a flashlight.”

Both he and Joanne like the county feel to the community. “I’d rather live in Florida. And this is sort of country. That’s where we lived [in Kentucky],” said Ernest. “I don’t like the city,” Joanne said. She likes to go to the Payne’s Prairie Preserve State Park and watch the sunset, as do many locals.

They sell water and soft drinks behind the counter for $1 each. I asked if they had diet soda. They didn’t. “No one has ever asked for that before,” Ernest said. “We’re gonna have to get some,” Joanne suggested.

When I asked them how to pronounce Micanopy, they said, “Mick an opy.” The last syllable, I realized, is like Andy Griffith’s son, Opie.

Meet Elijah. He’s a 72-year-old retired school janitor, who has lived most of his life in Micanopy, although he was born in Marion County. He worked 19 years “for the school board” in Alachua County. When I asked him if he liked it, he said, “It was OK. At least I wasn’t out in the hot sun.”

Regarding the town, he said, “It’s alright. We have some great people. We’re a nice people.” When I asked him what he would like people to know about him, he replied, “I am good,” meaning he is a good person. Then he added, “Thank God I am still here.”

Day Nine: January 14, 2020

After a four day pit stop at Regina’s house in Fruitland Park, I filled my saddle bags, climbed back on my Citizen 1 bike, and said farewell to Regina and her husband Bob. My body needed the rest as much as I needed to catch up with family.

The morning was extremely foggy, temperature in the 70s, but had a slight tailwind of about 7 mph. My front and back lights blink, and drivers were pretty cautious and courteous today. I took my time, sticking to the back roads, which provide more nature, sounds of birds or bleating goats, fewer motor vehicles and traffic, and a more peaceful and pleasant ride.

My destination today was Silver Springs near Ocala, about 32 miles away.

On May 7, 1897, Silver Springs and Ocala hosted the first annual bicycle tournament and road race. The Ocala Cycle Club organized a series of bike races for 50 riders, “good music, a fine parade, and a most enjoyable entertainment in the Opera House,” according to The Ocala Evening Star. The club raised about $125, which they applied to finishing the clay road to Silver Springs.

The two-mile boys race started at the Silver Springs path to the Ocala House. The men’s race started at Silver Springs, to town past the lime kiln, and to the Ocala House. There was a slow race and quarter-mile dash as well. Prizes included $20 gold medal, $5 silver medal, bicycle apparel, amber cigarette holder, silver cigar case, ice cream freezer, “booby,” fishing pole, silk umbrella, and much more.

This morning the fog was so heavy that few of my photos from my helmet camera turned out well. The back roads led me to a herd of goats that were scared away by the squeaking of my brakes. I passed many orange groves, which reminded me of my Indianapolis Star trip to Cape Canaveral, which was NASA’s launch site for space flights during that period, including the Apollo missions.

When we left the space center and made our way to the bus, we noticed that the complex was surrounded with orange groves, trees dangling with hundreds of ripe oranges. To keep tourists from pillaging the fruit, owners had posted signs warning visitors of snakes.

The rural roads led me to a man who was power washing his pickup truck engine. Another on a bobcat clearing his yard of trees and stumps. The air was filled with smoke and the smell of burning wood.

At an abandoned gas station near Weirsdale on Ocala Road, I met Frank selling citrus. He was sitting outside eating a piece of fruit when I arrived, and before I could park my bike, he was up and coming toward me with a big smile as if he had known me all my life. In March, Frank will turn 81. He was born “in the Carolinas,” he told me, but “graduated high school from Leesburg.” In 1976, he bought into his father-in-law’s service station and sold citrus in the back. About ten years ago, he closed the gas station and moved the citrus to the front, where he sells it today.

Frank joked that the key to his youth and vitality was citrus. But the truth, he feels, is genetics. His mother lived till she was 93. She beat pancreatic cancer when she was in her 60s. Notwithstanding genetics, Frank takes care of himself. He rides a stationary bike seven miles each morning before work. When asked what is special about his community, he responded, “People are so friendly here. We have some excellent friends… In all the south, the people are friendly.” But then added that people in big cities like Miami “are like the north east. So busy and don’t have time for their neighbors.”

Frank is used to seeing cyclists. Groups of 15 or 20 people ride out three or four times a year. They call in advance, and Frank slices oranges to give them something to snack on when they arrive.

Out on Ocala Road, I saw white birds playing in an orange grove. I stopped to look at some large ponds on the west side of the road, but you can’t see Lake Weir from the road. There was a pine planted forest—trees uniformly growing in rows—on the east side. When I reached Ocklawaha, I stopped at a gas station. A woman in her early 40s, had a three-week old puppy, the runt of the litter. “If it lives, you can buy it,” she told me.

I rode two blocks down to Gator Joe’s to see the lake.

Just outside of Ocklawaha, I took Maricamp Road north. This road was sparsely populated and quiet for a few miles, but the closer we came to Silver Spring, the busier it became. The traffic was heavier. Both sides of the road were laden with residential areas, construction, fast food restaurants, Walmart, gas stations, churches, and other commercial businesses.

About five miles south of Silver Springs, Maricamp Road intersects with US 35. I took 35 thinking about Silver Springs’ glass bottom boats and Six Gun Territory, trying to recreate in my mind the experience I had as a child. I committed to bringing my grandchildren here next year to ride in the glass bottom boats, but it is hard for me to reconcile the disappearance of the Old West theme park.

At Silver Spring, I finally arrived at OYO Mustang Hotel. It was noon, and check-in time was 3 pm, so the manager told me I would have to pay $30 to get in early. When I resisted, he dropped the price to $10. He also tried to get me to advance him $100 deposit on the room, after I had paid for it in full. But he waived it because I seemed like “a good person” to him.

The room was run down. Things like warped and flaking wood on the door, small flat screen TV with a broken leg partially propped up by the cable box, stains on the ancient furniture, an extra desk that doesn’t fit in the room, one bent wire clothes hanger, outdated furniture, unfilled holes in the dresser (probably from a period where a vintage TV had once been afixed), and dangling shower curtain.

In May of last year, I was in Frederick, MD, and I wanted to eat biscuits and gravy at Bob Evans, but it had closed. So when I saw one next to the hotel, I went there for lunch and ate biscuits and gravy. I know, I know. Vegetarians are not supposed to eat sausage. And I typically don’t eat dairy products. But a few times a year, I treat myself. Part of it is nostalgia. I have fond memories of my grandmother making biscuits and gravy for me on the farmhouse in Indiana. And my father used to take me to Bob Evans a lot as a youngster. Some habits die hard. Others, I refuse to let die.

I walked next door to Six Gun Plaza, hoping against hope that there might be a Six Gun Territory gift shop or something. But I was disappointed. What I did find, that satisfied my nostalgia a little was a poster announcing the Six Gun Territory Wild West Weekend & Reunion February 1st and 2nd. I hope to bring my grandchildren in the next year or two.

At the Dollar Store, the cashier told me, “Hun, all backpacks have to be left here at the counter.” There were no lockers, bins, or even cubbyholes, like my granddaughter had in kindergarten. So I removed my backpack and put it on the floor, kind of out of sight, where I hoped they would keep an eye on it. But the store was not busy, so it was safe.

When I checked out, the woman asked, “Hun, did you find everything you were looking for?” Both she and her co-worker used “hun” a lot. Not that I minded. You can still hear endearments in restaurants in rural Indiana sometimes, but it is rare.

Across the highway at Burger King, the manager told a worker, “I can’t find any napkins under here, love.” To the cashier, she said, “Love, you have to check with me before you accept a $50 bill.”

When I got back to the hotel, I noticed Kerry picking weeds out of gravel around the statue of a maverick. He is 47 and has been the maintenance man for the hotel for five years. He does a little of everything, he told me, including laundry, repairs, landscaping.

Born in Gainesville, Kerry was raised here. He has two brothers and one sister. When I asked him for a trait that was particular to him, he smiled shyly. “I got a big heart,” he said. He told me that Silver Springs is “safe. Quiet. It’s a good community. We don’t have a lot of problems, crime.”

Day Eight: January 10, 2020

The last time I rode my bike to my Aunt Regina’s house, I was about 13 years old. It was a Saturday morning. I crossed US 50 in Brownstown, Indiana and started down the hill to the mobile home park where she lived. I gained momentum and pedaled as hard as I could to reach maximum speed on my 10-speed. I had forgotten the speed bump at the entrance of the park, or maybe I thought I could just fly over it. But when I struck the blacktop hump at full speed, indeed fly I did. The bike overturned, I went in a different direction and landed on the blacktop, slowing my velocity with my face, hands, and legs.

I got to my feet, picked up my bike and walked the rest of the way to Regina’s house, scraped, bloody and frightened.

Today I was due to arrive at Regina’s house again on a bike, some 47 years later. This would mark the halfway point of my 600-mile journey. I hoped this arrival would be better than my last.

The Howard Johnson parking lot in Ocala was nearly empty last night at 6:30 pm. This morning there was hardly a vacant spot. The restaurant at 6:30 am was filled primarily with construction workers and retired couples. When I walked in, three African American men were sitting at a table. An older man, maybe in his early 40s, was giving professional advice to his younger colleague. “Don’t ever tell anyone how much you make,” the older man said. He went on for a few minutes explaining why it was important to keep his salary confidential.

This reminded me of my experiences in Latin America, Asia, and Africa. In most of these cultures, everyone in the offices always knew how much the other employees earn. This sharing of salary information complicates the work environment. It creates unhealthy competition and animosity. In Pakistan, strangers commonly asked me, “How much is your salary?” I always found this awkward. I would respond by saying something like, “In my culture, we don’t share that information.”

So I can appreciate the older man’s advice to his younger colleague. My father once told me, “The biggest mistake people make in business is counting other people’s money.”

Three more men from the same construction crew came in. Among them was Ricky, a 36-year-old fire protection installer from Atlanta. He sat and ate with his legs off to the side while his torso is facing the table. It looked uncomfortable, but he didn’t seem to mind. He’s been installing “overhead sprinklers” for two years. The other men on the crew are all relatives. He goes “wherever the work is,” even to other states.

I was wearing my UMBC (University of Maryland, Baltimore County) Dad t-shirt. My daughter studies there. Amber and Ed, a middle-aged couple, were having breakfast at the same time I was. Amber said, “Go Maryland!” They live outside Baltimore. They had driven the night before from Panama City, where they had spent a few days. The drive took them five hours. My trip took me seven days to cover the same distance.

When I asked her if she was disappointed because Panama City had been cold, she said, “We’re from Maryland.” The temperature in Panama City “is not cold.”

Like other cities in Florida, Ocala has an interesting history with the bicycle. The first reference to the bicycle in The Ocala Evening Star came in 1895. And it was not an advertisement for bike sales or news of a race with a horse, but rather a stern social warning that “the advent of the bicycle” should not “make fools of all our girls.” Young women should enjoy the two-wheel vehicle, but “let them not forget that wifehood and motherhood are still the maiden’s crown, and that the hand that rocks the cradle is yet more mighty than the foot that pedals the wheel.”

A month later, “Will Owens was arrested… for stealing a bicycle” and “fined $5… for bicycling without a light and $5… for riding on the sidewalk. He will get about 15 days.”

I left the motel about 8:15 am to the sunshine and 59-degree temperature. I didn’t need to wear my two coats today. This was the first warm morning I have had in eight days. I only needed to travel 33 miles to get to my destination in Fruitland Park so I figured it would be simple. I was wrong.

Unlike the previous legs, today’s route was almost constant commerce: Gas stations, RV sales lots, golf carts, retail stores, flea markets, and auto repair shops. And there were plenty of residential areas too. Along with the commerce came incessant traffic. There were a few short stretches of trees and farmland, but not many.

I saw my first drive-in of the trip: Ocala Drive-In, which doubles as a flea market during the day. They were a staple of American culture in the 50s, 60s, and 70s. At their peak in the 60s, there were about 4000 drive-ins. Today, there are about 350.

Once I got outside of Ocala, the headwind hit me like an invisible barrier. It was brutal. My pace was even slower than yesterday. Fortunately, my distance was shorter.

I stopped at a gas station to rest and get a snack. I tried out my Hindi (same spoken language as Urdu) on the Indian woman behind the counter in hopes that I could interview her. She came from Gujarat but not particularly impressed by my Hindi. So I sat outside on a crate and watched the children in the schoolyard across the street. After a few minutes, I rode on.

I pedaled and pedaled, and stopped and rested. Finally, I crossed over into Lady Lake, a city of about 15,000 people. Traffic was heavy, and the wind was heavier. Eventually, I took a backroad to Lake Griffin, which had less traffic and was much prettier.

After about 5 1/2 hours, I finally arrived at Regina and Bob’s house. I had covered ten counties and about 340 miles in eight days of cycling. I had met some fascinating people with interesting stories. And I had witnessed some of the most amazing landscapes and nature that Florida has to offer. I will take a few days break here and then ride back, ideally taking a little different route.

Day Seven: January 9, 2020

Being the skilled cyclist I am, I turned today’s 40-mile leg from Gainesville to Ocala into a six-and-a-half-hour, 45-mile marathon. That’s not easy to do. But I met some fascinating people and witnessed some wonderful panorama on the way.

If my calculations are correct, by the end of the day, I registered 305 miles from Panama City Beach to Ocala. But today’s journey was extremely arduous.

The breakfast room at the motel was dominated by construction workers. Men and women wearing blue jeans, sweatshirts, hoodies, and work boots. Some men and women piled food on their plates, filled their coffee cups, and went back to their rooms. Others sat at tiny tables and ate. There was very little talking. They paid little attention to the morning news but craned their necks to watch the weather forecast. There were two ladies who were not construction workers, but most everyone else I saw was. There were no senior citizens or anyone close to my age.

Leo was sitting at the table in front of me. He’s a 51-year-old Cuban and has lived in Tampa about a year. Before that he was living and working in Mexico. He didn’t speak English, so we conversed in Spanish. He is a mason, working here constructing elevator shafts and stairways.

He said, “You can’t compare Cuba to here.” The US “is very clean, organized. Even the traffic” is organized. “We used to joke that [in Cuba] we had organized communism.” But it was disorderly, backward, and corrupt. “The world changed. This country [US] is advanced. Cars, technology, everything.” And Cuba “was left behind.”

“When I walked into Walmart in Mexico,” he said, “I cried.” He had never seem so many items in one place for sale.

“I miss my children and my mom, but I don’t miss anything else in my country.”

When I asked him how people treat him here in the US, he said, “I live in a Latin community. We speak Spanish there. But the majority of everyone [else] treats me well. The system has taught them how to treat people.”

Before I left the Baymont Inn, I practiced my rusty Urdu with Noman, a Pakistani migrant from Karachi. He’s lived in the US for a year, first in Miami and now in Gainesville. I wanted to test my theory of different crowds tending to eat breakfast in shifts or certain time periods. He said that indeed the early crowd that comes in for breakfast is largely construction workers. “We open at 6:30 am [for breakfast], but if people come in earlier, I go ahead and open up for them… By 8 o’clock, they are all gone, and the families start coming in.”

I also wanted to see if what people in the small towns had been telling me is true: People in cities do not know their neighbors. Noman said, “No,” he didn’t know any of his neighbors. ”But I have only lived there five months.”

When I asked Andrea, the manager, the same question, she said, “I do [know them]. I have to know my surroundings.”

I made the rookie mistake of following the Apple application Maps guidance without studying the route. Maps took me to a residential area that was private and gated: A dead end. I had to backtrack, which ended up adding about five miles to my trip. Forty-five minutes later, I was on SR 121. A little later, I crossed onto NE 220th Ave, which took me through the outskirts of Williston. This road proved to be the most littered I have seen on this journey. In fact, there has been surprisingly very little littler on the whole 305 miles of road covered so far. So it is odd that this particular 5-miles stretch of road would have so much trash.

When I passed the old school of Williston, I saw Penny on the front porch of her home. I stopped to chat. Penny was joined by her brother Melvin and cousin Bruce, both sitting in the yard. All were born and raised in Williston.

“This is a nice place to live at,” Penny said. “Everybody’s friendly. They don’t have to know you but they speak to you.”

“It only has three red lights,” Bruce added. “I always come back here.” He moved to Monticello, Florida for seven years, “but I came home to take care of my mama,” he said. “My mama left me her house” when she passed away.

At a gas station nearby, I met Dan from Washington state. He and his wife were pulling a camping trailer. They left on December 1st and were in no particular hurry. “I am going as far from Washington as I can get. That would be Key West, right?”

He and his wife used to ride long distances on their bikes. “We’d do centuries (100 miles) and half centuries (50 miles).” They found that 50 mile trips were about the best distance for them. Twenty-five was too short. “We were just getting warmed up.”

When I got onto SR 27, I began to face difficulty. The headwind was strong, and the hills were a little bigger than yesterday. It was slow going the final 20 miles. I had to stop every few miles to rest. But when I rested, I tried to enjoy the nature. There were some lovely livestock farms, ponds, and panoramas. The clouds hung majestically over the landscape.

For the first time on this trip, I had to push my bike up a hill. The headwind and the incline were just too much.

The horses and cattle would stop and stare at me. They seemed as curious as to what a 60-year-old bikepacker with saddle bags was doing out on the road.

I am always happy to arrive at my motel. But when I reached the Howard Johnson at Ocala today, I was happier than most. My energy was depleted.

After checking in, I walked to Murphy’s Seafood Bar & Grill. I ordered shrimp and sat outside by myself to unwind. Let my legs begin to heal.

That is where I met Marna. She’s a 43-year bartender who serves during the day. She has been working at Murphy’s for five years. She was born in New Jersey, but her father retired when she was ten, and they moved to Ocala. She’s studying for her real estate exam, hoping to begin selling real estate soon.

Ocala “is quiet. A nice place to raise a family. But it is growing.”

Ocala has a population of about 60,000 people and is know for its horse farms. When I came on the trip as an 11-year-old paperboy, I remember going to nearby Silver Springs, where we took a ride on glass bottom boats. Six Gun Territory was also this Old West theme park that fascinated me. An Old West main street hosted saloons and gun shops, and actors dressed as cowboys held duels in the street. I went into a saloon and drank a soft drink at the bar. I seem to recall a player piano. It was like stepping into the Wild West. It was the highlight of my trip. But the park closed in 1984. Williston hosts the old train and a Six Gun Territory Wild West Weekend and Reunion once a year.

Eventually, “I want to move to the cold,” Marna said. ”Maybe Colorado.”

When I asked her if she knew her neighbors, she said, “Some of them. I am busy, working, studying.”

Day Six: January 8, 2020

Today’s journey was 46 miles long, from Cross City to Gainesville. Because of the lack of accommodations available through my planned route, I had to detour through Gainesville, a city of about 133,000 people, just north of Ocala. The course deviation added some 20-30 miles to my trip, but also provided some very interesting rural-urban dynamics.

Because the temperature was 35 degrees again at 8 am, I decided to hold off a half an hour to see if it would warm up. It didn’t. At 8:30 am, I left, and it was 35 degrees.

Ten miles south of Cross City is Old Town. A sign at the city limits reads, “When schools had prayers and bibles, they had no drugs.”

As I approached a gas station just south of Old Town, a bearded man in his forties passed me on a bike with a basket on the front going the wrong way. I stopped at the gas station to get coffee and to warm up. A lady with a hooded sweatshirt came in, looked around like she was lost, then headed to the restroom. A man in his twenties, wearing what looked like pajamas, counted out a fistful of change to buy cigarettes. “This area is poorer, has a drug problem,” Dolores said. “Crack, meth… Not a good place you want to grow up in.”

Dolores was running the store. Her parents are from El Salvador. But she was born in Florida. I spoke to her for a few minutes in Spanish before she switched back into English.

“I don’t really work here,” she said. “I am just helping out.” Her boyfriend’s family owns the business. “I live in Gainesville… I study health care administration” at the university.

In her early 20s, Dolores is friendly and intelligent. She said that this area suffers from some ethnic insensitivity, as well. “When the police pull me over, they are surprised that I have a license.” People are more tolerant of minorities in bigger cities, she explained. They don’t suffer the same types of problems in Gainesville. “The farther south you go on the east coast,” she said, “it’s even better. In Fort Lauderdale, the police speak Spanish. In Miami, you have white people who look like you who speak Spanish like natives.”

So much for my Spanish.

A little further down US 19 South, I came to Fanning Springs, where I got on State Road 26 East toward Gainesville and crossed immediately into Gilchrist County. I stopped at the Suwannee River and took some photos.

It had started warming up, so I stripped off two jackets and got back on the road. At Lottieville, I noticed a bike and walking trail on the north side of the road that ran parallel with SR 26. So I crossed over and rode on there for a while. It was infinitely safer and quieter than the highway, and every mile or so, there was a bench. I passed four cyclists going in the opposite direction. And I stopped at one of the benches and ate an apple. At Trenton, the path seemed to go north, in the wrong direction. So I crossed back onto SR 26.

There were many large pastures with horses and cattle along SR 26. Long mobile farm irrigation systems, something we don’t see much in Indiana.

I spotted an egret on the side of the road, and stopped and took some photos, but I couldn’t get a good shot. Every time I got close, she flew 20 yards or so farther away. Eventually, it got tired of my shenanigans and flew off.

A few miles before reaching Newberry, I stopped at Ma n Pa Express, a gas station, where I met Lalo, of South Asian descent. He was an energetic and outgoing young man in his early 20s. He was born in Tennessee but moved here two years ago to work in his uncle’s store. “I don’t like the cold,” he told me. Like most people I meet, he was fascinated by my journey. “Are you traveling with someone?” he asked. I told him that I wasn’t. “It’s always better if you have friends. That way you can party,” he said with a laugh.

“Be safe,” he told me when I left. “Hope to see you again here.”

I sat outside on the picnic benches to eat a slice of pizza.

A middle-aged man with a cowboy hat, blue jeans, and a blue checkered shirt walked past me with his phone. “I need to get into the shade so I can see my phone,” he said, as if he needed to explain to me.

When he finished his conversation, he walked over nearer me and was hunting for something on his phone.

“How are you doing?” I asked him. That is my clever introductory line to strike up a conversation so that I can eventually get a brief interview. Really innovative, right?

People usually respond, ”Fine” or ”Good.” Then I introduce myself and tell them about my journey, which leads to my explaining about the blog. Most are enthusiastic and agree to an interview and a photo. If they are not really engaged at this point, then I leave them alone.

“Not very good,” he replied.

“Really? What happened?” I was genuinely interested now.

“I got a crew over by Williston and someone called the police on them.” Williston is about 20 miles south of where we were at the time. He explained that his crew is a “line-clearance tree trimmer” that cuts back tree limbs along power lines.

He answered his phone and started a new conversation.

I got back on the bike and crossed over into Alachua County and arrived at Newberry. I started to ride on through it, but at the last second stopped at The Produce Place. I was primarily interested because my grandparents ran a produce business out of an old abandoned gas station in Brownstown, Indiana one season when I was a child. It brought back memories.

Dan is 56 and runs his uncle’s business. He was born in Stark, Florida, but has traveled “all over,” he said. His father traveled a lot for business and took the family with him. “He was in paving and farming… Refurbishing heavy equipment.” His father had more money than he could spend, Dale explained.

“I was even dynamiting up in Kansas,” Dale told me. “I called my dad, and he told me to come on up [for work]. So I flew into Wichita.” And Dale began blasting in a rock quarry.

Dale said that phosphate mining was the big industry in Newberry in the 1800s. But it has since been “mined out” like other towns in the area.

Around the turn of the 20th century, Newberry was embroiled in racial violence driven by white supremacists. Nineteen blacks were lynched in Newberry between 1891 and 1926. In 1984, sixty percent of white voters elected the town’s first black mayor.

At Newberry, SR 26 becomes four lanes. As you pedal along, you have a lot of time to think. Today I thought a lot about the small town-city dynamics. The towns I had visited on the trip so far had 700 people (Fanning Springs), 5000 (Newberry), 1700 (Cross City), 7000 (Perry) and other small populations, nothing compared to Gainesville. The people I had met praised their small town for the low crime rates, friendliness, safety, and support network. I could empathize with these people. I grew up in a small town that had a population of 2300 when I was a kid, 2300 when my grandmother was a child, and today only has 2900 people.

The closer I got to Gainesville, I realized that motorists refused to give me space on the road the way they had the past five days. Apart from the narrow bridges, I was never particularly concerned for my safety in the rural areas. But once I approached greater Gainesville, several drivers refused to give me even a foot, even when there was no car in the left lane. And one driver intentionally drove over the line into my bike path. I grew increasingly cautious. When the bike path ended, I became concerned. At one point, a road crew blocked off the right lane and the sidewalk. The speed limit was still 45 mph. I stopped, waited until all the traffic had passed, then I rushed around them.

The manager at the Baymont Inn & Suites in Gainesville was very friendly. Andrea was born in Boston of Jamaican parents. She moved to Gainesville in 1998, when her husband began studying at the University of Florida. She had a couple of children, but the marriage didn’t work out. Gainesville “is good for my kids,” she said. A healthy place to raise them. “But I am a city girl. I like big cities.” She likes going to Miami, which has about 500,000 people.

This reminded me of a classmate at the University of Chicago where we studied Arabic one summer. She was from New York and hated Chicago. When we asked her why, she said, “This isn’t a big city. It has trees.”

When I asked Andrea the best thing about Gainesville, she said, “I met the love of my life here.”

How could you argue with that!

I walked about half a mile and ate in the bar at Applebee‘s. I immediately connected to their internet. I had salmon, broccoli, and green beans. They had five or six big screen TVs. The server insisted I run my credit card on their new table tablet. I couldn’t help but compare this environment to the simplicity of Taste of Dixie Diner in Cross City or the spartan decor of Seineyard @ Wildwood restaurant in Crawfordville, where I watched the NFL game on the single big screen and the server told me that I couldn’t use their internet because that is where they ran all their credit card transactions.

I walked across the street to get a Beyond Burger (I am vegetarian) from Hardee’s to take home for the evening. When I asked the crew member how she was doing, she told me, “Not very good. I left my wallet” on the public bus in the morning. “It had my credit card and about $150 in it.” The bus driver had found it, but she didn’t know if the money was still in it or not. She couldn’t pick it up until after work. “That is about half of my rent money… I am trying to figure out how I am going to eat tonight.”

By the time I got back to my room, my legs were really sore. My back had been aching since last night, as well. The 46 miles was even a little more difficult today because there was a headwind off and on, and the further I got away from the coast, the road began to incline. I ran into small hills.

So I did something that I had not done in years: I took a hot bath, letting my legs and back soak.

I got the idea last night as I was reading George RR Martin’s Storm of Swords, where Jaime takes a hot bath in Harrenhall’s bathhouse after he had been treated for infection after his right hand had been amputated.

I wasn’t in as bad a shape as Jaime, but I enjoyed the bath just as much.

Day Five: January 7, 2020

US 98 joins US 19 South at Perry and becomes a four-lane highway. I began my day at 8 am, pedaling south. It was 41 degrees, but I didn’t bellyache this time. I was happy that it was not 35, and I was bundled up and getting accustomed to it, I guess. Within an hour it started warming up, and I started removing layers.

For some reason, I didn’t feel like my legs wanted to obey my brain today. They were unenthusiastic in response. They were stiff and sore, sure. But it was more than that. Every time I tried to make a push to get some momentum, the legs just weren’t team players. The previous four days, I had a couple dozens spurts when I could reach a good speed and cover a mile or so quickly. But not today, it seemed. The legs just wouldn’t get with the program.

When my energy starts sagging, I plug in my earphones and listen to music. Today the stylings of Trevor Davis helped me pick up the pace.

After having left the desolation of the two-lane US 98 East yesterday, I thought today I would encounter more commerce—businesses, gas stations, fruit stands, among other enterprises—but I was wrong. The entire 45-mile stretch of road is largely desolate with the exception of two gas stations.

The first gas station is 19 mile south of Perry on the left at Salem. Kara is the attendant there. She was born and raised in Perry, and still lives there, but travels to Salem to work. She was too shy to get her photo taken. I also met a propane truck driver, who rushed in to buy water. He told me that his tank had a gas leak, and he was rushing it to the shop. So I couldn’t interview him either.

The second gas station is a Sunoco several miles later after you cross into Dixie County. There I met Randy and Michelle. They has been visiting friends in Port St. Richie while their new house in Arkansas was being finished. The couple had lived and worked in the tourism for many years in Santa Fe and had just recently purchased a home in Arkansas to be nearer Michelle’s family. In Santa Fe, she had sold Mexican art while he sold Native American jewelry and Edward Curtis photographs. Edward Curtis was a 20th century photographer and ethnologist who captured some of the most fascinating photos of Native Americans.

One striking feature of today’s trip are closed businesses and abandoned buildings. Certainly, there are in all towns, but today it seemed a little more common than usual. I stopped at one abandoned business to rest. It was a safe distance off the road, and I could walk around and stretch my legs.

Another feature of today’s journey were the narrow bridges. About halfway to Cross City, the road suddenly becomes infested with narrow bridges. I am not sure I understand the logic of these narrow bridges. I had not come across them before. But they are really dangerous for cyclists. Whereas on some Florida bridges, the shoulder widens, on the narrow bridges, the shoulder disappears almost entirely.

A third feature today was the presence of huge log trucks. At least two dozen passed me. Maybe more. They are always good about giving me a wide berth, normally moving into the other lane.

Like many of you, I am watching the news about the violence in Iraq and tensions with Iran. I spent two years in Iraq and have many Iraqi friends. You may wish to check out my Middle East for Dummies. It provides a good, easy to understand history of both Iraq and Iran.

I arrived at the Carriage Inn in Cross City at 1 pm, having covered 45 miles in 5 hours. Oddly, my best time to date: 9 miles per hour. In early December 2019, three men had just set a new Cannonball Run record from New York City to Los Angeles averaging 103 MPH. I wonder if they are threatened by me.

https://www.washingtonpost.com/sports/2019/12/06/these-guys-finished-record-cannonball-run-new-york-la-averaging-mph-heres-how/

Frank and Linda were the retired couple from Clearwater at the counter ahead of me. “Is that a camera on your helmet?” Frank asked.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Is that to take pictures of what drivers are doing wrong?” he asked.

I explained it was a hands-free way to photograph while l was writing.

When I told him about my 600-mile excursion, he asked, “Don’t the people on the road scare you?”

“No, most people are really nice,” I said. “They usually give me a lot of space.”

“Yeah, they are nice,” Frank said. In Clearwater, “people would just as soon run over you as look at you.”

Margaret has served as the manager of the Carriage Inn since May 2019. She was raised in Cross City. When I asked her about on defining characteristic of the town, she said, “Logging is about the biggest business” in town. “And we have two lumber mills.”

Next door to the motel is the Taste of Dixie Diner. The restaurant is not a diner in the traditional sense. It is a country restaurant with plenty of character. The menu has a photo of John Wayne and at the bottom is a warning against “Consuming raw or uncooked meat, poultry, seafood, shellfish, or eggs…” The buffet is filled with country dishes, such as fried chicken, meatballs, mashed potatoes, and cornbread. In the background, some Country Music vocalist was telling his beloved to “shake it for me.” A middle aged man with shoulder-length gray hair was wearing jeans, hunting camouflage shirt, and a blue bandana with white stars. When two women left, one yelled across the diner to a server, “Love you.” This could have easily been a country restaurant in Jackson County, Indiana.

Twenty-seven-year-old Megan was born in Tallahassee but grew up here. She has been working eight years at the restaurant. I asked her what set Cross City apart from other towns. “The community support,” she said. “It’s a small town like one big family.”

This theme of community and family is one I had heard before on this trip. But I would hear it again before the day was over.

Angela is the 51-year-old manager of Hardee’s. She’s been working there for 30 years. Her husband is Colombian. “I love it. It’s safe… Everyone knows everyone else. You don’t even have to lock your doors.” She said the residents were like one big family. “We have great people, God-fearing people.” She told me that she would pray that I make my destination safely.

Ashley and Shannon were changing the message on the sign outside at Dairy Queen when I met them. Ashley, 25, was born and raised in Cross City. She’s been working there since she was 15. Shannon, 36-year-old mother of two, moved here as a teenager. She’s been working there for a year. Ashley said, “It’s a small town. Everybody’s like family. If you are not related, then you are like a family.” Shannon agreed. She thinks the town is special because the community is “very close knit.” She also likes the town because it has evolved in the last decade. “Lots of changes. New stores built here. A new school.” Ashley added, “New businesses. New banks.”

When I got back to the motel, I started to search for accommodations for tomorrow night. But I quickly learned that most reasonable motels and Airbnbs are booked up. So, I had to take a longer route through Gainesville and Ocala, adding about 20-30 miles to my trip.

But I can’t help but be optimistic about the people and spirit of rural Florida. For the past 20 years, I have spent so much time with foreigners, living in foreign countries, I feel I hardly know my own country. My own fellow Americans. I am learning a lot and am developing fresh perspectives on my own state.

Day Four: January 6, 2020

Breakfast at the Magnuson Hotel begins at 6 am. I noticed this morning that the dining room was filled with two types of diners. The first group looked like me, 60 years and older, most probably retired (I am not). They have likely worked and lived their whole lives on this schedule so that even on vacation, they start their day well before dawn (7:35 am). They were sitting in groups around tiny tables; eating scrambled eggs, sausage, gravy, and toast; talking; and drinking coffee.

The second category were construction worker. These men (I saw only men) probably needed to arrive on the job site early, so they were starting their day before the sun came up. I spoke with five Hispanic men from Atlanta. They had come down a week ago to install a type of non-corrosive epoxy floor for St. Marks Powder, a company that makes 95% of the military’s propellants (gunpowder) for small arms. This was their last day, and they seemed to be looking forward to heading home.

As it was too early to be on the road, I went to my room after a breakfast of biscuits and gravy, coffee, and orange juice. But I came out a half an hour later to grab a coffee while packing my gear, and the dining room was empty.

Forget what I wrote yesterday about temperatures in the 40s being too cold to ride a bike. I would have loved me some 44-degree weather this morning. It was 35 Fahrenheit when I took off at about 7:50 am.

Part of the problem is that while I was raised in Indiana and lived many years in Maryland, I have lived only in warm climates the last decade or so: Iraq, Pakistan, Yemen, Kenya, Florida, and now Honduras. I have lost my tolerance for the cold.

When I reached the Wakulla River, however, I was welcome by a spectacular vista. The conditions had created a fog that hovered over the water.

The first town I arrived at was Newport. I had hoped for a cup of coffee to warm me up, but there was nothing there. No gas station. No dollar store. No convenience store. Nothing. Only some type of restaurant that was either closed permanently or closed at that hour. So I plugged on.

The 50-mile stretch of US 98 between the Magnuson Hotel and Perry is largely desolate. A few miles after leaving the hotel are some gas stations, but after that the nearest oasis is JR’s Aucilla River Store, which is about halfway. And incidentally marked the halfway point of my journey to Fruitland Park.

There worked Donna. She drives 25 miles each day from Perry to operate the store. She’s been working there for about two years. While she was born in Illinois, she’s been living in this area “off and on for my whole life,” she said. “It’s beautiful here.”

I also met Jimmy at JR’s. Jimmy is 33 years old and lives in Tallahassee, working in irrigation and landscaping. Every weekend he comes to this area to fish for redfish, trout, and sheepshead. “I fish, fish, and more fishing,” he said. His uncle took him fishing “when I was like six and I fell in love with it.”

Log truck after log truck and dump truck after dump truck passed me as I rode on. I had to stop many a time. The bicycle seat carves unnatural creases into a rider that were not meant for the human body. My legs get tired, but the pain and numbness are the most grueling part of the long rides.

I was happy to cross over into Taylor County and eventually Perry. I checked into the Royal Inn Motel on US 19. I walked down to the Casa Grande Mexican restaurant, where the sign outside read: “Taco Emergency: Call 9 Juan Juan.” I ordered Mexican paella, which is baked mushrooms, shrimp, and onions served over rice. It was good, but not comparable to real paella.

Angelina served me tortilla chips and salsa. She is originally from Guatemala and has lived in Perry with her two children for a year. She likes it but misses her family back in the Guatemala.

When I asked her how Americans treat her, Angelina said, “Very well.” It may seem like an odd question to ask foreigners, but it is important for me. In Kashmir a local family escorted us with our sick infant son to the doctor everyday until he had recovered. A Pakistani man walked around with me for days to help me find a reasonable apartment. A neighbor in Costa Rica cared for my older children when my youngest daughter was born. All over the world foreigners have treated my family and me with incredible kindness. And I would like to think that we are just as hospitable.

I have been on the road for four days now. The people I have come into contact with in rural Florida are friendly and kind. With the exception of one young man who was in a hurry to meet a friend for breakfast, I have yet to meet a person who was too busy to speak with me or who refused a photo. Whether they are on vacation or working, they take the time.

Sadly I cannot say the same for myself when I am at work. Like many of us, I rush from meeting to meeting, trying to reach the next appointment or meet the next deadline. I read a book by anthropologist Edward T. Hall many years ago, in which he described cross-cultural differences. He gave an example of a man who ran into an old high school acquaintance in the street. The friend asked him to go have coffee with him and catch up. The man excused himself, saying that he needed to get back to work. But when he got to his office, he realized that he had nothing so pressing that would have prevented him from spending an hour or so with his old colleague.

I fear that man could easily be me. In my routine, I do not stop to enjoy the people around me. But this trip, grueling 6-hour trips on bicycles, has forced me to slow down. Forced me to be patient. I stop and talk to people. Learn a little about them and their stories. Hopefully, I will take some of these experiences and lessons back to the workplace with me in February.

Day Three: January 5, 2020:

Today I set out for Crawfordville, Florida at 7:45 am. It was 43 degrees. And I must confide in you: The 40s is too blasted cold to be out riding a bicycle.

Baby it was cold outside. Thankfully I had the neck warmer that my wife bought me. I had gloves. Layers of clothes. But the cold was still there. Present the whole way. Biting. Punishing with the chilling breeze.

The GoPro helmet camera, which had been acting up the last couple days, saved me today. The temperature was simply too cold to stop, remove the gloves, and snap photos. I feared that if I didn’t keep moving and maintain a steady blood flow, I might get frostbite or freeze where I stood.

The 47-mile trip took me through Carrabelle, which is a small hamlet of 2700 people off the St. George Sound.

When I arrived at Lanark Village, I stopped at the Lanark Market to get a cup of coffee and try to feel my nose again.

Meet Sharon! She is originally from Bainbridge, Georgia, but for the past six years, she has “been coming to visit.” After repetitively nagging the previous owner, six months ago “I purchased this beautiful store,” she said. When I asked why she wanted to live here, she said jokingly, “Lanark Beach is the fishing capital of the world.” She went on to credit the friendliness of the community. You see “smiling faces and beautiful people… We’re sort of like Cheers, where everyone knows your name.”

As I am riding along the coast, I witnessed two huge pelicans on some rocks in the low-tide water eating something. I inadvertently scared one pelican and it snapped up a large fish and flew off, but the fish wriggled free and splashed to the water. I start thinking about the predator and prey relationship in the Florida ecosystem. It reminded me of a passage from Marvin Gray’s first novel: Maggie May. Marvin and his son stop along Alligator Alley, the 80-mile stretch of I-75 through the Everglades, to take a photograph of an alligator that has designs on an egret as her next meal.

This journey is allowing me to experience Florida’s nature in ways I had never imagined.

After passing through Lanark, there is a long, lonely journey along US-319 before coming to the next town. About two hours later, I crossed into Wakulla County. When I reached the Ochlockonnee River, I noticed a charming waterside community. So I stopped and took a few photos.

As my legs were tiring just outside of Sopchoppy, I happened upon three ladies selling honey along US319. Aunt Julie and nieces Julie and Gennie are part of a family of beekeepers. Aunt Julie said, “My daddy worked in bees for years and years.” They have been keeping this particular hive of bees and selling their honey for about three years. They first tried to sell their honey at Tallahassee, but it proved unprofitable. So they started selling their honey roadside, in sight of the hive, waving to passersby to encourage them to stop with their friendliness. “In May, it’ll be exactly two years,” said the younger Julie. And this endeavor has proven more profitable.

Younger Julie is 18 years old and wants to become a writer. She graduated high school last year and is now reading Stephen King’s On Writing and some other books in an effort to explore that field and plan her next steps.

Before riding on to Sopchoppy, I asked the women how to pronounce it. “Sop-choppy,” Aunt Julie said. “Like you are sopping an egg.” This ”sopping an egg” comment reminded me of my grandmother from rural Indiana.

Twenty minutes later, I was in Sopchoppy. I got off my bike to rest. I was sore and tired. This had been my longest ride to date. And I was feeling it.

My friend Gustavo told me that a few years ago, he rode 100 miles in one day. In December, a saleslady at Best Buy in Panama City told me that many years ago, she rode 650 miles in three days. So, my measly 47 miles doesn’t seem like much.

But I am sore all the same.

I finally made it to the Magnuson Hotel in Crawfordville. But I am certainly not the first cyclist to ride a long distance to Crawfordville. In 1897, “Parker Williams, of Oglethorpe, Ga, rode into town this morning on a bicycle, and is spending the day with the editor of the Breeze.” Oglethorpe is 171 miles away.

I checked into the hotel and went next door to The Seineyard @ Wildwood restaurant. I had the buffet, which included catfish and shrimp. All you can eat, a drink, and Seineyard dessert for $16.99. The NFC Wild Card game was on.

When I got back to the hotel, I immediately checked out the gym to see if they had a stationary bike in case I got the hankering for a workout.

Day Two: January 4, 2020:

Today was an amazing experience. A perfect day for bikepacking. I rode out of the Dixie Belle Motel gravel parking lot at 8:05 am to a sunny morning in the 60s with a slight breeze in my face. As I crossed the George C. Tapper bridge, I saw fishermen and sea-fowl out early to catch fish. I rolled into Port St. Joe and took photos of the lighthouse and some other landmarks.

Port St. Joe is a quaint little village with 3500 inhabitants on the Gulf of Mexico. The village also suffered extensive damage from the 2018 hurricane.

At a construction site, I met 52-year-old Chad who is originally from Georgia, but has lived the last two years in Port St. Joe. Chad loves the outdoors. He backpacks, rides bikes, and runs rocks. A few years ago, he swam 27 miles and was disappointed that he couldn’t make the full 45-mile target.

He loves Port St. Joe. “Just look,” he said, throwing up his hands to indicate the atmosphere just a couple hundred yards or so from the Gulf. “This is beautiful.” He was right. The smell of sea air, 60-degree weather, sunshine, all in early January.

Chad is helping friends restore the second oldest house in the village. “It used to be a doctor’s office.” They are traveling long distances to buy original wood from the same period. A few years ago, “I helped restore a museum on Jekyll Island, Georgia.”

For most of the 23-mile stretch of Highway 98 between Port St. Joe and Apalachicola, there is nothing but barren woods and wetlands. I passed the Welcome to Franklin County sign, but I didn’t find a gas station. Nor a house. Nor a henhouse. No structure at all. A few miles before entering Apalachicola, I came across a sign that indicated a shooting range down a lane. Then as I reached civilization, I came to American Legion Post 106. Then some amazing structures.

Apalachicola is a charming little hamlet of 2200 people on the Apalachicola Bay along the Forgotten Coast, the name coined in the 1990s by the Apalachicola Chamber of Commerce. If you like rustic, seaside charm, this is the place. It’s like stepping back in time 75 years.

Here I met Julio, the captain of a shrimp boat. Originally from Mexico, he’s lived in the US for 32 years. He’s been doing this work for 30 years. He lives in Miami and travels nine hours to Apalachicola to work. He and his partner were getting ready to make the 50-hour trip to Key West, where they will stay two weeks. “There are no shrimp here,” he said. “We have to go to Key West.”

The six-mile John Gorrie Memorial Bridge connects Apalachicola and Eastpoint. As I breezed across, I unexpectedly scared up a flock of two dozen pelicans. A mile into Eastpoint I arrived at Smugglers Cove, an Airbnb, where I rented a cabin. That ended my 33-mile leg for the day, but not my experience.

I walked down to Lynn’s Quality Oysters, Inc, where I had perhaps the world’s best seafood gumbo. At my request, the friendly staff turned on the IU vs Maryland game. By halftime, I was sorry I had asked.

Nearby I stopped at a little supermarket to buy water, power bars, and some canned mackerel for my 53-mile journey tomorrow. I visited a woodworking shop.

There is no cable or shower in the cabin. The accommodations are rustic and a bit quirky. But what the Smugglers Cove lacks in luxury, it more than makes up for in hospitality. The location is great as well. Restaurants and a supermarket are within walking distance.

Dan is the 54-year old owner who had a career advertising in Atlanta for 27 years, but he “just hit burn out.” So his wife and son encouraged him to buy the property in Eastpoint. “We’d been coming here” and Mexico Beach since 1988. “We honeymooned in Mexico Beach.” His wife lives and works in Atlanta, and his son is a 6’3” freshman on the basketball team in a high school there. In addition to running Smugglers Cove, Dan makes and sells woodcraft screen doors and art, and custom infographic maps for local merchants. He’s hoping to develop these enterprises into a retirement business.

Dan showed me to the Crow’s Nest, where he has a big screen tv and a Hulu subscription so I could watch the NFL Wild Card games. Climbing into the clubhouse reminded me of a treehouse I built for my children back in Owen County, Indiana many years ago.

Day One: January 3, 2020:

At 8 am, a Panama City News Herald photographer met me in Panama City Beach to take a few photos for an article on my trip in the paper. (See link below)

The predicted rain never materialized. I made my way over the Hathaway Bridge and east on 98. The wind, however, was brutal. Riding against the wind for 6 1/2 hours was like riding uphill all day.

At 12:30 pm, I reached an important milestone: Mexico Beach.

Mexico Beach: The little tourist town of 1000 residents on the beach is 35 miles east of Panama City Beach. Suffering nearly total devastation from Hurricane Michael 15 months ago, Mexico Beach is in a state of recovery.

Sean at Mexico Beach General Store “was born and raised” in the town, he said. Before the storm, people used to let their kids walk down to the pier alone. There was a sense of community. “It’s gonna take about 10 years to get back to where we were.”

Like most kids in high school, he thought about moving away when he graduated. “I thought Destin was pretty cool.” But once he graduated, he realized this is where he wanted to live. He loves fishing and hunting. “You can go fishing one day and then 30 or 40 miles away” you can go hunting for “whitetail [deer] and squirrel… I just killed a seven-point” buck. About 25 miles north, Dead Lakes State Recreational Area “is one of the best places for kayaking.”

And while many structures remain damaged, I found significant reconstruction on both sides of the road. Help wanted signs indicate construction and media jobs.

After enjoying a sandwich in a rocker on the front porch of the General Store, I rode on. I stopped and chatted with Panama City Channel 13 reporter Kayla Tucker doing a segment on the reconstruction of Mexico Beach. I stopped and took photos of a group of turtles sunning themselves in a creek inside Gulf County.

I arrived at my final destination, the Dixie Belle Motel, about nine miles east of Mexico Beach. The motel’s sign was destroyed by the hurricane and still not replaced. The accommodations are a little run down. But the hospitality is nice. The rooms are clean, the internet good, and you get a mini-fridge, microwave, and coffee maker.

I had covered 44 miles in 6 1/2 hours, and my legs felt like jello. So when she told me that the closest place to get water and food was a mile away, that was music to my ears. Nothing I wanted more than to get back on the bike and peddle away.

Early Bicycles in Jackson County, Indiana: The bicycle was invented about 1818 in Europe. Bikes start making their appearance in Jackson County, Indiana in the late 1800s. The Brownstown Banner reported that John O’Mara of Brownstown purchased a baby carriage to connect to his bicycle “whenever he wishes to give his baby a ride” in 1892. A year later, Elmer Orvis rode his “pneumatic tire bicycle” from Seymour to Brownstown in about one and a half hours.

Curious Origin: When I was 10 years old, I ran an Indianapolis News newspaper route in Brownstown, delivering the papers on my bike in the afternoon after school. About a year later, I was delivering the Indianapolis Star every morning on my bike before school. When the Star offered a prize of a trip to Orlando, Florida for the newest subscriptions, my mom registered enough new subscribers for me to win. The 1971 trip to pre-Disney World Orlando with 102 other paperboys from across the state inspired my love affair with Florida.

Some 49 years later, to commemorate my 60th birthday, I decided to ride a bike from Panama City Beach, Florida to Fruitland Park, Florida and back.

Panama City: On October 10, 2018, Category 5 Hurricane Michael claimed 74 deaths and causing $25 billion in damages. It made landfall at the Panhandle of Florida, devastating Panama City. Tyndall Air Force Base alone suffered $6 billion in air force jet losses. Fifteen months later, several businesses have still not fully recovered. Some have closed permanently. Many residents have moved away.

January 2, 2020:

Americans owned an estimated 150,000 bicycles in 1887. Three of the world powers, including the US, used bicycles in the military. Bicycle clubs had formed. And women were riding bikes. An article in The Pensacolian suggests women wear a blouse and loose skirt in 1889 when riding. Men wore bicycle breeches.

Not everyone was an enthusiast. By 1890, some Pensacola residents viewed bikes and trikes as “an unbearable street nuisance” and called for city regulation of the “leg-driven” vehicles that would banish bikes to streets other than “business thoroughfares.”

To some degree, the tension between cyclists, pedestrians, and motor vehicles still exists. In Panama City Beach, some cyclists pedal on the sidewalk to avoid the perils of the busy streets. Others, like myself, ride along the shoulder or in marked bicycle lanes.

Most motor vehicle drivers are thoughtful and courteous. They attempt to give ample space when possible, even changing to the left lane if traffic is light. A few drivers, however, honk, rev their loud truck engines, or drive nearer to me than the traffic demands in an effort to intimidate. They must feel that the road is not big enough for their two-ton pick-up and my 18-pound bike.

A few curious motorists drop their windows and stare out at the odd, 60-year-old man in tight riding shorts, plodding along the side of the road on a bike with saddlebags and a helmet camera. At stoplights, they ”gawk,” as my grandmother used to say. I can only imagine what they are saying and thinking: “Tights were never meant for likes of him… Isn’t there some law against that?… Mom, he’s got to be too old for that, right?… Martha, I hope you got a photo of that.”

Tomorrow is the big day that begins my journey. The first leg to Mexico Beach is 35 miles. It’s supposed to be raining.

January 1, 2020:

Bicycles start appearing in the panhandle newspapers in the 1880s. The March 1885 race in Pensacola may have changed many residents’ perspectives on the two-wheel contraption. A large crowd gathered at Kupfrian Park to witness the race between bicycles and horses. MJ Morgan and his bike kept their own in the one-mile heats against JB Roberts’ horse, King Fisher. The “event of the evening” was a five-mile heat between master biker John S. Prince and Colonel JM Tarble’s horse, Douglas. Prince won by 30 feet, averaging 3 minutes 28 seconds per mile.

On my 600-mile trip to Fruitland Park, I won’t make quite so good a time. I am not an experienced cyclist. After riding a bike on my newspaper routes as a kid, I didn’t spend any meaningful time in a seat until 1999-2000 when I rode a single-speed Chinese bicycle from our apartment to the Berkeley Urdu Language Program in Pakistan (BULPIP) school and around town, conducting research and running errands in Lahore, Pakistan. At a slow, leisurely pace, I would weave through traffic and ring my bell to warn travelers that I was coming. I may have ridden 7-10 miles on a good day. In 2006-2007, I rode a bike for 12 miles in an hour on Saturdays for exercise. In 2012, I rode a few miles each week.

In preparation for the upcoming 600-mile journey that begins on January 3, 2020, I have been riding about 25 miles a day for the past three weeks. I am hoping to accomplish between 35 and 50 miles a day on back roads, stopping at little towns and parks along the way. I want to get to know the people, history, and culture of rural Florida, and chronicle the experience.

December 31, 2019:

Panama City Beach and Panama City are twin cities that sit on either side of the Hathaway Bridge. Panama City Beach’s beautiful, white public beaches attract tourists from all over the eastern portion of the United States and Canada. It suffered damage from Hurricane Michael in 2018, but not as extensively as Panama City.

The contrast between development and developed is striking. The famous Pier Park outdoor shopping mall sits across the street from the public beach and pier. Pier Park’s sky wheel played a prominent role in the New Year’s Eve festivities.

Nestled in the Florida Panhandle on the Gulf of Mexico, tourists enjoy the slow-paced, friendly atmosphere. The tourist season runs in the summer, when the temperatures are in the 70s and 80s. Many businesses close for the winter months, when days can range between 40s and 70s and the gulf water is chilly. That weather can make for some brisk bike riding one day and warm the next.

Located at the east end of the beach, St. Andrews State Park offers 1200 acres of nature, wildlife, camping, fishing, and other facilities.

December 30, 2019:

In May 1895, bikes had become so common that they were scaring horses and disrupting rural Jackson County peace. Honeytown issued a “conditional prohibitory proclamation” stating that “whoever shall be found riding astride of two wheels, known as a bicycle… without sending a suitable person 50 yards in advance to warn persons of the coming, shall be fined in any sum that the Mayor of the town thinks proper.”