Guest Blog: Cross Country Bikepacking at 61

By Craig Davis, PhD

Contact me: Csdavis23@gmail.com

Post-Arrival (February 3, 2021)

Panama City, Florida

Considering Next Steps!

When COVID-19 struck 11 months ago, my life was as disrupted as much as anyone’s. My family and I were in Honduras, where I work. All except my wife. She was in El Salvador visiting family. The border with Honduras closed within a few days, and literally overnight, we were physically separated in two different countries. The government suspended flights to and from Honduras. Curfews limited trips to the grocery stores, which were short on food. Every day, I walked around the neighborhood to local shops trying to buy potatoes, or milk, or whatever was available. My son and one of my daughters, in Maryland, lost their jobs in the massive unemployment wave that struck the United States in mid-March 2020. So they moved to our tiny two-bedroom condo in Florida. 

The US Embassy in Tegucigalpa, Honduras arranged evacuation for US citizens on special US air carriers and US military planes, and my daughter, two granddaughters, grandson, our Honduran cat, and I secured seats on a flight home. Then my granddaughter developed a fever, which prevented us from taking the flight. A few days later on March 25, 2020, we caught a different flight to Florida. The following day, my wife caught a similar flight. Within a week, all eight of us were safely living in a cramped 2-bedroom condo in Florida. 

I made a commitment to myself that I would emerge from the pandemic, and this experience, a better person. A better husband, father, grandfather, employee, supervisor, son. I stumbled many times, but I have made some headway. It is a work in progress. A lifelong endeavor. I keep working on it. 

One thing that kept nagging at me after I got home from the bike ride was the two Pit Bulls, or Pit Bull mix breed, in Crestview. I couldn’t get the threat that the two dogs posed to others in Crestview out of my mind. If the owners let those dogs roam free on that morning, it is likely that they will run free more mornings. More afternoons. And when some kid comes riding by on his or her bike, or a couple of kids are walking past on their way home from school, I fear the dogs will attack, maul, and maybe even kill a child. My conscience was getting the best of me. I felt like I needed to do something. 

My cousin encouraged me to contact the police. So I called the Crestview City Police Department. The woman dispatcher interrupted my explanation to inform me that since the incident took place on Atwood Road, the dogs were out of their jurisdiction. That would fall to the Okaloosa County Sheriff’s Department. When I called the sheriff’s department, the man told me that two pit bulls attempting to attack me was not a police issue, but it was an animal control issue. They gave me the number for Ft. Walton Beach Animal Control. I called, but they had closed for the day. I left a message but to this day, no one has called me back. 

My cousin, who used to serve as a councilman in Indiana, told me to write to one of the local councilmen or councilwomen in Crestview. So at midnight, I was up writing a detailed email to Councilman Shannon Hayes. I sent it and copied Ashleigh Wilde of the Crestview News Bulletin, in hopes that someone would take this threat seriously, investigate, and take steps to protect the children of Crestivew. 

To this date, no one has responded.

Last year, I rode my bike 650 miles east to Fruitland Park, Florida (near Orlando) and back again. It took me 17 days, including one rain day. 

This year I have traveled just under 750 miles across four states—Florida, Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana—in 21 days, including three rest days. On the 18 cycling days, I averaged about ten mph and 40 miles per day. The speed was about two mph faster than last year. I suspect the increase in speed had to do with fewer and shorter stops. This year, I rarely stopped at a convenience store or gas station. I didn’t want to spend any more time indoors around other people than necessary, so as to avoid COVID-19. I had decided not to interview people this year or take their photos. I wanted to dedicate more time to reading and researching the Roaring 20s in Jackson County, Indiana. It was a reasonable trade-off, but in the end, the time was still too short to accomplish everything I had hoped.

Because I hugged the Gulf Coast all the way to Louisiana, I got to see a lot of touristic commercial sites: hotels, restaurants, souvenir and gift shops, novelty stores, holiday rentals, bars, and miles and miles of beach businesses, like piers, marinas, tackle and bait shops, boat rentals, ship excursion shops, yacht clubs, and so on.

The odor of salt air and fish frequented my days. With the exception of the many tall bridges, the route was flat. The long causeways and bridges took me over and through the enormous Bays of Mobile, Biloxi, St. Louis, Perdido, Pensacola, and a number of smaller bays. I crossed through a number of small coastal cities of Pensacola, FL (52,000 people), Mobile, AL (188,000), Gulfport, MS (75,000), and Biloxi, MS (45,000) on the trip west. Most of the route resembled Panama City Beach until I approached the border of Mississippi and Louisiana, where I saw more and water fowl, forests and wetlands, bayous and lakes and rivers, fishermen (don’t recall seeing a fisherwoman), and boats. Most people seemed friendly enough but always focused more on business. At times, the people I met in this area were more reserved and cautious. A couple of times even abrupt. Once you ask someone their name, however, I noticed people seemed to warm up to you. Call them by their name, and they become downright friendly. 

With the exception of the bridges I was forced to re-cross at Mobile and Pensacola, the return trip took me through smaller rural areas, 30-40 miles off the coast. The terrain was hilly, climbing to higher altitudes of 269 feet and more. Large and small farms kept horses, mules, and cattle. The smell of manure, burning wood, freshly turned earth, and dead animals was a frequent companion. A handful of fields still possessed cotton or had the remnants of cotton recently picked. The last few miles in Alabama introduced the pine forest and logging, and racing log trucks that are so prevalent in Florida, all of which lasted until I arrived home. The people in the rural areas seemed to work at a different pace. Slow, more casual, more eager to share a story, or ask about my trip. In this area, two people stopped to talk or offer me a bottle of water, and perhaps a third even wanted to offer a ride. 

At least half of the entire trip, the weather was cold, some mornings starting off in the 30s and never rising above the 40s or 50s. Complete days were overcast with thick layers of gray, gloomy clouds. For entire days, I would remain bundled in a hoodie, black raincoat, gloves, and nylon sweat pants tucked in two pairs of socks. When the temperature broke, I enjoyed sunshine and warmth of 70 degree days. I rode in cycling shorts and long-sleeve riding shirts. Only one disastrous downpour pummeled me, and that was really my fault for trying to squeeze a long-distance leg into a small window of opportunity. 

The political tension in the air also separates this year’s ride from last. In the wake of a highly politicized presidential election, the storming of the Capitol, Black Lives Matter protests, a pandemic, business restrictions at restaurants and hotels, and the conservative atmosphere in the Gulf Coast seemed to await me everywhere I went. Trump flags and Trump/Pence signs were still posted in yards declaring residents’ allegiance and defiance. Trump flags hung alongside American flags, and Trump flags flapped alongside Confederate flags, demonstrating a freedom of expression matched with an insolence to African American sensitivities. Jeeps and four-wheel-drive trucks brandished Trump flags and bumper stickers through the streets exhibiting irreconcilable differences. 

Not once did I see a Biden flag, sign, or bumper sticker. 

Many voters were still bitter and confused by misinformation, lies, and conspiracy theories. But all seemed mired in an unwavering devotion to their causes. The refusal to don masks in public, keep physical distance, and wash hands (despite an abundance of free hand sanitizer in many businesses) seemed to serve as a political statement against public health measures. Restaurants were often full of un-masked diners, seated near one another. 

Everyone seemed to have inflexible opinions on Antifa, Black Lives Matter, Trump, Biden, NBA and NFL messaging, protests vs. riots, the storming of the Capitol, COVID-19, China and Russia, the economy, public health measures, and the injustices committed by their political opponents. 

My most important discovery on the trip, however, was that while sentiments on a wide range of these issues remained stronger than ever, everyone I spoke to demonstrated a need and willingness to heal. 

I met a black truck driver here in Panama City when I returned. When I asked him what could be done to heal the wounds and bring people together, he said, “Jesus.” He went on to say that if people would only accept the Lord into their hearts, all the political tension, violence, and hatred would melt away. 

I have spent much of my adult life studying the history of how religion was used as a political weapon in the Middle East and Europe. I didn’t point out to the truck driver the irony that many of the pro-Trump rioters that stormed the Capitol were self-proclaimed evangelicals or that the mob that first arrived in the Senate chamber halted to say a prayer before looting and desecrating government property. Or that government officials in hiding were saying their own prayers. Or that Senate Chaplain Barry Black said a prayer in the joint session of Congress a few hours after the riot. 

Given that religion was used by insurrectionists and government victims to validate their position, can religion play a legitimate role in healing?

A college professor of Christianity told me once that she was amused by sports figures who point to heaven and thank God after scoring a touchdown or hitting a home run. Does that suggest that God is taking sides? That He is a Patriots fan and hates the Dolphins? 

Maybe religion can play a role in peace-building. The black truck driver seemed to think so. He suggested that we invite people from all political persuasions to barbecues to begin the healing process. The social and religious health of our community is more important that political divisions, he seemed to think. “That’s what our church does,” he said.

In a few weeks, I return to Honduras and resume my work. In reality, it’s more than work; it’s my passion. I love the work I do. To love what you do and get paid for it is truly a blessing.

But already I am thinking about the next bicycle trip. I believe that the issue of political divisiveness is going to get worse before it gets better. Never in my lifetime do I recall contemporary concerns or threats of civil war in the US, until this six or eight months. Now, I hear it all the time.

I can envision a scenario where I travel across several states gathering and documenting Americans’ opinions on what can be done to heal the nation, while promoting the healing process. 

If I can find a sponsor or publisher, it may be worth making a bicycle trip to meet people and gauge their interest in peace-building. Perhaps I can reach out to civil society leaders, religious leaders, bookstore managers, mayors, union representatives, youth groups, business owners, and peace advocates, among others, in advance to prepare some events: dialogues, cookouts, interviews, among others, in an effort to explore local options for bringing these communities back together. 

It’s worth considering.

Day Twenty-One (January 28, 2021)

Panama City, Florida (46 miles)

Final travel day!

Based on a tip, Sheriff Otis Hayes, Deputy Glenn Thompson, and Brownstown Town Marshal William Shutts drove through sleet to a farmhouse that sat on 18 acres, two miles east of Kurtz, Indiana, at 1 am on a cold morning in March 1922. The house belonged to a known bootlegger, Warren Lewis. The law enforcement officials surrounded the house and knocked on the door. When the occupants refused to open the doors, the officers drew their weapons, reached through an open door panel, unlocked the door, and entered. Lewis and Jason Scott immediately surrendered.

The raiding party found a functioning still, 12-15 gallons of “white mule” corn whiskey in jugs “ready for delivery,” and 100 gallons of sour mash in barrels. The officers took the men, illegal alcohol, still, and other “paraphernalia” into custody.

I have written about the Saloon Wars of Owen Township of Jackson County, Indiana from 1887 to 1917, the 30-year period leading up to Prohibition. http://www.tribtown.com/2020/06/18/the-saloon-feuds-of-owen-township-apply-and-remonstrate-1889-1900-2/ But I am just now researching the Roaring 20s. The bootlegging during the prohibition promises to be a fascinating dimension of that period.

Watching the local news in my motel room in DeFuniak Springs, Florida, some 650 miles directly south of Jackson County, on the last morning of my trip, I suppose that it was only fitting that a cold front descended from the north to push the temperature down to 43 degrees, about the same temperature as on the morning of my departure 21 days ago. I had enjoyed a week or so of really nice weather. 

I went through my morning ritual of packing my saddlebags, installing and turning on my lights and GoPro helmet camera, checking my tires, donning my cycling outfit, adding my hoodie for warmth, double-checking the room for any forgotten items, and pushing the bike out into the chilly morning air. 

After dropping off my key, I coasted down the hill and crossed over to US 331 South. I was very pleased to enjoy a 10 mph tailwind for the first 15-mile leg on this last day. As a result, I cruised along at a speed of at least 16-18 mph for about 45 minutes. I even powered up pretty tall hills in the higher gears. While enjoying the fact that I was making good time, I realized that on the next leg of about 28 miles, I would have to fight a crosswind. I was also conscious of the possibility of blowing a front tire, which could spill me into traffic or out onto the blacktop. 

Having suffered a motorbike accident in Thailand many years ago, where I tumbled onto the grass at about 35 mph, breaking my collar bone, scapula, seven ribs, and puncturing a lung; I could easily envision the brutality of a collision onto the blacktop at 18 mph. These are things that could happen to anyone, not just “other people”. So I remained alert and cautious. 

About halfway to my turnoff at FL 20, near Freeport, I noticed a police car sitting slightly out of sight on the grassy shoulder, around a curve. He was probably hoping to catch speeding vehicles or intimidate drivers into slowing down. Given my precarious situation, riding next to motor vehicles on the highways, I am always all in favor of slower speeds.

Before I reached it, the police cruiser pulled out onto the road and travelled out of sight.

After passing Freeport High School, I felt the soft, cushiony sensation of a flat back tire. Last year, I experienced two flat tires. My first was on US 98 in Panama City, before my trip. I didn’t know what I was doing. It took me 45 minutes. The biggest challenge was getting the wheel back into the chain. And the second flat tire occurred on my return from Fruitland Park. I took a photo of the chain and back sprocket to ensure I got it back on right. Maybe it took me 30 minutes that time. Both were back tires. 

A blog on roadbikereview.com explained why back tires go flat quicker than front tires. The cyclist reported that in the 30 years of riding a bicycle, his back tires went flat at a ratio of 30 to 1 over the front tire. The cyclist is able to navigate the front tire, avoiding debris, but the back tires are more likely to ride over and pick up nails and wires and other threats. The writer also explained that the back tire wore quicker than the front tire, and with thinner thread, it was more susceptible to punctures. 

In my case, the back tire also bears an additional 30 pounds in my saddle bag. 

Because I was traveling at such a speed, it took me several hundred feet before I could stop. The bike came to a halt at the bottom of a small valley on a bridge. I worried that I had already damaged the rim because I had coasted so far on it already without adequate air in the tire. 

Traffic was whipping past at high speeds, even though a police car sat on the hill about a 1/4 mile ahead of me. I had to get off the bridge, so I walked the bike to the end, found a flat spot a short distance from the traffic, but still on the blacktop, and turned my bike upside down.

In the past, I had always dumped the contents of my saddle bags and removed them, but this time, I wanted to see if I could avoid that. 

I sort of expected the police officer to drive down and offer me help, or at least ask if I were okay. But the car didn’t move.

That same 10 mph wind that was facilitating my speedy advance five minutes ago, was now punishing me with a low windchill. 

Nonetheless, I proceeded to remove the wheel, take off the tire, pull out the inner tube, and find the hole. It was a silver one-inch finishing nail that looked as if it had never been used. Twenty minutes later, I had the new inner tube installed, the tire back on, bike turned right side up, and was pumping the peddles in granny gear to get to the top of the hill. 

As I got closer, I realized that it was not a police car at all. It was just an abandoned sports car.

Once I reached the top of the hill and passed the sports car, I was able to resume my speed. Before I knew it, I was approaching the intersection of FL 20. Traffic was busier than ever, so I craned my neck painfully, and made a mental note to resume the practice of Tai Chi so I could regain some flexibility. 

I found an opening in the traffic and sped over to the left lane and up to the stoplight. I could sense a row of cars behind me. When the light turned green, I peddled out onto FL 20 East, got onto the shoulder, and let the row of cars pass me. But peddling seemed harder than normal. The cross wind was not so bad, so what was wrong? Was I just tired? Suffering from overly-exhausted legs on the 21st day?

Then, my chain came off the sprocket and lodged into the gap between the sprocket and steel sprocket guard. I stopped. Tried to fix it. Thought it was fixed. And got back on the shoulder. But I hadn’t gone ten feet, when the chain became lodged in the same place, but this time it was bound even tighter. I couldn’t get it out with my hands. In fact, without my glasses, I couldn’t see what the problem was clearly. So I retrieved my glasses from the front pouch and put away my cycling glasses. I still couldn’t dislodge the chain, so I turn the bike over again, and pried and pulled and cursed the chain out of that recess. I worried that might damage the chain or the sprocket, but once I started peddling again, everything seemed fine.

Still, I couldn’t increase the speed past 7-8 mph. So I stopped after about a mile and checked the back tire. It was low. Not flat, but low. Tires don’t usually lose air this quickly unless there is a leak. I ran my fingers between every inch of the tire and rim, trying to see if there was a pebble or wire that was preventing a good seal. Nothing. So I decided to pump it up and see if it would hold. 

About half a mile further, I could feel the cushiony lateral roll of the rear of the bike again and the resistance to the peddles. I could feel the heightened sensation that every rock, every crack in the blacktop created. The tire was going flat again, and I was resigning myself to the fact that I had damaged the rim while coasting on it at high speed earlier, when the tire went flat. Maybe it would never seal properly again. Maybe I would have to make a call for help, take the bike to Panama City for repair, and come back tomorrow to finish the trip.

It was not a welcome line of thought, but if I couldn’t get the inflation to hold, I had little choice. And I tried to look on the bright side. For 20 days, I was fortunate enough to have avoided any flat tires. And today, even though I had experienced two flats on the back tire, and while it was chilly, the sky was sunny. It was a beautiful day. No rain. I was close to home. I had space on the side of the road to work. Traffic was not as bad here on the two-lane FL 20 as it was just an hour or so ago on the four-lane US 331. I had a lot going for me. 
Because of the chill, I wanted to work where there was at least a little sun. So I pushed the bike to the center of a Gabion stormwater channel. Gabion systems pack stone into mesh-wire fence encasings to prevent erosion. 

I flipped the bike over for the third time, removed the wheel, and checked every inch of the inner tube, every inch of the wheel, and every inch of the exterior of the tire. No visual abnormalities. I then checked the interior of the tire, where I found the tiniest gold wire band, maybe the width of a thread, protruding from the inside. The wire was about 1/4 inch long and bent parallel to the rubber. I could imagine that it had been there for a long time. In fact, it was unlikely that the wire and the nail had both entered the tire within a few miles of each other today. Rather, the wire had previously run alongside the original inner tube, not against it. Then when I changed the tube earlier, I had likely placed the new one against the wire in a position where it was slightly pinching it, allowing the air to gradually leak out. 

I took my time and dumped the contents from one saddle bag to get to one of the last two spare inner tubes. I removed the wire with pliers, cleaned everything well with a rag and drinking water from my bottle, installed the second new inner tube, placed the wheel back on the frame, inflated the tire, and hoped it would hold. 

After about a mile of riding at a relatively good pace, I stopped to check the tire. The tire seemed well inflated. Maybe it was working. 

After about ten miles, I reached the town of Bruce. Then I did something I’d rarely done on this trip: I stopped at a gas station for something to drink. Outside in the parking lot, a driver sat in a pickup truck. Inside the store, were three men dressed in warm clothes, jackets, caps or sock caps, and milling about, but there was no sign of a cashier. I looked around, wiped my runny nose, and tried to decide what I wanted.

Finally a lady in her 50s emerged from a room in the back. She had a slight limp. She was carrying a large plastic container of crickets. She placed them on the counter.

“Those are some nice crickets,” one of the men said. They paid for the live bait and left in the awaiting pickup truck. 

“Do you have any pizza?” I asked the clerk. I was hungry and decided for something unhealthy to celebrate my inflated back tire.

“Yes, but it’s in back. I got interrupted by these men,” the clerk said. She left and entered the same door from which she had just emerged with the crickets. I couldn’t decide if that was cause for concern or not.

I kept peeking outside every two or three minutes, as is my habit, to make sure no one was bothering my bike. And I waited. 

Two other women came in and milled about. The cashier came back out. She was carrying a tall stack of Hunt Brothers pizza slice boxes. She sat down my slice on the counter right where the bucket of crickets had been. Yummy!

The bench outside, warming in the sun, was a most welcome resting spot. I ate my pizza, drank a Diet Mountain Dew, and just enjoyed the morning, reminding myself that I didn’t need to hurry. There was no advantage to arriving home at 12:45 pm as opposed to 1:15 pm. Safety had to be my number one priority. 

The day was indeed gorgeous. Cold but bright and clear. Although I had ridden on this road twice before, I still admired its beauty. 

A man about 70 or 75 years old, with thick white hair, pulled up in a vehicle. As he approached the store, he spoke to me. “You picked a cold day for a bike ride.” 

I smiled and said, “It is cold.”

I was back on my bike a few minutes later and heading toward home. About five miles further, I crossed the two branches of the Choctawhatchee River again. A mile later, I reached the stoplight at Ebro. When it turned green, I crossed FL 79 and continued on FL 20 for the final leg of this journey. 

It felt good to be reaching the end of a 750-mile journey. I had been away for 21 days. Despite some very difficult periods, I had made it. I had also enjoyed some very good days, lived pleasant experiences, met some nice people, saw some beautiful landscapes, rivers, bayous, lakes, and ponds. 

I crossed from Washington County to Bay County. A couple of miles ahead, I came to the mobile home that has been sitting in the grass along the side of the road, at least since I started riding on FL 20 back in September 2020. I still have no idea why it hasn’t been removed. 

Shortly after that, I stopped to rest my legs. I was close.

It is always a lot of fun to embark on your journey. You are filled with excitement and anticipation of pleasant experiences ahead. But coming home is equally as pleasant. 

Just before 1 pm, I arrived home in Southport. Despite all the obstacles of the day, I had covered 46 miles at a pace of about 9.5 mph. I was satisfied.

Once home, I weighed my gear: 33 pounds. More than I had originally thought. I unpacked my saddle bags and cleaned them while catching up with my wife. I tossed all of the clothes into the laundry basket and set about sorting through my electronics. Plugging them in. Putting additional cables away. The grandchildren would be home from school soon. I had little gifts for them.

It was really, really good to be home! But something was nagging me. Those two dogs. If they had threatened me, imagine what damage they could do to a small kid on a bike!

I had to do something!

Day Twenty (January 27, 2021, Wednesday)

DeFuniak Springs, Florida (31 miles)

The news is thick with information about COVID-19 cases, hospitalizations, recoveries, deaths, vaccinations, public health measures, and other pandemic related updates and controversies. 

If we look back 99 years to January, February, and March of 1922, we will see outbreaks of smallpox appeared in Surprise, Maumee, Houston, and Cornett Grove (in Owen Township) in Jackson County, Indiana. The Brown school in Maumee closed for two weeks in January. Families in Maumee were vaccinated, while others were quarantined to stop the spread. A church in Houston closed one Sunday to slow the spread. Dr. Jenkins of Cortland and Dr. Cummings of Brownstown traveled to Surprise to consult on cases there. Several citizens in Cornett Grove were vaccinated against smallpox.

Across the northern border in Brown County, Nashville, Indiana was also suffering from a smallpox “epidemic”, according to The Brownstown Banner. Some 50 people became infected, and schools, churches, and public gatherings were suspended. 

With the exception of a case in Seymour that was linked to Indianapolis in June, the remainder of Jackson County seemed largely unaffected by this outbreak. In fact, Seymour’s cases dropped from 40 deaths in 1920 to 3 in 1921, but no one died of smallpox in 1922. Vaccinations, quarantining, closing schools and churches, and other public health measures are largely responsible for the success. 

As I drank my coffee and watched the morning news, I drew some parallels to the scrambling that happened to protect the public in that corner of Jackson County, in the early 1920s, and the whirlwind most of us face in our small corners of the US. 

The promised lobby coffee was not available when I entered about 6 am. A pleasant clerk told me the coffee maker was “on the fritz.” So, I braved the already-busy highway to a convenience store to buy a couple of cups. 

I left a little later than usual today because I didn’t want any part of the heavy rains that were happening in Florida and Georgia. I had my fill yesterday. Literally, my shoes were filled, my clothes saturated, and water had leaked into my saddle bags. Sand and grit everywhere. When I put on my gear this morning, tiny droplets of water remained in tiny grooves of my cycling helmet. Although my socks had been stretched across the room’s heater, they were still damp in places. 

At SR 85, I turned north and climbed the hill. The sky was gray and cloudy, but it was not raining. After another hill or two, I stopped to check my GPS. Something didn’t seem quite right on my route.  After getting my bearings, I turned right on Alpin Road, followed it for a while, and then hung a left on Atwood Road. That was a mistake!

About halfway down, a large dog came alive from somewhere near the house. She chased me on her side of the fence, I picked up speed because I scanned ahead and saw that the owners had left their gate wide open. The dog was a few feet behind me by the time I passed the open gate, but she was rapidly gaining on me. Her teeth were bared. A ferocious growl arose out of her lungs and through the back of her throat, interwoven into the barks. She was angry and dangerous. 

I was peddling as fast and hard as my legs could go when suddenly the dog’s neighbor, what looked like her twin, emerged to join the chase. If I had earlier harbored doubts about whether dogs just wanted to chase or bite, all uncertainty had vanished. I knew these two beasts wanted flesh. The thundering growls and barks reverberated around me. They were both on my right. Then suddenly one appeared on my left. They were not warning me; they were instinctively attacking their prey. Determined to circle and bring me down off the bike. 

I tried the defensive technique that had worked before: I screamed at the top of my lungs. This only angered them. 

They sped up. I sped up. But I was no match for their speed. Then there was one in front of me, on my left. The others kept up the threats on the right. They wanted to rip and tear the skin and muscle from my bones. Punish me for invading their neighborhood. 

I screamed again. Even louder. It didn’t phase them.

We passed well beyond their yards and their neighbors’ yards to a wooded area. A truck was approaching. I hoped it would scare them off. 

It didn’t.

I screamed one more time. Unfazed, one of them passed me on the right. The other was beside me.

My legs were weakening. I was almost out of breath, like the day in the tunnel when my depleted energy forced me to stop. 

The hounds from hell were now 100 yards beyond their properties and showing no sign of tiring or losing interest. Somewhere in the past, these dogs had been bred to attack, bring down larger prey, and to slaughter. It was stamped into their DNA. 

Wouldn’t these evil monsters give up? 

I chided myself for not having brought a stick or weapon of some type. I had promised myself last January, on my trip east, that I would never travel again without some type of protection. But three weeks ago, when I was planning the trip, I thought, this is along the Gulf Coast. These will be commercial, touristic, and residential strips, not rural. 

I knew I could not go much further. I imagined what would happen when I slowed to a stop. I had nothing to defend myself with. 

I was huffing and puffing as my lungs sucked in air, and I dug deep trying to push my legs to their limit. I couldn’t stop. If I did…

Where were these dogs’ owners? Looking out their windows, laughing at me? What kind of owners turned their ferocious, blood-thirsty hounds loose to prey on innocent cyclists and pedestrians? 

Ahead, another 100 yards, this road ended in a “T.” I was supposed to go right, but I could not turn at this speed. I would run out into the road. Or I would slow down, and the savage beasts would catch me. 

With 80 yards to go, I looked behind me. They were on my tail. At 50, I turned back. Right there. At 40, no change. At 30, suddenly they tapered off. At 20, they stopped. I kept looking back as I came to a stop. But they just kept watching me. 

I huffed and puffed and tried to get enough breath back to take off and put more space between those evil beasts and myself. 

Diagonally, to my right, stood a large flagpole with a Confederate flat that was at least ten-foot-tall and 15-foot long. 

I rode on. 

But I couldn’t get those beasts out of my mind. Primarily, I was angry at myself for not having prepared. I needed to get serious about some type of defense. Look online and talk to my bicycle shop in Panama City Beach. See what other cyclists used to fend off attack dogs. 

A few minutes later, I peddled onto US 90 East. The sky was still gloomy and sad. It was by no means pretty. The terrain was hilly for a while but then flattened out. I kept thinking about how close I came to something very horrible happening with those stupid hounds from hell. 

I should have never taken the short cut. I should have remained on SR 85 until I hit US 90. It couldn’t have been more than a 1/2 mile longer. 

After a while, I realized the train tracks were on my right. Yesterday they had run parallel on my left. Sometime after my detour on the county road, US 90 had crossed the railroad. Somewhere between Mossy Head and Alpine Heights the space between US 90 and I-10 narrows, with the railroad tracks squeezed in between. When the vehicle traffic on US 90 eased up, I could hear the rush of cars and trucks and semi-trailer trucks on I-10. At its most narrow spot, the tracks are about 40 feet from US 90 and some 60 from the highway.

One hundred to 120 years ago, trains were the main mode of transportation. During the Roaring 20s, automobiles were becoming more and more common, but trains continued to transport people, raw material, manufactured products, livestock, circuses, and even politicians all across the country. In August 1923, when President Harding died in San Francisco, a special train transported his body back to Washington, DC. Thousands of men, women, and children gathered along the route to pay their last respects as the train passed by. 

By now, I was drained of energy. Although the road was pretty flat, I couldn’t pick up much speed. Between the 50 mile ride from Bay Minette to Pensacola against the 15 mph headwind, the rain-drenched debacle yesterday, and the energy-depleting joy ride for my life from my two furry friends, I didn’t have a lot left in me. 

Two police cars rushed by going east, in my direction. They were certainly in a hurry, although they hadn’t activated their flashing lights and sirens. Ten minutes later, an ambulance raced past in the same direction. All the cars on both sides of the road had stopped. This was encouraging. This was about the fifth time on this trip that I had witnessed all the drivers, without exception, pull to the side of the road or stop where they were, as an emergency vehicle passed. This was not always the case in every city and every state. 

About 45 minutes later, I saw the ambulance slowly pulling onto US 90, retuning the way it had come. No lights. No siren. No rush. Apparently, the emergency was not severe. Although I can’t explain it, I felt relieved. 

At one point, a number of train cars were sitting idle on the railroad tracks. A white truck was parked beside them. A policeman had parked behind the truck and was walking around the far side of the train cars to investigate. I could read by his body language, sort of tense with his shoulders crouched as if trying to remain alert, that he was looking for the driver and uncertain what he would find.

An hour or so later, in the distance, I saw a white truck pulled off to the side of the road. A person walked from the passenger side of the vehicle, around the tailgate, and entered through the driver’s door. The brake lights went on, and I assumed the driver put the truck in gear. This always concerns me because I fear that the driver will not see me and pull out or open the driver’s door right in front of me, as I pass at 10-12 mph. 

But it didn’t move. So maybe the truck was broken down and awaiting a tow truck. 

When I got within 20 yards, a small woman with red hair in her 50s leaned her head, shoulders, and arms out the window. She was yelling something and flapping her hands at me. I couldn’t understand what she was saying. Then just as I passed, I could see that she was missing some teeth. 

A big dog started barking. I didn’t turn to try to see it because I was trying to focus on staying in the narrow path between the car and the right lane. I could hear cars approaching behind me. 

“How far are you going?” the woman asked.

Between the vehicles approaching from the rear, my focus on remaining in my sliver of the shoulder, the dog barking, my exhaustion, the woman’s shouting—and maybe even a modest dose of doggy post-trauma—I really couldn’t process the message behind her words. 

“Did she want me to give her a ride on my bike to the nearest gas station?” was all I could think of. 

I just kept peddling. 

The cars passed. Then the white 4×4 double cab truck passed me. Then it dawned on me. The woman didn’t want me to give her a ride. She wanted to offer me a ride. 

I felt like an idiot.

In mid-October 2020, a few months earlier, I had taken a short bike ride through DeFuniak Springs and up into Alabama, and back again. Only 160 miles or so over four days. But the first night I had stayed at the EconoLodge in DeFuniak Springs. The Indian clerk had been friendly, the internet worked, and it was relatively convenient for food and supplies. 

So, I had booked a room in that same hotel. 

When US 90 finally crossed the city limits of the DeFuniak Springs, I was happy. It was familiar territory. I could rest up for the Pacer game. 

Just no mistakes. When we get tired, we tend to make mistakes. 

So, I forced myself to focus on the road, staying in my lane, slowing down a little, climbing hills as quickly as possible, but descending just a bit slower and more in control

I reached US 331, hung a right, and started up a hill. No rush now. No hurry. Safety first.

When I passed the Walmart on the right, I knew I was within a few blocks of the motel. And that is when I saw a bike rider wearing a camouflage coat and carrying a bag that looked like fast food. He was riding down the wrong side of the road going south. Then he climbed onto the grassy medium and rode there between bustling traffic passing in both directions. 

This is what gets people hurt, I thought. 

I picked up some speed and passed him. He was about my age, maybe older. I waved. He looked at me, but didn’t wave back. 

Finally, I came to my turn. I had to move over two lanes into a third turning lane at a stoplight, all while going down a hill. At the stoplight, I would have to climb another hill to get to the motel. I hoped to use that momentum of the decline to ride up the next hill. I craned my neck to see if any traffic was coming behind me. Swiveling my head in either direction often sends a pain into my neck and shoulders. I sometimes practice two or three times to try to limber up before twisting on my bike. 

This may sound silly, but my neck and shoulders are not as flexible as they used to be. Or as they should be. 

And on this busy highway, it can be dangerous. 

No mistakes, I told myself. Hill or no hill. I have to be smart here.

I could see cars coming. So I slowed down. A car passed. Then a truck. 

I looked again. Nothing. 

So, I rode down the hill. No oncoming traffic either, so I popped up onto the other hill. Pulled into a steak house parking lot by mistake. It was completely full. Maybe 25 cars. Finally, I had arrived.

Day Nineteen (January 26, 2021, Tuesday)

Crestview, Florida (46 miles)

That was fun!

At about 6:10 am, I got up and heard the weatherman out of Pensacola say that the rain would be spotty until about noon. I checked my Weather app for Pensacola, but nothing had changed: 60% and 70% until noon, then climbing. 

I wasn’t thinking clearly. I fired up the coffee maker, on loan, with the last of my coffee and washed up. I started becoming a little anxious. I wanted to ride. I wanted to find any excuse to ride. Mostly because my cousin was in Florida waiting for me to return, so we could spend a few days together before he headed back to Indiana. I also had this nagging guilt that while in Lucedale, I should have traveled on that rain day. When I walked outside that day, it was misty, but I felt I could have ridden in that. 

On this rainy Tuesday morning, however, I had the chance to make up that lost day. Suddenly, I realized a mistake. My front light had not been charged. My routine is that I immediately charge the rear light as soon as I get to the hotel, and then plug in the front light before I go to bed. Last night, although I stayed up late, I had forgotten to charge it. 

So I quickly plugged it in, hoping it would last me four hours. Could I make 46 miles in four hours in this weather? Fully charged that light only lasted 5-6 hours maximum. 

Although I filled enough water for four cups to process in the coffee maker, only one cup and a half filtered through. I figured that I had made a mistake. So I started drinking that while closely watching the weather on TV. Then I realized that I hadn’t checked the Crestview weather. 

At 7 am there was a 30% chance of rain, 8 am 30%, 9 am 30%, 10 am 30%, 11 am 30%, and 12 pm 30%. After that, it climbed to 80% or so. 

OK, that was the window I needed. I was willing to risk it if I could leave immediately. First, though, I needed more coffee. I lifted the lid of the coffee maker and saw that my jerry-rigged napkin coffee filter was somehow blocking the flow. It was dripping out at a rate of a cup every 15 minutes. I poured what little there was into my cup and continued on. 

So, I rushed to pack all my gadgets, clean clothes, and other travel items into my saddlebags. I got myself dressed, which is a bit of an ordeal. I put on my riding pants, long sleeve shirt, two pairs of socks, knee brace, cycling shirt with pockets in the back. I placed two plastic bags over my socks and put on my shoes. But the tops of the plastic bags stuck out like trash spilling from my tennis shoes. I wrapped the bags tightly and rolled down my socks over them so that nothing was amiss. I put my raincoat on top of the contents in my left saddlebag, in case I needed it along the ride. I put on my backpack. Rolled my “watertight” saddlebags, turned on lights, slipped a modest tip under the coffee maker, and stepped out into the hall. 

Down the elevator I rode with two Hispanics, who kindly let me maneuver my bike onto the lift. In the tiny lobby-closet, the window was closed. I slipped my key card under the glass and rolled out into the mist. I powered over the wet Escambia River Bridge on US 90 East. 

The wind was not a factor. My feet were dry. So I peddled as hard as I could. I knew hilly terrain lay ahead. I crossed over the very long causeway and up onto land, and into Pace. My speed was very good. The hills were not as big as I remembered. So, I kept pushing on. If I were going to avoid the high percentage rains of Pensacola, I would have to move east, and quickly. 

I was quite pleased with myself as I hit Milton. I stopped at the Blackwater River bridge at Milton to get a few photos. The fog hovering over the river was almost breathtaking. 

That was the highlight of my day. 

I beat the odds by the first hour. The road remained relatively flat, and I was making really good time. The road became two-lane, and traffic all but disappeared. The sky was dark and gloomy, but I was well on my way to Crestview. I needed to get there by noon.

Then the mist turned into rain. I stopped and put on my raincoat. After five miles, the rain stopped, and I was sweating heavily under the coat. I was very hot and uncomfortable. I stopped and put the coat back into my bag. However, I left my gloves on. Without them, my hands were slipping on the handle grips, making it next to impossible to shift gears. I also removed my cycling glasses and rode with no protection. I never do that because sand and debris from the road fly up into my face. But that was normally due to passing vehicles, and along this stretch, for the time being, there was virtually no traffic. 

The second hour passed, and I continued to make good time. I kept checking my headlight to see if it was still working. I stopped a couple of times to rest. Rough calculations indicated that I was averaging about 14 mph. Really good. I was really pleased with my decision. I had beaten the odds so far. My feet were dry. My shoes were wet, but they would dry out tonight. 

The next hour was pretty much the same, although hills began to pop up the further east I got. The drizzle became pellets of rain, but I preferred the light rain on my body, even dripping down through my helmet into my hair and eyes, over the raincoat. But I had a good bike lane, except on the bridges, so I figured I could keep pushing hard that last hour. 

Suddenly, the temperature dropped five degrees. I have read about this happening, but I have never experienced it. And it started raining hard. I got some sand in my left eye, so I put my cycling glasses back on. The stream of road water spraying my feet, legs, face, and chest from the spinning bicycle tires was incessant. The hills were getting bigger. The wind came in swirls, not terribly strong, but annoying. 

Every 20 minutes or so, I would put my hand in front of the headlight to make sure it was working. 

Unfortunately, I made the mistake of taking a county road: Antioch Road. While it was about a mile or so shorter, there was no bike lane and no shoulder. I had to ride on the white line. Traffic picked up. Even huge dump trucks, trash trucks, and semi-trailer trucks rushed by, spraying me with water and shaking the pavement as they rumbled past. 

But the GPS woman with a British accent told me that I only had 6.5 miles to go. 

This would be the most miserable 6.5 miles of the entire trip. 

The rain intensified. The hills became steeper. I got wetter. I had to stop more often for a one minute break. Water dripped down onto my glasses. As soon as I wiped them they were wet again. They were fogging up because of the condensation occurring, as a result of my huffing and puffing to get up hills, and colder outside temperature. I was reminded of all those times that I was riding in a car with poor heating and I would have to constantly wipe the front windshield to see.

The vehicles zoomed past, splashing me, even though they were doing everything they could to give me space. Most of the time, the narrow two-lane road didn’t afford much space. I was aware that this is when accidents happen, either the cyclist or the motorist make mistakes: confusion caused by the weather.  

Going down hills was no less threatening. The speed was higher, and I had to worry about vehicles pulling out in front of me, or my hydroplaning as I rode into one of the dozens of huge puddles of water present everywhere. 

I peddled up and over I-10. The ride down was fast, wet, and nerve racking. 

Suddenly, I realized my feet were cold. Somehow the bags had not done their job. My socks were drenched. My body was drenched. I could barely see out of my glasses. I kept checking my front light to see if it was still working. Traffic was buzzing all around me, or sometimes vehicles slowed down behind me for a minute or two at a time, allowing me around some road work or up a hill. 

I was alert. Anxious. Miserable.

Finally, I came to a huge hill. Somehow I made it halfway up, and for the first time in 19 days, I had to stop, get off, and push the bike up the rest of the way. The rain was coming down hard and steadily. My legs were depleted of energy because I had been pushing so hard. Even the day that I rode 70 miles, I had paced myself, because I knew I needed the reserves of energy. 

Yet, I was grateful that it was in the 60s and not the 40s. I was grateful that my bike was functioning without problems. No flat tires. No mechanical problems. I was grateful that I had only 3 miles or so to go. 

I pushed the bike up this hill in the grass, because there was no space on the road. The grass became muddy in places. Right at the top, my shoes sunk into a couple of inches of sucking mud. 

But I pushed through. Again, what choice did I have. 

Finally, I made it to SR 85, about a mile south of I-10 again. The HomeTown Inn sat right beside the interstate. 

I sat at a stoplight, amid typical Tuesday noon-day traffic. I was dripping with water everywhere. I must have made a comical sight for all my fellow travelers. I saw that my first quarter-mile of SR 85 would be uphill. 

Oh goody!

The light turned green. I stood up and peddled hard till I reached the shoulder. Then I took my time up the hill. There was no rush now. I absolutely could not absorb any more water. I was as wet as I was going to get. And at this slow, controlled pace, I was safer. 

The GPS woman led me to the motel. I had to push my bike up another hill to the parking lot. Slightly embarrassed and never knowing how I would be received, I pushed my bike through the automatic doors and into the lobby. The lady clerk was working with a Hispanic man, refunding his deposit, I assume. She greeted me, but kept her head down to focus on her transaction. 

I covered my mouth and nose with the mask, returned her greeting, and dripped. I dripped all over the lobby. My bike dripped. There was nothing else I could do. 

I checked my time. I had covered 46 miles in about four hours. Just under 12 mph. I was pleased. Despite the last miserable 45 minutes, I was pleased with my decision. Barring any major problems, I should be home Thursday to my family, and be able to spend an extra day with my cousin. 

Drip, drip, drip!

When she had finished her transaction with the Hispanic man, she turned to me. I apologized for being wet. She took it in stride as if a dripping 61-year-old man in riding shorts and a helmet, standing and dripping in her lobby with his bicycle was something she encountered every day. 

God bless her!

She didn’t remind me of the check-in time. She gave me a key to a room on the bottom floor. She told me that they no longer left coffee makers in rooms, that instead, there was coffee in the lobby 24 hours per day. I was welcome to it at any time. 

I rode my bike around and found my room: 122. I got off and pushed the bike through the door. 

My headlight made it. Stayed charged through the entire four hours. However, it was covered with sand and grit, as was my tail light. The outside of the saddlebags, and the rest of the bike. The inside of the saddlebags were wet. I guess they are not waterproof. 

Fortunately, all of my gadgets are in ziplock bags, so they remained dry. 

Drip, drip, drip!

Day Eighteen (January 25, 2021, Monday)

Pensacola, Florida (50 miles)

When I was 11 years old, my parents got a divorce. I was living in Indianapolis at the time they separated. My Grama drove Grampa’s truck up to the big city, piled in our meager set of belongings, and drove us down to Freetown, Indiana. We stayed with her until my mother could get us settled into a rental in Brownstown. I started in Mrs. Snapp’s 4th grade in Brownstown Elementary. That made my 17th school change in my brief 11 years. But I would remain in the Brownstown school system until graduation. 

Divorce is common now, but it was less common in the 60s. I went to visit my father in Anderson, Indiana once a month or so, on a Friday, and come home on Sunday, ready for school the next day. He would often end the weekend by taking me and my two brothers, and often his new wife and her three daughters, to an Indiana Pacers basketball game at the Coliseum, at the Indiana State Fair Grounds. The Pacers were in the ABA (American Basketball Association), and they were good. “Slick” Leonard was their coach. Freddie Lewis, Roger Brown, Mel Daniels, Bob Netolicky, and later Darnell Hillman were all my heroes. I can still remember how they played, their idiosyncrasies on the court. Hillman wore a really tall afro and could jump very high. The rumor was that he could touch the top of the backboard. A few years later, Billy Keller and Rick Mount joined the team. Sometimes, after a game, I would stand outside the dressing room, wait for the fully dressed players to exit, and would get their autographs (I since have lost all of them) on a napkin or piece of paper. 

Years later in high school, my grandmother and I would watch the Pacers when George McGinnis was their star. He had this unique one-handed shot that would send the red, white, and blue ball, spinning perfectly, in an arc to strip the net. He led the Pacers to two ABA championships. One year he averaged just under 30 points a game for the season. He was my favorite player. Grama and I would not miss a game. 

To this day, McGinnis is still my favorite player of all time.

Years later, I took my own son and daughters to a couple of Pacer games when I was a graduate student at IU. I saw Darnell Hillman wearing a suit and serving as some type of high ranking usher. He was still thin and fit. My son and I walked up to him, and I shook his hand. I told him that I remembered the days when he played in the ABA. He was very pleasant. When I reminded him of his Afro, he laughed embarrassedly and said something like, “Don’t remind me!”

Those years as a graduate student, my father and his wife, who I had grown to respect and love, would come to our house, or we would go to their house, and we would all watch the Pacers play. Reggie Miller was the star then, and my favorite active player at the time. 

During the 1999-2000 season, my family and I were in Jordan, Pakistan, and India. I was studying languages and conducting research. My son and I would scour restaurants, hotels, and every available option for viewing the Pacer games. In Peshawar, Pakistan, we once woke up a 5 am in the morning, walked for a mile to catch a bus, and rode several miles to reach a hotel downtown that was showing an NBA Finals game between the Lakers and Pacers. 

After my children became adults, we would watch the Pacers in Indiana, in Maryland, in Kenya, in Honduras, in Florida, or wherever we were.

Years later yet, I would return to Indiana to visit my father, and we would always catch the Pacers games or the Colts games on TV if they were playing. In the last few years, my father and his wife would come to our condo in Florida during Christmas time, and we would never miss the Pacers and the Colts games. 

Even now, whether I am at home in Honduras or in Florida, or on the road, I still exchange texts with my father throughout the entire game. When we speak on the phone, we usually dedicate ten minutes to updates and opinions on the Pacers and the Colts. Even in the off-season, we have plenty of strategies, opinions, and comments to go around. 

So I have been a Pacers’ fan since I was very young. I have been watching them play now for 50 years. Watching the games brings me warmth, happiness, and carries pleasant memories that are intrinsically linked to my family. Watching the Pacers is a little like Thanksgiving dinner. It is a necessity. It is tradition. And best enjoyed with family. 

Last night, the Pacers lost in a tight game to the Raptors. Tonight, they play the same team again, and my father and I are hoping for revenge.

Today was my longest planned leg on the return trip: 50 miles. Theoretically, it should have been easier than some shorter trips. I was descending in altitude to almost sea level. So, I just figured I would start early, plug away, and try to get there by noon. 

For the same reason that I returned south to Mobile, instead of going due east (lack of available east-west roads and accommodations), I now turned south to Pensacola. The quickest way east through this bizarre network of north and south roads was US 90 across Pensacola Bay, the same road I was forced to take two weeks ago-but going west-on a very cold and unfortunate day when I racked up 70 miles. 

I was also racing against the threat of rain. It rained last night (Sunday) and was coming again tonight. And then it was supposed to rain hard through tomorrow (Tuesday) and into Wednesday. 

That is how I decided on Woodspring Suites hotel in Pensacola, which is the eastern-most hotel on US 90, right before the Escambia River Bridge. You can see the bridge from the hotel.

When I left the Red Roof Inn in Bay Minette, it was just getting daylight. I didn’t play any music because I feared my battery would die. It has been unpredictable. 

The temperature was about 60 and was going to climb to 72 or so. A Mobile TV station warned that it was very foggy, but I didn’t think it was bad out in the parking lot. But the pavement was wet. I dropped off my key and rolled out into the busy Monday traffic on US Highway 59 South. I said farewell to I-65, which sat just a little further north, the interstate that I flirted with over the past few days, but could never enter. An interstate that I am very familiar with, as it runs through Tennessee, Kentucky, and my native Indiana. I almost have a sentimental attachment to it. So many memories of traveling on 65 with family and friends over the years. 

At D’ Olive Street, I turned east, splashing through the rivulets of water on the pavement. Drizzle was coming down. Cars were rushing in all directions. The bicycle tires splashed the rivulets and spun water up into my face, my glasses, on my bare legs, and onto my tennis shoes. My socks were soaked before I left the city limits. 

The wind was only supposed to be 3 mph ESE, which was precisely the direction I was going, but I figured 3 mph shouldn’t be a problem. A couple of miles outside of town, I turned right on County Road 112, also known as Old Pensacola Road, and headed southeast. Almost immediately, I saw the fog. Yes, it was thick. Visibility was poor. I noticed a lot of roadkill in my path. I worried about cars not seeing me in the fog and coming up behind and knocking me off the road. There was absolutely no shoulder, so I rode on the white line. It was tough. I feared vehicles would pull out in front of me because of poor visibility. I wondered why there was so much roadkill. But fortunately for the first 5 miles or so, there were few cars. I counted four going in my direction and about 30 going toward Bay Minette, as travelers were heading to work on this Monday morning. 

The wind was not a factor for 15 miles or so. There were tall Shortleaf Pine trees on both sides, sheltering the wind. I cannot see a pine tree today without thinking back 45 years ago when I rode in a pickup truck with a friend of the family to Doraville, Georgia to visit my cousin. One afternoon, I was sitting in my aunt’s yard, and I asked her what that tall tree was. She said, “That’s a pine tree. Haven’t you ever heard the saying, ‘He’s as tall as a Georgia pine?’” I hadn’t. But that stuck with me.

Occasionally, on this morning, the wind would would catch me in the face or shoulder, driving me back, but it was fine. The hills, on the other hand, were a challenge. I was facing the mirror image of hills I encountered when coming from Mobile on my way to Bay Minette yesterday. As I was gradually climbing from sea level, I struggled over hill after hill to reach 269 feet above sea level. 

Today, I was descending so it should have been easier. I was holding out hopes that the road would soon flatten out, and maybe I could coast most of the way to Pensacola. But each time, I would peddle and peddle and peddle to get up one hill, only to find another hill just as big would be ahead waiting on me. Taunting me. 

Fifty miles of this? I thought. Surely it would get better.

Then, I lost my shelter. The pine trees on the right just disappeared. I had reached logging territory, and for some reason, most of the timber on the right had been cut. Simultaneously, semi-trailer trucks full of pine logs began to appear. And the wind began to hammer me. 

Don’t misunderstand me. There were spots where the trees had been harvested on the left side of the road too. At times both sides. But the logging on the right side seemed more prevalent.

Whatever that wind speed was at 7:05 am in Bay Minette, this wind was much stronger. At least 10 mph. Right in my face or pushing against my right shoulder. There was no let-up. 

The first time I stopped to rest was 10 miles. The second 5. Then 4. Then about every 4-5 the rest of the way to Florida. 

The side of the road was littered with roadkill: deer, opossums, raccoons, huge birds. There were more on this road than any I have seen in Florida. I saw one or two every mile or so. 

I hoped that given the narrow space on this two-lane county road, the racing trucks, in a hurry to deliver their pine so they could get the next load, and the wind pushing me from side to side, that I would not become roadkill. 

Going up a hill is particularly threatening because when going slow, I sometimes wobble from side to side to keep my balance. The wind makes things worse. And sometimes the vehicles pass very closely. 

The trucks were a huge concern. And unlike the dozens and dozens of pine logging trucks I had encountered in central Florida last January, which gave me plenty of space, many of these drivers were nearly out of control. Even when there was no oncoming vehicle, they didn’t always give me space. One truck rushed by at 55 or 60 mph, passing within 18 inches of me. 

I thought about my family. My wife. My grandkids. My children. My cousin, my aunt, my father. My aunt. My work. My projects. My future. My retirement. My health. The Pacers. Drifting from one chain of thought to the next, peddling and peddling. 

My phone rang as it normally does, at least twice a day, while I am riding. As much as I would have liked to hear about my extended warranty that was about to elapse, I ignored it. 

Finally, I needed a real break. My legs were really tired. I was nearly 30 miles outside of Pensacola. I wanted to sit down, but the grass was still wet. I saw a church in a large open space of nearly 20 acres. I figured I could sit on the parking blocks or chock blocks in the parking lot. When I stopped, I saw that I had missed a call from my wife. She never calls. It had to be something important. Naturally, your mind takes you to some horrible places. I called, but she did not answer. I texted but no response. I checked my email to see if she had sent an email. Nothing. 

Finally, she responded by text by saying that she’d called me by mistake. The wind was ferocious. Trucks came racing by as if rushing to the emergency room. 

I got back on my bike and took off, not even having sat down. 

Nothing got better. In fact, the wind picked up. I was sure by now that the wind was at least 14 mph, the highest confirmed speed I had encountered ten days ago or so when I was crossing over to Ocean Springs, Mississippi. I was descending in altitude, but the hills didn’t seem to show it. There was just one hill after the last in an endless range of hills. No respite. No mercy. The sky remained a cloudy, dull gray. This was no fun. I couldn’t enjoy the scenery or the sights. 

Three dogs raced across the road and chased me. I never know if a dog will actually bite me while riding or if they will just bark. I didn’t want to find out. So I screamed at them, and they backed off. Then they returned. I screamed. They back away only to return a third time. I screamed as loud as I could. They backed off. By then, I was beyond their territory, and they moved onto their adventure of the day. 

I tried to look at the bright side of it. It was warm, maybe 70. And I was dry. My bike was working. No mechanical problems. No flat tires. No accidents. I’ll take it. 

When I crossed the Perdido River into Florida, I was happy. Really happy to be back in my adopted state. I stopped at the side of the road to rest and see how much farther I would need to travel. I saw a missed call. It was from my granddaughter’s school. Naturally, I thought the worst. I called them back. The woman who answered didn’t know why someone had called. We played 20 questions. Then she put me on hold. Then I got transferred to someone’s voicemail. But there was no option to go back to the receptionist. So I hung up and tried again. This time a different woman told me it was she who had called. She had a series of questions about a form that needed some more information. After ten minutes, I got back on the road. 

Shortly thereafter, I came to US 29. I turned south. I was so happy. I was close. 

But my elation wouldn’t last long. I then faced the very worst wind I have ever encountered. I peddled and peddled and peddled but didn’t seem to go anywhere. Or at least not quickly. I pulled over every 2 or 3 miles. At least I had a good-sized lane to myself. My bike was working. It was warm. And I was closing in on my destination.

You have to psych yourself up in these cases.

My legs were worn out by the time I reached US 90. Traffic was bad. There was road construction at times that took away my lane completely. The wind was pushing at my right shoulder, slowing me down, as I climbed pretty healthy hills. But I peddled on. 

Finally, I arrived. I checked my time. I made 50 miles in about 5 hours and 20 minutes. About 9.5 mph. I can live with that.

The Woodsprings Suites, and similar accommodations like the Extended Stay, are not really hotels. Or not in the conventional sense. The lobby has no chairs. It is more like a tiny hallway with one hotel phone on the wall, a window for the clerk, and a locked door that allows you access to the accommodations area with your key card. Management likes to rent by the week. They have kitchenettes. So they want to sell you dishes and frying pans and drinking glasses and cups and coffeemakers and silverware. And they give you the basic internet for free. You can check email with that free package, but that is about it. They want to sell you premium internet. And then advanced premium. 

The buildings remind me of a set of dorms. Like in on-campus married housing. The minimum to live by. But they have good guest laundry facilities. I guess you could live there for months if needed. 

The clerk told me I was too early. Check-in time was not till 3 pm. I asked him if there was any possibility to check in any earlier. He told me to give him an hour. With my bike saddlebags full of possessions, I didn’t want to leave it anywhere. So, I told him I would sit outside. (Like I said, there is no real lobby.)

I checked the Weather app for Pensacola. The wind was blowing at 15 mph SW, the highest confirmed speed to date. I was so happy to be here. Sitting on the pavement was better than peddling up a hill.

After 30 minutes of waiting, the clerk tapped on the window and signaled for me to come in. He turned out to be real nice. He gave me a room. I went upstairs and unpacked my saddlebags. I went back down to ask him how big the coffee makers were. I thought I might buy a one-cup coffeemaker if it would fit in my saddlebags. I could make room for it. But they sold only full-sized ones. Then he said, “I will lend you one. You’ll only be here one night.” 

It was time to wash clothes again. But first things first. I went across the street to buy water and some items and ordered food from DoorDash. Then I bought laundry detergent and put my clothes in the washer. There were four washing machines and eight dryers, but two were out of order.

Then, I sat down to watch the Pacer game. My father and I coached them to victory over the Raptors. 

At sometime during the game, I put my clothes in the dryer, and then picked them up. 

But throughout the night, I was constantly checking the weather. It is supposed to rain all day tomorrow. I was trying to find a 4- or 5-hour window, with which I could ride 46 miles to Crestview, Florida. But both the Pensacola forecast and the Crestview one showed a 60-70% chance of rain all morning, through about 1 pm, and then the percentage climbed to 90% and 100% in the afternoon. I even found a weather map, trying to find that window. I just didn’t see it. 

So I stayed awake till about 11 pm (very late for me) and watched a series on Netflix. I figured I would sleep in till 7 am or so the next morning, rest on Tuesday, spend the day catching up on a number of projects, maybe read, and leave Wednesday morning. 

Boy was I ever wrong! 

Day Seventeen (January 24, 2021, Sunday)

Bay Minette, Alabama

Bay Minette, Alabama, my destination for today, sits high in the hills of Baldwin County. The city has 8000 citizens, but the bay itself sits halfway between Spanish Fort and the city of Bay Minette. According to Susie, the very kind desk clerk about my age, the bay got its name from a hospitable French woman named Minette, who opened her home to mariners who visited the bay and needed accommodations. Portions of Close Encounters of the Third Kind and Friday the 13th Part VII: The New Blood were filmed in or near the town. 

Today I was concerned about crossing the convoluted network of roads, streets, and side streets to reach US 90 East. It’s a straight shot of 35 miles on I-65 North, but of course, bicycles are not permitted. 

US 90 East is really the only way, for miles, to cross the Bay of Mobile on a bicycle. In fact, it is for this very reason that I returned to Mobile. I would have preferred to remain north near Lucedale, but unfortunately, the roads don’t go east and west as conveniently as we have come to expect in the Midwest, or even in the East. The roads run some variant of north and south. Also, I am limited by accommodations. I must look each day at accommodations available within 50 miles. I read the reviews, but they are difficult to decipher. There is always someone who hates every motel. Dirty room. Rat droppings on the sheets. Commode stopped up and pumping water onto the floor. The nightmare we all hope to avoid. And then the next review will rank the motel a 5 out of 5 stars. Excellent, clean room. Accommodating staff. Highly recommend it.

I left the motel early, trying to meet a deadline of noon at the Red Roof Inn, so that I could watch the Pacers play the Raptors. I eased out onto Moffett Road, which is also US 98, and although it was Sunday, early, there seemed to be a lot of people out and about. I crossed under I-65 and kept going. At a side street, a black man about 40 with friends or family members came to a stop and let me pass. I waved and smiled, and he broke a big friendly smile. 

The GPS wouldn’t take me the route I wanted to go. It was determined to take me on I-65. So, I had to break the trip into shorter segments to get to US 90 East. The neighborhood ride was relatively quiet. Street after street there were few vehicles. Almost all of the drivers were black. When they made eye contact, I waved and smiled. They always waved back. 

The wind was NW, which was the general direction I was going, once I crossed the bridge, but at this time in Mobile, it was only 3 mph, so I didn’t let it worry me. 

At one particularly complicated intersection with three sets of streets, I stopped to reprogram my GPS. I took off my cycling glasses and hung them on my front pack (a bit like a fanny pack attached to my handlebars) I put on my normal glasses to read the phone. I figured out where to go, and I took off. Suddenly I was coasting down a little hill in a neighborhood, and I realized that my cycling glasses were still dangling where I had left them.

Crash! I heard the glasses strike the ground. I stopped and turned around. Fortunately in this neighborhood, no one was in sight. I came back and picked them up, expecting the lenses to be broken and the frame smashed. But they were fine. I couldn’t even find any scratches.

After a long detour of many streets and roads, I found US 90 East. I climbed onto the massive Cochrane-Africatown Bridge. There were cars and trucks passing me as I peddled up the bridge at my best speed, which was slow. But there wasn’t as much traffic as you might find on a weekday. The more I saw of this bridge, the more in awe I became. The architecture, technology, and workmanship were amazing. I told myself that I was in a hurry, and I couldn’t stop much if I were going to make the game. But I had no choice. I had to stop and take a photo. Then, I would get a little further and have to stop and take another photograph. Then stop again. It was slow going, but well worth it. 

Both going up and going down, there were steel plates about four-foot-wide, laid across huge gaps in the concrete that ran a span of 12 feet or more on the shoulder of the bridge. The gaps were maybe six inches deep where some type of steel connections lay. Had it not been for these steel plates, bikers would severely damage their bikes. Going down, almost certainly there would be accidents. I was extremely grateful for the Alabama Department of Transportation or whoever did this. If I ever meet you or anyone who works for the DOT, let me buy you a cup of coffee. 

Finally, I came to the tunnel that I had dangerously traversed ten days ago. I stopped and got a photo and then kept riding. 

When I rode under I-10, I was forced to stop and take some photos. Again the architecture and concrete workmanship was truly awe-inspiring. Naturally, at the USS Alabama, I stopped and took a photo. I just couldn’t resist. 

Then I started across the causeway. It is at least a couple of miles. I moved quickly. Traffic was mild. Then I came to the hill I had been dreading all day. I had coasted down a sister hill ten days ago coming west, and I knew that I would have to go back up this sucker. I shifted into granny gear and just peddled it out. Nothing pretty about it. Just a lot of huffing and puffing and hard work. 

In fact, the past several days since I had left Louisiana, I had encountered almost non-stop hills. And I huffed and puffed and peddled it out. One after another. There was simply no option. 

At the top of the hill, I was in Spanish Fort. But it was still early and just about everything was closed. I was on a schedule, so I hung a left and followed US 225 North, and began tackling a new chain of hills. Then the wind began to attack me. It had grown well beyond the 3 mph it had been in the morning. 

The city of Bay Minette sits at an elevation of 269 feet, so there are a lot of hills, ups and downs, that gradually increase in elevation. 

But after several challenging hills, the road descends to the sea level of Bay Minette. Then, again, I began peddling up hill after hill. A few times I had to stop and catch my breath. Rest my legs. They were getting tired. 

At one point a police car passed me and then stopped half a mile ahead at the top of a hill. I thought he was waiting on me, but when I passed, there was some type of music or other loud noise coming from the interior. He was not interested in me. 

Immediately after, I came to the Alabama State Veterans Memorial Cemetery at Spanish Fort, constructed on more than 120 acres, a few miles outside Spanish Fort in Baldwin County, Alabama. I stopped to take photos and heard trumpet music playing in the background, on an outdoor speaker. Established in 2012, the cemetery began burials in April 2013. To date, they have about 2800 internments. 

As I was peddling, trying to keep my speed up, trying to get to the motel in time for the game, on my left, suddenly, a loud noise appeared. 

I shouted. Literally shouted. I am not proud of it, but I did. A man about my age, maybe younger, passed me on a bike. I tried to regain my composure and yelled, “How’s it going?”

But by now, he thought I was a lunatic and just kept going. I picked up my speed, trying to stay within a reasonable distance of him. But he soon lost me. 

Then I turned east onto Hurricane Road. It is a county road, where the engineers care much less about subtle grades. Interstates have very subtle inclines. If you notice, most of the time a significant incline can take a mile or more. A US highway is similar. They try to make the inclines more subtle. They are more pronounced than an interstate, and still quite hard to climb, but manageable. Get to a country road, forget it. Funding is in short supply, and they do what they can. These hills go from the bottom to the top, across a very short distance. 

So I undertook these hills against a considerable headwind, and just did my best. 

At one point, I came down a hill, and a crosswalk guard was stopping traffic in both directions, so that churchgoers could walk from the parking lot across the road to the church. I had never seen that before.

Finally, I got to Bay Minette. It was larger than I thought. By now traffic was pretty heavy. I got to the Red Roof Inn. I had made really good time. About 10.5 mph over 38 miles. 

Susie, the clerk, told me that I was too early to check-in. The housekeeper didn’t come for another hour. I said, “OK.” 

Then she said, “Let me see what room they gave you. Maybe it wasn’t used last night.” After a few seconds of clicking and checking, she said, “Yes, it is good to go.”

She checked me in, and I hurriedly rode around to the other side and came to my room. The dozen or so cigarette butts on the window sill outside the door should have been an indication of what was to come. When I unlocked the room, I saw that indeed the bed had not been slept in, but beer bottles and all types of empty food wrappers were scattered all throughout the room. 

I went back to Susie and told her what I saw. She was embarrassed and told me she would upgrade me. The next room was better. I dropped everything off and rushed out to get some food. I was in and out of Dollar General quickly, but Burger King was another issue. The manager was very nice. A lady about 35 years old. But they were very unorganized and very busy. They messed up three orders while I was there. One of them was mine. Finally, she went back and made my Impossible Burgers herself. (One for lunch, and one for supper. Only the best for me.)

I missed the first half of the first quarter of the Pacer game but got to see the rest. The internet was good. 

At halftime, I found Christine, the very nice black housekeeper. I asked her if she could give me extra coffee. I gave her a little tip. I always have to ask, because sometimes they only give you one or two regular coffees. I like to drink 4-5 cups in the morning before setting out. 

She came back with four decafs. A couple of years ago, that would have been fine. I had cut out all caffeinated coffee. But I was lured back to the dark side. 

So, I told her I needed regular coffee. She said, “That is all we have. I have been asking for it, but they say that is all they send.” 

No problem, I told her. 

Fifteen minutes later, I heard a knock on the door. It was Christine. She was holding four regular coffees.

”I went to the office, and we got a box out and started looking in it. I told her, (Susie), that I gotta find him some coffee,” she said.

There are nice people everywhere.

Day Sixteen (January 23, 2021, Saturday)

Mobile, Alabama (35 Miles)

At the beginning of the 1920s, the population in Jackson County, Indiana was shrinking. This is likely a result of a phenomenon common during that period: people moving from farms to the city. An article published in the Seymour Daily Tribune in June 1920 reported that the county’s population was 24,288, a loss of 499 people over the previous ten-year period. The towns were growing slightly, and the rural areas shrinking. Owen Township is a case in point. In 1900, the population was 2031, and by 1910, had dropped to 1795. By 1920, only 1446 people lived in Owen Township. 

Across the county, the number of farms was decreasing as well. The county had 2617 farms in 1920, according to an October Tribune article, down 5.9 percent from 2780 farms in 1910. “All of the farms in this county are operated by white farmers,” the article read. The principal crop was corn, followed by wheat, oats, and hay. The number of farm animals in the county was reported as 2480, down from 2645 in 1910. Horses accounted for the greatest number of livestock, followed by mules, cattle, sheep, and swine. 

This snapshot of Jackson County demographics and farms seems to coincide with trends across the country in the Roaring 20s, as young people moved from the farms to cities. 

On this morning, 100 years later and 650 miles almost directly south of Jackson County to Lucedale, Alabama, the sky was a shade of gloomy gray when I rolled my bike out of the automatic doors of the hotel. Thick, heavy clouds blocked the sun. A light mist immediately began to sprinkle onto my cycling glasses, as I peddled out onto four-lane US 98 East. I had begun to think that the forecasts were all wrong. According to my app, it was 53 degrees and dry. The local news broadcasted only a 20% chance of rain. The 8 mph wind was East/North East, which was just about the worst possible direction (ESE would have been the worst), and this was the first day that I recall that the wind was coming from the east. The entire time I was riding west, the wind was coming from the west. Now that I turned east, it is coming from that direction.

The hills were just as arduous as I remembered from Wednesday. I just put my head down, pumped my legs, switched gears up and down, up and down, and took what nature gave me. Was there any other choice?

I wiped and wiped at my glasses, but they were blurry, as vehicle after vehicle passed me at 65 mph and faster. Most gave me a wide berth. Ironically, one SUV with a bike rack full of bikes refused to allow me much space. A silver luxury sedan zoomed past dangerously close. After 30 minutes, I stopped and removed my gloves, jacket, and long sweat pants. My glasses fogged up because my breath floats up under my glasses when I stop. I wiped them again and peddled east. 

A figure on the horizon grew larger as I peddled. I realized it was a man. A farmer, or retired farmer, who was walking in my direction for either exercise or perhaps as his only means of transportation. I didn’t know which. 

I waved as I greeted him. He waved back and yelled, “Morning. Be careful!” I thought about the authenticity of his gesture. He knew how dangerous this road could be. And he was genuinely interested in my welfare. Having grown up in rural Indiana and lived in rural Indiana as an adult, this was no surprise. Despite appearances (and at times behaviors) to the contrary, I have to believe that the vast majority of rural Americans are warm, generous human beings. 

One hour into the trip, cracks in the clouds began to appear. The sun started poking through. By the time I crossed into Alabama, soft white clouds were suspended in the bright blue sky. At the border, four lanes had narrowed to two. And I rode through a beautiful short-leaf pine forest that gave way occasionally to a cluster of houses. At times a farm, a pond, a lake, a river. 

It was a beautiful ride. At times the wind what whimsical, slowing my advance, but by and large, I was able to make good progress. 

In the little town of Wilmer, I stopped to rest and drink water. A dog barked incessantly behind a fence across the road. He didn’t like my presence and wanted to let me know about it. A litter further down the road, I came across a home with a series of Confederate and odd American flags. 

By the town of Semmes, the road had flattened some. The hills were not as big. I entered a commercial area on the outskirts of Mobile. Lots of fast-food restaurants, shopping centers, small businesses. I stopped to check my GPS. I was 6.5 miles away. 

When I arrived at the Super 8 on Moffett Road, it was 11:55 am. I had averaged just over 10 mph. The Indian clerk explained through the night window that she was short a maid, and the room wasn’t ready. I am always early. I realize that check-in isn’t till 2 or 3 everywhere, but I try to start early and arrive early. Almost always, they find something for me. Most hotels are not anywhere near fully occupied during this season. During the pandemic. She allowed me to park my bike inside the locked lobby, and I walked to find something to eat. The neighborhood was not good. Lots of auto repair shops with the occasional auto junkyard. 

In January or February 1993, I bought an old Honda Civic Wagon, fixed it up, and drove it with my family from Bedford, Indiana to San Jose, Costa Rica. At El Salvador, we stayed for a few days with my wife’s family. I needed a replacement part for the car, so my father-in-law and brother-in-law and my six-year-old son drove from San Vicente to San Jose and visited a salvage yard, or “huezera” (boneyard), as the locals called it. That was the first time I had heard that expression. We stopped for coffee downtown at a roadside restaurant, that was nothing more than some plastic tables and chairs sitting out in the open. After we finished, I got in my car and drove off. A few minutes later, I realized that I had not paid. I turned around and with great embarrassment, returned and paid the woman who ran the shop. She smiled and told me that she was not worried. 

On the way home, we came upon an accident. Unable to stop in time at a stop sign, a small economy car had run into the back of a flatbed truck. Because the truck didn’t have a bumper, the car rode right under the steel bed, decapitating the driver and passenger. I made my son turn away. I turned away. 

I realized why laws mandating things like bumpers are not impositions; they are safety measures. 

After all these years, I cannot pass a junkyard without thinking of that day. 

In west Mobile, I walked under a bridge at I-65. A black man stood in the intersection, at the service ramp of the interstate, with a sign, begging for money. Under the bridge, behind a concrete barrier was a blue tent, shopping cart, large cooler, grill, and a smattering of plastic bags and containers. Someone was living there.

Across the road was a transportation company, home to dozens of semi-trailer trucks, surrounded by a tall chain-link fence topped by razor-wire. At a convenience store on the right was a parked sedan vibrating with music blasting, and even with the windows rolled up, I heard the beat and rhythm about half a block away. A black man left the car and walked into the store. 

At a total distance of a mile, I came to a cluster of fast-food restaurants—McDonald’s, Dairy Queen, Hardees, and others—but all, with the exception of Church’s chicken, had closed their dining rooms and were only serving drive-in customers due to the pandemic. I walked down Spring Hill Avenue, parallel to Moffett Road, back to I-65 looking for something open, but I could find nothing. I saw only two white men walking this whole time. Both seemed to be homeless. Everyone else, whether on foot or driving, was black. When a few of the drivers made eye contact, I smiled and waved. And they mostly smiled and waved back. I suppose I served as a peculiar sight. I was still in my black tight riding shorts, long-sleeve riding shirt, riding jacket (with my phone, credit cards, and all my cash in the back pockets), and a tall hiking backpack. And no helmet. Was I a backpacker? A bike rider with no bike? Or some old lunatic who has lost his way and wandered into the wrong neighborhood? 

I certainly did not blend in.

So I crossed down a small street. The houses were all old and small. Some were rickety. Halfway down the block, two black men stood out in the street in front of a truck, examining something on the hood. I noticed a group of people on the next porch. When the young black man in the street turned to see me, I waved. He was busy in conversation, but nodded and said, “How’s it going?” Once I passed the truck, I waved and smiled at the people on the porch. They were older and seemed to be just enjoying the warm January afternoon. One large, overweight man, about 50 years old, waved cautiously as if he were trying to figure out what I was about.

This reminded me of Mississippi. A couple of days ago, I was riding and saw four black men in prison or jail uniforms who were picking up trash along the highway. As I approached, one of them looked my way. I waved and said, “Good morning.” 

He replied, “How’s it going, my man?”

That was the first time anyone ever called me his man, but I rode on.

Here in Mobile, I turned left, back onto Moffett Road, stopped at a convenience store to buy some supplies, and returned to the Super 8. They booked me in the room, which was fine. Clean. Adequate. However, once again, the internet didn’t work. I called the desk, and the lady was nice but said she couldn’t do anything. I asked her to reset it, and she said that there was nothing she could do. Despite her words, I knew that this was nothing new to her. She knew it wasn’t working. I suspect it hadn’t worked in weeks or months, and many customers in or near my room had complained, but, probably, the owners didn’t want to invest in repairing it. 

Outside in the parking lot every 15 or 20 minutes, a car with booming, window-rattling music would pass or park. This happened over a period of four or five hours. I couldn’t understand why. Were they selling drugs? Involved in prostitution? Certainly, when you read the reviews of some of these low budget motels, you see lots of references to illegal activities. I looked up this particular Super 8. A few months ago, a woman reported that she saw a man with a gun on his hip on the second floor, but hoped he was security. 

This was not a security guard, I thought. This is Alabama; of course he had a gun on his hip. This is an open-carry state, where citizens can brandish their sidearms, much like the Wild West. 

I also read that the manager of the motel was pistol-whipped by a robber in broad daylight, but that was more than 15 years ago. Otherwise, there were no references to illegal activities. 

Once it got dark, I saw the car parked with its parking lights on for at least 30 minutes. I had no idea what was going on. I parked my bike right in front of the door, and I went to sleep. If someone broke in, they would have to knock over the bike and make a lot of noise.

Day Fifteen (January 22, 2021, Friday)

Lucedale, Alabama (0 miles)

Rain Day!

When I enter a hotel room and turn on the TV anywhere across the Florida Panhandle and southern Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana, the majority of the time the television is set to Fox News by the last occupant. Occasionally, the TV is tuned in to the Discovery Channel or cartoons. But never, have I found CNN, MSNBC, or any local stations.

Every time in the past fifteen days that I have entered a hotel lobby or dining area, restaurant, or other business with a TV, it has been set to Fox News, without exception. My predilection for one news station over another notwithstanding, I think this focus on Fox News is a fair indicator of the conservative nature of the locals and travelers in this part of the south.  

This morning when I entered the dining area for breakfast, the staff member was wearing her mask as always and standing behind a table that served as a temporary counter in the COVID-19 era. The dining room had been partitioned off, only a handful of tables were available across about 1/3 of the room. The staff member took my order and went behind the work area, that typically would be open to guests in normal times, and began to place pre-prepared breakfast dishes onto a styrofoam container. I pumped myself a cup of coffee and sat my iPad at an empty table in the corner. In fact, the entire room was empty, except for her and me. (The hotel is well below capacity). I returned, picked up my styrofoam container of food, and sat down. I opened up my iPad and started reading.

A couple about my age entered and gave the lady their order. Fox News loudly carried the daily news about the National Guard forced to sleep in a parking garage and domestic terrorists, which I find a curious term for a number of reasons. 

When I first arrived in Iraq in 2003, the first terrorists (mushaddidun in Arabic)—whom in the Coalition Provisional Authority, or CPA, were called insurgents—began attacking and killing Americans and innocent Iraqis, my Iraqi colleagues insisted that these were foreigners. Perhaps Iranians or Saudis determined to incite civil discord among Iraqis. “No Iraqi would ever do this (kill an innocent civilian),” Sawsan insisted. She was a very talented chemical engineer whom we promoted to the position of Director General over Labor Affairs at the Ministry of Labor and Social Affairs. Sawsan was also very outspoken, which I always liked. She reminded me of most of the women in my family: my grandmother, mother, and aunts. 

I was an advisor to the ministry, and about a week after I started working at the ministry, Sawsan came to Saddam’s palace. We were walking down one of the halls, and I asked her if she trusted me. She looked at me and then flatly said, “No.” I laughed and said that was OK. She would grow to trust me. Indeed, over the next couple of years, we went through some very, very difficult times. Death threats against both of us. A price on my head. Terrorists killing some of our Iraqi colleagues. And much more. 

But in the early fall of 2003, many of my colleagues had a difficult time reconciling that their compatriots were killing innocent civilians. Over several months, when these Iraqis themselves began taking responsibility for these acts of terrorism, many of the most balanced Iraqis began to accept reality: their fellow countrymen (and a few women) were indeed capable of barbaric acts. 

For example, on September 30, 2004, US soldiers stopped in Baghdad to pass out candy to children. A suicide bomber drove into the middle of the group and detonated, killing 35 children and 7 adults, and wounding 141 more. 

During my second assignment to Iraq, once there were 21 car bombs detonated in one day. What the terrorists liked to do was drive into a target, detonate, and kill several civilians. When the first responders arrived, police, ambulances, fire trucks; a second suicide bomber would drive into the middle of them and detonate, killing even more. 

I recently asked Sawsan what was the turning point for her. When did she realize that those responsible for this terror were indeed Iraqis? She replied, 

“What changed my mind was that the facts are facts. Criminals committed” these crimes and violence. She was intelligent and could distinguish between fabrication and truth. 

Naturally, the terrorists were committing acts of horrible violence to create fear and achieve political goals. But the Iraqis did not call them “domestic terrorists.” Just terrorists. 

So, I find it a little awkward that we are attempting to label acts of terror as committed by “domestic terrorists” as opposed to simply “terrorists.” 

Naturally, like the Iraqis in 2003, today many Americans are grappling with the reality that Americans can commit these crimes and acts of violence in our own country, in the nation’s Capitol building, to achieve political goals. This is particularly true when the crime and violence is committed by those we are sympathetic towards, when the terrorists or insurgents share our political leanings. 

This has been the source of much debate throughout the Muslim world and the West, with regard to Islamic extremism and militancy. For those Muslims (and even some Christians) who agree with the cause of these extremists—say ensuring the Palestinians have their own nation, or forcing the Americans to leave Afghanistan—but do not subscribe to the violence involved, they often experience an internal tension, torn between cause and the most appropriate way to achieve those political goals. In the wake of September 11, 2001, many of those sympathetic Muslims struggled to disavow the violence, while reconciling the cause. They often said things like “this is not Islam but…” or “Islam is a peaceful religion but…” And the second clause, following the “but”, ensured that the audience didn’t always hear the strong condemnation of the violence that they expected. And no matter how many times Muslims stated that they condemned the violence, suspicions remained.

No doubt, many Americans who were sympathetic with Black Lives Matter ideals, opposed the subsequent violence. Likewise, many Trump loyalists were sympathetic to the demonstrators on January 6, until the violence erupted. 

Now those sympathetic Americans from separate ends of the political spectrum are facing the same challenges that Muslims did after September 11. 

I don’t mean that the violence committed by either of the American groups in any way is comparable to that on September 11. But I do see parallels to the complexities of terms like “terrorists,” “insurrectionists,” “patriots,” “freedom fighters,” “demonstrators,” and “protestors,” among others. 

And that brings me to the couple in the dining area on this Friday morning. They didn’t wear masks. The woman was of average height and had long gray hair. The man was tall and had his dark gray- and white-streaked hair pulled into a pony tail, with matching long beard. He wore blue jeans and a dark blue t-shirt, portraying a huge bald eagle with its wings extended across his chest. But I couldn’t read the writing on the shirt. 

They sat halfway across the big room from me. Fox News had been speaking about domestic terrorists. The man with the pony tail spoke with a loud grainy voice, “Domestic terrorism. What about Antifa and Black Lives Matter?” His wife responded softly, but I couldn’t hear what she said. They reached across the table and held each other’s hands. Then the man began to whisper in prayer. 

By the time that the couple had finished the prayer and started their meal, a commentator on Fox News asked why the Biden Administration was not denouncing “Antifa and Black Lives Matter?”

As I mentioned above, in Iraq, we called the anti-American and anti-Iraqi government militants insurgents or terrorists, particularly Abu Musab Al-Zarqawi’s Al-Qaeda in the Iraq group. The militant landscape was much more complex than that. There were various Shiite militant groups, not the least of which was Muqtada al-Sadr’s al-Mahdi army. But while we called them terrorists, these militant groups considered themselves freedom fighters or holy warriors (mujihadeen), fighting to save Islam. 

We in the US are struggling with this same nomenclature today. While some call the Capitol building militants domestic terrorists or insurrectionists, those sympathetic with their cause try to refer to them as demonstrators, who got caught up in the moment. The militants consider themselves patriots. This is not dissimilar to BLM protestors and those who support their cause.  

Another dimension that is complicating this divide in America, and hampering our recovery, is an alliance bias. I am not speaking about a conscious bias, but a subconscious prejudice, so ingrained that our perspective automatically interprets events subjectively.

We have all seen it, experienced it, and fallen victim to it. We have a favorite sports team and are watching a game with friend or family member who supports the opponent. Suddenly the official calls a charging foul or a pass interference call, and we both take opposing positions. We witnessed the same play, and even in slow motion, I “know” my position is right and that my opponent is wrong. How could he not see what I saw? 

In politics, the same phenomena has happened for the past five years but in a more divisive and dangerous way. I remember before the 2016 presidential elections, I spoke to friends, explaining that I was concerned about the divisiveness in this country. I was worried less about the outcome of the election, and more concerned about the factors that were driving voters to a particular camp, with a vengeance almost. 

When I raised this issue to a particular liberal colleague, she said, “Why would anyone want to vote for Trump?” She didn’t really care what was driving voters to his camp. 

“Regardless who wins, we need to reach find out specifically what the issues are?” I insisted, but she was not interested.

Most of my conservative friends and family felt that any Republican was better than a Democrat, better than Hillary. 

Then after the election in 2017, I asked a professor friend of mine what he and I  could do to bridge this gap, to reach out to the other side and begin to heal. “If not,” I told him, “the division is only going to get worse.” He didn’t feel anything could be done.

So here we are, four years later, more damage done, more resentment and hurt, more misinformation and suspicions, and not only average Americans are divided, but the Congress and Senate are more divided than ever. Some Democratic congressmen and women report fearing physical violence from their Republican counterparts. 

The parallels that I see between some of the extremism in the US and that of Iraq, Pakistan, and Afghanistan is more similar than I wish to admit. Naturally, I am not speaking about the levels of violence. But what concerns me the most is the festering division between people. And I think it is naive to believe that the hatred and intolerance will dissipate on its own if someone doesn’t press forward with an agenda to heal. I am not confident that all the answers lie in Washington, DC. In fact, I am relatively certain that much of the healing exists in the yet-to-be-identified champions in our communities. And the untapped humanity that we as Americans possess, that is just waiting for someone to tap into.

And so I continue to ask the same question as I peddle home and try to find some sort of answer. Try to find the good in people. 

Enough of that!

The great thing about the Holiday Inn Express is that it has really good internet. The cable keeps going out, and I have to keep calling the front desk or walking down there (they don’t always answer the phone) to reboot the master cable box. But otherwise the room is perfect. The downside is that I am 3.5 miles away from the nearest restaurant or grocery store. Worse yet, there is no DoorDash. No GrubHub. No taxis. No Uber. And the only restaurant that delivers out here is Domino’s. 

So I was faced with either riding my bike seven miles up and down large hills to town, eating at one of the two gas stations, or ordering Dominos. 

The first night, I had Domino’s. Yesterday, I ate at the gas station. And today, it was raining so I ordered Domino’s again.

I also decided to wash my clothes around 5 pm, figuring that I had an hour before the Pacer game. So I bought a box of detergent at the desk, went to the room, bundled my clothes, and walked down two flights of stairs to the solitary washer and dryer. A load of clothes was in the washing machine. 

No biggie. I set my alarm for 45 minutes and went back to the room to read. The alarm went off, I gathered my clothes, walked down two flights of stairs, and now there was already a load in the washer and drier. So I set my alarm and went back upstairs to watch the Pacers. At the end of the first quarter, I rushed back down, but the dryer was still running, and the load in the washer was stopped and waiting its turn in the dryer. 

At halftime, I come back down, but a fresh load was washing. I begin to wonder if these people are inviting friends and family to bring their laundry in. One dollar a load is darn cheap. 

The next time I went down the washer was free. I put my clothes in, poured the detergent into the little detergent drawer, set my alarm, and went back upstairs.

With a few seconds left in the game, I rushed into the hall toward the stairs. An Asian American man exited his room right behind me with a plastic bag of clothes. He was watching the Lakers game, he said. Moved from LA to Texas, and still remained a Lakers fan, much to the dismay of his Texan friends. We rushed down the stairs. I skillfully removed my wet clothes, shoved them into the dryer, started it, and headed back upstairs to the game. It went into overtime. 

Day Fourteen (January 21, 2021, Thursday)

Lucedale, Mississippi (0 miles)

Rest day!

Day Thirteen (January 20, 2021, Wednesday)

Lucedale, Mississippi (39 miles)

Inauguration Day

On March 4, 1921, roughly 100 years ago, the Seymour Daily Tribune (Seymour Indiana) reprinted the United Press’s highlights about the Inauguration of President Warren G. Harding. To steep the ceremony in presidential history, Harding placed his hand on George Washington’s bible, and the manuscript of the inaugural address was placed upon the table “used by Abraham [Lincoln] at his second inauguration.” Calvin Coolidge became the Vice President.

Washington, DC hotel owners were nearly as sad as Democrat officeholders, we are told, because Harding had asked for a brief ceremony. 

There appears to have been no great inaugural celebration in Jackson County, Indiana, either. In fact, the day before the swearing-in ceremony, one of the news items on the front page of the Tribune was an article reporting that John Adolph had fallen victim to the theft of 23 hens, six rabbits, a saw, hammer, ax, and washer boiler. The loot was valued at $40.

Just 2 years, 151 days into his term, Harding died from heart-related complications, and Coolidge became president.

Because the internet is so bad at the hotel in Wiggins, I will leave at 8am, hoping to get to Lucedale, Mississippi and check in early at a Holiday Inn Express. The rate is $100/night, well above my budget, but I have some important work to do today, and I am hoping this hotel is the solution.

I had planned to stay in Wiggins an extra day to catch up on things, but with the internet and looming weather forecast, calling for rain, I need to move on. It is supposed to start raining sometime Thursday (tomorrow), so I am going to have to determine if I can advance one more leg, while keeping relatively dry, or stay put. Internet is a huge part of that decision. 

It is a little disconcerting that internet has become such a large part of our lives. Even the book I am reading is on the internet. 

Before I left the hotel this morning, I asked April and Debbie, both white women, what they thought we could do at the community level to restore trust and bring people together.

“Pray,” Debbie said. “That’s about all we can do.”

April remained silent but nodded.

As for what I personally can do, Debbie couldn’t think of a thing.

“People are just so mean,” she said. “But I think if you get them alone,” maybe you can talk to them. Really communicate with them. I think there is a lot of wisdom in what she was saying.

When pressed about what she personally could do, Debbie said, “Treat people with kindness.”

I shared my story about Leslie standing by the side of the road to give me a cold bottle of water yesterday. That brought smiles to their faces. 

The temperature was 53 degrees, but when I stepped outside it still felt too chilly to start off without a jacket. I rode east on MS 26 past Stone High School, where those white students put the noose around the black student’s neck a few years back.

I tried to make good time, but the wind was very capricious today. At times, she was in my face slowing me down, bullying me from one side or the other, helping me along from behind, or simply unavailable. Like an unpredictable ghost or an invisible friend, she battered and boosted me.

As soon as I crossed over into George County, the pavement became the crude, gravely blacktop that I have grown to hate. I am sure that it slowed me at least a half mph. 

For a period, the hills were not that bad. And I did not feel so tired. I was able to press forward at a pretty good pace. 

I made the mistake of stopping at a gas station to get a Diet Mt. Dew and water. I locked my bike to a wooden bench outside and went in. The line was long. Of the two cashiers, one worked solely selling scratch cards. One woman bought a fistful. A second woman stood there scratching hers and waiting for her chance to redeem her prize. 

A tiny African American girl, about three years old, entered with someone who looked to be her grandfather, about the same time I did. He was a big burly white man. A farmer. She picked out two small packages of potato chips and danced around, twirling the bags and dropping them on the floor at least a half dozen times while we waited. I am sure that when she got to the truck, she had two bags of potato crumbs. 

A man in his thirties stood in front of me with a 9mm on his hip. He became impatient after a three- or four-minute wait and left. After about eight minutes, it was my turn. The black lady already had me rung up before I placed the bottles on the counter. She was good at her job.

Outside, I sat down and caught up on my messages. Took a drink of my Diet Mt. Dew (breakfast of champions) and got back on my bike.

I lost about 15 minutes in that whole ordeal. Had I waited two minutes longer on MS 26, I would have found a Dollar General with only a couple of cars. I could have been in and out in five minutes. 

The next eight or ten miles were heavenly flat. The wind had decided to cooperate, and I made really good time. Then the hills began. Steep, tall hills on bad pavement. They sapped my strength. They were every bit as tall and steep as those in southern Indiana. 

The Pascagoula River was enormous. And the bridge seemed at least a mile long.

Eventually, I came to MS 63. My GPS lady with a British accent told me to head north. I was happy to reach a four-lane highway with smooth blacktop and a wide shoulder. The hills, however, were as tall as ever. Fortunately, the grade was more agreeable. I continued on for five miles, and then obeyed my British friend and turned East on US 98. 

After enduring one and a half more miles of hills, I reached the Holiday Inn Express. I had covered 39 miles in about 4 hours, averaging roughly 10 mph.

Gratefully, the hotel has good internet. The rooms are nice. The staff are friendly. Cable is limited, but I don’t watch a lot of it anyway. Unfortunately, the closest restaurant or fast food shop is two miles away. And DoorDash has yet to encroach on Lucedale. The small town only has 2500 people. The median income for a family is $29,300. I guess DoorDash is pretty low on their list of priorities. A housekeeper suggested I go to a restaurant in town owned by her uncle. 

I ordered Domino’s.

Day Twelve (January 19, 2021, Tuesday)

Wiggins, Mississippi (45 miles)

Mark Twain said, “Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness.”

I have to believe he is right. Meeting people across the southern part of this country, on this trip, I have learned a lot. Over the years of traveling abroad, I have lost a lot of my biases. I have become more tolerant of others, other cultures, other ways of doing things. People who don’t look like me or like the people I grew up with.

Wiggins, Mississippi, my destination for today, sits 45 miles due east of Bogalusa, Louisiana. It has a population of 4500. Although you wouldn’t know it from the sleepy appearance of the shops and hotel today, the town has been the scene of some violent racial injustices over the years. On June 22, 1935, a black man named RD McGee was lynched by a mob of 200 men for allegedly attacking a white girl, who was able to recognize him the following day by the clothes he was wearing. On that very same day, white citizens flogged another black man named Dewitt Armstrong for insulting a white woman. Three years later, a mob of 200 white men lynched Wilder McGowan, another black man, for allegedly assaulting a white woman who was in her 70s. An investigator later discovered that there was no merit to the assault charge. Instead, he had been hanged because he had defended black women at a dance when a group of white men stormed the premises and behaved inappropriately toward them. In 2016, just five years ago, a number of white students at Stone High School forced a noose around a black student’s neck. Local police officials convinced the victim’s family not to file charges.

I checked out of the room at 8:30 am and stood and chatted with the Gujarati clerk for a few minutes. He told me that large groups of bikers stay at the hotel a couple times a year. One group of about 20 ride down from New York.

“Are they younger than me?” I asked.

“No,” he said, “they are about your age.”

The temperature was 43 degrees when I rolled out onto LA 21. This was my warmest start of the trip, I think. Two miles north, and I hung a right on LA 10, rode across Peters Lake, and crossed the Pearl River for the last time into Mississippi. The road changes to Mississippi State Road 26.

As if the universe was trying to put me in my place after boasting about my 12 mph accomplishment yesterday, I immediately faced challenges. The blacktop became rough and gravely, and the shoulder all but disappeared. The blacktop the rest of the way would be this unrolled, unflattened, pebbly pavement that jiggled the bike and slowed my progress. Worse yet were the hills. The entire 40 miles to Wiggins would be characterized by medium-sized hills that drained my energy. 

At one point, I noticed a single mule standing in a pasture watching me. I must have looked like such a curious creature pedaling along at such a slow pace. He was accustomed to trucks and cars whizzing by at high speeds, but was probably not used to seeing such a humorous sight as me. As I got closer, he approached the fence to get a better look. So, I decided to snap a photo of him. When I pulled off to the side of the road, he suddenly became shy and trotted off a short distance, only to loop back around and stop, in an effort to continue watching me. 

About 20 miles further, at Poplarville, I stopped and stripped off my jacket and gloves. The temperature was climbing. At one point, I could smell freshly uncovered earth. Looking to the south, I saw a bulldozer laboring away. The backup beep and roaring Diesel engine filled the air. I kept going.

A few miles further, I came across a pasture with three mules who were staring at me. I could smell mule manure. Once I could find a tree-line spot on the highway, I stopped and took off my nylon sweat pants, the first time on the journey. The weather was inviting but the hills and pavement weren’t. Once I even stopped and sat on the grass, trying to let me legs recover a little. 

When I got back on the road, something unusual happened. The wind appeared at my back. Finally on my 12th day, I rode for a few miles with the wind at my back. You can’t really feel the wind when it happens, but what you experience is a slight boost, as if you suddenly have more energy. You are able to increase your speed on flat spots and maintain a better pace for longer when going up hills. 

Although I exercised nearly every day in the past 12 months and lost ten pounds, compared to last year’s 650-mile journey from Panama City Beach, FL to Fruitland Park (near Orlando), I don’t feel like this year’s ride is any easier. I get just as tired, just as quickly, as I did last year. My legs must be stronger, but I don’t see much difference in my pedaling strength or endurance. My energy level is about the same. I would say the big difference is that I am more experienced. I make fewer mistakes and make better decisions. When the going gets tough, I know I can make it. That I will make it. Last year, some days I had less confidence. 

While climbing a particularly difficult hill, I noticed a car passed me very slowly and pulled over onto the shoulder. Then the driver moved to a grassy drive in order to get off the road better. A man got out. When I approached him, he waved me down. That’s how I met David.

David grew up in Bogalusa, but now lives in Picayune, Mississippi. He’s a retired engineer from NASA’s John C. Stennis National Space Center, which is located on the banks of the Pearl River, along the border of Mississippi and Louisiana on US 90. I had passed it on my way to Pearl River a couple days ago but didn’t recall ever hearing of a NASA center being located down here. David told me he tested engines. 

He also told me that he and his brother had biked the Katy Trail in Missouri, as well as some other trails in the area. The Katy Trail is a 237-mile “rails-to-trail” project, the nation’s longest, along what was formerly the MKT rail line. He also said that they rode on a trail from Pennsylvania to Washington, DC. Next summer they are going to ride the Eerie Canal. He and his brother camp out and go at a slow pace. I think I would like to try one of those trips with a friend. It could be fun. 

David is 66, but looks 55. And in better shape than me. 

When I asked him what could be done to heal the country at the community level, he said, “You sound like my brother. He has a PhD and teaches at a university in Puerto Rico.” Apparently, he and his brother had been giving this some thought. David, who considers himself an independent, said, “We can bring some of these Trump supporters together” for dialogue. “Ask them why they believe that the election was unfair.” Hear them out.

“That’s a good idea. Do you think here locally you could get all sides to sit down together?” I asked.

“I don’t know, but it worked in the union. That’s what they did when” there was a dispute, he said.

He was getting at some basic building blocks of democracy. I hope he makes it happen.

When I asked him if he knew about the union history and the massacre of 1919 in Bogalusa, since he grew up there, but he said that he didn’t. He asked if that was at the mill, and I said it was.

I got back on the road and peddled toward my destination. It was slow going, because the wind had shifted and was in my face or pressing against my right shoulder. I passed a lot of road workers who were down in the ditches or along the road in some places. On the right side, the six inch edge of payment, right of the while line, serves as a cliff for a 12-15 feet drop off. I had to focus on keeping up my speed, staying on that narrow space of rough blacktop, and not plunging down the drop off. 

I had used most of my water reserves, and, at one point, I spotted a highway contractor’s trailer with a huge white cooler. I fantasized about stopping, hollering for the workers to come out of the woods, and asking for a cold drink. The temperature had climbed to 71, and I was dripping with sweat. But of course I didn’t. I just kept pedaling. 

With about eight miles to go to reach Wiggins, I saw an older blue car pull off on a road and stop. A white man with a limp got out and walked back toward another flatbed construction trailer. But the man kept walking toward the road and facing me. As I approached, he reached out his hand. It had a bottle of water in it.

I stopped with a smile and took the cold water from Leslie. He was in his late 20s or early 30s. 

“Been a long day?” Leslie asked.

“It’s been a long day,” I said, as he turned and headed back to his car. “Thank you,” I said.

“That’s what it’s all about,” he said. 

I twisted off the cap and drank the cold water. I didn’t need to ask him what he could do to heal his community or bring people together. He was already doing it. He didn’t ask what political party I was associated with. He didn’t ask if I supported Biden or Trump. If I was happy with the election results, or if I felt a civil war was on its way. If I agreed with the siege of the Capitol. 

He just took five minutes out of his day to offer a cold bottle of water to a weary traveler. It’s probably what his parents had taught him. Isn’t that what your parents taught you? Is that what you are teaching your children? Grandchildren? 

I know I need to do a better job of demonstrating my humanity. This may have been the highlight of my trip. How simple a gesture! How easy and inexpensive!

I gotta do better!

About one mile out of Wiggins, the blacktop became smooth. Don’t ask me why, but it did. I was going up hill, but the pedaling got noticeably easier. At the top of the hill, I came to a gas station and an Express Lube at the intersection of US 49. I stopped to double check my GPS. The America’s Best Value Inn was just across the interstate out of sight. 

I arrived at 1:25 pm, having averaged 9 mph.  

When I checked into the room, I realized there was a functioning guest washer and dryer right across from my room. I decided to wash all my clothes, even those I had washed them out by hand. They didn’t smell right. 

Then I sat down to use the internet. Nope! It was faulty. I could connect my iPhone, but not my iPad. After 30 minutes, I called the desk. Debbie, who operated the computer, that’s what she told me, didn’t know anything about the internet. Just keep trying, she suggested. I went online on my phone, trying to find solutions. I tried various things. Nothing worked. So I threw my clothes into the dryer and went to the desk. She was able to connect with her phone but not her tablet. I asked her to reboot the modem, but she didn’t know what that was. I asked her to shut it down and turn it back on. She reported that she did, but it didn’t help. 

Day Eleven (January 18, 2021, Monday)

Bogalusa, Louisiana (34 miles) Martin Luther King Day

My destination for today was Bogalusa, Louisiana, a small town in Washington Parish, 34 miles north of Pearl River. With a population of about 13,000, the town was built around the timber industry. 

In 1919, Bogalusa suffered some nasty labor and racial violence. Workers at the Great Southern Lumber Company went on strike. The sawmill was the largest in the world at the time. In order to break the strike, owners recruited a white militia group called the Self-Preservation and Loyalty League, and, simultaneously, Black picket breakers from New Orleans. This only escalated the racial tension.  

In August 31, 1919, a mob of 1500 people killed Lucius McCarty, who was accused of assaulting a white woman. The mob shot him more than 1000 times, dragged his body through black neighborhoods, and burned his body in a bonfire. 

On November 22, 1919, in a rare show of racial solidarity, four white men and two unionists were shot and killed defending Sol Dacus, the black union leader, in what came to be called The Bloody Bogalusa Massacre. 

I suppose this is also an example, an unfortunate extreme example, where a common cause can unite opposing community members. 

It was 30 degrees when I woke up, but the temperature had eventually climbed to 39. As I headed out onto US 11 North, I was grateful for the sunshine and absence of wind. There was actually zero wind according to my Weather app. 

After stopping once, still inside Pearl River, to make sure I was on the right road, I really made good time. I took Louisiana 41 North about 22 miles. I stopped for two very brief breaks. The shoulder was eight feet wide, traffic was sparse, and I was well-rested. At Bush, I turned north on LA 21 and continued until I reached Traveler’s Rest at Bogalusa.  

I had made record time: 12 mph for 34 miles. On Saturday, I averaged 8.5 mph, and other days only 8. So I was content. 

The friendly Gujarati clerk checked me through the late check-in window, which is not uncommon. Of course, no breakfast. No coffee in the lobby. No lobby and operator service. And no internet. 

From the room, I called the front desk four times to have them look at it. And no one ever picked up. 

Washed clothes by hand and read. Washing clothes in the sink only mildly deodorizes them. They still have a smell. They are not entirely clean, but when there are no functioning washers and dryers for customers, it is better than nothing. 

Kim’s Seafood across the street is a peculiar local mix of deep-fried seafood and meat, fast food, and a convenience store. The place is run by an Asian man in his forties and a Black woman about the same age. I have to admit I like how he enforced the mask policy. It sort of reminded me of the soup Nazi from Seinfeld when the Asian man asked a customer, “Do you have a mask?” She went scrambling to her car but promptly returned fully masked. 

The store probably was a convenience store at one time, but now was in disarray, as if they were either moving out or just moving in. Boxes of canned goods and food were littered on the floor, yet to be stocked. Stacks of cases of water haphazardly left blocking the aisles. 

Kim’s Seafood sells deep fried fish slices and shrimp. I think that is the extent of their seafood menu. Then they sell deep fried chicken, chicken wings, turkey wings, and potato logs.

The black lady was on the phone to a friend or relative while ringing up my order. She was empathizing with someone over someone else’s brazen lack of respect. The Asian man, who I assume was Kim, and the owner of Kim’s Seafood, didn’t seem to mind the lady talking on the phone while waiting on customers. Of course, she could have been his wife, in which case all bets were off.

Bogalusa is a peculiar little town. At its peak in 1960, it had a population of about 20,000, but today it’s about 13,000. When you try to book accommodations, none of the eight or so motels has a relationship with Orbitz. And only the Traveler’s Rest has online booking. The rest of them, you have to call. I had wanted to stay in the Economy Inn, as it was more centrally located, but after failing to reach anyone twice, I gave up.  

Day Ten (January 17, 2021, Sunday)

Pearl River, Louisiana (0 miles)

Rest Day! I spent most of the day reading, washing clothes by hand, and watching the NFL playoffs.

I did happen across a woman in her fifties, working at her place of employment. I asked her what she thought we could do to bring people together, to heal after this year of violence, riots, and division. 

“Get rid of Biden,” she said. “I am a big supporter of Trump. After the way the democrats did him” she expected that Inauguration Day on January 20th would be very bad, very violent. “I really believe we are heading to a civil war.”

“But what can we do? We don’t have much control over what happens in Washington, DC. So what can we do here in our community?”

“Glory be to Christ! The kingdom of heaven is at hand,” she said. 

After venting about political divisions, she said, “I don’t see color. I really don’t. I try to treat everyone the same. But it is really hard when Blacks don’t treat you the same way. One day my daughter was back there,” she pointed to a room behind the cash register. And a black couple were standing at the counter. The lady said, ‘Keep an eye on her. That white bitch may try to steal our credit card number.’ I said, ‘Excuse me? What did you say?’”

I remained silent.

“He should have stopped all that violence,” she said referring to the Black Lives Matter demonstrations and subsequent violence, “no matter what people said.” He should have crushed it. 

She was silent on the recent riots, murders, and siege of the Capitol. 

“That black man, when they stepped on his neck,” she said referring to George Floyd, “that was all staged. I really believe that. I saw videos, you saw them too, where that man was up and fine after he was supposedly been dead.”

“But what can we do here in our communities? You in Louisiana, and me in Florida, is there anything we can to bring people together? Or do you think we need to heal?”

“Yes, I do,” she admitted. “We really don’t have any problems around here. But in New Orleans, they are tearing each other apart. I won’t even go over there.”

Then turning to the national elections, she said, “I heard they threw out ten percent of Trumps votes.” Then she admitted, “It’s hard to know what to believe, isn’t it?”

Unfortunately, she is voicing the opinion of millions of other Americans who have come to blindly believe any fabrication or rumor that social media, biased media, or rumor mills offer, without question, reflection, or scrutiny. They believe it because they want to believe it. A willingness to turn a blind eye to crimes and corruption committed by leaders, and subsequently their followers, provided that they advance a similar narrative. An unwillingness to acknowledge evidence to the contrary. 

I witnessed first hand how dangerous this blind allegiance can be in Iraq. The insurgent mentality forged a false narrative of reality so bizarre that it fomented into an acceptance of violence, murder, and kidnapping against innocent Americans and Iraqis. Against children. 

In the fall of 2003, I was sitting in my office at the Ministry of Labor and Social Affairs in Baghdad. We were early into the establishment of an employment and vocational education center that would provide Iraqis with marketable skills. One of my trusted coworkers entered my office and introduced her friend, who wanted to speak to me about a job.

The friend, a mother about 35 years old, immediately went on the offensive, “You Americans are here to steal our oil.”

No matter how hard I tried to reason with her, explain that this was not the case, she resisted. Her mind was made up. My coworker was horrified. She tried to get her friend to leave with no success. Finally, the woman said, “I hope the mujahideen [holy warriors] kill all of you.”

It was an eerie experience. But, once an individual has their preconceived notions built around fabrications that establish their desired narrative, reasoning, evidence, and truth have no value. 

This woman in Pearl River was living in a world I could not penetrate. Her mind was made up. I was not going to even try.

But, what I could do was appeal to her humanity. Despite the indoctrination, I have to believe that most of these Americans have good hearts. 

“Well, I am going to continue to talk to people and look for ways that this country can heal,” I told her.

Later that day, I bumped into the woman again. “Hey, I come up with something,” she said. “I was talking with a friend of mine, and we thought we could grow vegetables and sell them to local businesses that are hurting so much.” 

“That is a great idea,” I told her. If she could enlist local citizens, regardless of their political affiliations, in an effort to grow small gardens and sell them, they could jointly do something good for the community, promote healthier and fresher produce at stores and restaurants, and make a little money in the process. 

In international development, we call these efforts community action projects. The process of motivating opposing citizens to work together for a common goal, which was more important than the product itself. This typically brought the community together, built trust, and helped those involved find the humanity present in one another. 

Day Nine (January 16, 2021, Saturday)

Pearl River, Louisiana (34 miles)

One hundred years ago on December 11, 1921, The Shreveport Times reported that hundreds of spectators gathered to watch nine girls and nearly 100 boys undertake a “pleasure jaunt” on their bikes, from Travis School to the Fair Grounds in Shreveport, Louisiana, and back again. Ten-year-old Emily Moore won a “luggage carrier for her wheel [bike]” as the youngest girl rider, and Mabel Darwin won a pair of shears for being the neatest rider. Thomas Wilson received a thermos for being the youngest boy at eight years old. And Jack Ellington won a pair of pedals for being the oldest rider. Some boys performed bike stunts, and Fred St. Onge gave an exhibition on riding and a talk on safety tips in navigating the “congested traffic” of the day. A Chero-Cola truck passed out free drinks to the riders.

A few days ago while checking my route, I realized that the Maestri Bridge over Pontchartrain Lake at US 11 is out. Much like the obstacle I faced at Pensacola, I was faced with a 150-mile round-trip detour to reach New Orleans. That would add about four days to my trip. Since there was no particular importance attached on New Orleans proper as a goal, I instead selected the Slidell area, which is only 30 miles or so east of New Orleans on the east side of the lake. 

On Saturday morning around 8:45 am, I crossed out into US 90 West. Although the temperature was 41 degrees, and the wind was only 5 mph, it seemed colder. I started off without gloves, but had to stop within a few blocks to put them on. 

The ride was nice. Healthy. Traffic was relatively mild on a Saturday morning. Many fishermen were headed toward bayous, lakes, and rivers to capture bass, bluegill, and catfish, but otherwise not many vehicles were on the road. Unlike the last few days, I would take US 90 only part way. Then I would have to take US 190 West (north really at this point). 

As I crossed over into Louisiana, I listened to Lucinda Williams sing about going to Slidell to find her joy. The song brought me back to my office in downtown Baghdad, where I would listen to Williams’s songs about Louisiana after all the Iraqi staff had left for the day. I would leave my office light on around the clock, with the blinds closed, to confound any insurgent sniper who might nest on the tall buildings around us. The threat of sniper rounds piercing our windows was very real. One day an Egyptian colleague reported the window in her converted hotel-room accommodations was broken. Upon inspection, security identified the spider-web hole in the glass a result of a sniper round.  

I think back to the attack on our hotel room in the Al-Rashid Hotel in the Green Zone on October 26, 2003. U.S. Deputy Defense Secretary Paul Wolfowitz was staying on the 12th floor. Marvin Gray wrote:

The Al-Rashid Hotel mortar attack took place on October 26, 2003. It was the first  day of Ramadan, the Muslim holy month of fasting. It was also Kayla’s birthday. It  didn’t occur to me at first. I’d been too busy trying to keep a man alive. With the  help of Sophia and others, I somehow managed to get the injured man down six flights of stairs and through the lobby. Outside we laid him among the other injured.  After about twenty minutes, a military ambulance arrived to pick him up. 

Welcome to the Dark Side

Inside Louisiana, I approached a number of small two-lane bridges, including a vertical lift bridge over the West Pearl River. Built in the 1930s, these peculiar monstrosities have two steel towers equipped with counterweights that can lift the bridge platform to allow tall vessels to pass underneath. According to bridgehunter.com, a local swamp tour guide reported that he had only seen this bridge lifted once in his lifetime.  

For the cyclist, the space is tight in these bridges. So tight, in fact, that even I don’t risk stopping to take a photo. I just yell, “GoPro take photo!” and ride on. The motorists, including a police officer, are all respectful on this Saturday morning. 

At the junction of US 190, Wayside Park at White Kitchen Preserve, was a huge lake there, or bayou, that I couldn’t find on the map. I pulled in to take some photos, and a pickup truck followed me. I assumed that the motorist had a boat to launch at the ramp, so I moved off to the side. 

Two large, black men in their late 30s got out and grabbed fishing poles from the back of the truck.

“Morning. How’s it going?” I asked.

The taller man wore a broad smile and spoke first. His Louisiana accent was so thick that it took a few seconds to interpret what he said. “Good. How far you riding on that bike?”

“Today, about 34 miles.”

“Wow,” he reacted enthusiastically, “I know a guy who rides 50 miles every day. He gets up at 4 am and rides before work. How far you going?”

I tell him about my plans. He and his friend are surprised. We talk for a few minutes about the trip, and last year’s trip, to Panama City. The second man spent a few days in Panama City a few years ago. He enjoyed it.

Then our conversation shifts to the social divide, violence, and riots the country is suffering. When I ask them what can be done to “heal the country, bring people together” at the community level, emphasizing I am not talking about what politicians can do in DC, but what we can do, the taller man said, “The first thing is we gotta get rid of COVID.”

The second man said, “We gotta follow the law. We gotta vote.” 

By now the tall man had lost interest and walked off to fish. Can’t say that I blame him. On my typical Saturdays, I like to maximize recreational time. 

I asked the shorter man what about me personally. What can I do? 

“Not much you can do,” he said. “It’s gotta be a group effort.”

“What about you personally?”

“I done did it. I voted,” he said. He went on to say that we have to teach our kids better. From a very young age. “Ain’t no racism at when kids are little. Put a black kid and a white kid together, and they will play” all the time without any problems. “It’s after they go home, and their parents teach them racism” that they learn hatred. Years later, if you put those two youngsters back together, there will be a mutual suspicion. 

He spoke about white privilege in a very non-threatening way. Not defensive. But as if he was appealing to my humanity. 

“If a bunch of black men had stormed the capital, there would be dead bodies of black men all over the place,” he said.

It was hard to argue with him. In fact, I hadn’t heard the term white privilege until a couple years ago when I started watching “Dear White People.” I had avoided the series for a long time, fearing it would be preachy and condescending. But I got hooked on the story, the flawed characters, and the complexities.

When I first heard the term White Privilege, I was skeptical. For many of us who grew up poor in southern Indiana, any thought that we were privileged is hard for us to wrap our minds around. Hard for me to see many advantages because of the color of our skin, when we were being evicted from house after house for non-payment of rent, or having no running water in the house and walking to the outhouse on a cold morning. Having our utilities shut off, even in the winter, for non-payment, or wearing hand-me-down girl’s jeans as a male teen, or going on welfare, or opening the refrigerator door only to find nothing but a jug of tap water. Having no book rental money for the first couple months of the new school year, and being asked to share a book with a more fortunate classmate. 

And I was even more fortunate than others. I remember a few families I knew, over the hill from us, who could scarcely find clothes or shoes for their 8-10 kids. Others had family members that were in prison. 

But, after reading the history of Florida this year, I came to realize that after the US Civil War, blacks never stood a chance. The political, economic, and financial cards were stacked against them. Notwithstanding the political disenfranchisement, having to pay a poll tax to vote, and at times facing violence at the polls, sometimes death; entire black communities had little or no access to banking and financial opportunities, equal education opportunities, economic and commercial opportunities, legal services, health care, or job opportunities. These disadvantages were compounded for generations, creating oppressive environments of poverty, under-education, mistrust, and disenfranchisement. 

I really have very few answers for social and political reconciliation for our country. But I do know that we must speak up against injustice. And it begins with the unpopular recognition of crimes and oppression without adding a “but.” 

We must say, “Yes, killing an unarmed black man is unacceptable.” No buts. “Kneeling on the neck of a black man with his arms handcuffed behind his back is torture and murder.” No buts. 

Too often our response is “yes, what those few policeman did is wrong, but…” Let’s save whatever comes after the “but” for a separate conversation. It will still be just as valid then.

Acknowledging crimes and mistakes and shortcomings is an important way forward. 

“Yes, Black Lives Matter. Of course they do.” No buts. 

The man with the fishing pole told me, “Burning buildings and violence” that came out of the Black Lives Matter protests “was wrong.” No buts. 

When I think about all the divisiveness in our country today, in our communities, in our families, I am reminded of the passage in To Kill a Mockingbird when Scout is frustrated by the division in the community over the trial of a black man, unfairly accused of a crime, and Atticus Finch tells his daughter, “This time we aren’t fighting the Yankees, we’re fighting our friends. But remember this, no matter how bitter things get, they’re still our friends and this is still our home.” 

As I started to leave Wayside Park, the man asked me, “Are you married?”

“Yes.”

“Does she like you doing this?”

“Yes,” I replied. 

I rode off thinking about my 4’11,” 105-pound Salvadoran wife who hiked most of the mountains and volcanoes of East Africa while we lived there. Almost every weekend, she was trekking with hiking groups. She was not satisfied unless she had hiked at least 15 miles. 20 or 25 miles was more to her liking. 

As I pedaled north on US 190 West, the gusts of wind were in my face, but I made pretty good time.

At one trailer park, a black man, with a paper license plate in his back window, pulled out onto the road without coming to anything resembling of a stop, and would have hit me if I had not slammed on my brakes. I was within five feet of his window, and I could see the expression of surprise on his face. Either he didn’t see me, which seems unlikely given that I have a white flashing light on front handlebar, or he just assumed it was my responsibility to yield, since I was driving on the highway and he was coming out of a trailer park. 

I didn’t let it bother me. I had been watching him, because I always try to keep an eye on everybody who attempts to enter or cross the highway I am traveling on. 

When I reached the Microtel at Pearl River, Louisiana, I was surprised by the hospitality and friendliness. The clerk, Ricky, was about my age or younger, with long red hair. She welcomed me and was curious about my ride, finding it hard to understand why I would want to ride 750 miles just for the fun of it. A young man who worked with her also was friendly. He highly recommended Yum Yum’s Cafe, about a mile down the road, that served excellent gumbo. 

I checked with DoorDash, and they didn’t pick up at Yum Yum’s. So after unpacking, I rode up to the cafe, found a spot in the corner, as far away as I could get from other customers, and ordered a cup of gumbo and friend shrimp. Both were excellent. 

Only one other man, who was in his 50s, wore a mask. The waitress wore hers on her chin. Everyone else, coming and going of all ages, didn’t see the need.  

This is my stopping point for the trip. Coming 366 miles so far, I am as far west as I plan to go. I will spend the night here, rest and wash clothes on Sunday, and head north to Bogalusa, LA on Monday, in order to loop back east on a different route, if at all possible. It will depend on the availability of hotel rooms. 

Day Eight (January 15, 2021, Friday)

St. Louis Bay, Mississippi (36 miles)

One Monday morning in August 1921, Edna Weekly and a girl with the surname Lewis, both about 15 years old, left Seymour, Indiana at 4 am on foot. They walked to Courtland and ate lunch at Bottorff’s store. The girls then bought tickets for the train to Freetown, where they reportedly spent the night at Weekly’s grandmother’s. Meanwhile on Monday, Mrs. Albert Day, Edna’s mother, filed charges of delinquency against her daughter. 

Sometime Tuesday the girls began walking the railroad tracks to Bedford. Sheriff Hays drove to Kurtz and waited for the girls. Upon arrival, Hays arrested them. At first, Weekly gave a false name. Later she reported mistreatment at home and other “sensational charges.”

About a week later, two 14-year-old girls, Peggy Hayes of Franklin, Indiana and Betty Gross of Chicago, Illinois, stole a car belonging to Peggy’s uncle and ran away allegedly in an effort to avoid school. Southeast of Brownstown, Indiana on Venice Hill, the girls stopped at a house to get a drink of water. When they returned, the girls found that they had forgotten to set the handbrake, and the car had rolled down a hill, through a fence, and flipped over. The girls then walked to Brownstown and called a taxi, which took them to Seymour, where they checked into the New Lynn Hotel, and later were arrested by the Johnson County Sheriff. 

There is certainly much more to these stories, worthy of further research. But society in 1921 was as complicated as it is today. Youth rebelled. Parents fell short in raising their children. Families became dysfunctional. The Roaring 20s were as filled with familial disputes as any other decade. During the 20s, divorce rates rose significantly. 

On this Friday morning in Mississippi, I packed my saddle bags on my bike, aired up my tires, and left the room about 8:30 am. The day was inviting: 41 degrees and sunny already. Perhaps the warmest beginning of any day on this trip, so far. I returned my key. The Indian clerk told me that as soon as the housekeeper cleaned the room (to ensure there was no damage) they would credit my card for the $35. 

By and large, the Travelodge was OK. It sits beside a railroad track, and every hour or two a loud train rushes by rattling the windows. So if that sort of thing bothers you, I wouldn’t recommend it. As for me, I sleep soundly. 

I pedaled out onto US 90 West, and within two blocks I started across the enormous Biloxi Bay Bridge that crosses the Bay of Biloxi. Both the bridge and the bay are massive and impressive.

At the bottom of the bridge, I crossed into Biloxi. US 90 runs along the beach through the touristy area: beaches, casinos, hotels, souvenir shops, and restaurants. I enjoyed the first fifteen minutes, until I passed all of the tall buildings serving to break the 15 mph WSW wind. From that point forward, the wind assault was non-stop the rest of the day. As 90 hugs the beach for the next 30 miles, there was no respite from gulf air currents. It was like riding uphill all day long. 

To compound the problem, the entire route has a 1-foot space between the white line and the curb. Twice, my pedal kicked the curb and bounced me off. I was worried the entire time that my pedal would strike the curb, and I would tumble into traffic. 

In some areas, I get the narrow distance between the lane and curb. Sometimes, there was little or no additional distance between the street, sidewalk, and the first commercial building from which to widen the shoulder space. But in many places there was 60 feet of grass between the curb and the sidewalk. Are you telling me that the architect or civil engineer or planning commission couldn’t have advocated for three mere feet of a cycling lane?

As a result, I had to be on my toes all day long. No break from the gulf squalls, no safe space to ride for a sliver of peace of mind. Fortunately, there were no sleeper alerts. And the weather was good. I haven’t had mechanical problems with the bike.  The motorists were mostly respectful and cautious. Once again, the ultra-wide trailers and large box trucks are those that I fear the most. There is just so little room for error. 

If I get the very same wind on the way back, I will make really good time with half the effort. 

I stopped a lot today. At Gulfport, I stopped and sat on a downed tree and ate an apple. At Pass Christian, I came upon a nice park shortly before crossing the St. Louis Bay Bridge. I sat on the bench and ate a granola bar. An elderly lady was walking around the sidewalk in circles for exercise. She and I had the park to ourselves. The first time she passed, she said, “It’s a really nice day,” but never slowed her pace. I agreed with her that it was. On the second lap, she said, “Looks like you have all the gear for a bicycle ride,” again keeping up her pace. I agreed with her again that I did have all of it. I told you I am a great conversationalist.

The winds on the bridge were even more painful. I knew that if the gusts reached, say 25 mph, I would not be able to ride. I would have to push my bike.

Just before 1 pm, I arrived at the Super 8 Motel. That’s 36 miles in 4.5 hours, or 8 mph. This was my most expensive room at $79.95. But the other options were not good. 

It was 57 degrees and felt great. I checked in, unloaded my bike, and then rode down to Dollar General for supplies. I came back and ordered gumbo from DoorDash. The app told me the food would arrive at 2:21-2:31. Every ten minutes, the arrival times would delay by ten minutes. Finally at 3:45 pm, I called the restaurant. 

“Sorry, we don’t open the kitchen until 5 pm… We have had some problems with DoorDash,” he said, genuinely sympathetic. 

I had been waiting for days for some authentic gumbo, but I didn’t want to wait another two hours. 

“Can you cancel it on your end? There is no place for me to cancel it on mine,” I asked.

“No, I can’t. Your order hasn’t even come through.” 

I thanked him and fiddled with the app until I found a page that said that the order had been canceled at 1:50 pm. What a hassle!

Day Seven (January 14, 2021, Thursday)

Ocean Springs, Mississippi-44 miles

One hundred years ago bicycles were rapidly becoming part of the culture of coastal Mississippi. Casanova’s Grocery in St. Louis, Mississippi ran an ad to hire a store worker and delivery boy in The Sea Coast Echo. The 100- and 200-yard dash races “for the boys and girls created unusual excitement” at the Labor Day celebration. And the Hancock County Fair hosted bicycle races.

After I dropped off my key at the desk to ensure that I would get my $50 deposit back, I stepped outside and met Bobby. He was a tall black man in his sixties. He had earphones and stood over in the sun with his bag at his feet, as if waiting on someone. 

He was a retired semi-tractor trailer driver from St. Petersburg, Florida. He’s planning to move to Panama City in a few months. He returned to driving a truck even though he is retired. His truck broke down, so that is why he was at the hotel. 

I asked him, “With all these problems that we have seen in this country in the last year. All these riots. What can we do to bring the country back together?” 

“That’s a hard one,” he said. “There is so much chaos.” He’s seen so many people living out of their cars at truck stops and rest areas. They have been kicked out of their homes. They are really suffering. He gives them money, buys them a meal. 

When I asked him what I could do, he said, “Just what you are doing. Make people aware.” That there is hope and room for reconciliation. 

It was 39 degrees again, when I rode out onto US 90. But it was bright and sunny. A cloudless blue sky overhead. Things went smoothly for about ten miles. Then I hit a head wind. A hard one. About 15 mph. So the going was slow.

There were sleep alerts again, the grooves in the blacktop. But the shoulder was a little wider than before, in most places. And the grooves were more accurately placed down the middle of the shoulder. I had a foot or more on each side most of the time. So, I was comfortable with the shoulder. 

After a couple of hours, I crossed over into Mississippi. Immediately the sleep alerts moved into the white line, the right edge of the right lane. This meant that I had a good size shoulder to myself. In fact, sometimes, I had a real bike lane, some of the best, safest riding space I have enjoyed in all three states so far. 

Just inside Mississippi, US 90 became very straight through several miles of the Grand Bay National Wildlife Refuge. The trees on both sides served to block the wind, so riding was enjoyable. I saw a plaque with gold-raised lettering on the side of the road. My curiosity got the best of me, so I stopped to read it. The title was Grand Bay Elementary School for Colored (Established in 1919). Black residents of Mobile County “pooled their resources with Julius Rosenwald School Building Fund” to construct a school exclusively for black children from first to seventh grade. In 1940 the school was moved, and in 1949 it was closed. 

After coming out of the refuge, US 90 gets very straight and loses its trees as windbreakers. A full-frontal attack of 15 mph wind bludgeoned me mercilessly for the rest of the day. It was like riding up a very steep hill. 

Several miles into tortoise-speed pedaling, I arrived at Papa Rock’s Oaks, a gas station and convenience store. I needed to rest, and the picnic tables on the front porch allowed me the opportunity to keep my distance from people while resting. I went in and ordered two slices of Hunts Brothers Pizza. The lady in front of me bought $18 worth of lottery tickets. Three men lined up behind me with either scratch-off cards or completed lottery slips. I paid, sat outside, and waited. A couple in a pickup, with a dog in the back, spent several minutes discussing something. When they finished, the man got out and went inside. Upon returning, he had a fist full of scratch-off cards. One of the men who had waited in line behind me came outside and sat at a picnic table across from me. He was engrossed in scratching ticket after ticket. Finally, he threw about a dozen tickets in the trash and re-entered. Meanwhile, at least six more people entered with either scratch-off cards (winners, I guess) or completed lottery slips. The man from the truck parked in front of me walked from the truck to the store with a couple of winning tickets in his hand. In the 30 minutes that I was there, some 16 of the 20 customers were engaged in either scratch cards or lottery tickets. Almost none of them purchased gas or other items. 

After an hour or so, I reached Pascagoula. Then another hour to Gautier. The shoulders were good, and the weather was nice. The drivers mostly courteous. Still, I was really looking forward to the end of this trip. 

Finally, I reached Ocean Springs, Mississippi. Nearly the opposite of my check-in experience yesterday, the clerk at the Travelodge was friendly. She took a $35 deposit. I entered the room with my bike and went out for some supplies. I came back and ordered food from DoorDash. There are very few dining options in many of these cities. Most of the restaurants and fast food businesses are closed. You can’t walk into them and order take out. They won’t let you walk through the drive-thru. You pull up, and they simply don’t recognize you. I tried a couple times. 

So DoorDash it is. 

I washed and dried my clothes. Caught up on a few assignments until 9 pm rolled around, when the Pacers game started on the West Coast. 

Day Six (January 13, 2021, Wednesday)

Mobile, Alabama-34 miles

In March 1921, Joe Foster traveled with a horse, wagon, and farming implements, from northwest Illinois to visit his brother, PW Foster of Goss Mill, in Jackson County, Indiana. Joe crossed a distance of 300 miles in 12 days, an average of about 25 miles per day. Joe tried to stay mostly with farmers, which apparently was the tradition at the time, but due to the “amount of rascality” that was present in the country at that time, most farmers refused to give him lodging. 

On my trip, I am doing a little better than 25 miles per day. I am averaging about 43 miles each day. But the roads are much better. I don’t have horses to feed, water, and attend to. And I am in no particular hurry. 

I suppose that not being in any particular hurry is a real attraction of cross-country bikepacking. It is in my nature to take off without planning, seeing where the road will take me. But I never do it. I have learned through experience that without proper planning, I can end up without accommodations. 

In fact, the accommodations shape the legs of my trip. Ideally, I want to ride between 35 and 45 miles per day. That leaves time for reading, researching, or other activities, like washing clothes, visiting forts, and so on. But there are not affordable hotel rooms everywhere. Just yesterday, I had to change my plans because there were no hotel rooms where I had hoped to stay in Mississippi. So I broke a three-leg trip into four. 

Also, I am not sure what I am going to find in the way of accommodations the further west I go. After Hurricane Michael hit Mexico Beach and Panama City, Florida in 2018, hotel rooms were very scarce for months. Hurricane Sally made landfall in Alabama in September of 2020, but so far hotel rooms have been plentiful. Hurricane Cristobal struck Mississippi and Louisiana in June, Tropical Storm Marco hit Mississippi in August, Laura made landfall in Louisiana in August, Hurricane Delta and Zeta in October.

The 37-degree temperature was not so intimidating this morning when I stepped outside the hotel room with my bike. The sun was shining brightly in the blue sky, painted with a smattering of white clouds. This was really the first enjoyable day I have had. Wind was not really a factor. Although I was riding up and down hills nearly as huge as in the Red Hills of Tallahassee and gradually climbing in altitude (Daphne is 157 feet above sea level), I didn’t mind it. I could ride fast most of the way. I also could stop and take photos more often. Enjoy the scenery for really the first time.

Just above I-10, I turned west on US 90 and began to descend until I crossed a number of consecutive bodies of water. I crossed the Blakeley River, at Sardine Pass, and stopped to snap a photo of a huge pelican sitting on a stump with its back to me. I rode past Justine’s Bay, then I stopped to take photos of the Apalachee River with the mighty Mobile Bay off to the left. The causeway continues with the Chacaloochee Bay on the right and Mobile Bay on the left. 

I stopped and took photographs of the USS Alabama, the 45,000 ton WWII Battleship. I then continued on past Polecat Bay, until I came to a crossroads of sorts. 

But then I made another rookie mistake. US 90 continued on north and looped back around south. My reservations were at Quality Inn, 20 miles away. A shortcut on Business 90 cut the trip by three miles. I didn’t know until the last minute, however, that one had to brave a narrow two-lane Bankhead Tunnel under the Mobile River. This tunnel was used in a scene of the film Close Encounters of the Third Kind, where Richard Dreyfuss drove through the tunnel while chasing UFOs. 

The tunnel is only 21 foot wide, just enough room for two cars to pass. It is only 12 feet tall. One-third of a mile down sloped pavement to reach about 60 feet below the surface of the river, and one-third back up.

I turned left at the stoplight, slowed to let the line of cars behind me pass, and then I took the plunge. The descent to get under the river is quite deep. My bike was racing at perhaps 35 mph. The roar echo of the oncoming cars, the cars in front of me, and the cars behind me was unnerving. My heart was pounding. I’ve experienced crashing on a motorbike at this speed. In Thailand, I ran off the road and onto a grassy berm. I broke my collarbone, scapula, seven ribs, and punctured a lung. I know it doesn’t just happen to other people. It can happen to me. 

So on this day, racing down the tunnel, I try my best to shove out of my mind the images of me crashing into the pavement, being struck by a car coming in the opposite direction or coming up behind me. I got to the bottom and kept peddling with all my energy to attempt to reach the 1/3 of a mile back up an elevation of 60 feet. About halfway up, I realize I am panting, downshifting the gears on the bike, trying to pump my legs as fast as they will go to get to the top. The row of cars I know are behind me adds to my anxiety. The last thing I want to do is stop. There will not be enough room for cars to get around me. My heart is pounding. 

About 100 feet from the top, I stop. I have no other choice. I cannot go without a breather. As I predicted, the row of cars behind me cannot pass. I am embarrassed now as well as exhausted. Just 100 more feet, and I could have made the top. After 30 seconds or so, the last oncoming car passes, and the row behind me eases around. They are polite enough not to honk or rev their engines or throw empty bottles. Another 30 seconds and they are all past. I continue up. It is still hard, but I make it.

This was the most stressful, nerve-racking experience that I can remember in the US in years. But out in the sunshine, I begin to recover. I survived. 

US Business 90 is nice. Lots of traffic, but the buildings are attractive. The neighborhood old and rustic. Well kept. Trees droop over the street, lending a relaxed southern charm. I continue pedaling. Then my GPS led me off Business 90 to Halls Mill Road, which went through some sketchy parts of town but eventually joined US 90 at I-10. 

It was 56 degrees. The sun was bright. Another enjoyable day. 

The retirement-age, lady clerk with white hair, at the Quality Inn, not so much. When I tried to bring my bike into the lobby, she burst into seizure, flapping her arms and yelling about the professional standards and policies of Quality Inn that prohibited the entrance of two-wheeled vehicles in the lobby. I took it back outside and locked it up where I could keep an eye on it. 

When I came back inside, I waited for the customer in front of me. I learned that the Quality Inn was offering her a room $15 below the price I paid on Orbitz. Then it was my turn. I told her about my reservation. She tapped my name, searched the computer screen, and spoke to a housekeeper standing in the lobby. “Do you need the first floor?” 

“That would be great,” I told her. She checked some more. Talked to the housekeeper some more. 

Then she told me, “Check-in time isn’t until 4 pm. Sometimes, if we have the room ready, we go ahead and give the room as a courtesy. But check-in time is not really till 4 pm.” 

It was about 1:30 pm. I guess I should be glad that she didn’t try to squeeze an additional $10 from me to get the room before check-in time, like a motel manager did last year.

“OK, how about a room on the second floor.”

She had some tough words for the housekeeper and sent her off to check on a room. She roller her eyes and let me know how exasperated she was with the housekeeper. 

Then she repeated the 4 pm check-in time policy to me, just to hammer home the idea that she was under no obligation to give me a room before 4 pm, but if she did find a room that was ready, she would do it as a professional courtesy. 

I waited. I read the sign on the window that read all deposits would be forfeited for any customer who left the room after check-out time of 11 am. 

Finally, the housekeeper returned with good news. Now they could give me a room before 4 pm as a professional courtesy. 

The clerk then asked for my credit card. She told me that she would charge the card $50 for a deposit and give it back to me if I checked out on time. Once I agreed, she became a little friendlier. I suppose she was not a bad person. She just was short on patience and let her frustration show.

Day Five (January 12, 2021, Tuesday)-45 miles

Fairhope, Alabama (Halfway to New Orleans)

One hundred years ago, The Troy Messenger reported that two young men, JM and AF Foreman, of Toledo, Ohio, rode through Troy, Alabama on bicycles in route to Jacksonville, Florida. The former bank employees “decided to make the trip to Florida leisurely… They left Toledo on January 15th.” To avoid inclement weather, they rode the first 200 miles on trains, “but have made the rest of the journey on bicycles.” After a few days in Troy, they continued on to Florida. 

On this chilly morning in Pensacola, I intentionally delayed my departure until 9 am to give the temperature a chance to climb. When I left the hotel, it was 37 degrees with promise of warming. I crossed Perdido Bay on US 98 West, just outside Pensacola, and crossed immediately into Alabama. At this point, US 98 narrowed to a two-lane highway, and the shoulder narrowed to about 18 inches with ten-inch wide sleeper lines, or one-inch deep grooves in the blacktop every few inches, designed to reduce off-the-road collisions. When a vehicle crosses onto them, they vibrate the tires and alert the driver to get back in his or her lane. But the grooves make travel for a cyclist unbearable. The vibration jars the bike—likely causing mechanical damage—and shaking the rider to the teeth. I always try to avoid them at all costs. 

I thought about it a lot while navigating them, but I couldn’t really understand why the Alabama Highway Department felt the urgency to chisel out miles and miles of grooves on the shoulders along this particular stretch of US 98. Were there an inordinate number of drivers veering off the road along this highway? Is this the Bermuda Triangle of coastal Alabama, where the laws of physics don’t apply, and motorists spill off onto the grass at an alarming rate?

By law, motorists must share the one lane with cyclists when there is no bike lane. But in reality, not all drivers know that. And then there are some who refuse to share the lane, even when they have the space. In fact, I categorize drivers into three groups. The first are the generous, who dole out plenty of leeway, even crossing over into the far left lane. I would say just under half the motorists fall into this category. The second group of drivers are the thrifty, who give you adequate space. Say three or four feet. Enough. But no more than necessary, because who knows when they might need that additional space come some rainy day, right? I would say just under half fall into this category. The final group, the miserly, begrudge you even the most narrow strip of blacktop. Even when you are on the shoulder, they will nudge over to the very edge of the white line to mark their territory, like a dog or jaguar or orangutan, begrudging the cyclist even a modicum of pavement. As if it is their God-given and constitutional right to brandish their tires to the last inch of their lane. 

On US 98 West, however, there were only about four or five inches on either side of the grooves to ride on. And that was when the grooves were in the middle of the shoulder. Often the alert lines wandered to the edge of the road or over to the white line which indicates the beginning of the lane. In other words, riding on the shoulder was somewhat like a clown riding a unicycle on a tightrope. I was trying to make time, trying to keep warm, stay balanced on my four inches of blacktop between the grooves and the white line, all the while, cars, pickups, semis, and dump trucks came racing past, as if rushing to the emergency room. I couldn’t imagine where everyone was going in such a hurry on this Tuesday morning. 

Most vehicles gave me a safe buffer zone when there was no oncoming traffic. So, I could comfortably hug the white line and know I was probably going to be ok. But when vehicles were coming in my direction, all bets were off. Some of these trucks were pulling trailers four feet wider than their trucks, two on either side. These drivers frightened me the most because they could clip me without intending to. 

So, I hugged the white line when there was no oncoming traffic, and rode the clown’s tightrope when there was, hoping my tire would not drop off the edge, which could prove catastrophic. It was a little nerve-racking. I knew I didn’t want to do this for five hours straight, so at County Road 87, I headed north. The wind hit me again, but the traffic was lighter, and the shoulder had not been chewed up, so I didn’t mind. It was still cold, but the constant movement kept me warm enough. At Country Road 32, I turned west. The wind wasn’t really much of a factor, as the trees served as a bit of a barrier. But it remained cloudy and gray. 

You have a lot of time to think while you are riding. In fact, there is very little else to do. When I was in my late teens, I used to like to drive long distances, a couple of hours at a time, because it would allow me to think. As an introvert, I enjoy my time with myself. Susan Cain’s Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking is a fantastic analysis of introversion. If you are shy, or have a child or loved one who is introverted, you should read it. The book goes a long way towards explaining why we are like we are, and how we can capitalize on it.

For me, though, I certainly do not like to be alone all the time. In fact, the isolation in Iraq and Afghanistan, and to a lesser extent Yemen, was maddening. In fact, I love being with family members or close friends, even if we are in the same room or same house and not talking. The security of having loved ones around is comforting.

Before the outbreak of the pandemic, I would frequently come home on Friday and not leave the house again until Monday, except to go on my morning walks for exercise. I enjoyed being with the family, working on my projects, reading, watching sports, playing a game with the grandkids, and watching TV with the family or by myself. Those were my most relaxing weekends.

While riding my bike for four, five, six hours long, I get even more time to think. Recently, the battery on my phone is being stubborn by leaking the charge quickly, so I don’t even listen to music. So I think about family. Friends. Projects. Work. Challenges. Solutions. I think about the years in Iraq or Pakistan or Somalia or Yemen or elsewhere. Pakistan is an extremely complex country. Four separate ethnic groups who speak four different languages, and have different customs, call it home. Their history is rich and tragic, filled with violence, treachery, and military coups. Yet the people can be friendly and caring and hospitable. Only recently has religious extremism gripped the country in the form of violence and terror. Marvin Gray’s novel Gray Matter tries to capture this complexity.

Still moving west on CR 32, I stopped on the bridge at Fish River to take photos. This bridge has no shoulder whatsoever, so I was squished up against the rail as vehicles zoomed past. Upon leaving, I made a rookie mistake of trying to take off uphill on the bridge in traffic. I wobbled out into the lane. Cars stopped. Cars honked. Cain raised. I don’t blame them.  

Finally, I reached US 98 again. By now, the highway had become four lanes and offered an eight-foot-wide shoulder. I didn’t miss the sleeper lines at all. But the wind was in my face again. Yet, I was close to my destination, and it was still relatively early. My biggest concern was my phone battery was almost dead. I had remembered the name of the hotel and the town I was to stay in, but there was no address on the reservation. Don’t ask me why! It happens a lot more than you think. So I needed the GPS to guide me there. I didn’t want to overshoot my street. So, I kept stopping, pulling out my glasses, and checking the GPS, looking for landmarks that matched Maps, then shutting down the phone, and going a little further. Finally, I made it. The temperature had gradually climbed to a sweltering 43 degrees. 

I was about halfway to New Orleans.

Day Four (January 11, 2021, Monday)-9 miles

Pensacola, Florida

One of the most fascinating journeys in the history of Florida and the Gulf Coast was the Expedition of Spanish Explorer Pánfilo de Narváez. In April 1528, the expedition team landed at Boca Ciega Bay near Tampa with the goal of establishing a settlement. Separating from their ships with the plan of reuniting at a bay in the north, Narváez and 300 men traveled inland, meeting, abusing, and stealing from Native Americans. Never able to reunite with their ship, for the next eight years the men struggled to reach Mexico City by land and sea. Those eight years were characterized by hardship and starvation. Only four of the original 300 men reached Mexico, among them Álvar Núñez Cabeza de Vaca and a Moroccan explorer enslaved by the Spanish named Estevanico.

Cabeza de Vaca eventually wrote a book about the journey called La Relación of Álvar Núñez Cabeza de Vaca. 

While still in Florida, the landing party was pursued, attacked, and killed by the indigenous tribes. Other Europeans became sick and died. Eventually, they arrived at the coast of Apalachee Bay, where they killed the remaining horses for food, and melted down their weapons and armor to make tools and construct boats. They cut trees for the timber and used pine tree pitch for caulking. The 242 survivors sailed from the Florida coast in September 1528. A hurricane crashed Cabeza de Vaca’s ship into an island near Galveston, Texas. 

When you read Cabeza de Vaca’s account, the dominant theme is hunger. The men met, and were befriended by, some Native Americans, and were enslaved by others. The survivors were cold much of the time. Poorly clad and exposed to the elements. Their shelters were often inadequate. They fell sick. But mostly, they starved. Particularly in the winter, when even the Native Americans suffered hunger. The fish disappeared. The berries and vegetation dried up. And game was scarce. 

While I was riding on my bike yesterday, I thought a lot about Cabeza’s de Vaca’s journey. The hardships that the men endured here in Florida. Today most Floridians, in fact most Americans, have never suffered in this way. But some Americans know something of these privations. Upon arriving in downtown Pensacola last night, I passed a white man in his 30s who was wrapped in a blanket, carrying a small mattress over his left shoulder and a bag in his right hand. It had just turned dark, and the temperature had dropped to the mid-30s. When he looked at me, I thought I saw embarrassment in his expression.

A few blocks later, I came to a stoplight, where stood another white homeless man about the same age, with a long beard. He was wrapped in a blanket, holding a sign that I couldn’t read because my eyeglasses were in my front bag. When the man saw me, he said something that I couldn’t understand. Then he stepped out into the street, in front of me, shot me the Shaka hand gesture, opened his mouth, and released some sort of primal noise that younger generations somehow associate with solidarity and friendship. We exchanged smiles.

Although I had no way of knowing that yesterday would be a 70-mile journey, I had pre-scheduled today as a day of rest, doing laundry, and going to visit Ft. Barrancas. It was forecast to rain till 11 am, so I decided to spend the morning in, and then ride out to the fort about noon. 

I called down about breakfast, but the clerk told me that due to COVID, there was no breakfast. They informed me that there were several restaurants close by that had breakfast. I am not at all sure I see the logic in that (restaurants could have breakfast but not hotels?), but I didn’t argue. This seemed to be the most common excuse at hotels for not providing services: COVID. 

At the front desk the black clerk, who looked to be about 40, told me that the laundry service was down. I asked him about Ft. Barrancas. I told him that I saw that it was supposed to open at 9 am. He looked it up on his phone and said that I was right. 

I asked him, “It’s not far, right?”

“Did you see how I did this on my phone?” he asked, meaning that he had checked to see if the fort was open. “You can check the route the same way.” He wasn’t intending to be condescending. He just assumed that anyone my age must not know how to use a smartphone. 

I walked up to Waffle House in the cold drizzle. It was about 40 degrees. As a rule, I do not go to restaurants during the pandemic. It is a risk that I can avoid. Fortunately, only two tables were taken. One, at one end of the room, and another at the opposite end. I sat in the middle and kept my mask on. The waitress came with her mask, and I ordered. The table of people closest to me left. So, I was about as safe as I could be. 

With no customers, the staff started to talk. Unfortunately, I couldn’t avoid hearing their conversation. Two women were laughing and carrying on about some video on their phone. A young man in his early twenties said, “I don’t go to the gym… But I am going to get fit. I want to get, like, Spider-Man fit. You know, thin but with muscles. You lift up your shirt and have a six pack.” The lady in her forties nodded with feigned interest.

I walked back in the drizzle and washed my clothes by hand in the bathroom sink, hanging them up in the bathroom to dry. The kitchenette is pretty complete here at the Ashton. For $65/night, the room is well worth it. They have a coffeemaker and pots and pans, plates and cups, silverware. A full-size refrigerator. Unlimited internet.

At noon it was still raining. A heavy drizzle really. But my Weather app was predicting it to stop by 1 pm. I figured I could ride the 4.5 miles to the fort. And, it might stop raining before I headed back. Outside the same clerk was smoking. 

“That is some setup,” he said, referring to my bike. “I hiked the Appalachian Trail.” He proceeded to tell me a long story about how he had started on a different trail from Pennsylvania, but that he had been encouraged to take the Appalachian Trail in Maryland, near Hagerstown, West Virginia. I knew the area well. We used to live near there, and my family and I had hiked short distances on the trail. Finally, he told me that he was frightened by all of the dangers of the trail, like bears, but one afternoon when he was trying to decide, he asked God for a sign. If it stopped raining, he would take the Appalachian Trail. If not, he would return the way he came. 

“Then here comes this older man walking up without a shirt. He was about your age,” he told me. Which is something I hear more and more these days. Finally the older man told him, “It has stopped raining.” So the clerk took it as a sign from God to go on the trail, and he did. 

The ride down to Barrancas on SR 295 took me through another disadvantaged section of town. The wind was to my back, I was sort of heading downhill, my speed good, and the rain was not too bad, so I didn’t mind it. Ft. Barrancas sits on Naval Air Station Pensacola. My GPS was telling me to stay in the left lane as I approached the gate, but the sign clearly indicated Visitors Right Lane Only. So I followed the sign. Two security guards stopped me.

“You gotta military ID?” the first guard asked.

“No, I came to see Ft. Barrancas.”

“It’s closed. You can’t come in if you don’t have a military ID,” he responded.

“But online it says that the fort is open.”

“But it is closed to the public.”

“Is that camera on?” the second guard asked rudely, referring to the GoPro on my helmet. They were used to treating civilians this way, I supposed. But I didn’t go for it. I am too old to be intimidated by bullies.

“No.” I wanted to respond, “But I can turn it on if you want.” But I didn’t. I am also too experienced to unnecessarily get myself in trouble. More and more these days, I try to keep my peace.

“Follow me,” the first guard said. “I will show you where you can turn around to leave.” 

He did. And I did.

But going back uphill was slower, and the rain and wind made it colder and slower. My glasses kept fogging up. I plugged away, slowly pedaling to get back to the hotel. I just wanted to get warm.

Day Three (January 10, Sunday)-70 miles

Linda and Charles George, authors of The Great Depression, outlined causes of the economic disaster, many that could be traced back to the 1920s. We can group these causes into five broad categories. First was massive credit debt accumulation. For the first time, businesses were offering credit to increase sales. Americans were buying automobiles, electric washing machines, phonographs, vacuum cleaners, electric irons, and other household items on credit, as opposed to saving up and paying cash. Second was stock speculation, often linked to unaccountable credit. People will spend money they don’t have, in hopes of making fortunes. Many did, which compounded the problem. Third, unequal income distribution between the wealthy and poor. Fourth was lack of government oversight, particularly of banks, the stock market, and industry. Wealthy bankers, stock traders, and industrialists operated with impunity. The fifth was overproduction, which led to massive layoffs when markets contracted. All of this was underpinned with wartime prosperity that produced an almost euphoric sense of invulnerability: an economic bubble that contributed to poor practices.

As I research the Roaring Twenties in Jackson County, Indiana, I am looking for warning signs of these causes of the Great Depression. However, being a farming community, this little corner of the state may have been relatively insulated. In Only Yesterday, published in 1931, just after the close of the 20s, Frederick Allen Lewis wrote that “Not everyone could manage to climb aboard this” postwar prosperity bandwagon. “Mighty few farmers could get so much as a fingerhold upon it.” Poor farmers complained, and hundreds of thousands left the farms for cities.

Day Three of the journey started off in Pensacola Beach, Florida. I had planned for an easy day: a 20-mile journey down to Ft. Pickens and back, and then a 10-mile trip across the Pensacola Bay Bridge to my next stop at the Ashton Inn & Suites on Navy Boulevard, in Pensacola. But things don’t always work out as you plan, do they?

I left my saddlebags in the hotel room, fearing that I couldn’t lock them up and keep them safe at the fort. I departed down Santa Rosa Island to Ft. Pickens, about 7:45 am, in 35-degree temperature. The fort was named after the Revolutionary War hero, Andrew Pickens. Built in 1834, the pentagonal structure has a checkered past. Slaves from New Orleans served as day laborers to build the fort. However, the wages went to their owners, not to the slaves themselves. Ft. Pickens, one of four constructed to protect Pensacola from sea invaders, was the only one to remain under control of the Union Army during the Civil War. For a brief time, the Confederates seized control of Ft. Barrancas, Advanced Redoubt, and Ft. McCree, until the Union received reinforcements. In 1886, Ft. Pickens served as a prison for Native American leader Geronimo and 15 other Apache men. They were separated from their families and forced to clear weeds, plant grass, and stack cannonballs for seven hours per day. In 1887, they were united with their families. The following year, the outbreak of Yellow Fever forced authorities to remove the Apaches from the fort. The fort remained functional until 1947.

The 10-mile ride to Ft. Pickens was cold. The 35-degree air combined with the 12 mph winds hit my back and made the trip feel even colder. But I needed not have worried about protecting my belongings at the fort. When I arrived, I was the only visitor. A taxi van came, but the weather was probably viewed as unwelcoming because the passengers didn’t get out of the van. They circled around the compound and came back, but never ventured outside of their heated vehicle. I locked up my bike and enjoyed the fort compound to myself. I wandered about the ramparts, snapped selfies, and took photos. About thirty minutes later, I unlocked my bike and pointed it east. 

But this time, the trip was even more difficult. The NE wind was in my face. It slowed me down. Knowing I had a long day ahead, I pedaled hard, but didn’t make much progress. My toes, shins, and face were cold. I was drenched in sweat. I had little choice but to plug ahead. 

Finally at 10:30 am, I arrived back at my room. Checkout was 11 am, but I had asked for a few extra minutes. The staff were nice and said no problem. My phone was nearly dead, so I plugged it in, hoping for enough charge to get me to my destination. I had read the night before that the Pensacola Bay Bridge was closed due to the hurricane damage (ETA? Sally?), but I had hopes that I might find a way to cross. Otherwise, I was looking at a 50-mile detour. 

I stuffed my belongings into the saddle back, checked the route options in case I couldn’t take the bridge, and shut off my phone to save what little battery there was. I was so reliant on GPS that I would have to use it sparingly. No music. No messages to my family. No photographs. Nothing but rapid powering up and powering down to check Maps. 

It was 39 degrees when I rode back over the bridge, and I followed 98 West a mile or more to the Pensacola Bay Bridge. Unfortunately, it was manned around the clock by a construction worker. I asked if there was any way to get across with a bicycle. “No, you will have to get a car and go back down 98 to 281, across Garçon Point Bridge and up to 10. Then take it across to the first exit to Pensacola.”

Therein lay the problem. Interstate 10 prohibited bicycles. That would have been only a 38-mile detour if I could take I-10. But to ride my bike, I would have to go up to US 90 and across, which was a total of 50 miles. I had already ridden 20 miles to the fort and back. I had never ridden more than a total of 57 miles in one day, and that was last year in slightly better weather. 

“But I don’t have a car,” I told him, hoping there was some alternative that I hadn’t found on Maps. 

“There is no way to get there on a bike,” he said. I knew he was wrong. I had checked out highway 90 less than an hour earlier. But I didn’t want to argue. 

As I backtracked East on US 98, an electronic sign read 41 degrees. The whole day it would never get any warmer. The wind was off my left shoulder and often in my face, which pushed me back and made it colder and slower. I was so happy to get to US 281 North, but I was soon less grateful. The vehicle traffic was nerve-wracking: loud engines roaring past me, replete with testosterone junkies in power trucks and cars that had to flex their combustion-engine muscle by revving the dealing motors as they passed me. I didn’t even have music to insulate myself. The wind was nearly as loud and bone-chilling. And the bridge was tall and exhausting. The entire trip across to Garçon Point Bridge and East Bay was as tiring as it was brutal. Once I got across, I pulled off onto the grass and rested. I wanted to sit, but feared I would never get back up. My legs were wobbly. Jello-on-a-stick. I thought about getting as far as I-10 and calling a taxi van. It would have been much easier. Who could blame me? But I needed to see if I could make the 70 miles. 

I pedaled up to I-10. I pulled into a McDonalds, where I could eat something warm and have coffee, but there was no place to lock up my bike so that I could see it from inside. So I rode down to a Dollar General and locked it to a dog food cart right at the electronic doors. I went in for something unhealthy to eat, to keep me going for the next 30 miles. When I came out, I stuffed everything into my saddlebags. I got on but then realized my lights weren’t on. I have a flashing white light on the front and a flashing red light on the back. Those lights are necessary so that vehicle drivers can see me going in both directions. And I knew I was competing against the battery lives, which are only about six hours. When I tried to dismount to turn the lights back on, the bike fell over with me on it. I picked it up and realized just how exhausted I was. Cold. Hungry. I didn’t want to ride further, but I knew I had to. I just didn’t want to make any big mistakes because of exhaustion. 

Finally, I reached US 90. I began riding west, which put the wind at my back for the second time today. That was good. The hills that had popped up out of nowhere, were not. But I pedaled along as if I knew what I was doing. I stopped once and fell off my bike again. My legs were like rubber. I talked to myself, coaxing some energy reserves from somewhere. Got back on the bike and rode on. 

Several times, I saw fast food restaurants where I might be able to lock my bike within view of a window. Maybe I could get warm and charge my batteries. But I was also racing against the dark. Ironically, it was already dusk. It had been since about 1pm. The sun had just disappeared entirely. Nowhere to be found. The temperature had probably dropped back to about 37 degrees. I wanted to make it before it was officially nightfall, at about 5 pm. I would be cutting it close. Also, I feared that if I got out of the cold for 30 minutes, my drenched clothes, combined with the warm atmosphere inside the restaurant, would prevent me from ever going back outside. 

No, I needed to keep going. So I did. Every time I stopped, I checked my GPS. The directions changed a couple of times because Maps keeps wanting you to take on this or that route, but I was heading in the right direction. Once I started US 90 turned South, I knew I was getting closer, but I was going slower than ever. Suddenly more hills were popping up. How in the world Pensacola, Florida on the Gulf Coast can have hills is a mystery to me. But sure enough, no sooner had I overcome one hill than the next cropped up. 

Also, my front light went dead. My daughter Tellie had given me a travel battery charger for Christmas in 2019 that I never used. But today it came in handy. When I plugged it in, it worked beautifully. The problem was that it only lasted 15 minutes, and then had to be reset. So, every 15 minutes, I had to stop and reset it. I am sure I was not using it properly, but I had little choice but to keep resetting it. 

Somewhere along the line, I left Santa Rosa County and entered Escambia County. Shortly after reaching Pensacola, it got dark. Cars were still zooming past me, and I was traveling at a slower pace. Then I reached a flat spot in town. The area was very shady. Boarded up businesses. Closed shops. Darkness on the street. I was sure that I was within a mile or so, but when I stopped at a gas station to check my GPS on the phone, I still had a long way to go. I kept going. 

At one point, I was at a stoplight and a black teen in a car full of other black teens rolled down his window part way and yelled something at me as the car departed. I couldn’t tell what he said, but I didn’t feel safe in this neighborhood. For the life of me, my legs wouldn’t pedal any faster. Block after block I kept up the good fight. Freezing. Exhausted. Stopping to reset my light. Check my phone. Uncomfortable with my surroundings. 

Once, I overshot my turnoff by a couple of blocks, but caught it early enough to go back. Finally, I got to the right neighborhood, which looked a little safer, but still not good. Two white men in hoodies walked near World of Whiskey bar at a particularly slow pace. They made me uncomfortable, but it was probably nothing. My paranoia getting the best of me, or the worst of me. I had to stop to check my GPS again, each time starting up the phone, examining Maps, and then shutting it down again. It was slow, and I kept looking over my shoulders, but nothing happened. 

I rode north on Navy Blvd, but couldn’t find Ashton Inn. I stopped and checked my phone again. I had passed it. This time I went back and found it. The Ashton Inn & Suites sign was shut off. 

After nearly ten hours out in the cold and pedaling non-stop, I had arrived. Tired, drenched in sweat, and feeling all of my 61 years. But I had made it: 70 miles. And I am going to do my damnedest to never repeat it.

Day Two (January 9, Saturday)-49 miles

Again, I was on the road at 6am, hoping to make 49 miles before noon, when the Colts-Bills Wild Card game started. The hotel room had no coffee, so I rode into the chilly morning, cold turkey. It was bitter cold, 45 degrees again, but a 39 windchill. The wind was N/NW, hitting me in the right shoulder and the face, constantly shoving me from my right side. My legs hadn’t really recovered. They were as sore and weak as when I checked into the room yesterday. 

I rode west on US Highway 98 in the darkness. It was an hour before sunrise. It was Saturday morning and few cars were on the road. This area of Destin reminded me of US 98 at Panama City Beach. Lots of retail shops and restaurants. But after you cross the tall bridge at East Pass of the North Channel, the road runs along the beach and looks more like Front Beach Road in Panama City Beach. Touristy shops, bars, hotels, and restaurants. 

I was wearing two pairs of socks. My feet were a little warmer than yesterday but still cold. The wind was punishing. My nose ran for 5.5 hours straight. My legs just wouldn’t produce the power I wanted out of them. I had to stop more frequently than yesterday to give the legs a break.

I stopped once at a convenience store to get coffee. I locked my bike, always nervous that someone will try to steal it, or my lights, electronics, or tires. Even at Indiana University in Bloomington, Indiana, locked bikes are pillaged. So I always try to lock it within sight of the windows and keep looking out to check on it. On this day, after I paid for my coffee, I came out in the cold to keep an eye on my bike while I drank my coffee. A black man left the store with his own coffee and got on his bike. It was a single-gear bike. All across Florida, people who have lost their licenses, sometimes as a result of some drug- or alcohol-related offense, ride these bikes.

“Have a good one,” I told the man. I am quite the conversationalist. 

A tall black man walked up with a black plastic container. It looked like an anti-freeze container but had long lost its labeling. I had no idea what he was using it for.

“Can you help me with anything?” he asked in a non-threatening way. I unzipped a pocket on my bike bag and pulled out a dollar. When I gave it to him, he looked offended. He was clearly expecting something more. Finally, he said, thank you. 

I kept drinking, but felt uncomfortable. I was not necessarily threatened by him, but there would be others along soon. A white man pulled up in his car to get gas. The black man walked over, and they began talking. “Great,” the black man said. And they both walked inside the store. A couple minutes later, the white man came running out of the store. He went to his car and got something out, presumably money or a credit card. Then he went back in. 

A couple minutes later, the white man came outside and began pumping gas. Then the black man opened the store door and yelled, “You got 80 cents in loose change?”

“Yeah,” the man said. They met and exchanged the money. 

It was time to leave. So I pedaled off.

A couple hours later, I crossed from Okaloosa County into Santa Rosa County, and a man on a bicycle, dressed in cycling gear, was coming in the opposite direction. He crossed over the grassy medium and came up behind me. A few minutes later, I heard, “On your right,” and he passed me. He was thin, fit, and about 40-45 years old. Soon, he was a block ahead of me. Then two, then three. Within 15 minutes, he was a mile ahead of me, which meant he was traveling about 12 miles an hour. I was traveling about 8. He didn’t have saddle bags that blocked the wind or the 20 pounds I was carrying in electronics and clothes, but he was indeed traveling much faster in this wind. 

During the summer and fall of 2020, I would ride to the bridge at Lynn Haven from my house and back. It is 26 miles roundtrip, and I would make it at a 12 mph pace if I didn’t stop. On November 7, 2020, I was riding down US Highway 77 South to the Lynn Haven Bridge. At SR Highway 388 West, cars were backed up for about 1/4 mile in both directions. The police had the road blocked off for the cycling leg of the Iron Man Triathlon. But the police waved me on, and I cruised on through on my bike without event. No one even paid any attention to me. 

At the bridge, I turned around and pedaled back north on 77. When I reached the road block, a policeman waved me on. When I reached the other side of road block, I saw clusters of friends and family members stationed along the side of the road to cheer the cyclists on. The man and teen waved at me and yelled, “Good job.” A minute later someone called out, “Keep going, Old Timer!” This brought a smile to my face. I kept pedaling at my fast 12 mph pace when suddenly a man passed me on his bike. Then a second. Third. Fourth and Fifth. A woman passed me. They also were traveling at least 4-5 mph faster than me. Probably pacing themselves. A mile further, 388 East broke off, and I kept north on 77. My first and only venture into the Ironman competition. Something I can tell my grandchildren. (In fact, I did tell them.)

On this Saturday morning in January, I had to stop every 45 minutes or so just to let my legs rest for a couple of minutes and check the remaining distance on the Maps app, before continuing on.

About 10:30 am, the clouds finally dispersed and the sun came out. The air warmed up a couple degrees. Finally, I came up to Pensacola Beach Blvd, circled up on to the overpass, and rode down toward the toll bridge. It was my third tall bridge of the day. As I came upon the toll booth at the bottom, there were only two lanes, and both were Florida Sun Pass lanes only. No cash or credit card options. No human workers. No written guidance for bicycles. So, I rode around the toll booths on the right, entering a Do Not Enter lane, and proceeded to Ft. Pickens Road to the Surf & Sand Hotel. It is a four-story structure that is probably thriving during the season, but in January, it is cold and off-season. 

I got into the lobby at 11:30 am. I had come 49 brutal miles in 5.5 hours. Elizabet, the Bulgarian housekeeping worker about my age, who was cleaning up after breakfast, greeted me. She had moved to the US in 2000 after her husband won the visa lottery. She seemed surprised that I knew what that was. She went home to Bulgaria the following year, but one of her adult children contracted Diabetes and had to have a leg amputated. She stayed to help out, but her son eventually died. She returned to the US, and six years ago, she and her husband moved to Pensacola. She loves it here. 

She told me that the hotel clerk was away cleaning rooms and would be back shortly. She offered me coffee while I waited. I asked her if there was a TV I could turn on to watch the Colts game. I could tell she didn’t know what the Colts were. The large screen facing the lobby didn’t work, she said, because someone lost the remote control. So she flipped on the other TV in the breakfast room. She found CBS, and I started watching the PreGame. She offered me water. I brought my bike inside and began removing my jackets, helmet, and backpack. I was dripping wet with sweat.

The desk attendant returned and checked me in. I took my bike up the elevator to the second floor and got it inside just in time for kickoff. 

Day One (January 8)

The bicycle has enjoyed a rich and colorful history in the Florida Panhandle for more than a century. On March 28, 1885, at Kuprian’s Park in Pensacola, John S. Prince raced, on his bicycle, against W.J. Morgan, on horseback, in four separate races. The Pensacola Commercial reported that Prince raced Morgan and his mount—J.B. Roberts’ Kingfisher—to a draw in three one-mile heats. Each competitor won one heat, and the third was a tie. But Prince, being a “splendid specimen of muscled manhood” on the bike, beat JM Tarble’s horse, Douglas, by some thirty feet in the five-mile race. A few days later, The Pensacolian reported that Prince had just received “a handsome gold metal” for breaking the record for “one mile on a bicycle” from The Springfield (Massachusetts) Bicycle Club, for a time of 2 minutes and 39 seconds. The following Thursday, Prince and Morgan met again. This time, Prince won two out of three half-mile heats. Prince gave Morgan a 200-yard head start in a three-mile race but still won by six feet.

In 1897, Parker Williams rode his bike 165 miles from Oglethorpe, Georgia to Crawfordville, Florida, to spend the day with the editor of The Gulf Coast Breeze. Lamp Harman won the 200-yard bicycle race at the Fourth of July celebration in Chipley, in 1898. A year later, JR McGeachy rode ten miles from Bonifay to Chipley in 35 minutes to beat a hard rain.

A few miles south of Chipley in January 2021, I started my journey. I left Friday morning at 6am, one hour before sunrise. It was 45 degrees with a 9 mile NW wind. I stopped a mile down the road to dig my gloves out of my saddlebag. I caught SR 20 West, and pushed myself hard, hoping to reach Destin, Florida—some 55 miles away—by noon. The gray-clad clouds in the sky blocked out the sun and insulated the atmosphere with a thick chill. My toes never warmed up the whole trip. 

I had promised myself a rest break when I crossed over into Washington County, but I was in a bit of a groove, so I kept going. I kept going past Ebro and stopped on a bridge a mile or so beyond to take some photos of the Choctawhatchee River. I had passed by here in October on a four-day journey to Alabama and was impressed with the river. So I wanted to see it again. I love Florida’s bodies of water. I continued on through Bruce and stopped to rest. My rest breaks are usually about 3-5 minutes. 

At SR 331, just east of Freeport, I stopped where I had in October, a Shell station, for another break. I had gone 32 miles. Just 27 to go, I told myself. In October, I rode north to DeFuniak Springs, but this time, I rode south on 331.

The rest of the journey was tougher. The wind seemed to pick up, slapping me on the side, forcing the temperature down. I didn’t think I would make it up the North Channel bridge. It’s huge. But I made it. At the top, I stopped to take some photos. It reminds me of the Bay at Lynn Haven. 

Then I turned north on US 98 East. It seemed to get colder yet, and the wind was in my face most of the time. When this happens, you pedal, pedal, pedal, and don’t seem to go very far. The gradual progress you make doesn’t seem to be worth the effort you exert. But there is little option beyond plugging away, ever onward. 

So I pedaled, pedaled, pedaled. I stopped for short breaks. Checked my progress to motivate myself.

I thought about the GPS on my phone. A few years ago, my college-age daughter and I were walking in Bethesda, Maryland to a restaurant she wanted to try. We were following her GPS. She asked me, “What did you do before there were GPSes?”

“We called and asked for directions,” I told her. She thought this was bizarre. 

I started thinking about the first time I ever recall using a GPS system. It was when I was in Iraq. Three Civil Affairs officers and I were driving to Baquba to visit an employment center and fire station. We drove about 30 miles north on a road, only to find out that the bridge was destroyed. We stopped and asked some locals if there was another way, but they said that there wasn’t. This was the Sunni Triangle, and Americans were typically not welcome. So, we never knew if they were being honest with us or not. We had to backtrack those 30 miles on the main road. 

This reminded me of Marvin Gray’s Welcome to the Dark Side, a novel about Iraq. It describes the complexities of war that we experienced. The horrors and wonders. The friendships and enmities. The dangers. The dedication and bravery of some of the Americans and their allies. And the incompetence and arrogance of others. Gray lays it all out pretty well.

At 11:45 am, I arrived at the Extended Stay of America in Destin, which is where I met Louis. A tall, friendly man. He asked me about my bike. Being an avid cyclist himself—riding around the Florida Panhandle on weekends—he was excited to hear about my trips. Extended Stay hotels are reasonably priced. I have stayed in two. The staff have always been friendly. The rooms are clean, with little kitchenettes. The premises safe. They have an exercise room and laundry room. But they want to rent you pots, pans, and utensils, the WiFi is slow, and they charge you $5.99 per day for fast internet. I try to avoid them. 

I was dead tired. Spent most of the afternoon and evening resting. I knew that tomorrow would be a hard day. I needed to go 49 miles in cold weather by noon if I were going to watch the Colts game. 

Day Minus One (January 7 2021)

One hundred years ago, The Brownstown Banner carried a story about Harry Ranken and Lou Allen Brodhecker—both who would have been about 16 years old at that time—riding their bikes from Brownstown, Indiana to Hanover, Indiana to visit Harry’s brother, Fred, who was attending college. Three days later in May 1921, the boys rode to Madison, Indiana to visit Lou Allen’s family. By the time they returned to Brownstown the following day, they had covered about 100 miles. 

In July of that year, the Miller’s Corner columnist of the Seymour Daily Tribune of Seymour, Indiana wrote that “Townsend Bogie of Paris Crossing left for Iowa” on a bicycle, a trip of “700 miles in eight and one-half days.” 

That same month, the Banner reported that Herbert Graham and LE Wildman of Springfield, Ohio stopped in Seymour to buy supplies on their 900-mile cross-country bikepacking journey, from their home to Nashville, Tennessee, and back again. Taking a different return route to see new sights, such as Mammoth Cave, the young men carried 75-pounds of luggage, including camping equipment. 

In the 1970s, I delivered the Indianapolis News and Star on my bicycle in Brownstown. In 1974, just before the Brownstown Central Middle School 8^th grade dance, a friend and I rode our bikes 11 miles from Brownstown to Freetown to visit a female classmate. I would not ride a bike again for any meaningful distance until 2000, when I was studying at the Berkley Urdu Language Program in Pakistan. I often rode around the city of Lahore to class, shopping, and libraries, where I conducted research, and around campus at the University of Peshawar, where I studied Pashtu, the official language of Afghanistan. A few years later, I would ride 10 or 12 miles through the countryside in rural Maryland for exercise on weekends.

That was the extent of my biking experience, until last January, when at the age of 60, I undertook my first cross-country backpacking journey. I made the 650-mile journey east from Panama City Beach, Florida to visit my aunt Regina in Fruitland Park, near Orlando, and back again. During the trip, I wrote a blog to chronicle the 17-day trip and share the stories and photographs of the people I met. 

This January, a century after Graham and Wildman stopped off in Seymour, Indiana for supplies on their 900-mile interstate journey, I will ride west from Panama City, Florida to New Orleans, Louisiana, and back again. Because I am currently researching the Roaring 20s in Jackson County, at the age of 61, I plan to write a daily blog that highlights historical events of that decade, while covering the places and people I meet on the 700-mile cross-country bike trip on the MarvinGray.org website.