Little Fish, Big River, Bigger City

I'm doing okay, have had a great experience so far including a wicked rainstorm in Miami where my laptop and digital camera got soaked even through a water-proof bag. I'm about 350 miles north of Key West and am feeling great. I should hit Daytona sometime today and then I head West (FINALLY!) While taking a break today to apply sunblock, I met Bob and Linda Brockway and their friend Rita invited me in to update my site quickly until a laptop replacement arrives in about five or ten days. Thanks for your patience and more will be coming in about a week or so! onward!

Time on road: 8 hours 8 mins.

I fell asleep late after being a bit wired from the coffee with key lime pie. I woke up late, the sun was up, it was about 10:38 a.m. I had a broken spoke to fix on the rear wheel which meant taking off one of the tires that took me 45 minutes to put on in the first place. My crotch is killing me, but my legs aren't too bad. I smile at the brightly colored sheets again and set about removing the rear wheel and my nemesis the tire. I dig out a rear spoke from my spart parts bag. Since I sent back the wrench, I can't properly remove the rear gear set so I force the spoke through by bending it a tad. This is probably taboo, but I simply don't care. It's metal, it should hold. After 45 minutes with some struggling, I get the spoke on and tightened. I tighten up the others, I tighten the front spokes a bit. I then recall a conversation I had with my friend Eugene the night before about the speedometer. It turns out that while I thought I was resetting the Odometer to "zero" I was actually resetting the tire size to zero which means that by the time I would've reached San Diego, I would've registered zero miles. I pump the tire size back up to 2,138 which was right setting and not the total miles on the computer. It's confusing because when you reset that function, the "M" for miles shows up on the screen, which of course stands for "miles per hour" where as the "O" stands for odometer. In any case, I now have speed and mileage working, too.

I pack up, say goodbye to the manager and her husband? friend? co-owner? and they wish me luck and remind me to be safe like so many have. It's 1:00 p.m. and I'm off. I feel great. It hurts to sit on the seat a bit, but eventually the soreness goes away. After riding for about 15 minutes, I realize that I'd forgotten to put on sunblock. I pull into the parking lot of a little strip mall with gift shops and shell shops and everything that only a tourist would buy. As I undo my pack to dig out sunblock, a lady in a car stops and reads my sign. She thanks me for doing what I'm doing and hands me a five dollar bill through her window. I thank her profusely and yet again, I'm in awe of how kind people are. I go back to applying sunblock and then I hear an "excuse me." I look up and there is a cute little white-haired lady.

"Hi!" I cheerily greet her.

"So you're doing this for charity?" she asks.

"Yea, riding from Key West to San Diego, ma'am."

"So are you taking donations?"

"I guess I sort of am."

"Well you're not settin' up right here are ya??!!" she demands.

"No, no, no!" I chuckle, "I'm just putting on sunblock that I forgot when I started. I don't have time to stop as I'm trying to make it to San Diego in 30 days."

She eases up a bit now that she knows I'm not going to sit there all day and steal tourist trap dollars. We chat while I repack and rebungee my bags together and I ask her if she ever gets online at all.

"HECK, NO!! I'm no 'modern millie,' no sir! I leave all that computer stuff to the kids." I laugh and she tells me to be safe and I'm off again.

I love riding along US 1 in the Keys. It's like being in the Caribbean as there is the Atlantic on one side of you and the Gulf of Mexico across the street on the other side. I see pelicans, egrets, and a huge white bird with a fringe of black along the back of it's wings when it flies. Little lizards dart away as I ride on the trail or shoulder depending on what is available at the time. I ride for about 12 miles and pull into the Long Key State Recreation Area for a break. I stretch out, apply more "chamois cream" to lessen the chafe in my sensitive parts and I eat a bit of turkey jerky and cheez-its while sucking down Gatorade. The park is beautiful, right on the waters edge under wispy pine trees. It's a perfect sunny day and the bathroom is cleaner than most hotels. It was worth the $1.50 that bicyclists have to pay. I climb back on and begin riding.

I'm going through Gatorade like a madman even in the mild heat. Over the course of today, I'll down 9 bottles of the stuff in most every flavor. I'm finding that my "streamlined" version of the camel back "The Rocket" as they call it, doesn't quite hold enough and I have to keep stopping to refill. I also don't care for the small carrying capacity for cargo as I can't really put anything in it. Since I don't have a handlebar bag, it sucks not to be able to keep a camera, carry groceries, jacket, etc. close by rather than all wrapped up under a cargo net in the water-proof kayak deck back bungeed to the top of my main gear bag. To get to anything I can't carry on my back, it's a 15 minute ordeal to undo cord after cord and unzip the deck bag made out of the same stuff rubber rafts are made from. The thing seems bomb-proof and I keep my camera and small laptop in their for semi-quick access and for protection from the rain.

Today, the bike trail runs down the side of the road and at times there is no head wind. I get to actually check my speed which reaches 14, even 16 mph but I seem to settle in at 12.5 to 13.5 mph. When I'm in headwinds, I drop back to 6 to 9 mph. I find that when a headwind lets off, the bike picks up so much speed and I feel so light that I have to look back and make sure that the trailer is still attached. I ride and ride and the miles slowly go by. It's odd, but I feel like I'm riding forever, I feel like I'll never make it to San Diego because just 10 miles covered is a lifetime. I have to stop every 10 miles to stretch out and rest a bit but I feel like I'm getting about 10 miles every hour even with the stops. I wind my way over bridges, along beautiful coast line, through small towns. Before I know it, it's dark again and somehow, I've knocked about 45 miles off. I decide to shoot for Key Largo as a stopping point.

Riding at night is really tough, especially on the bike trail which is unlit. It's as smooth as butter most of the time, but then here and there, four inches of "tree roots" force the pavement up like a mini-speed bump. I can't see them coming in the dark and I almost lose control on every one, not to mention the pounding my crotch takes. It's brutal. I pedal and I pedal and I pedal, doing about 6 mph since I can't see. I feel a large bug hit my left thigh. Geez! I wonder what the heck that was. For some reason, the thought hits me that it could've been something falling out of one of the back pouch pockets on my jersey. I feel behind me and my sunglasses are gone. I only have the one lens that has been constantly falling out of them every time I take them off my face. They have interchangeable lenses for different light conditions..yellow for evening, orange for rain and dark for sun. Crap. I can't believe they're gone!

There's no way it could've been them, coming from behind me and hitting me in the front of my leg but I stop the bike and decide to turn around and look just in case. No, just go on, it wasn't your glasses...no...just take a look...so, I ride back slowly scanning left and right with the headlamp on my handlebars. This is senseless. Folly. Just as I stop and start to turn my bike around again, I see a pair of dusty one-lensed sunglasses in the dirt and rocks along the trail. Vaya con Dios. Miracles DO happen.

I shake my head, put them into a zipper pouch on my camelback and ride on. A few miles further and I come to an abrupt stop in the trail. I see a sign that says, "dismount and walk your bike across highway." Aaaah...I remember Phil telling me about this. As I pull up to the edge of the highway, cars are whipping past with their headlights blaring in my eyes. I snap my left foot out of the pedal while turning left. I lean one inch too far to the right as I slow down.

"Oh no. I'm toast!" I stuggle like a bunny with one foot caught in a trap, kicking and squirming as I just topple over to the right in a mighty jackknifing crash at zero miles an hour. As I impact the ground thinking how foolish I must look, the force pops my foot out of the pedal and I roll backwards. I'm staring up at the sky, my legs are in a V-formation with headlights shining on the bike grease inside my calves. The weight of my body on the camel back sends Gatorade spraying across my face and up my nose. What can I do but laugh at this point? I lie there and look at the stars while giggling stupidly for a minute. I can only imagine how many more moments like this I'll have.

I hoist the trailer and bike upright again. Pooh is still strapped into the cargo net safely. Luckily, the trailer on the same sign that I shredded back in Key West. I cross the road and abuse my crotch for a few more miles before rolling into Key Largo. I need a break. I pull into Taco Bell and order a chicken Quesadilla. A really nice girl named "Tan" makes my day with her questions about everything. She takes the time to come out and look everything over while telling me I'm nuts. Oh...and the general consensus from everyone I meet is that I am nuts. I think the key to being nuts is that you feel perfectly normal whereas everyone else KNOWS you're crazy. I must be at that point.

I finish eating on the sidewalk outside which has become my norm for dining. For some odd reason, I'd rather sit on the ground near my bike than in a restaurant now when it comes to fast food, atorade breaks, etc. I pedal on through town for maybe three or four miles and as I feel like town is about to end, I figure I should get some real dinner. I pull into a totally cute little restaurant called "Crack'd Conch" with outdoor tables and a colorful sign. I loved eating "conch fritters" while sailing in the Caribbean so I pull in for some. The waitress is named "Heike" and she's an extremely talkative German with a great personality. I order coffee and "Gator" instead of conch just to try something new. Yea, it tastes like chicken.

I finish up the Gator with some key lime pie and Kristi the owner comes out and chats with me for awhile about everything. She's wonderfully nice as so many people have been. Heike draws me a map of how to get to the campground on the edge of town and she goes over it ten times with me. I must look completely lost but I really had no problem finding the place as it was impossible to miss and only a short distance down the road. I check out the office after riding through the campground looking for a good spot. The office is closed and reopens at 9 a.m. when you're supposed to go and pay. There aren't any payment options or drop slots beyond that. I settle on the first spot in the park and start to unpack. Five minutes later, a black car with neon purple lights splaying from under it drives in. It parks in the spot next to me.

"Oh great, there's goes the neighborhood," I think to myself as I picture a carful of drunk, teenage gang members coming to hassle me. I was so wrong. It was three "Okie's," John Sr., John Jr. and Jeff, aka "Snapp." They're down from Oklahoma for the NASCAR races and they turn out to be the nicest guys you could have as neighbors. They have a bit of trouble with their tent so I help them out with a hand and flashlight. Eventually we get set up. They come over for awhile and we talk about everything on my ride from the gear to not doing any training, etc. They agree with me that no training is the way to go. I feel validated. I have a blast with these guys just shootin' the sh*t and hanging out. They eventually are going to get into their "getup" which is what they wear to the races. They need ten minutes so I hit the shower, clean my body, rinse out my clothes a bit and head back. I take their photos for my website when I get the photo part working. They're wearing wild wigs, and Snapp has a full Uncle Sam suit on. They also have a "made for TV banner" and they hoped to get aired the next day during the race.

Eventually, I fall asleep in my tent and sleeping bag for the first time. I think I made a mistake on the tent. I'm the only thing that fits in it. I have a feeling that I'm going to wish I had gotten the next size up so I can keep my bike and gear bag inside. Especially if it's raining i won't be able to open my gear bag without soaking everything in the process. REI has a great return policy and I think the prices on the tents are the same so I contemplate ordering the new one and shipping the old one back before I hit the wide open areas of the country.

I wake up around 7 and am all packed and ready to roll by 7:45. I've posted over 100 miles so far and I'm heading into day three nice and early. This is a cakewalk so far, or should I say it's as easy as key lime pie?

Time on road 6 hrs. 11 mins.

I leave my room and make my way to the elevator to take bike and trailer down to street level. The trailer is still heavy because I've decided to give it a go even with some items I may not need. The trailer jackknifes as I try to wheel the bike into the elevator. I heave, struggle and curse. The bike is stuck, I can't move the trailer, the elevator begins to beep in an angry tone. I wonder how I'm going to make it across the country considering I can't even get to the street. Finally, I'm able to force everything in, just barely and head to the ground floor.

I pull out of the elevator and decide to wheel over to the office to turn my key in. The bike and trailer fall over again at the office. There's a man on a cell phone watching with semi-interest. I turn my key into the lobby and come back out. He's still there chatting. I decide to avoid embarassment and wheel my way through the parking lot to the street. I climb on, wait for a few cars and take off on a side street to get a few yards in before hitting the main drag for the historic district of Key West. Wow...I'm riding, and it's not too bad! I go a city block, turn right and pull up to the traffic light of US1 (Truman Blvd.) The light turns green and I head out in front of a van, some cars all turning left behind me.

The back wheel wobbles a bit, my handle bars start to jive, I feel the trailer go into drunken swings. I'm going to go down, hard...soon. The cars are patient as I veer across two lanes turning left and collide with the curb like a NASCAR racer scraping along the wall. That does it. I'm unloading everything unnecessary. I've ruined one of my signs but it's still sort of legible as I grunt and swear the bike and trailer onto the sidewalk. I head the wrong direction from the start toward Mail Boxes, Etc. again. When I get there, I detach the trailer and start unloading everything right outside their door. I dump the self-stabilizing binoculars, the book on constellations, my winter jacket, my only pair of pants, protein powder, a heavy wrench, etc. etc. until 21.6 pounds are in a box ready to be shipped out.

I head back outside, rehook the trailer and head toward the bike shop to see if they have a hacksaw to cut the axle shorter. I'm doing better now, the weight loss helped. I ride the sidewalk slowly. Eventually, I cut back onto the main highway when the sidewalk gets too crowded. Fifteen feet from the bike shop, I feel the rear wheel go insane again and I put my feet down to keep from wiping out just as the back wheel locks up. I look back, no cars. I look down, the rear wheel and axle and trailer have all fallen off my bike frame. I drag it all across the street to the shop. After some deliberation, the guy decides to cut 1/4" off the axle for me. This whole time, it's been the axle being too long more than the weight. They can't fix my speedometer, though.

As I ride, I decide to get lunch at The Flying Monkeys Bar. I liked the name. I ordered mahi tacos and a banana shake drink of some sort. Eventually, I strike up a conversation with Pam and Mike, two really nice people. Pam buys me lunch as a "sponsor" and gives me the name of a whole foods store that I had to visit on Symonton St. for "corporate sponsorship." As I leave the bar on a perfect day, people start wishing me luck. A group of shirtless young guys who are hanging out with some girls start handing me money and wishing me luck. I'm floored. I didn't ever expect donations on the road. I thank them as sincerely as I could and look for the grocery store. I can't even find the street let alone the store so I head for the third time, back to the Southern Most Point in the continental US. As I near it, there's a crowd taking pictures. Eventually, it's my turn. I set the camera down on self-timer and race in with the bike and trailer. It snaps and I got the shot I needed. Then people start to wish me luck, they start taking my picture with their cameras. A couple of people are sad looking, perhaps they lost someone to breast cancer as I did. I hand a few of the "business cards" I had made and more and more people start asking for them. I smile and wave to everyone as I leave and say thank you. What a great feeling to have an impromptu send-off from perfect strangers. It's 3:11 p.m. on November 14, 2002.

People honk and wave and cheer now and then from cars as they pass me. A guy comes up on a scooter and starts talking. He's been all over the US and Peru by bike using the same kind of trailer. He tells me they can easily take 100 pounds. Mine weighs 40, maybe 50. I should've fixed the axle first and kept the jacket and pants and wrench. The speedometer is driving me nuts so I take a right down a quiet block, call Gregg's Greenlake Cycle back in Seattle and see if they can help. Still nothing...it could be the transmitter...but it's keeping time, just not showing speed which means that the transmitter is working in some matter. I give up, I get back on and start to ride. More people cheer from cars as they pass. I eventually find the sidewalk and make my way out of town along beautiful blue water and palm trees. The weather is perfect.

I pedal for quite some time, maybe an hour or so. My legs are killing me, my back aches, my neck is sore, my hands keep falling asleep. This is the price I pay for not training. Eventually, the sidewalk becomes a perfectly smooth bike trail with shrubs lining both sides so I'm all alone and can't even see the cars. I pull into Baby's Coffee and get some gatorade and clif bars. I start to feel better, I knock off another 10 miles which felt better than the first. Eventually, the sun sets. I pass some road kill. It's a giant green iguana, about five feet long, maybe six. It must've been someone's pet. I used to have a big one after college but this guy was enormous...and dead. About a mile later is a raccoon...then another...then a rooster...then a possum. I keep plugging along with my lights on after dark. I'm determined to get some miles out of this day.

My rear really begins to hurt, I feel like someone has been using a heavy duty file on my crotch. My neck is burning and cramped and my hands are dying. I turn on the iPod for the first time. Music makes the difference. If there is one piece of equipment that I can't recommend enough, it's this machine. It currently holds 1406 songs and after 10 hours of use, it only burns up 3/4 of the battery life which is an internal rechargeable battery. My pain disappears and my legs are new. I pedal on and on. At 41 miles, I pull over to a small park thinking about spending the night. Marathon, FL looks to be about two, maybe three miles away. I use the restroom and see a figure in the dark at a picnic table. He says hello, asks a few questions. I go over and sit down. His name is Phil. He weighs about 350 pounds, has a grey beard and long-ish hair. He has a yellow, one-speed bike with high handle bars like school kids in the 70's had. He has what appears to be a mini u-haul trailer covered in stickers behind it. The trailer and bike together weigh 400 pounds - whoa.

As we talk, he tells me that he's been traveling on his bike for 22 years, has been to all 50 states except Hawaii. He's been hit by cars three times and had one broken finger and a broken leg. He's also used a truck escape ramp to stop when his brakes went out while descending the Rockies in Colorado. He's on his way to Key West from South Dakota. I'm floored, embarassed and in general feel like a peon next to this nomad.

He starts to offer advice on routes, places to stop, wear loose clothes to prevent heat rash, Gatorade is your best friend, etc. etc. He goes into extreme details on the roads and bike paths up to Miami until my head is spinning from so many turns and highway numbers that I zone out. I can't really see his face as he talks because it's so dark, but he warns me not to go over the seven mile bridge tonight. (SEVEN miles???) It's covered with glass and I would surely get a flat. I decide that I have to go because I simply couldn't take much more of Phil's chatting and if I stayed, I'd feel rude to just go off on my own. He wishes me luck and I set off against the headwinds I'd been battling the last three hours. I pedal at about five miles an hour with bursts up to six miles an hour. I scan for glass as best I can, but actually only see two broken bottles in the seven miles. In fact, the entire length of US-1 from Florida City to Key West is litter free. It's eerie. Like I'm in a movie or strange dream where people don't exist since there is no litter. I don't get it but I love it. I could only wish the entire country was like this.

As I crest the bridge and head the last few miles into Marathon, I hear and feel a rear spoke break. Rats. I'm spent. I'm drained. The headwinds have killed me for the last 90 minutes but I end up beating my goal of 30 miles for the day by doing 48. I pull over at one of the first restaurants I see: "Porky's By The Bay." It's a totally cool little open-air place but I just missed the kitchen closing. The waitress brings me Key Lime pie "cheesecake" which is about the best thing I've ever tasted. I wash it down with coffee and water. I am spent and as I savor the coffee, I ponder if "Phil" really existed or if he was just an angel who appeared in the gloom of night to offer advice. The waitress kindly takes my photo with the kitsch of the ceiling behind me. She gives me a couple of motel recommendations and I'm off again. A bit further down the road, I find "The Sandpiper" which is exactly what I'm looking for. I stop at a "Tom Thumb" store next door first to get crackers, lunch meat, cereal and milk. The manager checks me in even though it's eleven. I haul everything upstairs after detaching trailer, etc. The room is totally quaint and complete with brightly colored fish and coral bedspreads and sheets in blue, purple, yellow and orange. I love it. I think about updating my journal, I think about fixing my broken spoke. I can't keep my eyes open. I pass out and figure I'll get up early. Day one is behind me and I'm 18 miles further than I had hoped.