I’m beginning to think long distance cycling touring must be a bit like childbirth – it’s very easy to forget all the pain and agony until you find yourself back in the same situation again. Over the last five years we’ve obviously remembered all the good bits of the TransAm and forgotten there are some days which were just hard work, drudgery and getting from A to B as quickly as possible.
Today was one of those days. We cycled out of the Spirit of the Suwannee Music Park just after eight with Elvis’ greatest hits still ringing in our ears, and leaving our two useless bottles of gas outside the camp store, turned right down to Live Oak and then right again onto a two-way road, the US 90. Since its designation in November 2014, the hard shoulder of this road also doubles as U.S. Bicycle Route 90, an East-West cycle route with a Florida section which totals 424 miles.
It started reasonably enough on a single carriageway with a fair size shoulder and an assortment of conifer and Live Oak trees providing greenery on each side. The railway shadowed us to our right before it eventually got bored with the monotony and cut across the highway to see if the terrain was more interesting on that side. It wasn’t.
About ten miles out of Live Oak we passed a Southern Tier rider heading east and slowed to say ‘hello’ but it was clear he had no intention of stopping. His pedal stroke missed not a beat and when we shouted across to ask where he’d come from his only words were ‘San Diego’ and then he was gone with barely a glance in our direction. You don’t expect people to stop, but his abruptness was suprising compared to the TransAm when just about everyone wanted to stop, chat and give tips on the road ahead. Had the Southern Tier taken his soul?
At Lee we got all excited as it looked like we were finally going to leave the boredom of the hard shoulder and strike out on little country lanes instead. So taking a slip road to our right we crossed the Suwannee River on a long abandoned iron girder bridge and hoping we’d said goodbye to the concrete and traffic of the 90. Sadly it was not to be. Shortly after crossing the bridge the road curved and we were back on the 90. More than 400 miles of this tedium was not something we were looking forward to.
It was also very hot. Despite it being winter in Florida, the state appeared to be enjoying a heatwave with temperatures reaching the mid 80s. So shortly after crossing the Suwannee we stopped in Lee (motto ‘Little but Proud’ ) for home-made lemonades at Archie’s which cost us just a dollar each and were a welcome relief after the heat. As we left another dog took up chase, but again it was all bravado with no staying power.
“The fact that this was being promoted as a cross-state cycle route was just nuts. Surely Florida had more to offer?“
And then it was back on the 90. The truth is that some days riding is just dull and this was one of them, cycling on a hard shoulder for mile after mile alongside endless conifer plantations with only the stink of passing chicken lorries for company. At one point I stopped to take a picture of a peanut processing plant only because it was the most interesting thing we’d seen. The fact that this was being promoted as a cross-state cycle route was just nuts. Surely Florida had more to offer?
There was a flurry of excitement two miles before Madison where we spotted a flock of Black Vultures fighting over a ripe deer carcass by the side of the road. It was like something out of Africa. After taking photos we tried to inch past on our bikes but the birds took off, waiting high in the breaches of a nearby tree until we had passed.
We picked up some pasta salads at a supermarket on the outskirts of Madison, popped into McDonalds for coffee and wifi, where I managed a quick call home with Kate, Ellie and Harry. As well as spectacular scenery a decent wifi signal has also been in very scant supply so far. Cycling into town we found a very pleasant park which we quickly defiled by turning it into a laundry by using the park benches to dry out our damp lycra.
There was probably some local bylaw banning hanging up disgusting cycling shorts in the park, but luckily Terry had just put his pink knickers away which would certainly have attracted unwanted attention down south.
Greenville’s claim to fame is as the childhood home of rhythm and blues legend Ray Charles and there in the park, just beside the 90, was a life size bronze statue of the great man, sat on a piano stool, one leg raised in the air, head tilted back and playing a keyboard resting on his knee. The likeness, right down to the dark sunglasses, was unmistakeable.
Nearby a plaque told how he’d grown up poor in a house with no electricity or indoor plumbing and learned to play piano at the nearby Red Wing Cafe. When he was seven his sight failed and he was sent to The School for Deaf and Blind in St. Augustine where he learned braille, returning to Greenville during the holidays.
When he was 15 his mother died and Ray found himself on his own so began travelling and exhbiting his musical talents. Over the years he returned to his hometown from time to time, referring to it affectionately as ‘Greensville’.
“Cheap entertainment – you can watch the bed bugs fight over their food”.
Continuing on the never ending 90 (we were on the same road all day) we rode into Monticello, an attractive old town with some grand houses and historic buildings. We had hoped to stay with a warm showers host tonight, but we’d given very short notice and although a local BnB looked appealing, it was far too expensive which left only one choice – the Brahman Motel on the edge of town.
The tripadvisor write up was not encouraging: “Worst ace (sic) I’ve ever stayed, dirty and unsafe, I felt safer in Afghanistan. Seriously avoid this place like the plague.” It was rated as one star.
A Facebook post was not much better: “cheap entertainment – you can watch the bed bugs fight over their food”. Normally if a hotel had a trip advisor review comparing it to a war zone we’d give it a very wide berth, but we were all out of ideas and surely it couldn’t be that bad. Could it?
The hotel sign had obviously once read ‘WE ARE OPEN’ but now just read ‘ O E’. A line of pick up trucks were parked outside. Finding the reception ‘booth’ abandoned we picked up a key from a nearby gas station and for $40 got the last remaining room in one of the dodgiest motels either of us had ever stayed in. We suspected ours was the only room that was rented out as the rest all seemed to be in permanent occupation by families who had fallen on hard times and probably didn’t want to be there anymore than we did.
On the second floor, where we were staying, most people were sitting outside their small rooms on chairs. A family with two small children (who were fascinated with the bikes) and a inquisitive pup seemed to be living in the room to the left of ours. It was marginally bigger as two of the rooms appeared to have been knocked through into one. Along the balcony groups of young lads were cutting each other’s hair with razors and offered to do ours for $10 each, which we politely declined.
To say we were completely out of place was an understatement, but everyone seemed friendly enough, if a little bemused at the two cycling Brits. So we made sure we chatted to everyone who probably assumed we were two hapless idiots abroad. It wasn’t far from the truth. We were a bit weird, foul smelling and with posh accents, but I guess they realised we were basically harmless. “Nice dog,” I said to the dad. “What breed is it?”
“Pit Bull,” he replied. Of course it was.
We carried our panniers up the side stairs to our room, opened the door and were hit with the smell of stale smoke so intense we had to take a deep breath before daring to enter. Inside, the fug of day’s old tobacco had permeated everything from the bare white tiled walls to the rather uncomfortable looking bed. As the haze cleared we made out a wood laminate floor, a TV, fridge and microwave. It wasn’t palatial, or in any way comfortable, but it was reasonably clean and I’m sure there are far worse places in Afghanistan, although I doubt any are quite so smokey.
We decided to get washed as quickly as possible and head out for something to eat before we both developed lung cancer. There was no shower head, so we made do with a pipe sticking out of the wall and then undid any of the good work the water had done by rubbing ourselves dry with nicotine soaked towels which was like drying off with essence of Malboro. Suitably adorned with tincture of tobacco, we locked up and headed into town on our bikes, unsure if any of our belongings would be there when we got back.
On our ride through town an hour or so earlier we’d checked out a few of the local restaurants. The tricky thing was finding somewhere suitable for Terry, a lifelong vegetarian to eat. To be clear Terry is in no way precious or evangelical and has been known to eat a burger bun just filled with lettuce rather than cause a fuss, but I always felt happier knowing he was getting a good meal. Besides which eating veggie isn’t a bad move on the bike.
Of the ones we’d visisted we settled on the Brick House, where three delightful young women fawned over us like we were celebrities. They seemed to take it in turns just to listen to us speak. “Why are you in Monticello?” one asked in amazement, not understanding why anyone would choose to visit their town.
As we tucked into our salads (more blackened shrimp for me) one of the women, who I’d seen earlier, revealed that she’d really been hoping we would come back so they could talk to us. It seemed we were from another world.
We whizzed back to the Brahman to find even more people sitting outside the room next door, drinking, chatting and holding back the curious pit bull. Once again they were all perfectly pleasant.
Even so. we doubled locked the door and placed my bike against it from the inside. Despite quite a lot of noise outside and a few people colliding with our door during the night, everything was fine. Besides which all hell could have broken out outside, but we’d never have heard it over the noise of the air con which we had on full blast in a desperate effort to pummel the nicotine-laced air into the walls.
Total miles: 64.67
Total miles since Anastasia State Park: 261.65 miles
