We both seriously thought about giving up the Southern Tier today, and this evening we are wondering if we’d be better off stopping in New Orleans, flying north and then finishing our journey west on the TransAm instead. It’s all down to the 90, the wretched 90. It’s doing its best to ruin what should be a spectacular ride.
First thing this morning, as we’d donned fleeces and jackets for our second chilly morning in a row, everything had seemed so positive. We left the Hilton Motel on the outskirts of Crestview just after 7.30am and although we began jostling with the traffic on a four lane section of the 90, pretty soon it quietened down. After twelve miles we stopped in Holt, which was pleasant enough (although it bore no resemblance to the Georgian Norfolk town).
There we found Sherry’s Lunchbox Diner, the perfect place for an all-American breakfast, where we chatted with Clay, of Scottish/Irish descent, who had once lived in Bury St Edmunds in Suffolk and served at RAF Mildenhall as a pilot in the 1970s. While there he’d flown transport airliners and on returning to the US had transferred to C130 gunships, participating in Operation Desert Storm.
“Today the Old Spanish Trail has morphed into the 90, which for cyclists is more of a Spanish Trial, than Trail”.
He’d also studied history and told us the 90, Interstate 10 and the railway were all following the route of the Spanish Trail, which was originally laid down by migratory animals and had once led Spanish conquistadors shipwrecked on the Florida coast, all the way to Mexico. There is some dispute about whether the Spaniards ever made the journey (personally I’d have stayed in Disneyland rather than spend months wading through swamp) but a transcontinental tourist road linking St Augustine and San Diego was constructed in the 1920s to help promote the tourism.
I’d imagine it must have been quite a journey by car a century ago, but today the Old Spanish Trail has morphed into the 90, which for cyclists is more of a Spanish Trial, than Trail.
Just after Holt we headed off the 90 down Cooper Lane and suddenly we were on the kind of roads we’d hoped to have been cycling from the start. Rural and quiet, with only the birds and butterflies for company, there was not a truck in sight. It was a sheer joy! We rode through open woodland and peered into the muddy waters of the Blackwater River and the Big Coldwater Creek, kept cool in the shadows of the conifers and took photos of wildflowers.
“This is it! The start of the route proper!” remarked Terry with excitement. “It’s about 500 miles late, but let’s not quibble.”
The sun shone and our spirits soared like the buzzards flying above us. A few miles before we reached Milton we joined the Blackwater Trail, another old railway route which once shipped fuel to a nearby US naval base.
Now, thanks to a government initiative, the old line has been converted into a 10 mile traffic free route for cyclists, which, according to the volunteers at the visitor centre we popped into, is well used and hosts a bike festival once a year.
But just when our minds were bursting with bucolic thoughts and memories of cycling quiet country lanes back home, we were unceremoniously dumped back onto the 90. Four lanes of traffic roared by with trees replaced by advertising signs selling everything from Arby’s to the Waffle House, the Dollar Store to Burger King.
” “There must be other roads that go across Florida?” Terry shouted at me, but I could barely hear him above the traffic.”
After such tranquility it was a real shock to the system, but we shouldn’t have been surprised. So much of our ride through Florida has been alongside an endless strip of retail, weaving through the detritus and road kill which seems to get blasted into the bike lane. It makes relaxed riding virtually impossible. What’s worse is that we were being gradually deafened.
“There must be other roads that go across Florida?” Terry shouted at me, but I could barely hear him above the traffic. Although we had our own shoulder to ride on we felt like we were coming under constant gunfire – not from firearms – but from the noise of trucks and cars rat a tat tatting over deep gouges cut into the tarmac along the centre line and on the border with the cyclist’s shoulder. Forget lane assist software and on-board cameras – the rumble strips are a great low tech way of alerting motorists they are wandering.
And virtually every vehicle crossed the centre line. American drivers on the whole are far more courteous than those in the UK and usually insist on giving us acres of space, which meant rolling over the centre strip and machine gunning us with noise each time they passed. Add in the general noise of the huge trucks and lorries, it made cycling a less than pleasant experience.
By the time we reached the section leading into Pensacola and rather ironically called the Scenic Highway (much of the view was blocked by trees and besides which you were so terrified of wandering out of the narrow bike lane into the thundering traffic you couldn’t look anyway) the traffic had got busier than ever.
The other big concern on the 90 was at junctions. Whenever there was a turning off to the right, the cycle lane continued (highlighted by a narrow painted strip) across the turn-off. So you have no choice but to pedal like fury (not easy with a pannier-laden bike) while frantically glancing over your left shoulder and praying that someone hasn’t left their exit late and side-swipes you off the road.
“A large road going east-west with the occasional bike sign on it does not constitute a bike route that should be promoted“.
At one point it started raining and, retrieving our jackets, Terry and I began a robust criticism of a route deemed to be part of the US cycle network. Terry, who is probably the world’s most confident cyclist, described sections of it as downright dangerous, and we both felt it should not be part of an Adventure Cycling Association route.
“A large road going east-west with a white line with the occasional bike sign on it does not consitute a bike route that should be promoted,” said Terry. “It’s frankly dangerous, I would actively disuade anyone from doing the Southern Tier so far.” To make it worse, everytime you got to a pinch point in the road, like a bridge, the bike lane disappeared.
Curiously the association’s own guided tour, planned for the autumn, takes a lower route along the Florida coast through Panama City. I had phoned the ACA a few days earlier to see if they could send me maps on this alternative, but they were not available. Besides which Panama City had received a direct hit from Hurricane Michael and it was still not clear whether all the roads were passable.
We pulled into Pensacola disheartened with the whole trip, even more so since all our attempts to contact the First United Methodist Church of Pensacola where we hoped to stay, had failed. Getting into the city we got off the 90 as soon as possible and ducked onto some quiet pleasant residential back roads which took us to the church. We’d decided it was best just to turn up and hope for the best.
Finding the building open we soon realised why our calls had not been answered. The church’s Director of Communications, Jeb Hunt, had decided to open up the building to visiting cyclists after riding the TransAm and receiving amazing hospitality along the route. Trouble was he was currently in New Zealand.
Bud Mitchell, the Director of Buildings and Grounds (they have nine buildings in all – including the youth club where we could stay) showed us around and gave us a run down in the history of the church. Coming to the city 12 years ago from Poplarville, he loved the place and said we’d be very welcome to stay for several days if needs be.
He warned us not to give money to beggars (known as panhandlers in the US) as he said the church provided food for them several times a week, but other than that described the area as pretty safe. We recalled this later that evening, when on our way back from shopping at Wallgreens, we heard what we thought were fireworks coming from the next block only to see numerous police cars, their lights flashing in the dark and sealing off several streets. We concluded it could only have been gunfire so we kept our heads down and pedalled back to church pronto. Salvation!
We spent the evening in the youth club’s Motor City themed diner and rounded off the day with microwaved Mac ’n’ Cheese followed by tinned mandarin segments. We then spent the evening planning the next four days, looking at routes, getting our camping sorted, booked and paid and by the end of it we felt right pleased with ourselves. It was going to happen. “New Orleans, here we come!” said Terry before we crashed onto the sofas and slept.
Today’s Mileage: 60.67miles
Total miles since Anastasia State Park: 520.14
