I really do think there are some days when Terry just wants to kill me. This morning I’m really tired and my head just isn’t in it. I can’t imagine how I’m ever going to cycle the 70 miles we have planned for today. I can hardly walk to breakfast. My right knee is hurting and standing up and sitting down is problematic. I’m also faffing at Olympic level. I tried so hard to be more organised this time, but I seem to be getting worse by the day and slipping back into old ways.
We eat in the reception of the Super 8, which also doubles as the breakfast area and it’s pretty souless. There are two elderly women in there with us who say not a word, so we turn our attention to the TV, where the weather seems to have gone crazy – tornado hunters in Mississipi, deep snow in Boston. Meanwhile at home they are enjoying the warmest February since records began.
Something is obviously not right with the climate yet the U.S. doesn’t seem to care. Outside huge trucks and pick-ups the size of bungalows roar past on the dual carriageway of Main Street. With gas at $2 a gallon fuel is still cheap compared to the UK and there seems little incentive to worry about mpg and emissions. All of the southern States we’ll be cycling through from Florida to Texas voted for Trump, a president who has promised to tear up the U.S.’s commitment to the Paris Climate agreement.
Yet that attitude seems at such a disconnect with the extreme weather we had already witnessed on this journey – and on our previous ride along the TransAm from Virginia to Oregon. Hurricane Michael had been the first Category 5 hurricane to hit the U.S. since Hurricane Andrew in 1992 and the fourth strongest on record in terms of windspeed. More worryingly it was the first to reach the Florida Panhandle.
“Following each motel breakfast we’d built up a veritable mountain of rubbish from paper plates and styrofoam cups to plastic knives, forks, yoghurt pots, jam containers and plastic wrappings.”
Yet despite being surrounded by the devastating effects of extreme weather, most people seem content to put their hands over their eyes, sing the Star Spangled Banner and rely on their naturally optimistic outlook on life as well as the man in the red baseball cap to make it all ok. And if that means burning off fossil fuels like there’s no tomorrow then so be it. And if there was no tomorrow then who is going to be around to seek redress?
Mind you, we weren’t helping the situation. We may have been riding emission-free bikes (I won’t include the riders) but following each motel breakfast we’d built up a veritable mountain of rubbish from paper plates and styrofoam cups to plastic knives, forks, yoghurt pots, jam containers and plastic wrappings. “I reckon by the time we reach the Pacific we’ll have generated enough to fill a skip,” remarked Terry. It would be good to think that some of it would be recyled, but who were we kidding.
Outside a quick turn right for a few hundred yards would take us down to Interstate 10. If we headed west we’d hit New Orleans in a little over 300 miles. Except they don’t allow cycles on the Interstates, apart from exceptional circumstances. Besides which, if we wanted the delights of trucks and pick-ups blasting past just a few yards from our arses, then why not rely on the 90 instead and stretch out the fun over a few more miles?
So, with contraband cinnamon rolls and packs of porridge oats pilfered from the breakfast stuffed in our panniers, we headed out and turned north instead to join the old bastard 90. It was still sunny but the temperature had dropped overnight. Terry pointed out that it was almost cold enough to put on his long cycling trousers but he couldn’t be bothered to empty his panniers to find them.
About five miles down the road it warmed up. Terry was convinced something was wrong until he realised that we were no longer riding into a headwind, in fact as we turned onto the 90 we realised that the wind was finally on our backs – hurrah!
Rather oddly, although there is a cycle lane along both sides of the 90 – warranting it the rather dubious title on a national cycle route. But as soon as you enter the city limits of any town the safe lane promptly disappears leaving you feeling extremely vulnerable in two lanes of, sometimes, fast moving traffic. As we left Chipley we were on the inside lane of a dual carriageway, which was not ideal, but we bowled along chatting, well yelling, whenever the noise of the traffic allowed us to do so.
There was more faffing as I struggled to get comfortable on my my saddle. Terry kindly assisted by concluding that either my arse was too big or I needed something called a swan-necked stem to position it back further. It was rather depressing to think that having sat on my Brooks for more than 5,000 miles since I bought it, I was still not 100% convinced about it. Maybe the swan thing would help, or perhaps my arse would shrink by the time we reached California.
Once we hit the outskirts of town the traffic thinned out, no doubt sucked away by the interstate and so started a very enjoyable days cycling in gently undulating countryside.
Then it got better. After 20 miles we crossed the Chactawhatchee River and shortly after I spotted something on the distant bank of a swamp. We pulled up on the side of the concrete bridge, retrieved cameras and binoculars and saw our first ‘gator. We watched it watching us for several minutes before it slipped into the water, glided along for a while and then suddenly spun round as if had caught something and disappeared into the murk.
It’s amazing how much that brief sighting raised our spirits. Both Terry and I, for differing reasons, have found getting our heads round the Southern Tier particularly difficult. It’s probably a combination of several factors – the rather bland countryside, not meeting any other riders other than Ben and Thomas, and the continual dependence on the 90. So the alligator hit the spot at just the right time, unlike my front tyre, which, as we pulled away from the alligator swamp, was flat. It was the first puncture I’ve ever had on Schwalbe Marathon Plus tyres, but we think it was due to the valve rubbing against the inner tube that caused the weakness – fatigue rather than failure.
“But to cast off your bungee – poor thing they must be in really bad shape”!
Talking of fatigue, we’ve become convinced over the past few days that we are following a ST rider who is slowly losing the plot. First we found an unopened banana on the shoulder, then a small bungee (surely only cyclists use these?) then today some smashed cyclist’s sunglasses and a mobile phone. We imagined someone consumed by the enormity of the task combined with the wind, hills and traffic, slowly throwing away all their gear as they headed west. But to cast off your bungee – poor thing they must be in really bad shape!
Riding through De Funiak Springs and not having seen anywhere to eat all day, we decided to stop at the junction with 9th Street for a breakfast/bruch/lunch/high tea combo at the Corner Cafe. I opted for the hash browns, two eggs, easy over, sausage patties, toast and a mountain of pancakes soaked in maple syrup, while Terry had the pick of an enormous salad bar and eggs on toast. My cycling companion was in seventh heaven and filled his boots.
The staff were friendly and chatty and descirbed how they saw lots of cross country cyclists passing through from places as far apart as Canada and Germany. We instinctively looked around the other tables to see if we could spot them, but like the roads, they were no-where to be seen. But it was so pleasant we stayed sitting in the Corner until gone three.
To celebrate coming to the end of the first of our seven Adventure Cycling maps I thought it would be a good idea to do a quick circumnavigation of Lake DeFuniak before we returned to the 90, although Terry, understandably was rather less enthuasiastic about riding around yet more water.
The lake was encicled by some very imposing plantation-style buildings, the most impressive of which was a grand weather-boarded building with three porticos and a central dome with a walkway running around it.
Like so many towns, De Funiak Springs had grown up around the railway line (Frederick R De Funiak was vice president of the Louisville and Nashville Railroad) but De Funiak Springs was designed be be a holiday resort.
To that end the Chautauqua Hall of Brotherhood had been built in 1912, complete with an auditorium seating 4,000 people, as a place where holiday makers could listen to lectures on the latest thinking in politics, economics, literature, science and religion.
It didn’t quite prove to the Disneyland of its day (quelle surprise) and eight years later the Hall closed its doors. In 1972 it was listed on the National Register of Historic Places but Mother Nature was having none of that and three years later a hurricane left it with major damage. Since then there has been an on-going restoration programme. Fortunately it seemed Hurricane Michael hadn’t come along to spoil the party for a second time. In fact we’d seen a distinct lack of devastation all day.
Then followed a 15 mile dash along a flat 90 with the wind behind us. We were flying until Terry’s salad bit back and he suddenly had to make like a bear. After a further 15 miles we managed to get to Hilton Motel in Crestview before it was completely dark, although it didn’t stop a few motorists hooting at us for having the audacity to be using the road!
Dinner didn’t happen. Terry arrived drained and running on empty, while I’d eaten enough at the Corner Cafe to fuel a mission to the moon. By midnight his appetite had returned and he got the munchies, polishing off all our emergency food.
Usually coming to the end of our first map would leave us on a high, but this evening we were subdued. Terry was still thinking of home and now had a dodgy stomach to worry about. I was also feeling a little low. Today was Kate’s birthday and I’d phoned her in De Funiak. She’d had a good day but was finding being at home on her own quite difficult and said Harry, my grandson, was really missing me a lot. That’s the downside of a long distance ride – the effect it can have on your loved ones at home.
Today’s distance: 69.89 miles
Total distance since Anastasia State Park: 459.47
