Day Thirty Five: Drop 70 in the Heat
Distance: 73 mi.
Song of the Day: Elliot Smith — Say Yes
7:30: Over coffee gossip learn we’re the first Warm Showers travelers Martha and Vince are hosting this season; they recently sunk hunk of life savings into a 112 year-old house in Carrabelle, frequenting the one-time mayor’s estate for refurnishing work sets them aside from the major southern bike routes. Saving the estate from demolition (the town was grateful they bought it) has. Brought them into favor with the outlandish characters who inhabit the centuries-old Spanish expedition town, including a neighborhood man (Tom?) who built his entire house from glass wine bottles, as well as a few twisting spires and obelisks visitors gawk over.
Vince recounts a story imparted by Martha’s brothers, one named Jim. They met on the west coast and traveled to an abandoned gold mine town, entered the mine with no gear except flashlights. Twenty minutes into the mine Jim said to brother, “turn your light off for a minute.” Jim then turned his off as well, says “This is what it would be like if our flashlights died.” After a silent moment the horror of perpetual darkness sank in and both brothers wisen up and hastily scramble up and out of the mine. I’ve never known true darkness like that.
Lizzie chats with Martha about her observations as an education data analyst. Martha attests to feeling harrowed at regular points throughout her career as important findings about masses of data are either left unanalyzed, denied by ideologues, or simply ignored, leaving in place a system of institutionalized racism where success for certain demographics of the US population are all but ruled out in advance. I chat with Vince about Bernie Sanders’ loss in the primaries and the flagrant violations of public trust committed by the democratic party; we find a shared optimism in opportunities for new political alternatives to emerge.
9AM hits and Vince needs to go defend the coastlines (just let me glamorize it) and we also depart, head west on Orange Rd to outflank bustling downtown Tallahassee. We soon reconnect with the Southern Tier route 90 and continue the westward voyage.
. . .
We climb and dive for thirty miles over the bumpy Florida panhandle — the rumors are true, this part of FL is simply not flat. The final act before lunch brings us into Chattahochee’s well elevated industrial main strip. It’s a run down little town but we stop at Rutabega Cafe which is easily one of the three best meals we’ve had on our adventure.
Plunked on our backs on an abandoned picnic table, digesting, I spot a hawk dancing under the clouds — a mere speck — the highest flying creature I have ever seen. I ask Lizzie, how high is that thing? I guess 700 feet; Lizzie guesses 20,000. Guesses like these that make us sorry teammates in Nate Stone’s famous trivia nights…
And on to cross the line into Central Time!
4PM: 50 miles down and midway thru the afternoon push to hit 70, I hear a loud HISS FWOOSH HISS FWOOSH behind me; could be a blown tire, I pull over to investigate. Inspection finds my rear Pasela touring tire with a sizable perpendicular crack, worn threadbare so as to expose the inner tube directly to pavement. Not good, but the cut on my tube is small and easy to patch, I conclude I can make it another hundred miles or two before scrapping the tire. I apply an extra patch directly to the tire as a second precaution and hunch over to pump the tire ~170 times to inflate it.
The half hour break in the hot sun is frustrating, we cramp easily. Reinserting my wheel I notice how gummed up my drivetrain is — these bikes are screaming out for a thorough scrubbing and servicing, but we simply don’t have the tools to do it on the roadside, it’ll have to wait until we’re in a less rural area.
Irritated by the heat and leg pain I lose my cool a few miles down the road. An idiot U-turns and drives the wrong way on the highway, too lazy to check her mailbox by foot, you know, without endangering anybody. Her two obnoxious dogs lunge out and chase us, yelping; sits just with froggy arm digging in the mailbox, chuckles insouciantly, does nothing. This is no laughing matter; cars are whizzing by as the dogs dart on the shoulder, I narrowly dodge bite attempts and stop repeatedly to yell Go Home at the dogs. I finally clear their dogs and glance up to see a looming confederate flag flown above their lawn, tattered for effect — as if these people had ever fought for anything in their lives besides bigotry and closed mindedness. I aggressively and pointedly flip off the flag and pedal on. A few miles down the road I realize I may have violated the spirit of non-violent communications…I’m not certain what Rosenberg says about aggressivity towards flags.
7PM: Coast into the Executive Inn, which is neither executive nor much of an ‘inn’ but the attendant is kind and we don’t pay much for the room.
I’m proud of Lizzie for hammering out another 70 mile day, this one coming in a nonchalant and mostly pleasant way. Thirty-five days ago a twenty mile ride was still an ordeal for her; now she’s often crawling up my rear if I get lazy or lost in thought and forget to pedal strenuously. Go Lizzie Go!
We hash out our upcoming route over a 1,500 calorie Mexican meal, again visiting the only available eatery in town, and again fully satiated by the meal. It’s Thursday and we’re 140 miles from Pensacola, a roseate destination with beaches, nightlife, and a few candidate Warm Showers hosts we might befriend.
Back at the hotel we phone Emma Rebhorn to see about meeting up in New Orleans. It’s remarkable to hear her voice — as it was when talking with Danny a few nights ago — reminds us that hearing from close friends is important, even more important than immediately thwapping onto motel mattresses to sleep. We put in stake in the ground for meeting in New Orleans on May 28 and punt all follow-on details until a later day.
