breakfast conversation, shade tobacco, the trooper, l'il bro, akira endures, my first alligator sighting, damn fine water

November 12, 2008

Day Fifty Two

"I fought the law, and the law won."
- Sonny Curtis -

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This morning at the breakfast table I met the only other person staying at the inn, Jennifer, an intense, disheveled fortyish-year old with black holes for eyes that rebelled against having to see the world after so little sleep, and in such harsh morning light. It was clear she'd had a rough night, and when I glanced over at the decanter of cognac, nearly empty now, I remembered that it had been more than half full yesterday when Stuart told me to help myself.

Over the course of the next hour I learned that she was raised in Quincy, but hasn't lived here in the twenty years since her graduation. Her best friend's father died and she drove in from Reston, Virginia, four days ago. Her perception of her hometown is that it hasn't changed since she left back in the 1980s, nor even in the last 200 years.

That opinion was reinforced at the funeral when she heard a racist joke, which to her was about as funny as finding out on your honeymoon that your spouse has herpes. She said she "stared lasers at the guy" and, truth be told, I'd hate to have been in the destructive path of that gaze.

This was just days after the 2008 presidential election, and I'd been hearing expert political opinions at almost every stop since this trip began, most of them beginning with "I ain't prejudiced or anything, but...." Everyone had been speaking their mind and, similarly, within the first sixty seconds of meeting her, Jennifer's mouthgate opened, letting me know she voted for Obama. Stuart overheard her as he was entering the room and promptly offered up the challenge that he didn't vote for Obama, then gave the reasons why. Interestingly, it wasn't a matter of who he was voting for, it was who he was voting against. As you can imagine, the conversation died rapidly, impaled through the heart, and there was an awkward silence for several minutes.

As a person who loves to sit quietly in the corner and observe human behavior, I wondered... has anyone in the history of the world ever met a stranger, given them an opinion about a candidate (or any political issue), and changed their mind? Or does the comment reflect more about the person who shares the opinion and their need to convince others of their correctness, regardless of the potential that the comments will just alienate them?

Sitting around the table, silverware and cups tinkling as everyone gazed studiously at their breakfast and chewed each bite longer than any gastroenterologist has ever recommended, I finally broke the silence with a question about today's weather.

Note the level of the cognac in the decanter. It was more than half full yesterday.

The conversation shifted and, while not exactly coming back from the dead in a spectacular Lazarus-like fashion, it did take some lumbering zombie-like steps toward normality.

That was when I learned that this area had a lot of money until the 1970s. It thrived during the tobacco industry's heyday by growing "shade tobacco." A farmer growing shade tobacco covers the field with cheesecloth so the plants grow in a diffuse light. This prevents the leaves from developing veins, which are then be used for wrapping cigars.

I can understand the appeal. After all, some people would prefer the phallic-shaped object they're putting in their mouths be vein-free, and I suspect that minor aesthetic tweak would contribute to a boost in sales. This, in spite of the quote which is frequently misattributed to Freud, that, "Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar."

I left Quincy about 9:00 and took Highway 90 instead of the ACA route, trimming yet another two or three miles off the total to Jacksonville. There wasn't a shoulder for the first four or five miles, but it was a divided four lane highway with few cars and respectful drivers.

At Midway I got on Interstate-10. I only needed to be on it for about 6-8 miles until it crossed Highway 90 again. I didn't really want to ride on the interstate, but I thought traveling through Tallahassee on 90 would be worse. I-10 at least has a wide shoulder. In some places bicyclists aren't allowed on the interstate, so I checked carefully before entering... there was no “No Bicycles” sign. Once on it, I rode hard. I wanted to get off the interstate as soon as possible.

Apparently, the Florida State Police wanted me off even sooner than that.

Near the four-mile mark, a young, clean-cut state trooper pulled over about a hundred yards in front of me, got out, and stood behind his car waiting for me to roll up. His posture was very erect, rigid and unmoving, his legs spread slightly wider than his shoulders. His hands were clasped in front of him, one on top of the other just below his waist, as if the first thing he expected me to do was kick him in the groin.

No mirrored sunglasses... that was a good sign. Maybe I wouldn't be thrown in the slammer with Bubba after all.

I briefly considered taking a picture but didn't want to reach into my handlebar bag while I'm heading straight for a guy with a gun. No sudden movements, and keeping my hands where he could see them seemed the best option.

He looked like he was in his early twenties, with short reddish-blonde hair and only a hint of a Southern accent. When he told me I wasn't allowed on the interstate it sounded like he was reciting a textbook he had memorized. Using no contractions, he stated,

"This is a limited access byway. Pedestrians and pedicycles (he actually used that word) are prohibited. You will need to take the next exit, after which you may take any road." He added,

"We have received several calls about you."

Probably the same people who saw me running toward the railroad tracks in Texas and called the Border Patrol.

Before leaving he thanked me, and called me "Sir."

I took the next exit and pulled over at the first convenience store I came to, then got out my new computer to look at a map of Tallahassee. (I could've simply gone inside to look at a map, but I used the computer because I COULD) Scrutinizing the map, I saw that there were no roads parallel to I-10. All of the roads leave the downtown area like spokes on a wagon wheel. The only way I'll be able to get to Highway 90 now is if I ride almost all the way downtown, then back out.

So, I’ll ride downtown.

As I was getting ready to leave a guy walked out of the convenience store, lit a cigarette, and asked where I started. He could’ve been anywhere from thirty to fifty, the miles showing on his weathered, lined face. After a deep drag on the cigarette he told me in a tight, strained voice, whether from smoking or a throat injury, that he was trying to get to Fort Myers.

“I got a buddy there, might have a job for me.”

Nodding toward the rolled-up blanket near the door, he laughed and pointed out that he was traveling even lighter than me, then explained how that came to be.

"I was in the park the other day, sleeping, and when I woke up, someone had taken all my shit. I had a tent and clothes and about 280 bucks."

“Man, that really sucks,” I commiserated.

"Yeah, I had about five bucks left after that, so I used it to get drunk. I was pretty wasted when they rolled me in the park."

I kept waiting for him to ask me for some money but he never did. At the end of our conversation he just gave me a friendly nod, then casually strolled away like he didn't have a care in the world.

"Take care, L'il Bro."

"You, too," I called out after him, and meant it.

Thirty seconds later I watched him get into the passenger seat of a small truck and head north.

When I got back on the bike and started pedaling south down Monroe toward downtown I realized how much safer it was on I-10. Monroe was a death sentence waiting to be carried out, a perilous road with no shoulder and huge trucks squeezing past me every ten seconds. There was a lot more traffic on Monroe than there was on the interstate.

This is one of the better sections of the road - one where I at least felt safe enough to pull over and snap a picture

I negotiated my way to 90 and turned east. It was about lunch time so I pulled in to a random breakfast/lunch place. It wasn't until after I stopped that I noticed another touring bike leaning against the side of the building. Here??? That's really coincidental. I'm not on the ACA route so there shouldn't be any tourers in this section of town. More importantly, what kind of idiot would be riding on this road?

I went in and sat down next to a young Asian guy. His English was very halting, and he flipped through a well-thumbed Japanese-English dictionary before each sentence. Even basic words were difficult, and communication was slow. Even so, using short sentences and basic vocabulary, accompanied by the use of a lot of hand gestures, we managed to have a pleasant conversation over the next hour.

His name is Akira Matsuoka. He's 22 years old and will be graduating from college in April 2009 with a degree in International Politics (I think). He already has a job lined up with an oil company and will be working in either Singapore or Houston (not a translation issue, he just didn't know yet). He noted that in Japan most people who finish college don't work in their fields of study. (Or at least I'm pretty sure that's what he said, although not in those words) He flew into Jacksonville four days ago and plans to bicycle to San Diego.

I wondered how in the world he was going to make it all the way across the country not being able to speak or understand English very well.

Then I learned that he's doing it without the benefit of the ACA maps. He'd never even heard of the Adventure Cycling Association... he just bought a map of the Southeastern United States and was working his way across. To be clear, he didn't buy a Florida map, it was the Southeastern USA, which only included the major thoroughfares. That was why he was on this congested road. At that point I really wondered how he was going to make it without speaking the language, and with a poor set of maps.

Then I learned that he doesn't have a tent, and has been sleeping outside. OH MY GOD!! When I asked him how he manages to do that, he said,

"I endure."

Okay, Klaus, this guy is making us look like 9-year-old children. Soft.

Our waiter, Marcus, bought our lunch today. He said that since we're biking all the way across the country, it's the least he can do. Erin, also pictured, was our waitress.

Interestingly, Akira met Joe and Robin a few days ago. Small world.

I gave him six of my seven ACA maps, keeping the one I'm using now. I won't be needing them, and I know he could sure use them.

Eventually, it was time to get back on the road. I thought of his inability to speak English, the mountains we had crossed which were cold then and will by now have snow on them, his lack of gear... I hated leaving and felt like I was abandoning him to his fate. The guy doesn't know ANYthing.

Then I was reminded of someone I know who took a trip in 1982, also at the age of 22. It was his first trip, too, and he knew nothing about touring. Young and dumb, he bumbled through a spectacular summer, and the ride changed his life.

We said our goodbyes and I asked him to email me when he got a chance.

Note the handlebars. Also, I'm assuming the position of the lock is how he stored it, and not for security.

I saw my first alligator today. It was about a foot long and about five inches wide. Unfortunately, it was only about the height of three sheets of typing paper, and had tire marks on its back.

Although better than Monroe, Highway 90 wasn't a great place to ride. No shoulders and too many cars.

although it improved significantly the farther I rode

this isn't a view blocker, it IS the view.... magnificent

I got back on the ACA route in Monticello. Adventure Cycling has done a lot of research on these routes. When I get off the route, it's almost always a bad road... no shoulder, lots of traffic, etc. I'd prefer to remain on the route like I did for the first part of the trip, meandering from town to town, but time constraints are forcing me to take some shortcuts. Back on the route, I had everything but a tailwind. Maybe I should write to ACA and complain about that.

Below is a picture of a house which has been overgrown with kudzu, a "pest weed." Kudzu was brought into the US from Japan. The Soil Conservation Service encouraged farmers to plant it in order to help prevent erosion. Climate conditions are perfect for it in the South and, since it has no natural predators, it began growing rampantly. Lost cropland and controlling the growth now costs about 500 million dollars annually.

there's a house underneath the overgrowth

uhhh, I don't know... I just took the picture

As I was riding into Greenville (pop. 843), my stop for the night, a guy started chasing me and yelling for me to stop. He had been standing in a crowd with four or five other guys on the other side of the street. The one trotting towards me was an African American guy of about twenty, and his pants were hanging so low that apparently the only way he could keep them up was by holding them up by the crotch.

He asked me where I started, where I was going, then asked for some water from my water bottle. After taking a drink he announced,

"HoooWHEEE! That's DAMN fine water."

I got the bottle back, took a drink, nodded, and solemnly agreed. He asked for another drink, after which he held the bottle up and carefully inspected it, then repeated his comment on the fine quality of the beverage. Again, I concurred. The conversation was going swimmingly, and I considered branching off into the weather. Then he asked me for money. When I said no, our stimulating intellectual interaction abruptly ended and he ran back across the street, still holding his crotch.

Two blocks later I pulled my bicycle onto the porch of the only place to stay in Greenville, the Grace Manor Inn, a Bed & Breakfast. Thirty seconds later the skies opened up in diluvial proportions.

In other parts of the country, when there's a twenty percent chance of rain it means that, given the current weather conditions, it's rained two times in the last ten. I'm starting to believe that in Florida, a twenty chance of rain means it's going to rain twenty percent of the day.

I don't know if it’s because people feel sorry for the tragic gentleman who can't afford to take a real vacation and has to use his bike for transportation, or if it's just the off season, but I've been getting discounted rates at almost every place I've stayed.

At the Inn, I was pleasantly surprised to find Hewes, Susan, and Paul. Yesterday was a short day for them, having pedaled from Quincy to Tallahassee. They followed the ACA route today, taking them a roundabout sixty miles to get here.

We had a nice supper together, cooked by our host, Brenda Graham.

Brenda is originally from Kentucky. She got tired of corporate life and decided to "retire" to South Carolina or Florida. After doing some online research, she found this place. When she drove down and saw it, she immediately fell in love with it. She and her husband bought it four years ago and were all set to live happily ever after.

Two years after they bought it, her husband died.

Since then, she's been running it on her own... the repairs, the billing, the cooking, the whiny visitors. It's been a lot of work, an enormous amount for one person, but so far she still loves it. She likes the pace of living in a small town, and the townspeople have adopted her.

I'll be riding with Hewes, Susan, and Paul tomorrow so I went to bed early knowing they'll want to get an early start.

I drifted off wondering where Akira was sleeping tonight.

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distance: 67 miles
average speed: 13.3 mph
maximum speed: 29.7 mph
time on bike: 4:58:57
cumulative: 2600 miles

Today's ride: 67 miles (108 km)
Total: 2,596 miles (4,178 km)

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