I Was Jiggin Hip Dom Jagga Wam

January 21, 2016

We start the morning on foot. It's a mile of walking to reach the UPS Store where we shipped our bikes a couple of weeks ago. It's cold but clear and it's obvious that once the sun gets cranking for real it's going to be a perfect day for riding bicycles.

We spend more than an hour huddled alongside a wall in the shade near the sliding doors of a Publix grocery store. Putting the bikes themselves back together takes no more than fifteen minutes of work. My fingers turn black from the mixture of fresh grease and dirt that's been on the frame since somewhere in Western Australia but it's no big deal. It's the other stuff that gets us. It's bolting on racks that act like they're alive and trying on purpose to fall to the ground with an awful crash. It's installing fenders that seem to exist not in three dimensions like other objects in this universe but four, which is the only reason I can think of to explain how I can install them straight and true and yet they still rub on one side of the tire. And it's the worst of all possible bicycle maintenance tasks: trying to align my cantilever brakes. I don't apologize to passing shoppers for my language but I should.

Doing all of these things at the same time sends me closer and closer toward an aneurysm, but I manage. We both do. Somehow there's always a way.

The bike business takes longer than I expected, even though by this point I should know that it always takes longer than expected. It leaves us rushing back to the hotel to pack up by the 11 a.m. checkout and throw everything on the bikes. But we make it, and then we're off – for half a block. We stop along the beach and then stand there looking out at the endless expanse of the Atlantic Ocean with expressions best described as, Well, um, there it is. It's a good reminder how there aren't many things in life more anticlimactic than the start of a long bicycle ride. You haven't done anything yet; you're just standing there, all potential, wearing clothes that make people walking by think, "Oh that's a strange-lookin' fella." And so it is today. There's no marching band, no banners, no grand sendoff. It's just a few dogs running free with tails wagging in complete joy and an old man in an orange Atlantic City New Jersey shirt walking along the beach in measured steps with a metal detector waving in front of him, divining for riches in the form of lost jewelry.

We take a few pictures, give the ocean one last look, and then we're off – for all of one mile. Then we park out in front of the same grocery store from earlier in the morning, stock up on food, eat crackers and cheese with this weird giddiness, and lacquer any exposed skin with sunscreen.

But then – then! – we're off and riding for real. Fernandina Beach goes from strip malls to subdivisions. We ride below long lines of scrub pines and beside rows of saw palmettos that flank the road like spectators for the opening stage of our strange Tour de America. But soon we hit Highway A1A, an angry beast of a road. It's crowded and noisy and moving fast. It's lined with chain fast food restaurants and twenty-four-hour gyms and self-storage units, most of which weren't here when I rode along this same stretch five years ago. It's the kind of road we spend so much time trying to route around. But there's one way off Amelia Island if you're going north and this is it.

Ten miles from the Atlantic we stop at the first of at least a hundred gas stations we'll loiter in front of before this trip is over. I talk to a guy sitting in the passenger seat of a parked car who motions me over to ask what we're doing. He whoops with amazement when I tell him where we're going. He tells me that he owns the carwash down the road and sees people on bikes like ours going by all the time. He smiles big smiles that show a top row of teeth all plated in gold. Later, an older man walks past and turns to Kristen.

"I was jiggin hip dom jagga wam," he says. "And I seen youse obba dan op heah and I hibbity bam!"

Then he laughs out loud and walks away.

We might still be in Florida, but this is the capital S South.

We're also butt crack-deep in capital S Sprawl. Growth charges forward unchecked here on the mainland. There are so many people and so many cars that even the side roads are jammed with traffic. And these people have no time to wait for anything that stands in their way on this shortcut to U.S. Highway 17, this shortcut that's going to save them all of two minutes. They pass just before they reach us, no matter the amount of traffic or the curve of the road, even if that means flying out into the oncoming lane and placing everyone involved half a second away from injury or death. This happens a dozen times in less than four miles. Canadian turkey vultures circle above and look down from perches in nearby trees, ready to pick apart whatever's left from the carnage the humans on the ground manage to get themselves into.

Things change when we leave behind the highways. We pass over Interstate 95 and Kristen flips it off, like she always does when we pass over interstates. An armadillo scuffles along in the low area of grass next to the road. Cars don't seem like they're about to mow us down. It's the first time all day it's felt like we're cycle-touring and not fighting our way through suburban mayhem like it's some kind of awful reality television show.

A giant Florida Gators flag, a Confederate flag, and a handmade sign that reads "Smile Maker." There's a lot going on here.

After thirty miles of flat riding my thighs are tight, my wrists are sore, and my ass is chafing. I stop to rest every five miles, but if I'm being honest, most of the time I don't make it that far. I know I'm still young. I know that the aches and tiredness come from being out of shape and pushing myself harder than I have since July. But as we pedal past modest country homes and tiny churches it dawns on me that some day it won't be like this. Some day I'll no longer be able to ride myself into shape in two or three weeks. Some day I'll be middle-aged, then old-aged, then dead and gone and of no age at all. I think about this more than most thirty-three-year-olds, but I don't look at it as a bad thing. Thinking of your death is the greatest motivator I know for living a full life. If it wasn't so far forward in my mind I'm not sure I'd have taken the risks that have allowed me to be out here in the first place.

But I'm alive and out here. We're alive and out here. And that's good and lucky and amazing all at once. This afternoon it means riding among forests that stand quiet and still but for the crickets, far from any highway. We pass beside Baptist churches established twenty years before the Civil War broke out and below Spanish moss of pale green that hangs from the branches of majestic live oaks that are older than any living person on the planet. This old black lab heads away from her home and down the long driveway when she sees us coming, but she jogs instead of runs and only barks because she feels like she should, not because her heart's in it, and when we tell her to go home she does. There are so many frogs in the marshes that their constant croaking makes the air almost vibrate. Mile by mile the stress of earlier in the day falls beneath the treads of our tires.

Then a nasty dog chases after us, baring his teeth and barking like a real asshole. A gunshot cracks out only a few hundred feet away from us. The road changes from pavement to hard-packed dirt and sand. We see a Trump for President yard sign.

"It got real rural real quick," Kristen says with a thick Southern accent.

The sand gets softer farther on and slows us way down. It's dark and we're tired by the time we reach the public lands where we planned to set up the tent. But after a wonderful first day on the road it doesn't matter. We set up for the night in a pine forest beneath the light of a full moon, eating and laughing and feeling happy about the day that for us has all but wound down. Then we bury into the sleeping bag, ready for the special brand of deep sleep that only hard work and a sense of purpose can offer.

Today's ride: 44 miles (71 km)
Total: 44 miles (71 km)

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