Change of Plans

For those of you hesitant to tell me that I am woefully lost, now seems as good a time as any to break the news: I've decided to go to Key West instead of the Grand Canyon. Key West, as I see it, has several advantages over the Grand Canyon. 1) it has more beaches, 2) it has more tiki bars, and 3) it is closer. A LOT closer. I'm being such a slowpoke that at this rate I wouldn't make it to Utah until February, anyway. And now that I've seen the beach it is hard to say goodbye. A cop-out? Absolutely. Do I regret it? Not for a moment.

Days 45-46: Miami-Dade County

I arrived in Fort Lauderdale, a nobleman's playground, mid-afternoon on Monday, October 12. I was here for less than 24 hours, but the city left an indelible impression. Never have I seen such a gaudy public display of wealth. The city hosts 7 miles of beaches, including one uninterrupted stretch I clocked at 2 miles before turning off to continue to Miami. A nice, little downtown center with 2- and 3-story shops and restaurants is interspersed with canals where residents dock their luxury yachts ostentatiously in full view of pedestrians.

Sometimes called the "Venice of North America," Fort Lauderdale is really more like Dubai. Bellydancers performed in open-air bars just yards from the beach, palm trees swayed in the night breeze and high end hotels. Previously a top spring break destination, in the mid-1980's Fort Lauderdale passed strict laws to discourage college students from visiting and to prevent the mayhem that occurred. The city is now a top gay vacation destination and playground for the very wealthy from the northeast, although there is a bad side of town, home to very poor, mostly minority families. Talking to a staff member at the hostel, he said very few people are from Ft. Lauderdale.

Although the beaches are lovely, just off the coast of Fort Lauderdale is the Osborne Reef, an artificial "reef" made of discarded tires that has proven to be an ecological disaster. Back in the 1960's, the city thought, hey we have trash and fish need reefs, why don't we create a reef out of used tires and other refuse for them?" However, in the rugged and corrosive environment of the ocean, nylon straps used to secure the tires wore out, cables rusted, and tires broke free, migrating shoreward and running into a living reef tract, killing many things in their path. Local authorities are now working to remove the 700,000 tires. Now that is almost funny.
I spent the next night at another hostel in South Beach, Miami. Although I'd be arriving on a Tuesday, I'd worried about this day's ride because it was very urban, and indeed this was the first and only time I was pulled over by the cops. They'd caught me riding on the wrong side of the road and running a red light. Whoops. I was riding in the left lane due to the frequent "mergings" on and off of local highway stretches, but they were having none of it. Fortunately, I received only a warning.

Miami Beach is a hip, fashionable place with a distinct latin flair. Famous for its meticulously-restored art deco architechture and Scarface-style drug and mob history. The beaches were beautiful and I spent several hours romping in the waves. I originally planned to stay for two nights to look around but my room in the hostel smelled funny and I was preoccupied, worrying about the safety of my bike and gear.

Days 41-44: The Treasure Coast

On Thursday, October 8 the temperature topped out at over 90 degrees as the heat wave continued unabated. I left my mangy motel room in the industrial town of Titusville very early in the morning to escape the roaches. By 2pm I crossed the Indian River, which is several miles wide at some points, to arrive at the lovely twin towns of Indialantic and Melbourne Beach. Here I found a little riverside park where I could watch fish jumping, storks wading and pelicans feeding. I closed my eyes just for a moment, and in minutes Michael Jackson was holding my hand and snacking on garlic kale and pop tarts.

Post-nap I stopped for an early dinner at a Melbourne Beach tiki bar/restaurant. Covered in dried sweat with my hair plastered to my forehead I invited curious inquiry from the waitstaff and those seated at nearby tables. My waitress, Alice, had a daughter about my age. She was very excited about my bike trip and even invited me to stay at her house for the night. In hindsight I should probably have taken her up on the offer as Melbourne Beach was one of the last pretty, little northern Florida towns I would have the pleasure to see, and Alice seemed like great fun. At least I had the sense to let her fill up my canteens.

The next morning I'd hardly glanced at my bicycle before sweat was dripping off of my face and making my skin so slick I couldn't apply sunscreen even after wiping myself down with paper towels. Neither had the mosquitos and biting midges yet taken their leave, which, while quite irritating, do prevent me from dawdling in the morning. A Georgia resident told me that because of the bugs, Yankees think Southernors are very friendly. But they're not waving at the northerners.

Friday evening I met an adventurous and energetic German woman named Dorothy at Hobe Sound, the town where I would spend the night. Dorothy had been confined to a wheelchair years earlier due to a freak accident and moved to Florida for the weather, but she still bikes daily -- to the grocery store, to the bank, to the library -- using a bicycle that can be pedaled by hand. I tell you, if Dorothy can do it so can the rest of America!

On Sunday, October 11, just a day's ride from Fort Lauderdale I began passing through towns whose very names conjure up visions of glamor: Boca Raton, Delray, Boynton Beach. However, they were, as far as I could see, only bland collections of mansions and condos lacking surrounding infrastructure that would make them true destinations. Nonetheless, at Delray Beach, I finally went swimming in the ocean. The water was warm yet still refreshing, and I, in my padded-diaper bike shorts and eye-catching tan lines, grinned from ear to ear the whole time.

Days 38-40: The Fun Coast

Sections of coastal Florida compete for tourists through the use of various nicknames such as the "The Emerald Coast," "The Palm Coast," and the more direct "Fun Coast." St. Augustine is part of the "First Coast," as in the first coast you see when driving to Florida and also the earliest-settled coast. South of the First Coast is the Fun Coast. On the morning of Monday, October 5 I picked up my last map at the St. Augustine post office and set out for the Fun Coast. Family friends from Ann Arbor had invited me to stay at their part-time home in Flagler Beach, approximately 35 miles to the south, and have a look around.

The McCauleys' house is located less than one mile west of my bike route, across the Intracoastal Waterway. Complete with a screened-in backyard pool, it was built just yards from the waterway, where they see dolphins and manatees on a daily basis. I arrived early in the afternoon and stayed through the following day. Being extremely hospitable folk, they took me out to lunch at a delicious oceanview restaurant, let my grungy self swim in their pool, and gave me an educational tour of the local area that included the largest remaining southern live oak in the South: a gargantuan individual known as the Fairchild Oak, believed to be four centuries old (I'm pictured in front of it here). It's branches are so long and heavy that they drag along the ground. One branch is actually buried and resurfaces a few feet beyond.

Florida is experiencing a heat wave at the moment, and residents are complaining that it feels like August here. Each day this week came close to breaking temperature records for October, so I was lucky to spend one full day in the McCauleys' air conditioned home. Reluctantly, I left Flagler Beach on Wednesday, October 7, which ended up finally breaking the record with a high of 93 degrees. Around midday I hit Daytona Beach, which I was surprised to find has a really fun, retro feel and is populated by tiny 1- and 2-bedroom beach bungalows painted all different colors. Extensive beach erosion has caused the waves at Daytona to lick at the very toes of the high-rise waterfront condos and hotels, meaning I could see the waves crashing in between every block to my left as I was riding.

Leaving Daytona Beach I took a water taxi across a large inlet not spanned by bridges, as recommended by the McCauleys. Anything that gets me off of the bike saddle is a no-brainer for me, and given the heat it was a scenic and breezy way to eat up a few miles, despite the fact that at the pier I was subject to the most expensive ($6.50) root beer float yet. Bugger.

Days 37-39: St. Augustine, Florida

On Saturday, October 3rd I arrived in St. Augustine (City Hall pictured): the cycling crossroads of the South. The town marks the beginning (or end) of the Southern Tier cross-country bike route, which runs from Florida to San Diego, and the Atlantic Coast route I'm riding intersects here as well.

St. Augustine has several additional claims to fame for non-cyclists. It was established by the Spanish in 1565, making it one of the oldest cities in the U.S. In 1738 it hosted America's first free community of ex-slaves -- more than a century before slavery ended. And, to top it off, notorious jelly manufacturer S.B. Valls first brough the flavorful and exceptionally hot datil pepper here from Cuba in the 1800s.

I tried, but the truth is, I didn't much like St. Augustine. Although the city hosts many structures of historical significance including an old hotel, a very old cathedral, and an even older fort, they've been totally Disneyfied. Walking along the waterfront at night I saw lights shining from the windows, the outlines of palm trees lining the sidewalks and boats peacefully moored in the harbor, and I could almost believe I was in a real Spanish city. By day, however, tourist trolleys clang by every few minutes and any grandeur that was present is obscured by neon signs and informational plaques. It just felt sleazy.

Days 33-36: Arrival in Florida

On October 1, after one month on the road, I crossed the St. Mary's River and officially arrived in the Sunshine State. I spent the first night in Callahan, a town of 4,000 in Nassau County, the northeastern-most county in Florida. Here I met two bluegrass singers -- sister who had clearly once been the belles of the ball -- off to do a local festival that very evening. Yup, I was still in the South. However, the next morning I set off straight east to the coast, where I'll be all the way to Key West, and by mid-afternoon it seemed I had left the South behind, for good. The scenery around me had quietly morphed into the golf courses and pastel-colored villas of lore.

And I loved it! The hammocks in the front yard, starfish lawn ornaments, adobe siding -- maybe it's because my family never took beach vacations, always preferring to head for the ski slopes -- despite myself I fell head over heels for the beach kitsch and salt breezes. I felt that I was finally on vacation.

As several residents have noted to me, the north coast of Florida is the state's well-kept secret. Seaside towns here such as Fernandina Beach, Atlantic Beach and its next-door neighbor Neptune Beach (pictured) have not yet become overdeveloped strip mall meccas and miles of coastal dunes between them are protected as state parks. They've preserved their original shady, umbrella-like oak trees, and are real, year-round communities with schools and playgrounds, local restaurants, walkable zoning and average-sized houses placed cozily close together. My parents should totally retire here.