Postgame Analysis

Towns: 157

Counties: 57

States: 5 + D.C.

Miles: 2,040

Days: 52

Riding days: 41

Days off: 11

Avg. speed: 10.5 mph

Avg. miles/day: 45 

Motels: 15

Campgrounds: 20

Hostels/private homes/other: 14

Pop tarts: hundreds

Day 52: Key West and The End

On the morning of Monday, October 19 I set out for my last ride.  I'd spent the night at Bahia Honda state park on Big Pine Key, located 30 miles east of Key West. The weather was auspiciously sunny and warm, as the last few days had been cool and extremely windy after a cold front dropped temperatures 20 degrees. I planned to take it easy through the Keys, riding only 30 miles per day. I wanted to enjoy my last week on the road since I had plenty of time before my return flight home. As it turned out, the winds made crossing the Keys' famous 42 bridges a draining enterprise, and 30 miles of roaring winds was all I could handle before my nerves were frayed and my throat hoarse from cursing. The Key winds were constant and seemed to come from all directions at once. Two nights in a row I'd hardly slept due to the cold temperatures, the startling crash of debris as it blew down and skidded along the pavement and worries that my gear would blow away in the night. This last day out, however, I had nothing but steady tailwinds.

It took a few hours to cross the last series of bridges and narrow barrier islands. Often I had a view of both the Gulf of Mexico and the Atlantic Ocean at once. Around 5pm I crossed into Key West. I followed the southern edge of the island, riding just feet from the water. Though it was a bit overcast I could see the sun beginning to set as I rode into town grinning from ear to ear. I had done it! Well, almost. After waiting 10 minutes in line with other much fresher tourists to touch the giant grounded buoy that marks the southernmost point in the continental U.S. (pictured) I received my official papers. 

Foremost on my mind was that I had dispelled my biggest fear coming out there, that I didn't have what it took i.e. the discipline or resolve to complete this journey. I realized how rare it is to be able to reach a milestone so tangible and discrete that you can have no doubts about what you've accomplished. 

I spent three days at Key West sightseeing and getting a little business done. Only one bike shop on the island was willing to dismantle my bike and pack it up for shipment home. The rest complained they'd been burned so badly packing bikes that became destroyed en route that it was no longer profitable for them to ship bikes, which made me a little concerned but what choice did I have?

Key West was full of the famous feral chickens and six-toed cats (although they wouldn't let me get close enough to count) I'd heard about. I saw the houses Ernest Hemingway and President Harry Truman had kept. Hemingway's home was one of the largest on the island, an old southern plantation style house with a two-story wraparound porch. Frankly, though, the exotic animals and palm trees aside, Key West reminded me of Ann Arbor. Free spirits cruise around in hand painted cars featuring kitschy collectibles or animal figurines glued to the hood. The thrifty ride brightly painted bikes with giant wheels and streamers. Other Key residents call Key West "Key Weird" (which is truly the pot calling the kettle black) but to me, it sort of felt like home. 

To those of you loyal enough to stay with me to the end, thank you for following along. For more information regarding whether I was able to achieve the perfect tan (admittedly, my failure can be clearly seen in the picture above), to what extent I was able to carve out a new direction in life, and which fast food retailers serve the best biscuits, a personal conversation will be required. Happy holidays to all and I'd love to hear from you! Thank you for your support and encouragement.

Days 48-50: Key Largo

On Thursday, October 15 I left Homestead, Florida for Key Largo, 30 miles away. At the Monroe County line (the official entrance to the Florida Keys) I had the most aggressively anti-biker experience of my trip when a tollbooth operator yelled curses at me and told the driver behind me to take me out on the road for accidentally riding over the treadle. This was not the welcome I was hoping for.

Although songs written about Key Largo indicate it was once a beautiful destination, the Key Largo of today is, to my mind, rather corporate and crummy. US 1, a four-lane freeway, cuts it right down the middle. In place of a downtown there are cloisters of shopping centers and hotels at various turnoffs. A bike path exists but it runs right along the freeway and is marred by rocky gravel and root outcroppings that don't make for a pleasant or speedy ride. Visitors travel to Key Largo in order to fish and dive, and here, if you're not in or on the water you might as well go home. 

The island's landscape is still recovering from Hurricane Andrew, which destroyed virtually all vegetation on the island in 1992. Standing saltwater remained on the island after the hurricane passed, requiring the government to hose down the island with freshwater to prevent salinization and possible desertification of the soil. Today, Key Largo is covered mainly with the fast-growing brushy weeds that were the first to take over.

The highlight of my visit was a snorkeling tour of the White Banks Reef, part of John Pennekamp Coral Reef State Park, located just east of Key Largo. The water was warm enough that even without a wetsuit I only started to get chilly 45 minutes in. Having done cold-water scuba before, this was the way to go! Under the water's surface I saw what I learned were elkhorn, staghorn and brain corals, parrotfish, damselfish and barracuda. One big barracuda was dragging a hook and fishing line, and I considered a rescue but wasn't sure the fish would understand. The captain of our boat assured me that the hooks biodegrade in a few weeks and don't bother the fish at all. Sure, they eat it up.

Days 45-46: Miami-Dade County

I arrived in Ft. Lauderdale in the middle of the afternoon on Monday, October 12.  Sometimes called the "Venice of North America," Ft. Lauderdale more closely resembles Dubai. Previously a top spring break destination, Ft. Lauderdale passed strict laws in the mid-1980's to discourage college students, and the city has since been transformed into a true nobleman's playground. Never have I seen such a gaudy display of wealth. I respected it for its idiosyncracy. Rather than hosting a separate marina, the downtown area  is interspersed with canals where residents dock luxury yachts in full view of passing pedestrians (none of my photos turned out well, so the one at left is from Flickr). Bellydancers perform in open-air bars and businessmen sip fine wines at high-end hotels just yards from the beach. The city also hosts a whopping 7 miles of public beach, including one uninterrupted stretch I clocked at 2 miles before turning off. 

I spent the next night at a hostel in South Beach, Miami. The ride between Ft. Lauderdale and Miami was very challenging urban riding, and marked the first and only time I was pulled over by the police. Due to frequent freeways merging on and off on the right I was riding in the left lane, which I knew was against the law but I didn't feel I had much choice given the circumstances. 

South Beach is a hip, fashionable place with a distinct latin flair. The area is famous for its meticulously-restored art deco architechture and Scarface-style drug and mob history. The beaches were also beautiful and I spent several hours romping in the waves. 

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.