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.

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.

Days 31-32: Okefenokee National Wildlife Refuge

In the southeastern corner of Georgia lies fabled Okefenokee National Wildlife Refuge. At 1500 square kilometers it's the largest refuge east of the Mississippi and one of the largest remaining intact freshwater systems on the planet. A vast bog covered by unstable peat deposits 15 feet deep, it's name is derived from the Seminole word for "Land of the Trembling Earth."

I arrived at the refuge campground on Tuesday, September 29 and stayed until Thursday morning to explore. Nighttime temperatures through Georgia had been in the 70's but cooled rapidly to a low of 49 degrees on Tuesday night, cold enough that I could see my breath. Having only a polarfleece sleeping bag liner, I layered myself in all of the non-spandex clothing I owned and spent the coldest hours in the bathroom, which was outfitted with a glorious oil-filled radiator space heater. It goes without saying that I did not get to the swamp during the golden hour just after sunrise, when wildlife viewing is at its best, but rather arrived bedraggled at 10:30am and proceeded to eat my way through the next hour and a half at the visitors center cafe.

Despite the fact that the swamp supports one of the largest alligator populations in the U.S. it can be kayaked unguided, which was a thrill for someone like me who had never kayaked solo before. I spent the first two hours picking my way through a canoe trail so narrow I had to hold my paddle nearly vertical to fit it between the marshy banks, and saw the head and back of my first adult alligator swimming 20 feet ahead of my boat. On the return trip, I sidled over to the parallel Suwanee Canal (pictured), which was dredged during the 1890's by the Suwanee Canal Company in order to drain the swamp for agriculture. Fortunately, after three years of digging the company went bankrupt and left just this nice little paddling trail.

Days 29-30: I get by with a little help from new friends

On September 27, I arrived in the bucolic small town of Odum, Georgia, population 414, 70 miles south of Statesboro. Odum is a pleasant little town and residents seem proud to call it their own. One Methodist and one Baptist church face off across Church Street and an award-winning elementary school is tucked next door (As an aside, I may be getting old bc the swings made me slightly nauseated).

I had planned to stay at a campground just outside of town but discovered on arrival that it had closed two months ago. Gingerly, I approached Reverend Gabe Gill, pastor of the Odum Baptist Church (pictured), just after he completed his Sunday evening service, to see if he might allow me to unobtrusively pitch my tent out back. Having none of that, Reverend Gill offered me an air-conditioned building behind the church and unlocked church doors so I could use the washroom. He gave me a tour of the kitchen in case I wanted to use the microwave and have coffee in the morning and then left three phone numbers in case I had any problems. All this for a dirty, bedraggled stranger vouched for by no one. I also had the pleasure of meeting his lovely wife, Amy, and their three adorable kids, who were all curious about my bike trip and very welcoming. They embodied true southern hospitality and more.

I guess it's true what they say: when God closes a door (campground?), he opens a window.

As it happens, the next night's campground had closed its doors as well, so I stopped at a gas station in the town of Patterson for advice. It was recommended I should head to Nahunta (pronounced Nay-Hunna), as no area campgrounds were known but a small motel probably still existed there. Upon arriving in Nahunta three hours later, I found the Knox Motel darkened and locked. But two well-connected ladies at the Family Dollar assured me the owners were likely out for dinner, and went to work calling several friends and relatives. Not ten minutes later the owner was waiting for me at the motel, which, as it turns out, was really a very svelte little bed and breakfast outfitted with old, black and white family photographs and interesting antique knick-knacks. $55/night included a welcome bowl of freshly-sliced peaches and keys to the owners truck for errands.

Days 26-28: On breakfast...and Georgia

Just after noon and a delectable french toast breakfast on Thursday, September 24 I crossed the Savannah River into Georgia, and completed the 75 miles from Yemassee to Statesboro (pictured) before darkness fell. It was a vividly bright, hot day, with temperatures reaching the mid-90's, one of the hottest of the trip so far. Within hours of crossing the Georgia state line the scenery changed from South Carolina's endless highcountry pine plantations to what appeared to be the subtropics. 80-foot-tall rainforest-like trees, flat-topped with mottled white bark and greenery only at the tippy-tops, lined area creekbeds and hanging moss abounded. Here I saw my first armadillo (roadkill, unfortunately, and the first of many I've seen since), and pretty, old plantation-style properties were decorated not with cattle herds but goats and miniature horses. I liked Georgia immediately.

I stayed in Statesboro for two nights in order to collect a package from UPS. The city is home to Georgia Southern University and, at 27,000 people, is the largest city I'd see in Georgia. Incidentally, I also at the cheapest breakfast of my trip yet here, an egg and cheese biscuit with a side of raisin toast for $1.10, including tax, at Waffle House. Amazing.

Days 24-25: Life is beautiful

Leaving Charleston, I biked 55 miles inland to historic Walterboro, the seat of Colleton County. The days off had healed my saddle sores and faded the bruises on my hands and feet. I felt strong and fast again and remembered why I had once liked to ride bicycles. The first 11 miles out of Charleston took me on Ashley River Road, a National Scenic Byway, which passes three national historic landmarks: St. Andrew's Episcopal Church, and Drayton Hall and Middleton Place plantations (picture from Flickr). Ashley River Road is described on the National Scenic Byways official site as "a journey into the history, culture, and beauty of the South Carolina lowcountry. Ancient live oaks, Spanish moss stirring in a warm summer breeze, and elegant brick gates hinting at the architecture within hearken back to days gone by." It was lovely indeed and, on midday Tuesday, traffic on was light. If I'd had a wand I would have alighted Disney-style stardust on all the flowers and butterflies in my path -- that's how good I was feeling.

The next day I traveled from Walterboro to Yemassee, my last stop in South Carolina and came across the first (and still only) fellow traveling cyclists I've seen. Wendy and Leilani were on their way north to Boston after traveling cross-country east all the way from Tucson since the 4th of July. They had been baked to a deep brown color and gear was strapped to every available inch of their bicycles. Unfortunately, they were going in the opposite direction, but we stopped briefly to discuss saddle sores, the kindness of strangers, and why they loved riding through Texas. Good luck, Wendy and Leilani!

Days 20-24: Charleston, South Carolina

With nearly 1,000 total miles logged, I arrived in the Holy City -- Charleston's nickname due to the prevalence of churches dotting its skyline -- late in the afternoon Friday the 20th. Described in the tourbooks as an "18th Century painting come to life," I found Charleston to be a very lovely city, indeed and I stopped here for three days to see the sights. The city is characterized by traditional French architechture accompanied by palm trees, which lends it a Mediterranean feel. It's broken into several pieces, each with its own neighborhoods and feel, by two big rivers, the Ashley and the Cooper.

While here, I stayed at a hostel located within walking distance of the central downtown area and waterfront, which had the added benefit of being frequented by lots of international guests doing interesting things. My roommate from Leicester, England was in the middle of traveling Canada, the U.S. and Central America for 4 1/2 months. She and our bikes are pictured above on the New Cooper River Bridge, the longest cable suspension bridge in the Western Hemisphere. I spent the weekend happily walking the city streets, eating good food, reading, taking sunny naps in Marion Square and talking to the other guests, but now it's time to get back on the road before my legs atrophy any further. I expect the next 1-2 weeks riding through the southern third of South Carolina and Georgia to be quite rural.

Days 16-17: Long days, short nights

On the 14th and 15th I rode two 70+ mile days back-to-back from Shallotte, my last stop in North Carolina to Myrtle Beach, which turned out to be farther from my route than I expected and then Andrews, the first town featuring any accommodations 72 miles past Myrtle Beach.

Monday night I stayed with Staci Williams, Blue Trail Organizer for American Rivers, in Myrtle Beach, who had never met me and generously offered to host me for a night at her home. Although I was there a short time I was able to get in some tummy-scratching time with her adorable dog, Madison, throw clothes in the dryer and fill up on fresh fruit and much-needed home cooking.

Although I had completed a few 70+ mile days during Week 1 with few obvious effects, temperatures these two days were in the 90s and the wear on my body now seemed to be catching up to me. I was tired, cranky and in pain. To ward off exhaustion and the persistent pain I'd been having in my hands and feet, I tried everything I could think of to distract myself: counting butterflies, yelling obscenities into the wind, talking to myself out loud, singing Jackson 5 hits. Twice on the second day I veered, bleary-eyed, off the road to lie down in the shade, "just for a moment," and fantasize about pitching my tent there as the branches of an oak tree swirled dreamily against the sky above. And I might have done just that if not run off by a swarm of biting ants and pair of territorial dogs, respectively. It was with a great feeling of accomplishment that I arrived in Andrews, home of Chubby Checker, just as night fell.

Days 14-15: Marshmallows, democrats...and, of course, the beach

After spending the night at Surf City Family campground, where my tent was twenty paces from the beach (pictured), on the southern end of the island that also contains North Topsail Beach, it occurred to me that I could take a picture of myself next to one of the imported palm trees and add the caption, "Arrived in Florida!" and be done with it, but in the end decided my tan could still be improved. I left the island to ride through Wilmington and nearly cried when I ran out of time to eat there because I'd heard the town has great restaurants. My nightly accommodations were 15 miles past Wilmington at the deviously named Carolina Beach Campground, which was, disappointingly, located in the woods and a good distance from any sand. Positively, however, I met a nice local family with four kids here who were kind enough to welcome a fifth into their brood for marshmallows, storytime, and a bottle of red wine. When I told them I wasn't convinced the South was for me after my experiences the previous day, they assured me they didn't know anyone like that and advised me to stop chatting up war vets at gas stations.

Days 12-13: Jesus, Obama and the rural South

Throughout the 97 miles between Newport, NC and North Topsail Beach (130 miles past the Outer Banks) headwinds made for slow going and the route had me riding on several busy roads. Environmental factors, however, did not compare to the onslaught of conservative talking points I faced. It's as if Jesus is running for office against Wall Drug down here -- and winning. Biblical phrases grace signs outside of gas stations, auto repair shops and even private residences, and his staffers are deployed in the unlikeliest of places to campaign for him. For instance, a very nice man interrupted my lunch to ask if I had yet accepted Jesus Christ as my personal savoir. Later that same day a pair of older men questioned me about the whereabouts of Obama's birth certificate, despite warnings that I had volunteered for his campaign and so was unlikely to be moved on the subject. I would rather have discussed the deliciousness of pop tarts or the pros and cons of Hardees serving breakfast biscuits after 10:30am, but it was not to be.

Day 11: Getting reacquainted with the bike

After a nice long weekend, made even longer by heavy rains that hit the Outer Banks Sunday and Monday (see flooding in front of the Sand Dollar Motel where I stayed Monday night, above) I was off again yesterday back on the mainland heading towards Wilmington after 3 1/2 days off. Ocracoke received 8.5" of rain and Cedar Island received more than 11" this weekend -- the first big rain of the hurricane season. I'm currently in Beaufort, a small town but major shipping port, one of the deepest U.S. seaports on the Atlantic. Yesterday morning the rains died down just enough for me to get out of my motel on Ocracoke Island (the smallest, quaintest and southern-most of the populated Outer Banks islands) and onto the 2 1/4-hour ferry (pictured above) from Ocracoke back to continental North Carolina. Yesterday I rode 43 miles from where the ferry deposited me to Beaufort, where I have unusual access to a CVS, Wachovia and a library. 10-15 miles of the route ran through the Cedar Island National Wildlife Refuge, which is a vast marshland where you can see many birds including egrets, red-winged blackbirds and sadder-than-usual roadkill that includes baby turtles. The roadkill comment aside, I'm very impressed with how much land both on the Outer Banks and near the ocean on mainland NC has been saved from development. It must go a long way towards explaining why fishing is still so profitable up here compared with the Chesapeake Bay region. Ok, as it's now 2:30pm I must be off. 105 miles to Wilmington...

My first week on the road

I haven't had much time to update the blog as I've been going all-out to make it to the Outer Banks to meet my friend Alyssa, a good friend from high school who is on internship at Duke University and therefore *relatively* close to my route (in the same state anyway). That plus exhaustion and very limited internet access must excuse my tardiness. I just crossed the North Carolina state line today, and have now logged a total of 405 miles since leaving DC. A quick overview of the first week is as follows:

Sunday, August 30 (Day 1): A big thanks to my friends Amy Baskette and Chad Jones for getting me on the road at 11:30am and biking with me to Mt. Vernon! After we parted ways, I made it another 45 miles to Prince William State Forest, 40 miles southwest of DC as the crow flies. In order to save money I made the misguided decision to head for a campground that was 14 hilly miles off-route. I got lost in the dark, rained on and arrived hungry and exhausted at the campsite at 9pm. It would be several days before I dared camp again.

Monday, August 31 (Day 2): After waking up every 20 minutes due to numbness in various limbs and finding my head at a 90 degree angle to my neck during the night I journeyed from Independent Hill to Fredericksburg (63 miles). It is a beautiful day but the route is more rural than I expected (see barn pictured above) and food stops so scarce that breakfast consisted of oreos, strawberry frosted pop-tarts and cheddar pretzel combos (don't get me wrong, it was delicious). I crossed the Rappahannock River into Fredericksburg by evening.

Tuesday, September 1 (Day 3): Once I got out of Fredericksburg, there were so few cars between there and Ashland that I had the roads all to myself and was able to ride straight down the center. It was another beautiful day, with blue skies and little puffy clouds. the birthplace of William Clark. I stopped at a grocery store in Chilesburg where it was as though the people were stuck in time but the food had passed on through and everything was expired. I spent the night in Ashland (pictured above), home of Randolph-Macon College, which reminds me terribly of Northfield, Minnesota, where I went to college.

Wednesday, September 2 (Day 4): My best and worst day so far, I started off a little slow this morning, wanting to take advantage of the library. When I stepped out close to 1pm I found my rear tire completely deflated and the local bike shop listed on my map having closed its doors a year prior. Two cyclists flew by and I dropped my tools and sprinted after him. Turns out he and his friend were friends with the owners of the old bike shop and fixed my tire for free. They even called me a "damsel in distress" but I didn't care: I had lived to face another day in blissful ignorance. Having gotten such a late start I made a circuitous route through Richmond in order to pick up a spare tube and arrived at my motel after 10pm. A full moon aided me as I rode for three hours in the pitch darkness through the woods and over the James River into the town of Hopewell, 15 miles from Suffolk, VA.

Thursday, September 3 (Day 5): While I'd been passing through pleasant, bucolic scenery so far, today's route was eerily quiet and supplied me with my first confederate flag sighting. There were houses and barking dogs but I saw very few people. The gardener at a convenience store explained that everyone in the area works for a slaughterhouse and an impending coal-fired power plant has divided the community as proven by yardsigns for miles on end reading "No New Coal Plant" or "Say Yes to Cypress Creek Power Plant." The roads had been paved with a roughly-crushed gravel asphalt so that I couldn't get any momentum and the vibrations were making me cranky. However, I ended up at a lovely private campground called Lake Butler just as the sun was beginning to set (pictured above). I was the only camper so I took up three spots and pitched my tent 10 feet from the water. The manager, a very old woman, said the closest place to get breakfast the next morning was at least 15 miles away. My face must have betrayed my disappointment because the next morning she brought me two biscuit breakfast sandwiches, cranberry juice and a banana. It was very sweet of her.

Friday, September 4 (Day 6): rode 74 miles to make it over the NC state border to Elizabeth City, a town of 17,000 people, still 50 miles on US-158 (the major roadway into the Outer Banks from the north) from Nags Head and Kitty Hawk. Fortunaely, Alyssa was willing to pick me up at my motel the next morning and drove me all the way to our b&b. I must say, driving was a marvelous change of pace. We stayed in Buxton, a village just 10 miles north of Cape Hatteras, the point where, I learned, the southerly-flowing cold water Labrador Current and the northerly-flowing warm water Gulf Stream collide, creating a dangerous area of turbulent waters and shallow sandbars known as Diamond Shoals.