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.
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