The End

I rode down to Naples today. To visit my great uncle Tom.


Now that the trip is over. It’s time to debrief. I am now forever going to be planning adventures on this scale.

The Keys

I left Florida City for Keywest. My plan was to ride the entire Keys in a single day. I figured it at about 210 km. The more I thought about it, the better the plan got. I'd ride into the night, and get into Key West at about 3 am. I'd hide my bike under a bridge or in the forest off to the side of the road. I'd slink into town with my book and read till sunrise, afterwards I'd find the beach or a park and sleep. I'd make the 6 pm ferry and leave without having to pay for lodging.



My plan was pretty good until sunset, when a fog rolled-in and my bike path evaporated. The dark-highway-riding became white knuckled, and I quit. I camped behind a Bell South complex in some dense jungle. It was too hot and muggy for a sleeping bag, and I just use my silk liner. I still thought about only getting a couple of hours of sleep before hitting the road again, but time bent and I was left with only 8 hours to do the remaining 120 km and still make the 6:00 pm ferry. Which doesn't seem that bad, unless you factor in the fuel stops and chatting with people on the road.

I had committed to a course of action. It being valentine's day and the president's day long weekend I thought finding lodging in key west would be difficult and expensive. Other travelers I had spoken to, told me Key West was the southern most retirement community in the continental United States, and I already had a retirement community in my itinerary. The keys were boring up until Marathon, but by the time I reached Marathon I had too much momentum to stop and had to continue all the way to Key West and out the other side. My survey of people post-Key West, tinged my decision with a little regret. I've heard it's good.



I hit a wicker chair. I crossed the 7 mile bridge, which works out to about half-an-hour of riding. It is for the most straight and flat. It is difficult to figure out how I didn't see the chair sitting on the shoulder, it was probably visible from 2 km away. I was busy reading my map (attached to my handle bar bag) I bounced off the chair, but remained up-right. I had no place to stop to regain my bearings, as stopping on the shoulder of the bridge would probably create more problems. So, I rode on.

Some of the bridges were twinned, with a separate walkway/bike lane. These were populated with fishermen. There was the constant danger of getting hooked when one of them was casting.



Anyways, I got into Key West with no time to spare. The ferry left 15 minutes after I got to the dock. I had to take my bike through an airport style security check. I asked the guard what I could and couldn't bring on the ferry, and he told me anything I couldn’t bring on a plane. And yet, I managed to take on my knives, as well as my camp stove and fuel.

I got into Fort Myers at about 10 pm. Time being so tight the previous two days; I didn’t get to look up the hostel location and phone number. It was disappointing. I biked about 10 km, through the city and found a small tree stand by a strip mall with a wachovia bank and blockbuster. It was pretty much the sketchiest and most urban camp site yet. As I was setting up camp, you could hear the people at a nearby bar talking in their loud bar voices - I stealthed out of my campsite to join them, but found it to be a private party. I hung out in front of a Superstore-style grocery store, stealing power and trying to catch an unsercued wifi network without luck.

In the morning, with daylight, I found I had camped on a deserted hobo home.



On my trip I had twice heard of a 75 year old cyclist who was going the same way I was, but was in advance of me. The road had given him a little fame. I finally met him in the Keys. He was doing a self-supported tour - camping along the way, like me. He started touring when he was 65, not doing it continuously.

Miami Beach

I have pretty much written nothing on the corresponding days, so now I have the job of recounting things.

After Fort Lauderdale, I rolled into Miami Beach with high hopes. The evening in Fort Lauderdale, I went out in search of food e and found the streets empty; Miami Beach was different: it was crowded. There was a bike shop across the street from the hostel that stocked some vintage frames built-up as fixed gears. Spanish was more prevalent in Miami than I thought, making the place feel more metropolitan. I liked the style of the place. The beach was gorgeous.



The hostel was hot and sticky, and had a bar like atmosphere. It didn’t suit me. I've been rising with the sun, and that is when they return legless from the town. The expensive price of the hostel made my decision to move-on all the easier.



I rode to Florida City, through palm-tree tree-farms, in areas that seemed like they were once Everglades. I saw maybe a thousand vultures flying over a dump. I liked the hostel, and my one night there turned into two. There were a lot of trippers coming through for canoe trips. There was a couple down from Waterloo doing a week long trip into the everglades, and a couple more couples doing similar things.

blending

I haven't been writing as much, and the miles and days blend together.

I stayed in Fort Lauderdale yesterday. The hostel had a bad vibe, although a couple of the longterms put together a pretty good dinner for everybody. I got lectured by one employee about leaving my bike in the courtyard. It was silly, I almost got into it with her, but thought what was the point. It's not like anything I will say will make her a non-dummy. We should all just be reserved to her fate.

On my way to Fort Lauderdale I passed through West Palm Beach, an affluent neighborhood that I think goes unmatched in the United States.



I felt bad about taking pictures of people's homes, so I took just one. But, that house was nothing compared to some of the others I saw.

The roads were awesome - overhung with greener - making you feel like you were riding through the rain forest.

Jonathan Dixon

I'm staying at this state park called Jonathan Dixon - a real proper name, I got there and the man said he was 'full up', and I'd have to sauntering on. But, sauntering on to where? I did not know, the next 200 km are Miami and surrounding areas, no official camp sites and probably few opportunities for stealth camping - plus it was getting late and I was tried. I asked again and he turn from a sour park ranger to a pretty friendly guy, you said he'd put me on an emergency site, said he had done some tripping and touring. There seemed like a lot of available sites when I got settled and took a look around. Primarily a RV park again.



It is gusty, and all my stuff keeps blowing away. It's more than a little frustrating to take out a shirt or a map and have it blow away into the dark. There is ecological burning going in the park, so there is a hazing of smoke and grit that the wind whips-up. I have to set up my hammock on the ground, as there aren't any good trees for it.



In addition to the natural beauty, there are some outsized-oversized industrial sites on the road; like this nuclear power plant.

The beach

I write by moonlight (later to be transcribed onto a laptop). I own a beach. Just for a night, but that's plenty. It's about a million miles long and all mine. I had to jump a fence and ignore a no trespassing sign. I'm stealing a beach.



I rode about 120 km today. I'm short of my 200km. I could have ridden a little more, but was tired from the night before. It was cold to say the least. I wore most of my clothes to bed and was still cold, and didn't sleep too well.

The nexus of the universe

St. Augustine to Miami in four days. That's the plan, maybe I shouldn't put it in writing. I think it's about 600 km. I did 106 km today, I'm planning two 200 km days in a row. It's not really a plan. Say I peddle an average of 22 km/h, which is possible, that mean it's about 9 ½ hours of riding per day. That's not too ridiculous. I have peddled 12 hours in a day and gotten about 100 km, biking into a head wind with a sore ankle. I think I did my 106 km in about 5 to 6 hours today. I might never be able to sit down again after biking so much. I'm going to switch the angle of my seat and hopefully move the area of pressure, letting one area rejuvenate while another area gets subjected to the meat tenderizer I'll be getting a Brook's saddle when I get home. I'm also planning on building up my own set of wheels, and maybe getting a bob.

I ate one serving of fruit today. Everything else was beige, brown or white in colour. On the road you feel like eating a meal every two hours or so, that also happens to be length of time it takes to find a adequately cheap restaurant on route. So, about ten minutes after eating, you've got to start scoping for the next place.

Today when I woke up I had lost all momentum. I was as anxious as the first day. There was an English guy in my hostel room, who had been driving around Florida, and I considered asking him for a ride to Orlando in an effort to cut 300 km off my trip. But, before I ask he said he was spending another day in St. Augustine, so that option was off the table. Not more than half an hour on my bike, and I switch my plan from riding to Naples, to riding to Key West and taking the ferry up to Fort Myers adding another 200 miles. It was just a fantastic ride today. I had a back wind like nothing else, I was going for stretches at about 35 km/h.

That hostel in Saint Augustine was a dive. It was suppose to be a backpacker hostel, but it also seemed to be a place of last resort too. One guy showed up, obviously recently punched in the face. He was drunk or somehow unhinged. I asked him his story and he said he had his Phd in Physiotherapy before he started to cry. He didn't have any cash so couldn't stay. But, he had a car, what's up with that? Sleep in your car, that's not too rough.

The owner was depressed and depressing and the place was filthy too. For some reason I thought the guy who owned the place was suppose to be a one-legged pirate, but this guy had both his legs.

There were some good guests there, in terms of the other cyclists. The retiree cyclist were cool. I suspect they were a little jealous of the unique places and stealth camping that myself and the other young cyclists were doing on route.

They had some cool bike too. Good gear, and had put a lot miles on it, and were planning on putting on a lot more.

My heel is still not back. I've put the cleat back in the shoe, and it was feeling fine today taped up. But, I'd like not to tape it up. A couple of days ago I developed a couple of blisters under the tape. But, I think they've progressed beyond the blister stage, I just call them 'sores' now. They're not that bad. I was putting polysporen on them. But, switched up just to Vaseline. I'll use polysporen if they look like they're getting infected.

Yesterday before leaving Saint Augustine, I went to ride about the town. And discovered my back wheel was out of true; on closer inspection I had a broken spoke. I thought I knew nothing about wheels, but I guess I knew enough to worry about these wheels. I don't know how to replace a spoke, and/or true a wheel. Things I need to learn. I took the wheel into a shop and got it fixed. I'm not sure how good a job the guy did, how tight should spokes be?

The day we hit the coast

Since I got a motel room last night, I decided to milk it for its worth and didn't get out of my king-sized bed until about 9 am. Giving me enough time to pack and be on my way before the 11 am check-out.

I let the motel room, because there were no places to camp; just swamp and box stores. The guy gave it to me at 50% of the already discounted price.

To find my motel, I varied from the red-ribbon on my ACA map, and had some trouble finding the ribbon again in the morning. This detour put on about 20 km and an hour of messin' around. I just generally wanted to get where I was going, I wasn't in the mood for residential neighborhood sight-seeing. Later the landscape was wonderful, and the wind frustrating. I rode most of the day into a headwind which got my spirits down. Essentially, my mood is directly related to how fast I'm going. Traveling at 15 km/h and I'm not feeling too hot, traveling at 25 km/h and I'm feeling fantastic.

The bike culture on the coast is amazing. Those low-rider bicycles are popular down here; I like individualized bikes. And the sport cyclists were out in force.

There is one main road and it had a bike lane. A gentleman in his late fifties passed me, and I took the opportunity to ask if I could draft him. He said sure, and I stuck with him for about 2 hours (he was on his before dinner 45 mile ride on a hybrid). It was awesome, I went from struggling at 17 km/h to riding at 23 km/h. The guy was stoic, but it's hard to carry on a conversation riding like we were. I did find out he was planning to ride the Northern Tier this summer.

I'm still riding with my ankle taped. So, earlier in the day I dropped my seat, so I could get more power out of my sore leg without moving my foot. Before my seat was too high for me to ride with my hands on the drops , but now since my seat was lower when I was following this guy I rode with my hands on the drops the entire way. By the time he turned around to head home, my hands were stiff and bruised. You put a lot more weight forward when you ride low. I missed all the landscape and everything, I just focused on his back wheel. It was hypnotizing.

I got Saint Augustine. It was suppose the be a haven. I checked into a place called the Pirate Haus, and ran into Joe in the street. He had met up with Ricky and Alison; who are keeping there own blog at - http://www.crazyguyonabike.com/doc/4765

Ricky is a bike mechanic, and Alison had hiked both the Appalachian and the Pacific Coast Trails. They knew how to travel light. The two of them had half the stuff I had - the math works out to a quarter of the stuff per person.



Yeah, I can't crop any photos on the road.

Slow day

I ran into another touring cyclist by a boat jetty. He was Joe, and had travel from Virgina. It was late, about 4pm, but I wasn't ready to call it a day. He was setting up camp, so I pushed onwards.

I camped in a tree farm off to the side of the road. There was an old overgrown swing that I sat and cooked on. I have bought some charcoal lighter fluid and it burns okay in my stove, a little dirtier than the white fuel, but not as smelly as gasoline.

It was a more isolated campsite than in the passed and probably for the first time, I had a clear sky. I heard a large rustling in the forest as I cooked and camped; I put on my iPod. I excused it with the simple, "there's nothing in the forest that both can and will want to hurt me." When I was breaking camp, two pitbulls the size of rhinoceroses came over to say hello - and I stood corrected. My water bottles had frozen and I had to have a small fire so I could move my fingers and undo the knots in my hammock.



The thing about stealth camping, and more generally, traveling without a good map, is you never know exactly what's around the corner. About thirty seconds, or 500 yards from what I thought was a remote site, I found a federal prison with all its razor wire and glory.

The forest

I read Kensey's "One flew over the cookoo's nest." It's great, but you know that already.

Tomorrow I leave this place. It's been fun. People put a little too much effort into being calm. It's like they want to talk faster but are constraining themselves, it throws the tracking off on the mental VCR. And these are tall standing folk; the glassy-eyed, with pupils like tunnels, aren't worth the effort.

But people were friendly. I was graciously given a homeopathy cream for my ankle and a energy healing ritual was performed for its benefit.

The food was good vegan cuisine. I helped stoke the outdoor clay oven for the pesto pizza.

There were few other guest while I was here. There was old hippie and former deck hand for Mr. Jimmie Buffet. He told me about living on the intracoastal.

The shower was just there, in the middle of the forest, draining into the forest floor. I slept in a tree house and had a view of the labyrinth.

Soreness

I woke up, dressed and sat under my hammock. I ate peanut butter because it was all the food I had left. I slept somewhat poorly, my sleeping bag is too warm for the climate, and merely unzipping it leaves me too cold. It's difficult to pack for 25 degree Celsius temperature swings; I'd probably have to bring the same sleeping bad if I was to do it again.



It was nice to get on the bicycle in the morning. I stopped for a second more meaningful breakfast. There was a mist that hung over highway and the nearby marshland.
I planned on getting to the Hostel in the Forest today, and that was put in jeopardy by a sore ankle that developed at about 20 km followed by a drop in energy levels. I went from riding more than 20 km between shaking out my muscles to dragging out 2 or 3 km, before needing a stop. The sun was out and my sunscreen is watery.

There was so much road kill. The road was paved with the bodies of small animals. Sometimes they're just unavoidable, and you've got to drive over them. At one point I had to ride through a puddle of fresh blood, leaving a single stripe from my tire on the tarmac in one direction, perpendicular there was a large brush stroke, where the animal crawled off into the bushes. Yesterday I saw maybe 30 birds with four foot wing spans eating the body of a deer; they took off as I rode by and darken out the sun. They didn't look like vultures to me, more like huge ravens. I saw a dead German Shepard; it still had its eyes. I've seen maybe 5 or 6 pet cats, and maybe 3 or 4 other dogs. Maybe a possum every kilometer or so; and these smears of leather and bones that need a forensic team to piece back together.

The death on the highway continued up the food chain to the human animal. There were constant reminders of past crashes, with highway memorials and flower wreaths This was bad heading into Brusnwick Georgia, where the traffic was bad, I was tired and my ankle was hurting a lot;
i didn't need road-morbidity hanging over me.

I took a break at a playground, planning on making it a full hour - to get out of the heat and rest my ankle. I sat under this large tree covered in Spanish moss. This drug user walked by and decided to loiter on the other side of the tree where I couldn't see him, making me feel most unwelcome. I moved on.



I was close to the hostel, maybe ten miles, but my ankle was hurting a fair amount and the traffic was four lanes in each direction without a shoulder - so I considered scouting out a motel. Staying in a motel is a nuclear option, and I was more than disappointed in considering it for a second time on the trip of less than a week. But, I rode a couple more kilometers and then a couple more. I got to this stayed cable bridge like the one heading into Savannah. Wow. I think it was taller. The cement barrier that separated me from the thousand foot drop was low. Lower than my center of gravity on the bike, riding by it you don't even see it. The view was incredible and speed on the way down makes you feel fantastic.



The highway to the hostel was brutal, but I was still pretty high from the bridge climb and descent, so it didn't bug me as much. Here is a photo of it. Signs indicating that its some sort of bike route, then the rumble strip on shoulder all the way to the white line. So, you've got to ride in a lane with traffic going at 65 miles/h (105 km/h). There was truck traffic too, the truck drivers are usually courteous and give you a lot of room, but they produce a wake that shakes you a little.



The hostel in the forest is cool. More on that later.

Give me more kilometers.

I brushed my teeth with mittens on; the temperature is a little chilly. But, it was perfect cycling weather, overcast and cool. I could wear pants and an long sleeve shirt.

I rode a 107 km today. A number I was slightly disappointed with, while I was planning on doing 100km, all the way up to 80 km I thought I could make it to this place "the hostel in the forest." But, it would have been a 200 km ride. I pretty much rode till I ran out of gas, I thought of making camp around 120 km, but was just too tired. Plus, I notice a good camping spot, so I decided to pull off the highway and set up camp.



Yesterday, when I met the sport cyclist outside Beaufort, he told if I was ride to Savannah that I had to be ready for a steep bridge. Outside Beaufort there was a nice long rolling bridge, and I thought the cyclist was a wimp; but I think he was referring to the bridge into Savannah. It's in the picture. From afar I considered my options, maybe trying to hitchhike over with my bike, but on closer inspection there seemed to be a pretty good shoulder. It was a climb. The bridge had jaws, these teeth to allow for expansion and contraction with temperature. These steel teeth were about two feet long, but they didn't scare me, the gaps between them did; perfect fit for my wheels. On the way down I hit about 60 km/h, the bike handled well at that speed.

I didn't have a map, and was planning on just sticking to route 17 for a while. Following the signs to route 17 led me to the interstate. Out of the frying pan and into the fire. There was a lot of junk on the shoulder, and the interchanges were death traps. I was only on it for about 5 miles - but think that probably filled my quota for riding on the interstate for the rest of my life. It actually wasn't that bad, I'm pretty numb to fast moving cars.

Today on two occasions dogs ran after me, perhaps wanting to imbue a passing sense of championship, or maybe they just wanted to bite me. I'm not nearly quick and agile enough on my bicycle yet to unzip my bag and grab the pepper spray without taking a slide.

I get kudos in the form on honks, hollers and waves, from authentic looking biker gangs; and nothing from them hobbyists. Although, I do feel a strange camaraderie with people who ride/drive those motorized trikes. There is no way operating one of those devices is cool, just like it's a stretch to imagine how rodeoing a bike and 50 pounds of gear over the rumble strip on the side of a highway is cool, but they do it and they must love it.



Camping tonight was miserable. I still don't have fuel for my stove. I went to buy some in Charleston at an outdoors store, and it was ten dollars for a pint. That's pretty expensive, so I went to the hardware store, where it's nine dollars for a gallon. I only wanted a pint. I thought about it and decided on the gallon, went back to get it and the store was closed. I've been carrying all this food for cooking, but haven't been able to eat it. I tried to light a cooking fire - one of my camp skills I had absolute faith in. Everything was so wet, I couldn't get anything burning except for my South Carolina map (thanks Steph). I was hoping for a hot meal for the last half of the day. But no luck. I had a can of sardines and a bagel; not the greatest meal after such a long ride.

I was also pretty much out of water. It's this kind of putting off of things, riding my bike, every gas station I passed, I'd say, "Oh, I'd stop a the next one." Until, of course there wasn't a next one and I didn't have any water.

What happened to Brice?

I lost Brice today. I woke up early, about an hour before Brice, packed up camp and ate breakfast. I was finishing loading my bike when Brice got up. We planned on meeting at the public library in Beaufort. Brice had a connection with someone in town, so we could camp on their property and maybe paddle in their homemade kayaks. It was about a 55 km ride from where we camped to the library. On the way, a cyclist training for a road race caught up to me and told me Brice was not too far back, but was stopping for a break. I rode on until hunger forced me for a pit stop. I still made it to the library before noon.

I waited about as long as I could. The sunset is about 5:30 to 6:00pm. So, I left at 3:00pm, leaving enough time to ride out of the city, and find a decent place to camp. I still managed to ride about 25 km, and found a nice spot by a channel to camp. I honestly couldn't wait any longer without putting finding a camping spot in jeopardy, but after hour at the library I was pretty anxious to do some more riding.

It was more than a little lonely camping by myself. It was cool and started to rain, so I was forced into my hammock by about 7:00pm. I just had to stay there until sunrise which is at about 7:00am. It's a long time to lie there. I was dry inside the hammock but this is the second night of rain, and we're expecting a third. Most of my clothes range from soaked to wet. I guess I've got a couple that I categorize as damp.

Tomorrow I'm planning a 100 km plus day and the same for day after. Savannah looks like a fun city, but I'm going to push through it. There is this place called “hostel in the forest” Depending on how early in the day I get there I might stay a day or two, before riding to St. Augustine.

The ride was great today. There was this long bridge with a wide shoulder leading out of Brunswick and pine trees 5 stories high. Sweeping marsh land. Swamps and bogs. I wanted to take pictures but I didn't want to stop riding.

First day

Looking at the date, I am amazed by the weather. Night has fallen and it must be 15 degrees Celsius. I packed up my bike yesterday and set out at 4 pm, only to decide that was too late and turn around and go back to the hostel. Night fall is at about 5:30pm. I camped out behind the hostel for a discounted price. The hammock was fairly comfortable, but I was a little cold, I think last night the temperature got down to about zero degrees (Celsius again).
When I woke up I had a bad headache and couldn't eat much food. The stress my final departure was reaching near critical level. The inability to get that tire off my wheel hung over me, my confidence in my ability to fix my bike on the road was at a low ebb. There was a considerable amount of doubt. Would my wheels hold up, would my panniers stay on...etc. I was especially worried about the wheels, they're old.

I took the plunge. I changed my route to follow highway 17. It had two advantages: Brice was riding it, and I'd have to ride 40 miles North to get onto the adventure cycling route.



I left before Brice in the morning. I worried about the bridge out of town, but left before morning rush hour and had the bridge to myself. The air along the highway was a little dirty for the first 15 km, but it was good to get on the bike. I didn't really find my balance on the point on the fully loaded bike, so was holding on a little tight, cramping up my arms and shoulders.

There was a bunch of truck traffic on the road. One semi locked up its brakes coming to a stop at the same traffic light as I. It skidded with me riding about a foot next to it, with smoke from its tires coming up into my face. It put a lot of rubber down on the road.

I stopped for brunch, and when I hopped back on the road I ran into Brice. We planned to meet up at Ashpoo River and camp. Once there Brice knocked on a couple doors trying to find us a place to camp, and flagged down a car. It turned out to be a bust, but ten seconds down the road we found an overgrown cemetery from the 1700s. We camped there.

It was about noon. So, we went for a stroll along the river and checked out an ancient railway bridge. Life is good.

I'm not in a hurry.

Baby steps. Takin' it easy. My mottos.

I'm still in Charleston. I got caught up in a rip-roaring game of trivia pursuit that lasted into the night. The question of "how many feet long is the pitch for a game of horseshoes?", started a debate that lasted a good twenty-five minutes. The faction that wanted three-feet won. It's forty-feet.

I was pretty slow getting out of bed, and missed my planned departure time of 6 am. I repacked and boxed a couple things to send ahead. The "fifteen minute" walk to the post office took about an hour each way. And by the time I got back it was about 1:00pm. I planned the route, repack my bags, and ate some food, and it was 3:00pm. I got on the bike, but in the end thought it was a little too late to start. I'm camping out tonight behind the hostel, which is my baby step. It's good to get the hammock broken in, before I'm on the road

There are three other travelers staying at the hostel. Brice, another cyclist, who is on day 150 of a 10 year trip. He has got a personality, no denying it; he holds court like no-others. When I switched up my tube the tire, my replacement tube was oversized. It rode okay, but I was concerned about the longevity of it, and stressing my expensive tire. So, I got the right tube and was switching it up during the game of trivia pursuit. Once again the tire was tough to get off. Brice gave me the simple advice that it was cold and tighter to the rim. Waiting for it to warm and soften up and it wasn't as tough. Still the process was about 45 minutes to an hour. With my other rims and older tire, I can switch up a tube in about a minute. Anyways, he related a story about the only flat he's had on his trip, and not being able to get the tire off his wheel. I felt a little better about myself, especially give the cold. "Shaking off the fuzz" is what Brice told me to do, about two dozen times. Good advice; words just cryptic enough.

Brice spent the whole evening pining over the clerk at the local corner store. A women named Connie, who had more gold teeth than teeth made of tooth material. My imagination also gave her prom-style hair-do. With Brice's description of his conversations with her, it's hard to tell whether it was playful flirting or a game of highstakes roshambo. He had her number, but thought a date would delay his departure. He'd been sucked into Charleston, and had been here two weeks already.

Max, a temporary Luddite, was doing the United States by greyhound. He had a been in town for three weeks, and had a gig dressed as a statue-liberty (photo courtesy of Brice - used without permission). Waving at cars, and then dancing at them, once his shoulder got too fatigued from waving. It was for a local tax-filing company, who paid him under the table. In their enlighten position - taxes are a hassle.

Tomorrow is the day. I'll hit the road for sure. I'm concerned about my wheels. They're the originals, so they're about as old as me. I was thinking about switching them up, but I like the cog-set it's got a great granny gear on. The hub is a screw on, not a cassette (if I've got my lingo right.)

Charleston

The trip started okay. I got to Charleston successfully, less trouble than I thought. I passed through Washington during the inauguration; people waiting for their flights broke into applause as the swearing in was shown on the televisions. But, once I got to Charleston I had some trouble. My tires were low on air. I had some trouble pumping them up. I was using the ol' feel test, because I don't have a pressure gage. The marathon tires are a lot stiffer than what I'm used to and so they were grossly under-inflated as I started out. I dropped by a gas station and bought a pressure gage, but I didn't trust it because it maxed-out at 100psi. Anyway the vigorous pumping to get up to pressure with the short handle pump tore the valve from the tube. I was rough, but it must of been old too. I had trouble getting the tire off to replace the tube, my fingers were numb with cold and I broke one of my two tire levers
I gave-up and got a cheap motel room near by. It was getting late anyways. With warm finger, two tent pegs and my remaining tire lever, the tire came off easily. I switched up the tube.

In addition to the tire, on my way to the motel my handle-bar bag fell off. The mount to the handle bas is heavy metal, but the attachment to the bag was weak. This failure is not result of spend thrifty-ness, because I did spend some money on the bag.

The motel wasn't too bad, and there was a classic greasy-spoon next door, where the three-patty burger was cheaper than the two-patty burger. There were firemen there, and the waitress alternated between calling me, baby, honey and sir. True greasy-spoons are now extinct in Canada, as the non-smoking laws remove that haze of authenticity.

Today, I rode to the hostel I was planning on staying at the first night. And in staying with the theme of bad luck, it didn't open until 5pm.

I rode around and found a bike shop. I asked if they could keep my stuff for a bit. Letting me off to explore. I dropped by a hardware store and picked up some hardware for reattaching the handlebar bag - that was easy enough. I grabbed a pretty amazing lunch at small cafe. Left my camera with my bike, so I didn't get any photos of the city.

I'm at the hostel now. I head out tomorrow.

Obama's inauguration

I'm going to try and write something everyday (and include a photo). I think it'll be good for me.

I packed today, and am leaving tomorrow. My flight connects through Washington, DC, and I am concerned about delays due to increased security. While my connection is brief, I will be there, and now can forever mention off-handly, "Oh, yeah, you know I was in Washington for Obama's inauguration." I'm going try extra hard to have fun while waiting for my connection, so I can tack on a, "Yeah, Washington was a blast, I had a great time," and be able to say it with the conviction that only comes with telling the truth. The trick, however, will be avoiding follow-up questions.

equipment

I'm riding a 60 cm Norco Monterez...I think...I've got trouble figuring out exactly what the decal says on the side. I do have on good authority that it cost about $600 some twenty years ago. I bought it for $200 in the summer. A good price in terms of dollars and therefore in terms of peace of mind. Bertrand Russell says 'It is preoccupation with possessions, more than anything else, that prevents us from living freely and nobly.' The more expensive a thing is, the more preoccupied you are with it. In short, I interpret Russell on a sliding scale, and the cheaper things are the freer and nobler you can get with them. Although you can only get so free and noble when buying a bicycle for a tour.

I ying-yanged between Russell-esq princple and common sense when getting the rest of my gear. I bought Schwalbe Marathon plus tires. I went into First Cycle works in London, Ontario, (the only great bike shop in London) and asked for invincible tires, and this is what they gave me. The set I had on my bike were the originals, and they were sore.

I bought front and back racks. The bike was not really designed to carry racks, and they've been professionally jerry-rigged.

I have a MSR whisperlite. I bought it a couple of years ago, and got the standard one instead of the international one. I think the standard is $10 cheaper or something. I'm regretting that savings now. The international is more versatile, and is able to burn kerosene. I'd like to burn kerosene. I'm also bringing a small wok; I want to be able to cook well on the road.

I don't have a tent. I've got a Hennessey Hammock. Which weighs something like 2 lbs. I think a pair of jeans weighs more. But, those savings are lost on the fact that since I've chosen a hammock, I'm afraid of getting too cold and so am bringing a minus 12 sleeping bag. I think I'm going to bring my standard minus 5 bag aswell; it packs smaller. I'll send one back depending on how I feel.

Exhaustion and Fulfillment: The Ascetic on a Bicycle.

So, this fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants operation has finally looked at a couple maps. It actually doesn't look like I'm biking a very great distance. What I thought was going to take three weeks is probably only going to take ten days, if that. Well, it gives me something to think about. Probably, I'll have to go to Mexico.

On another note, as I embark on one trip, I start looking forward to the next. I want to do some paddling, and have been dreaming of Nahanni national park. It's the park made famous by Trudeau's beard. He grew the beard while on a canoe trip in the park and wore it back to parliament with him. It was a sensation.

I was doing a little research on the subject of Trudeau's canoe trips and found an essay written by him called "Exhaustion and Fulfillment: The Ascetic in a Canoe." I read the essay looking to be inspired on my upcoming trip, but what I found...well...

I'll quote the passage.
"Travel a thousand miles by train and you are a brute; pedal five hundred on a bicycle and you remain basically a bourgeois; paddle a hundred in a canoe and you are already a child of nature."

So, to summarize. I am a brute because I like the train, and I am also "basically" a bourgeois. A basically bourgeois brute.


[fact check: I don't really know if Trudeau grew his beard on his trip through Nahanni. That part about it being a 'sensation' might also not be factually correct.]

booked (take two)

I cancelled my train ticket and booked a plane ticket through Air Canada. It costs about the same as taking the train when you factor in the bike check fee.

Air Canada has a bad reputation. And their website did reject my reservation and still charged my credit card. But the people I spoke to on the phone were more than cordial, and due to necessity gave me a complimentary upgrade. I thought that was nice. I'm dreaming of the amenities that will accompany the upgrade - probably an extra moist towelette.

The fifty dollar bike check fee seems expensive when compared with Westjet, who charge you nothing. But, looked at from the perspective of an United passenger who has to pay $175 to take a bike on a plane, it's okay.

bike check

So, the plan was to take the train to Montreal. Maybe relax there for a day, maybe not. Then take the train to New York, stay the night or more. And finally take the train to South Carolina - an exact location wasn't important to me. I had booked the first leg of the trip on Via Rail. I got a bedroom to Montreal for a steal at $114 - using a late train credit.

The Montreal to New York train is operated by Amtrek, and so I gave them a call to see if checked baggage can be left with them over night in New York, and discovered there is no checked baggage on the Montreal train. And on further inquiry found there is no way of transporting my bike from Montreal to New York by train. Making my life difficult.

I have explored other options. Ideally I would like to ship my bike. But, you can't ship by bus across the border. I talked to Fedex and UPS, but I was provided with an estimate of $200 and potentially 10 days for delivery. Plus, I was warned customs might not be too nice to it. I was looking forward to shipping the bike from the get go; thinking after taking the train to Montreal I could rideshare or whatever down south - but there is no way to make this happen.

I can take the bus from Montreal to New York and accompany my bike across the border. It'll be 12 hours of pain. Plus, I'll need to get from the train station to the bus station in Montreal, and back to the train station in New York. Which will be difficult with a large bike box. I'm thinking it won't fit too well in a cab. I could take the bus all the way from Montreal to Charleston, but it'll be 36 hours or something obscene like that.

I can fly. The Air Canada flight to Charleston on Jan 15th my departure date is $1000. Four days later its $200.

The other option is to fly Westjet. While they don't fly to South Carolina, they do fly to Florida. So, I could just go there. They don't charge you anything to bring a bike along. But, this is less than ideal: I want to get warmer as I go, not colder.

Booked

For the longest time it seemed the closer I got to my trip the further it moved away from me.  Always at my finger tips as I reached for it.  Well no more.  I've bought my train ticket.  The departure date is firm.

I played around with the idea of flying during the last few days, more than I have in the past.  I think on paper the cost would be about equal, but the flexibility of the train is undeniable.  I can chose on a whim where I want to be deposited.

The train is travelling; flying is just getting somewhere.

snowshoeing

How quickly things change. The weather has gone from green grass to blowing snow in a day. I jogged up here yesterday and was in water above my ankles; in warmer weather it's difficult to tell whether you're following a stream bed or an old road. In this photo we've ventured off the wider path to a cut that seems to follow a compass transect or a property demarcation. The wind has wallpapered the trees and their branches with snow.