A Day at the Beach

We had a tough week. 

So this weekend, we stayed on the beach.

OK, we live on the beach.  We just never go there. 

Around here, when you say you "live on the beach", it doesn't mean you actually live on the fifty foot sandy strip between A1A and the Atlantic Ocean.  It means you live somewhere on the hundreds of miles of long skinny barrier islands that stretch from Miami to Georgia and beyond.

So, that's still a fairly good ranging distance, even if you decide to stay "on the beach" all day long.

It's amazing how much time can be sucked away in discussion of the proposed new house and it's design details.  In order to make sure the furniture will fit in the cost conscious spaces, we had a little arts and crafts project going on Sunday morning.  Cutting out little squares to scale of the furniture, and laying them out on the architect's latest rendition, took up most of the morning.  But hey, it was kind of fun, in a 1st grade sort of way.  And what a relief to find that it all fits.

Enough, already.  Morning's gone.  Time to get outdoors! 

Heading down to drag out the kayaks, we notice a visitor. 

Don't let anyone tell you that manatees are slow.  They may not be fast enough to escape a speedboat, but they sure can boogie once the camera comes out.  This one gave a last big tug at the vines, and in a wink, slid gracefully under the dock to munch in private.

I am sure the neighbors think it's very lazy of us, letting the dune sunflowers grow crazy, down over the seawall like that.  But truthfully, we are the only house on our watery little cul de sac that provides snacks for manatees, and I just can't see any good reason to change that.  Swirls arc from under the dock in manatee agreement.


Two hours of afternoon paddling in a stiff wind from the south is a good indicator of which way to head first when it comes to the evening bike ride.  On the hardtails, never leaving the beach all day doesn't restrict your distance, only your direction.  Today it's an easy choice. 

Head south first!  Save the downwind leg for last.

One of my favorite blogs is FatCyclist.com.  Fatty is one blogger with about a million notions to make you think.  Like - what would you rather have?  One hundred, $75 Wal-Mart bikes?  Or one, $7500 bike?  As of this morning, he had 117 comments.

My favorite response answers Fatty's follow-up question;

What is a $75 bike suitable for?

Comment by Tommy F

09.24.2010
8:37 am


"A $75 bike could be immensely fun, depending upon the situation…as in the “Hold my beer, watch this” kind of scenario as long as you are the spectator and not the performer."


Actually I thought maybe I'd send Fatty a photo. Nothing as immensely fun as "Hold my beer, watch this!",  just something we saw on the Sunday-stay-on-the-beach ride.

OK, I probably would have done something un-artistic,

 like trying to match the turquoise trim on the house.

Seeing as we are the types to let the yard go just for sake of manatee snacking, any effort at groovy, blue, Wal-Mart-yard-art probably isn't going to happen at our house.  But it's still a fine idea for that 6 month old Wal-Mart bike leaning against the neighbor's trash can, don'tcha think? 

Maybe I'll check the house plan for spare wall space.  We will likely miss our bikes hanging behind the couch once we have a garage.

Unexpectedly, right down the street, there is a second manatee sighting, this time as a blur from the bike, as we roll by the culvert east of the marina.  Again, the notion that manatees are slow movers seems ludicrous.  Rolling, gray skinned water-elephants, these two churn the surface of the ample canal.   Maybe their motions appear so captivatingly rapid because they displace about a half ton of water each with the merest undulation of those fan shaped tails?

We haven't brought lights.  It seems far too bright out to have reached the turn-around time on our upwind climb so soon!  

Pedaling east, it's only a few blocks to the boardwalk to check out the waves before the downwind descent.

The downwind sleigh ride is fast.  We get home with time for a dock drink or two. 

It's been the weekend of no intensity, and just what the doctor ordered.

Today is the second day "on the beach" for me, the first day of my once-every-two-years vacation.  I am wondering if we tied up the kayaks well enough on Sunday.  Maybe when this lets up, I'll go out and check.

Typical vacation weather!

Mother Nature sure is somethin'. 

She must have heard us mention camping.

We don't need no stinkin' mountains! Wekiwa Springs State Park

It's windy today, the first day of fall. 

Way offshore Hurricane Igor is pestering Bermuda.  Here, there is bright blue sky and big waves at the beach.

I am reminded of a tee shirt I bought on the last day we rode at Reddick.  It read:  "We don't need no stinkin' mountains!" on one side, and "Ride Florida!" on the other.  And in that time, a time before it seems we all lost so much, not the least of which was Reddick itself, it was true.

We had Reddick.  Who needed mountains?


The wind is out of the NE today.  The windows are wide open for the first time since May.  It's still warm, probably 80.  But the breeze and lack of humidity make it fine weather, both inside and out.


Today's wind is a reminder.  It's possible to invite a little oomph into flat coastal riding.  Upwind is like uphill, a hill without a top.  Go "up" as long as you can stand it.  Turn around and go "down".  Summer wind is from the East.  To go "up" from here, you'd have to paddle, not pedal.  But today it's got some north to it and it feels like fall.  Upwind opportunities are on their way.


Yesterday, our original plan was to drive to Lake Okeechobee and check out just how rough the "rough section" actually is.  We got up late and I went though my mental list of what else might be a different sort of workout.  Or at least a workout with different scenery.  And closer.  


So, instead of another Sunday at the Econ, we loaded up the bikes and headed for Wekiwa Springs, an oasis of clear, cold water in the midst of Orlando's suburban sprawl.  

Wekiwa Springs State Park is less than 5 miles from I-4 and the Altamonte Mall. The neighborhoods are pretty, with big trees that we don't see on the beach.  The river is pristine looking and so is the spring, in spite of being filled with humans of all shapes and sizes.


The line is long at the canoe rental.  Duh.  Beautiful Sunday afternoon.  A State Park literally surrounded by a major city.


So once again saved by the bikes, we change to bike shorts, fill camelbaks, and set out to find the trails. 


At pavement's end there is a kiosk with trail maps.  Even though Popeye has one, I take another for myself.  When separated, we often make totally different choices.  He is a straight line sort of guy.  I am a road less travelled type, frequently sidetracked into exploring shady winding paths to nowhere.

The trails weren't much.  At least they didn't start out that way.  The first couple miles of multi-use double track, riddled with horseshoe digs, didn't impress me much. 


Suddenly, a buck with a full rack of antlers careens around a bend and straight at Popeye.  At the very last moment the buck turns, leaping over the bushes to one side.  We hear him crashing through the brush, as he disappears toward the woods. 

Later Popeye said that, just for a second, it was as if the buck were charging him.  But moments later some hikers come ambling around the same bend, proving that the panicked deer was fleeing not charging.  Whew, no rabid deer at Wekiwa! 


We ride on the grassy edges whenever we can to avoid the sandy track.  I was ready to go wait in the canoe line.  But Popeye wasn't willing to turn back just yet. 


We cut over to check out the hiking trails, maybe find the river.  Huge eroded tree roots and alligator dung tell us we are close.  A low tunnel of shade leads to a 20 foot expanse of lily pads and a ten foot wide swath of clear beautiful slow flowing river. 


Even here, five miles from the pavement, there are people.  A towel hangs from a tree.  A minute later, a couple wades, waist deep, into view from upstream.  I wonder if they noticed the alligator dung, as I step over it on the way back out to the bike trail.


Now, an expert blogger/biker would have taken pictures.  I did have the means - right in my jersey pocket - but I was busy just trying to pedal. 


At the north end of the park, the trail turns back west and south.


Suddenly the bike trail veers off the doubletrack.  Red blaze marks lead through stands of tall pines.  Two sinkholes, a mile apart, and old enough to have half size trees growing in them, add depth, and character, to the forest. The sand is gone.  Single track, hard packed and covered with pine needles, changes the grinding laborious character of the ride to pure pleasure. 

I feel like I am flying.


The trail takes a turn into open meadows with deep green woodsy edges.  The view is unexpected, almost Appalachian; deer, a tiny brook.  A white farm house (or so I imagine it to be) graces the far side of a sloping meadow; a meadow in a green so pale, it appears misty.


It is beautiful.


The springs call to us as we ride up to the car with fourteen miles, and we head to the bath house to change.  So anxious am I to get into the water, I forget about the camera yet again. 


It's late afternoon.  The crowd has thinned out.  I get down the stairs stepping carefully over the one huddled child hanging onto the rail at the waterline.  The water is pale glass blue, clear, inviting.  Every pebble on the bottom looks close, about as far away as my arm is long.  I step off.  It's deep!  And COLD!!!! 


And yes, the cold is refreshing - for about 90 seconds.  

Then it is just plain COLD.  My teeth haven't chattered this much since...  Ok, since the Tour de Felasco, almost 3 years ago.


Only after we are dressed and nearly to the top of the hill and the parking lot, do I remember. 

I have a camera.

Wekiwa Springs 

So, next time you are stuck in the heat on I-4, pull off one exit after the mall, and dive into an oasis of old time Florida right there in the suburbs.

Watch out for gators in the river, and bucks on the trails. 

And mall sprawl on the way home. 

You could end up with a new blu-ray player from Best Buy.  

You know.  Since you're right there in town...

8 Hours of Labor. It's not for babies.

This past Friday, Simon La Grif was back in my head, as we returned to Clermont for the boys to ride a final long hill workout before some of them head up to Six Gap. 

On my own again, I was determined this time to reach the far end of that easy-peasy, sissy-ride, the West Orange Trail. 

It turned out to be 60 miles, out and back, from Clermont.  

The Cakery was closed.  The ponies weren't out.  It was hot.  I should have drank more on the way east.  I should have stopped for water sooner.  I should not have depended on outside sources for sustenance... 

blah blah blah wah wah wah.  

Whatever.

But, because I didn't drink up sooner, and therefore didn't stop for a refill sooner, it did make for a bit of a pickle at the far end. 

I didn't think a thing about it, as I wove between the 2 police cars parked across the sidewalk at the bike shop in Apopka, on my quest for trails end.  Cops love bikes. And cops feel privileged.  So, of course, they are just as liable as not, to block everyone else's way if it saves them a step or two. 

I decided I'd stop at the water fountain with my baggies of Gatorade and protein powder on the way back, when the place was less crowded. 

The End could not be far now. 

But this trail just didn't want to end.  And, it had turned from isolated shady bike path into wide sidewalk along a highway.  I began calculating my turn around time, and the number of Gu's I had left. 

The inner coach, always pushing, decides the maximum possible turn around time is 10:10am, 2 hours and twenty minutes from my start time. 

My inner wimp pipes up.  Or thirty miles, whichever comes first.

And the inner coach wins.  By a minute.

Finally!

Standing exactly in front of the sign, it is exactly thirty miles.

Whew.  I can turn back now.  Even the Coach agrees.

OK, so I was wrong. 

The cops weren't just being lazy. 

Some clever burglars at the bike shop in Apopka had cut the electricity the night before.  That shut off the alarms.  

And the water fountain.

So, the refill got put off for a few extra miles. 

The easy ride suddenly became a hot ride.  A tough ride.   Red-lined.  Hamstring cramps.  Headache.

Bonk.

Which made last weekend, Labor Day weekend, a piece of cake compared to Friday's ride of the West Orange Trail! 
   

8 Hours of Labor.  Sounds tough, huh?

But on the side of cake: 

The race runs from 10am to 6pm.  No alarm clock.  No lights to charge.  We like that!

The race course is a ten mile loop.  Set up camp near the chute, and stop at your own cooler for your own drinks (and sushi rice bars) every hour.  I could sit in my lawn chair after ten miles.  I could even stay in my lawn chair if I wanted to. 

Off road biking is fun.  San Felasco is fun. 

(Simon LaGrif is not in attendance.)

But that name.  Maybe if this annual mountain bike endurance race were called the "8 Hours of Riding Around in Circles Until Your Hamstrings Cramp and You Want to Throw Up"....  Nah, that would only make it even more popular, given the sort of people that are attracted to endurance races.

But I guess the organizers had to work in the fact that it's held on Labor Day weekend, so they went with the slightly wussier, "8 Hours of Labor". 

I always thought that endurance mtn bike events were usually team events.  I thought that solo riders were the minority.

On a team, members spell each other riding a ten mile loop.  The winner is the team coming in first with the most loops when the time is up.  

Solo riders ride the ten mile loop.  Then they ride it again.  Then they ride it again. Then they ride it again... 

So, I thought I'd be all special and sign up solo.

But, I guess a short endurance event like an 8-Hour (as opposed to a 12-Hour or a 24-Hour), draws the solo crowd, and one would assume, the beginners, since it's, well, short. 

According to the list posted on the side of the Goneriding trailer, there were:

32 two-person teams
27 three-person teams
7 kids (who rode The 8 Minutes of Labor, most with parents panting alongside)
64 solo riders, 5 of them women. 

(Look Ma - I'm in the top five already!  If they do gender divisions, that is.  I don't ask.  I don't care.  For fifty bucks I get to ride all day at San Felasco. Ya-hoo!)

Note to self:  When you decide to go up to Gainesville for a relaxing day before the race, check on the Gator game times.

Bail from the turnpike.  

Rural Florida is interesting when you spend all your days in a cement suburbia, but it can take for-f***ing-ever!

We finally arrived at San Felasco just in time for the 5 o'clock sign up.   

"What's your Team Name?", asked Terri as I made out the check for the entry fee. 

I'm solo. 

"Sure, but you still get to have a team name." 

Popeye has no hesitation.  Team Popeye! 

OK, Team Mile High for me, then.  A good abbreviatable hash name really comes in handy sometimes.  (Oops.  I suddenly remember I never wrote the other hasher who had indicated he was also going to race.  Sorry about that!)

The ten mile course was marked and we were welcome to pre-ride.  As if we wouldn't get plenty of riding in on the next day! 

I guess Popeye need to blow off some steam from all those hours trapped in the car.  I was pretty sure a loop the night before would take away a loop for me the next day, energy wise. 

But one step out of the car into the wall of gnats and mosquitoes was very convincing.  Better to keep moving than to stay put! 

So, on go the spare (dry) shorts I was saving for the 2nd half of the race, and off we went around the loop in gathering gloom.  

3 stops to admire deer.  Does, a buck, and one little guy barely older than a fawn were the pleasant surprises. 

And  one unpleasant surprise; my rear brake, working last weekend at the Econ, chose to fail completely this week at the race venue.

That's OK, says Popeye, Krafty can bring the bleed kit tomorrow.  We'll take care of it.  Easy for him to say with working brakes on the windy woodsy dim trails in gathering gloom.

Krafty called.  He didn't sound so good.  But, even though his bronchitis was hanging on, he planned to be there in the morning.

In the morning, when he called, he sounded even worse.  No one blamed him for being a no-show.

Missing out on Krafty's company was one thing.  Missing out on a rear brake was another!  There was no one at this race who had a bleed kit.  We know, because we asked everyone at this race. 

Back at Camp Pop-High, creeping up on start time, I had a decision to make.  Ride without a rear brake or don't ride at all. 

Maybe you ride hills all the time.  Maybe you use your front brakes all the time.  We ride the Econ.  I have barely touched my front brakes since I got this bike.  Just one face plant from too much pressure to the front brake can ruin your day.  I know.  I have ruined days before. 

At least no one else would be affected if I rode or not.
   

All set up, and relaxing at Camp Pop-High before the 10am start.

On either side of our camp, the neighbors are setting up.  Team Dragon has citronella candles.  Polka Dot Man, a solo rider who makes his own cyclocross suits, has a generator and a huge fan, so his mom can sit in comfort between handoffs.

A fan?   Darn.  Wish I'd thought of that.

But truthfully, I am more impressed by the home-made suit.

Standing still is torture.  The gnats are thick.  They are in my eyes, flying up my nose. They are very convincing.  I am inspired to motion.  I can ride one loop without having to worry about getting passed at least, and see how it goes from there.  

One loop.  One crash.  No blood.  Only a couple times overshooting into the bushes.  Not so bad.  I am encouraged. 

I wind slowly along, playing the tricky front brake, afraid to take on much speed.  One more loop - just to see how angry the fast guys will get when they have to pass on the narrow singletrack. 

Loop Two.  Crash Free!  Finally getting the hang of the touchy front brake.  Passing riders are surprisingly nice.

Loop Three.  Another crash.  The canvas bike sandals are soaked and stretching.  Unclipping is slow and takes almost a 90 degree twist of the knee.  Popeye comes by me.  My left hamstring fires a couple warning shots.  Gotta remember to eat next time through camp.  And change into actual shoes.  OK, sigh.  And socks.  Geesh.

One Endurolyte capsule, a Sushi rice bar, a V8, and a couple olives, up the electrolytes.  The salt tastes wonderful.  I sit a few minutes. 

And suddenly I feel wonderful. 

Except for the gnats.  Any thought of quitting for the day and sitting still is completely erased.  I go into the car and dig out the contact solution to rinse them from my eyes.

Loop Four.  Feeling good!  Glad I came to San Felasco!  Look at the time.  I can't believe it.  The day is nearly over.  Polka Dot Man passes for the third time.

Loop Five. Slow and careful.  Baby the hamstrings.  Doesn't look like I will make the 7 hour, 15 minute, cut off for going back out on another loop.

And I don't.  7 hours and 22 minutes after start, I have completed only five, ten-mile loops.  It's a little embarrassing.  But hey, no brakes, best excuse I've had at a race all year.

Popeye comes in from his 8th loop a few minutes after me, so he is done at 80 miles.  

Our neighbor,  Polka Dot man, is the overall winner with nine loops. 

Popeye is 7th. 

I am, uhh, not last.  Actually, since they do a women's division after all, I am technically fourth, only one off the podium.  

8 hours of Labor.  50 miles.  Two blood-free crashes.  One eight hour layer of excellent off-road dirt.

And fifty million gnats.

Why couldn't the West Orange Trail be that easy?

Black Forest Cake with 7 Minute Frosting

When I am home alone, lunch is usually leftovers.  Today there is salad, with grilled chicken from last night - and leftover cake.

Lunch in reverse!

Surely, there will be room for salad later.

We do love our birthdays! 

Every fifth year you age up for XTerra.  That's a good thing. 

And even better, there's a built in family activity. 

A challenge. 

Bake the best, special request, chocolate cake ever! 

But, no matter what kind of cake is underneath it all, every September Popeye always asks for his childhood favorite, 7 Minute Frosting. 

Mmmm, 7 Minute Frosting....  

My Mom made it for my birthday one year and I never forgot it. 

I'm not sure where Mom's recipe came from - Betty Crocker, Fanny Farmer, or Alice-next-door - but I got mine from the best ever research professional, my friend Merry Ann. 

As the owner of a collection of classic cookbooks, Merry Ann is my automatic go-to on all nostalgic recipes.  And just in case you are wondering, she is indeed married to The Professor.  And yes, they do live on a tropical island.  This 7 Minute recipe is one she found in Fanny Farmer's Cookbook.

Popeye's Special Request for 2010
Black Forest Cake with 7 Minute Frosting 

First the cherry filling. 

(I would have tried using fresh cherries if I hadn't pigged the last of them on Thursday while Popeye was in DC...  Oh well.)

But canned is fine - and easy!

Filling:

2 cans of cherries in their juice.
1/2 cup sugar
4 tablespoons cornstarch

Drain the juice and put it in a saucepan with the sugar and cornstarch.  Cook on medium, stirring constantly, until the mixtuire thickens.  Take it off the stove, stir in the cherries, and let it cool while you put the cake together.

Make your favorite chocolate cake recipe. 

Don't have one?  OK, you can use my new favorite then, kind of a cross between the old Chocolatetown Special and page 192 of this September's Cooking Light.

Best Ever Chocolate Cake

Stir together in a large bowl:

1 and 3/4 c. flour
2 cups sugar
3/4 cup unsweetened Hershey's Cocoa powder
2 tsp baking soda
1 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp salt

In your mixer bowl, whisk together:

2 cups skim milk
4 tsp apple cider vinegar (this makes the milk into buttermilk)
1/4 cup light olive oil (or any very mild flavored oil)
1 tsp vanilla
2 eggs

Put the dry ingredients in with the wet, and mix on low just until well-blended.  The batter will be thin.

Using a little more oil, coat 2 (9" round) cake pans. 

Bake at 350 degrees for 40 minutes - test for doneness.  Let cool for a few minutes then remove them from the pans.  Cool completely, on a rack.

Once the filling has cooled and the cake layers are cool, it's time for Popeye's special request, the frosting.  

If you are a Cool Whip fan, and the cake is all for you, go no further!  Slap this cake together right now and enjoy. 

But before you pry the lid off that plastic container, consider...

It's only 7 minutes. 

Who knows?  In 7 short minutes, you might just be creating a memory to last 40 years!

7 Minute Frosting

(You are going to need a double boiler and a hand held electric beater for this one.  If you have a couple pans that fit inside each other, it might be worth a shot too.  Otherwise go out and buy a DB while the cake is cooling.  OK, so you'll be up from 7 minutes to an extra hour to make your 40 year memory cake, but trust me.  You will be so happy you did!)

Mix well in the top pan of your double boiler:

2 egg whites

1 and 1/2 cups white sugar

1/4 tsp. Cream of Tarter

1/8 tsp salt

1/4 cup water

Have your bottle of vanilla and a teaspoon out and ready.

Get the water boiling in the bottom pan, put the pan with the egg white mixture on top and plug in the electric mixer.

Set your timer for 7 minutes.

I won't lie.  This is a real test of stamina. 

Well, maybe not a real test.  More like, a pop quiz.  Mom did it, hand cranking an egg beater.  

Beat constantly with the electric beater while it cooks - for 7 minutes - or until the frosting stands in peaks when you lift the beater up.

Remove from heat.  Stir in 1 tsp vanilla.

This supposedly fills and frosts a 2 layer, nine inch cake.  

It never seems to have quite the coverage promised.  

(I expect however, if you are the sort of person who can resist a sample spoonful - or two - right out of the pan, or if you don't mind your frosting less than an inch deep, it will do nicely.)

Assemble the cake:

Put one layer on a plate. 

Spoon half the Cherry Mixture on top, leaving about an inch border around the edges.

Spread a third of the frosting on top of the cherries.

Put the second layer on top of that.  Spoon on the rest of the cherries, and then the rest of the frosting.

 

And if you can't eat it all?

Tomorrow is another day...

Believe me.  Your salad will wait.

The Wrath of Simon LaGrif

There is no finer weather on the east coast of Florida than when a hurricane passes off shore. 

Big Earl is out there right now. 

Here, the sky is clear, the breezes have gentled right down, and the surf...  

The surf is up, up, up.  

For the last few days, waves pounding our beach a mile away out-boom the traffic on A1A.

There's something about seeing all that crashing raw power in action that lures even the folks who ignore the beach all year long to stop by for a look. 

The bar at Dos Amigos was nearly empty the other night.

One of our new favorites. 

Yes, that's an "umbrella" of surfboards overhead.

But there was a pretty good crowd when we took a stroll across the road after dinner. 

We just went to take a peek and check out the surf, but the sight of two lines of people standing in the sand, staring at their toes (what the?) drew us down to the water to see what was up.

Baby turtles! 

Oblivious to the human gauntlet of toes, the tiny turtles emerge from the sand at the dune line and make straight and fast for the water.  They hit the waves running hard, sail back and forth on the surf just enough times that it makes me seasick to watch, then gone.  Watch where you step!  Here come a few more! 

The dark closes in on the last few stragglers, and it's over.  The dozen or so people wander back to their cars.  We walk, sandy footed in the dark, carrying our shoes, back across A1A. 

I am elated.  

In the thirty years I have lived in Florida, I have never once seen baby turtles running toward the surf - only squashed flat on A1A.

As a frequently distracted human, it's sometimes difficult to maintain a turtle's single minded focus for going the distance, ignoring the obstacles, finishing the course. 

But as Coach Griffin (Simon LaGrif to us swim team members at Weedsport High) used to say, "You can always do more than you think you can." 

And then he would blow that whistle of his until the shriek bounced off the dripping ceiling, echoed off the walls, and barged it's way into your water logged brain.  And you swam until you either drowned or proved him right.  

Miraculously, hours later, when you had survived yet another killer practice, you somehow owned a new conviction to last the rest of your life. 

Simon LaGrif was right.  We can always do more than we think we can.  Every last one of us.  Even me.

The other day I copped out on a proposed seventy mile course of Sugarloaf repeats with Popeye and his roadie friends, and took along the cushy mtn bike instead. 

Riding Killer is always more attractive to me than the Madone.  And if I am going to be alone off the back of the pack anyway, the shady rail trail from Clermont to Apopka is a lot more appealing than the narrow shoulders and Dodge Rams of the roads around Clermont. 

The only trouble is, the West Orange Trail is not particularly challenging. 

The Trail is shady, no cars, mostly rolling hills, plenty of water stops, even rest rooms(!), and a cute little town with a bakery...

Mmmm, bakery.... 

OK, shake it off!  No bakery!

It's hard to justify mosey'ing along a rail trail when everyone else is sweating it out on hill repeats.  The Simon LaGrif who lives in my head demands that every ride needs a bit of challenge. 

Fortunately (for me, not so much Popeye) a 2 o'clock meeting popped up on Popeye's crazy work schedule, even though it was his day off. 

Suddenly given a deadline for our respective rides, I was off the hook of guilt for not slogging around in the sun on the road bike. 

We agreed to be back at the park in Clermont, showered, dressed, and ready to depart for home in the Elephant - before 11:30am.

So I had my challenge.  Out and back to the end, 54 miles, fat tires, 3 and a half hours to do it.  Not hard, not easy.  Just a good reason to keep a good pace.  Or suffer the wrath of my inner Coach Griffin if I had to turn around before the end!

I set the timer on Trusty the Timex for a 1 hour and 45 minute turn around time.

I mentally prepare to run the gauntlet of station stops like a baby turtle, to ignore the Cakery, with it's chalkboard menu and shady outdoor tables, and to leave the ostriches along the fence of the wildlife park unphotographed.

Just focus like a hatchling. 

And go!

What sidelined me was the double track.  Two perfect rows of dirt down a shady track to the south. When you're on a full suspension mtn bike, dammit, there's no way you can leave such attractive dirt unexplored in favor of pure pavement.  

A glance to Trusty.  No worries, right on pace, just enough time for a quick look down this road... 

I could have gone a lot farther on that dirt track.  I would have gone farther. 

But what can I say?  I'm a sucker for ponies.

When two adorable ponies abandon their grass green munching and come trotting over to the fence for a pat...   Who am I to just keep riding?  Just one pat. 

Or two. 

I look up at the wicker of a horse.  Several more four legged beauties trot to the fence for pats and praise. 

Woodsy green double track lies in one direction, the remainder of my 54 pavement miles in another. 

I stand astride Killer, my poor man's pony, at a fence in between and pet the warm soft noses of the real thing.

After ten minutes with the ponies, there is new reason to step up the pace. 

I am on a roll! 

I am grateful when a woman pushing her bike says no, she doesn't need help with a flat. 

I blow through winding tunnels of shade, and swoop past the golf course. 

I blow by all the signs saying "You are here!" without a glance. 

I am scooting like a baby turtle, focused entirely on my goal. 

And when I get to Clarcona Horseman's Park and snap this picture, there is ten minutes left to spare before the turn around time.  Yes! 

On rolling out for the return trip, a glance at the computer shows only 23 miles.  Huh?  I return to the sign.  I have reached the end.  The end of a side spur, that is.  

 I not only blew through the whole trail stopping only once for ponies, but I have also blown right by the turn to Apopka.  

There is no time left this day to back track, find the turn, and complete the miles I missed.

OK, maybe if I hadn't left my map print out home on the desk.

Maybe if I had been on skinny tires, or roller blades, I wouldn't have made so many time consuming pony friends.  Maybe if I had followed those other people who knew where they were going...

"Forget that!", yells the Coach, blowing that confounded whistle once again, his signal for a flip turn.  "This workout's not over yet!  One more lap!  Get moving!"  

So I do.

For the record:  Popeye and I arrived simultaneously at 11:15 back in Clermont. 

58 miles of Florida heat, including Sugarloaf  and 3 Buckhill repeats, for him. 

46 miles of rail trail, 1/2 mile of dirt doubletrack, and five ponies patted, for me.

Next time? 

I'll know where I'm going.  Come on along!

Oh.  You don't mind stopping at the Cakery, do you?  Just for a minute.  

I want to snag some sugar cubes for a friend.