Bike Florida - The Forgotten Coast Tour

We did Bike Florida's Forgotten Coast Tour the last week of March, arriving home from Tallahassee that Friday night.  Saturday we went straight back into food and bike prep mode, since Popeye was signed up for the Cross Florida on Sunday. 

Just this once I had tied him for mileage, 332 so far that week.  The next day though, Popeye added 167 more by riding the Cross Florida in 8 hours and ten minutes.  His grand total for the week: 499 miles.

I didn't escape the additional mileage altogether though.  I drove the support vehicle both ways, made sandwiches, handed off bottles.  The next week, I drove a friends car to Colorado.  The day I flew back from Ft Collins, I realized there were only a few short weeks until The Wickham Park Marathon.  So the mileage quest continued, only around and around Wickham Park instead.

Although we did not forget the Forgotten Coast, the sheer mileage of those few weeks had me wondering more than once, where did our spring go? 

Here's how a tiny piece of it went, anyway.

Bike Florida

The Forgotten Coast Tour

Not my idea of fun.

Alarm going off before dawn.  Getting dressed by headlamp.  Packing up in the dark.  The hardest part of the Tour, by far. 

6:30 AM.  Out and shambling about.  There's too much action for me.  Air mattress plugs pop with a whoosh.  Tents collapse on all sides.

The shower truck - a wonderful thing - shines, well lit, from across a field of tents.  Outside sinks with mirrors.  Contacts making actual contact with eyeballs instead of stabbing guesses in the dark.  With sudden clarity I see in the mirror the flash of red blinkies, riders already departing on the dark road behind me.

Back downfield toward the bikes.  There is one more pre-dawn hurdle I am forced to overcome each morning.  And it is the worst one yet.

Gatorade is an essential that we dare not neglect.  Maybe there is a reason that some riders get up at five, even four, in the morning.  By 6:45, I must dip into a huge canister of powder with a scoop that everyone else has already touched and then thrown back into the can.  And although porta potties now come stocked with sanitizer, the thought sits worse than any of the hydrogenated fats offered at breakfast. 

The thought of having no other morning hydration alternative for a week nearly makes me nauseous.   The ever practical Popeye says to get over it.

It's cold.  Popeye and I establish what will become our morning ritual for the week.  We dawdle over hot coffee and do not leave breakfast until we are actually kicked out.  There is no day we do not start dead last.

Of the 500 cyclists on this tour, I am the only one on a full suspension, fat tire, mountain bike.  Some might feel that to be a disadvantage.  I disagree.  Out in front of Killer's big 29r front wheel, I have a secret weapon.  Each morning I sit in behind Popeye's old commuter bike and stick like a tick for a sleigh ride of a day.

Day one.  We are politely asked to leave the breakfast area, so we head, shivering, for our bikes.  They are the only two bikes left.

The St Marks rail trail goes by in a mad blur of passing.  Bike after bike after bike.... and continues on into the Florida countryside. 

The first stop is Wakulla Springs. 

I make straight for the coolers of Gatorade on a table set up under huge oaks, first stepping stealthily behind a tree to dump what I made that morning (and couldn't bring myself to drink).  Selfishly, I reach around behind the coolers and pop the top of one of the huge unopened cans, so that I am the first to dip from it.  I look back over my shoulder to make sure Popeye hasn't seen.

Springs in Florida have more clarity than any water in the world.    So we are delighted to see an old diving platform around the far side, and we run up the stairs to admire the view. 

Right after this moment of hamming for the camera, I look straight down expecting to see clear cold spring water and maybe a fish or two.  What I am not expecting to see so clearly is a skinny dipper. 

Brr!

Another phenomenon, much more common, is the habit of the lunch time nap.  I just don't get why anyone would roust out early enough to ride for an hour in the dark, and then later sleep away an hour (or two) of perfectly good daylight.  But Pie Man swears by it. 

There are some interesting rigs on this Tour.  Every possible form of recumbent, bike decoration, and method of conveying baggage.  

Although there are plenty of what we would consider normal road bikes, and normal road bikers, they seem to just fade into the background.

Here's my favorite.

Tandem recumbent.

She steered.

He played the ukulele.

And sang.

Every day.

All day.

Because our friends leave earlier than we do (everyone leaves earlier than we do), we usually catch up to them at some point during the day.

Frank is the first to flat.  And also the second.  Here I am unintentionally giving him the finger.  As if two flats weren't enough. 

 

Gulf Coast weather in March.  Wow.

From the bridge entering Wewahitchka.

Sunset from Port St. Joe

Port St. Joe again, in daylight.

So, why were we in Port St Joe for dinner and again for lunch the next day?   Because of the mullet. 

After a 71 mile day to Wewahitchka, there is no town.  There is a ball field on which to pitch tents, and some sort of community center building for the indoor campers.  The dinner offering, by a local men's club, is a fish fry.  They are deep-frying mullet tails. The very end, flipper-part of the tails, in fact.  I must have made a face.  One of the men says to me, "Go ahead and help yourself to a beer - right over there in the cooler."  

Popeye and I hang back a bit.  We each have older brothers, after all.  Sure enough.  Soon someone else eagerly grabs the lid off the cooler and reaches for the free beer.

Look out!

It's the old, fake snake tied to the cooler lid trick.

Ok, so redneck humor can be funny - especially when it's someone else's heart attack.  Out of earshot though, I voice what we are all thinking.  Mullet is bait, not food. 

Luckily Popeye, Frank, Michael, and PieMan agree with me, and we hop a bus for the 22 mile ride down to Port St Joe.  It is a school bus, driven wildly by a woman named Josie and we are the only passengers.  

Josie is prone to talking with her hands.  Both hands.  When she imitates the draw bridge by throwing both arms in the air, the bus lurches insanely, sending me scurrying for the exit row.  This is a woman whose day job is driving children to school.  Nonetheless we make it to Port St Joe and have a fantastic Gulf-caught, non-mullet dinner, and get treated to a magnificent sunset.

We have agreed to meet Josie and her school bus back on the corner across the street.  We are there with plenty of time to spare, and wait in the quiet twilight.  And wait.  And wait.  It is full-on dark.  No Josie. 

We discuss the possibility of having crossed into the Central Time zone as a reason for confusion.  Finally we call the ride director.  No, the bus should be there.  But it isn't.

It's one of those adventures that turns out kind of like a shark story.  If you're around to tell it later, it just wasn't that interesting, right?

The next morning, a bit of delay, and a route change for wildfire smoke, has everyone leaving at the same time.  Our time.  9:30.  If only we'd known.  But we had gotten back from our bus adventure too late and never got the word.  So we still got up in the dark.

But the mass start does put us up front with the roadies for once.

Popeye, on his old beater mountain bike, pounces on the tail end of the line to chase, and I glom on behind him. 

We get a few looks.  I hear someone mumble, "Nice mountain bike, lady."  But no one tries too hard to shake us.  Most are barely hanging on for themselves.  

I am tense - pacelining with 20 or more strangers - but I manage to remember my rusty road manners. 

We fly toward St Joe. 

When we come to the steep rise of a bridge (in fact the same drawbridge Josie had described for us by flinging her hands in the air the night before), the group slows on the uphill, and me with it.  Popeye glances back at me.  I say, "Aw, just go for it."  And he puts us all behind like he was on his Madone 6.9 and not his old beater with the rack and pack. 

Ah, that was fun.  And amazingly, all was quite friendly after that.  But, new friends or no, I really didn't want to get tangled up in road riding for the rest of the day (or week).  There's so much to see when touring, why spend it staring at someone else's behind?

So, off we go on our own again. 

I love the shoreline cottages.  House colors are on my mind, and the gulf coast sure has some pretty combinations.

Maybe because of the paceline boost, or maybe because of our anti napping policy, but Popeye and I are among the first to arrive in Apalachicola. 

Our luggage has arrived, but our tent isn't up yet.

Under the Apalachicola bridge.

Padre's guys are on it.

Only fifty or so tents to go.  Plus canopy.  And luggage delivery.

Have I mentioned Padres tent service?  OMG!  Awesome!  

Rent a tent from Padre.  Do not hesitate.  Do not ask how much.  Just do it. 

Not only is your tent set up when you get there, but your bags have been placed inside, and your air mattress is pumped to your softness/firmness preference.  The guys also set up a canopy, chairs, and a table with snacks and icy drinks at the end of each day's ride.  

This is livin'.  Every day, we relax in the shade within minutes of finishing, instead of struggling with luggage and tent set up. 

Every day except Apalachicola, that is.  But it's easy to spot our bags in the pile.  We raid them for dry clothes, and head straight downtown to the long row of waterfront restaurants.

Cold beer, and Apalachicola oysters broiled with Parmesan and butter.  After 68 windy miles, only one word comes to mind.  Ahhh.

Just as we return to the tent from our late lunch, Pie Man, Scout, Frank, and Michael arrive, ready for an early dinner.  So we go with them to do it again.  Waterfront.  Beer.  Oysters.   

But with two full meals under our belts on the walk back, the ahhh feeling is a little more like owww.

Maybe someone can remember the name of this restaurant.  I can't.  But I'd go back again  in a heartbeat.

As a matter of fact, I'd do this whole trip again. In a heartbeat.   Mornings and all. 

A long look back at Apalachicola....

Postscript: 
Many people got sick on this trip, from what exactly, we never heard.  But suddenly the sag stops all had manditory hand sanitizer.  (Right next to the Gatorade.)  I never got sick, but it sure made me feel better, just having it there.
Thanks, Bike Florida! 

B2B Swimming from Bridge to Bridge.

July 1st.  7AM.  Eau Gallie boat ramp. 

I take one last look around at the above-surface-level view of the Indian River Lagoon. 

About 4 miles to the south, the Melbourne Causeway looks exactly the same as it always looks from here.  Small and far away.

Popeye, my kayak-sherpa for the day, has already launched.  He waits, floating out beyond the boat ramp ready to drop in beside me once I settle into a pace.

The river, beyond the initial ruffling of 50 swimmers jumping in off two docks, is a glassy calm.  My turn comes.  I step up to the end of the dock.  Whoa, I can see bottom.  I hesitate.

A woman right behind me looks over my shoulder, "How deep is it?"

"I don't know," I say.  "But the guy ahead of me just jumped right in."

"I wouldn't do something just because a guy did it," she says.

Hmm, she has a point.  I look around at her.  She also has fins.  She is obviously smarter than me.  So I sit down and jump shallow.  The water looks about four feet.

I go straight down, over my head, and never even touch.  Every pebble is clear on the bottom.  Wow.  This is going to be one glorious day.

With ear plugs in, goggles on, and the bright yellow cap from last year's Richmond XTerra, it's all sort of isolating.

My head is wrapped up in a world all it's own, while my arms and legs settle just fine into doing their thing, without any particular direction from me.

Even Popeye, never more than a few yards away, floats on a different plane.  He breathes when he wants, hears what is said, and sees where he's going.  He's up there, being a regular human.  I am down here, one with the glassy surface of this endless water.

So what do you think about, alone in your head, on a 3 hour swim? Your kick?  Carving the perfect S stroke?   Catching up to that woman with the fins?  

Or maybe something more like, "Oh god, when is this going to be over?"

Nah.  Not really.

Thoughts float by at the same leisurely pace as my swim.

I think of...
Pancakes.  
Scrounging the dresser drawer last night for a swim cap and finding the one from Richmond. 
Scrub Jay.
Trilady.
How we used to give each other mature and friendly advice.
Like "Go soak your head."   
Was it really fifteen years ago, the first time I ever heard of the bridge to bridge swim... 
Is that a jellyfish?
Digging the kayaks out from under 4 feet of dune sunflower growth yesterday - wow that stuff grows fast.  
Am I conceited to assume I can do this when I haven't swam in over a year? 
Am I last? 
Yes.  Yes, I am. 
Oh well.
Pancakes. 
Are they really waiting for everyone at the first sandbar? 
Oh no, I hope not. 
Is Popeye bored? 
Is he mad? 
Why does he keep zig zagging across my line? 
Pancakes. 
Pancakes with syrup.

Back when I lived aboard our first quirky sloop, Corsair, there were plenty of times when I would ask myself, "What am I doing here?"  Mostly in rough seas, with no sleep, while strapped into a safety harness.

On this beautiful Sunday morning, with nothing but the slow lapping of river water sliding by for company, "What am I doing here?" takes on a different tone, more mellow.

I am taking it easy, which is my favorite way to swim.  Better to be cautious and last, than first to the mile mark and bonked.  I haven't trained in forever, and I have never done this distance.

I think of the last time I swam.  Not counting the warm mucky pond crossings of the Tribal Challenge last summer, the last time I really swam was the Richmond XTerra, over a year ago.  Across the James River and back.  As the crow flies, .9 miles.  But then, there's always a little bonus mileage when there's current.

Rocks, banged up knees, curses.  Waves of swimmers, fetching up to wait their turn through passageways of just-deep-enough-to-swim water, backflowing between submerged rocks.  Kayakers screaming at people, whatever it is that kayakers scream.  Tight inside my ear plugs, I have no idea, just follow whenever the gesturing gets really frantic.

There is no taking it easy in Richmond. You have to dig.   Hard.  Scrub Jay is out in it somewhere, and Popeye too, but there is no keeping track of anyone else.  Except maybe the guy with the wide, lashing kick, zig-zagging alongside. 

Last year's swim at Richmond was not the longest, but it was certainly the hardest swim I've ever done.

Now, rocking along in the morning sunshine, I forget I am underwater and smile at how easy I have it.  Salt water flows through my teeth like a baby bull shark.

Which makes me remember to look around for baby bull sharks.

Except for the kayak slapping quietly alongside, I am alone.

We reach the first sandbar.  1.25 miles.  In an embarrassing 50 something minutes.  I remember not to berate myself.  I am not the slightest bit tired.  But that could change.  There's a long way to go.

We stop.  I catch up on my Gatorade intake, eat half a banana.  Popeye jumps out of the boat to cool off. 

I experience just a tiny glimmer of jealousy as I stand up in waist deep water and see the main pack of swimmers churning at least a quarter mile ahead.  I am antsy to get started in after them, but reign it in.  I can wait a few minutes.  It's not a race, I tell myself, for the tenth (or twentieth) time.  I hold the kayak while Popeye gets situated.  We strike out for the second point, which is just under 2 miles away.  My Timex shows 1:03.

Clunk.  I swim into the back of the kayak.  I pull up, surprised.  The sudden stop shoots a cramp from my little toe all the way up through my hamstring.  Hey!

Two hours down.  Two thirds of the way to the 2nd point.  Closer now to the shoreline, I feel a hint of current tugging at me.  Travel over the sandy bottom is slower now, not so easy.

Popeye cuts across my course again.  "You're swimming for Front Street," he says in exasperation.  OK, I am a little off course.

But then I also remember he never had a chance to look at the chart.  He is trying to steer me into the long dock on the point, which from this distance, looks just like the pier at the finish.

I call for a stop and hang on to the back of the kayak where my camelbak is stowed, taking a drink.  So I can't see his expression when I say, "That's not the pier, it's just the second point.  We have to go out around it."  The pier, our destination, is completely out of sight, almost another mile beyond the dock he's been aiming for.

Strangely, the idea doesn't bother me at all, except that in another hour this most pleasant of all swims will be over.  My only concern is that I am testing Popeye's patience.  I am a bit afraid he will say never-again to sherpa duty, and I am already looking forward to next year.

True, I banked a bit of karma driving across the state, handing off food and bottles while he rode the Cross Florida in April.  But he did do me the courtesy of being among the first to finish the 167 miles.  A courtesy I was not returning today.

So, what am I doing here?  Why tackle a distance I've never done with absolute zero training? 

Because I am curious. 

I am not a hundred percent sure I can do this, but I don't think it's impossible. 

The distance intimidates me just enough to drop speed completely out of the equation.  Today, I am putting my faith in a different drug.  LSD.

Long slow distance.  

Just find a pace you can live with and keep going til you get there.  

And if it happens that some pina coladas are left when you do get there, so much the better.

Five strokes, look.  Five strokes, look.  We are suddenly close enough to distinguish cars moving up the bridge, people strolling on the pier.

A few strokes later, I lift my head again and make out the ladder that Rob Downey put down early this morning for everyone to use.  It seems silly to climb all the way up on the pier and wiggle through the railing, but the reason comes clear when the water shoals up suddenly, and it's too shallow to swim any farther.

Popeye says see ya, and paddles on under the pier toward a sandy strip between the rocks, while I climb the ladder.  Wedging myself between the rails at the top shoots a cramp up one leg.  But clumping down the dock, on feet suddenly heavy again after nearly three hours of float time, shakes it out again. 

A few folks, early for church maybe, lean on the rail, chatting.  No one pays the slightest bit of attention to me.  

I turn back for a last look toward the point.  The dock that looks like a pier is completely out of sight. 

Nearly four miles to the north is the Eau Gallie Causeway.   It looks the way it always looks from here.  Small and far away.

I thump barefoot down the long wooden pier, and go looking for Popeye.  The little green park is bustling.  Paddlers pull up their kayaks, loading them on roof racks and pickup trucks.  Swimmers gather to chat.

I do not jump or shout, but inside I allow myself a little jolt of elation.  I may be dead last, but it has gone completely undetected. 

OK, maybe I was a little too cautious.  The "what if" question will be with me, at least until next year.  But for now I have managed to slide right back in among the real swimmers.  I could not have imagined a better finish. 

Until suddenly, somewhere close by, a blender whines, still whirling up pina coladas.