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.