Parmesan crispy. Cheddar crispier.

parmesan

cheddar

Craving salty?  Yeah, me too.

At first I thought of melting some cheese on an English muffin or a slice of rye, but then I thought, why bother with bread?  It's the melted cheese I really want.

First time ever making Parmesan crisps.  Took a couple rounds.  Ran out of Parmesan, used up the cheddar, but I think I got it now.  

If you want real instructions, Barefoot Contessa, Giada, and Epicurious, all have super easy, step by steps to follow.

Basically you melt spoonfuls of grated cheese on a cookie sheet lined with parchment, in a moderate oven, say 375.  At about five minutes, turn on the oven light and keep watch.  Take em out when they reach a color that pleases you. 

Larger shavings piled high, make bigger, chewier clumps.

First attempt. 

What not to do if you want delicate.

 

More delicate shavings, finely grated and spread out a bit, make more delicate crisps.

By the time I got that figured out, the Parm was gone.  But it worked exactly the same with some Cabot Seriously Sharp Cheddar.

For that crisp and salty craving...  perfect.

I am going to have to get out for a ride now.  Otherwise there will be no report on how to store them and how long they keep.  They'll be long gone instead.

Shopping procrastination.

The old washing machine churns away oblivious to its swanky new laundry room. The dryer grumbles along beside it, doing the same old work, no matter the surroundings. 

The new dishwasher is quiet - for a dishwasher. 

No!  Bad kitty.

Pepper runs out of the bedroom and leaps to the kitchen counter (where the crock pot is just starting to work up a sweat).  

The new robot vacuum comes steaming out of the hallway after her and thumps into my chair leg.

The vacuum is named Rover.  I started out calling it Rosie.  Like in the Jetson’s.  But dog like, it always seems to be barging around the house after the cat, no matter where she runs to hide.  

Pepper would normally run outside through her new ChubbyKat door, but the automatic sprinklers are on.  She settles for a watchful crouch behind one of the rickety old bar stools instead.

So, the day's housework progressing nicely, lots of noise and motion. As if the chores are checking themselves off the list. Which, in a way, they are.

The toughest chores on the list have no automatic timers, though. No robotic wheels. No clickers.  No autopilot.  And unfortunately, no check marks either.

Shopping. 

(The heirarchy of Ugh, in geometric progression.)

Food shopping - not so terrible. 
Furniture shopping - could be worse. 
Clothes shopping - OK, it's worse. 

Ugh.  Ugh times Ugh.  Ugh to the power of three.  

I would a thousand times rather write any kind of meaningless essay than go shopping. 

Which explains where I am - typing at the dining room table - instead of searching for a desk/work-table for the newly designated office/sewing/guest room.

If I didn't have my run shoes in the car for a stop at the park on the way home, I am not sure I could convince myself to go at all.

So why the shopping phobia? 

I have no explanation.  Not a good one, anyway.

 I do not like the act of acquiring things.  Even necessary things.

Because if you don't get it just right, then you have not only wasted your money, but you must go back.  And back again.  Until you do get it right.

Too much pressure and no joy.

I already know going in that what I want is impossible to buy. 

Because it doesn't really exist.  

Bike jerseys that fit, and have pockets. Pants that don't have to be taken in at the waist. An old farm table small enough to fit in the guest room, yet big enough to lay out a whole quilt.  And bar stools.  Sleek and modern for me, yet cushy with backs to lean on for Popeye.

So, who cares?  What's the point of writing this?

Shopping procrastination.  Duh.

So...  

Have I mentioned the new (to me) pavement-dirt-beer-taco ride in Sebastian on Friday?  

Or the Malabar Scrub Sanctuary ride on Saturday morning in partnership with the mysterious new BMBA organization? 

Or that there was a full moon hash on Saturday night? 

How about the tiki torches burning bright above pale, white sand under a wide, white moon?  

Have I talked at all about the muddy goo aroma of the car after the Econ on Sunday?

No?

Seriously, I have to get going.

But I'll put off the inevitable a few more minutes and see if there are at least some pictures I can put up.  How's that?  A bit of extra procrastination for me. A few of my lame phone snaps for you.  Sweet deal.  For me, anyway.

 

The new work space-to-be.

Friday night.  Old view.  New dock.

Malabar Sanctuary's Road-to-Nowhere.

Execpt that it does go somewhere.

About 8 miles of decent, twisty, single track - and new bridges.

The local fat tire crowd.

Good turnout.  Probably fifty.

Saturday night.  

The hares setting up tiki torches on the riverbank.

 

Sunday afternoon. 

The Econ has gone down five or six feet since last week.

All trails passable, if a bit sloppy here and there. 

 (The bump on the right end of that log is a baby gator.)

Inspector Gadget.

 

 

 

Popeye, ready to get going.

Is that a glow in the dark necklace still hanging on your seatpost?

 

 

 

Northstar wins the clean up contest.

 Far less muddy than the rest of us,

plus the best pedicure.

 

 

Monday - already?

 

  

 

 

No tubes, no pressure. Econ, Turkey Creek, Wickham, and Econ again.

1999...    The group has gone on ahead.  Semi is waiting for me, the lagger, at the top of a rooty ridge along Turkey Creek.  I get off - again - and push my brand new Klein hardtail up to the spot where he stands over his bike.  He reaches for my front wheel.  

"What?" 

His only answer is to lean down, unscrew the presta valve, and pssst, let a long puff of air out.  Hey!

"There, now maybe you'll be able to stay on your bike."

In all the years since, no one has ever given me a better piece of advice for staying upright on rooty, sandy trails.  Just one little pssst, but what a difference.

Mountain biking for us the last few weeks has been sparse to not at all.  Crazy house project.  So when Northstar got a new 29r a few weeks ago, Popeye and I jumped at the excuse to take time for the Econ.  

We start out on the straight and narrow and proceed to the rooty and twisty. 

Tom in front, Northstar behind him.

Northstar feels as if her new bike should be making a bigger difference over the roots and logs.  "I know 29rs aren't magic or anything," she says, rolling up behind me, "but do you have any advice?" 

Who?  Me?  Advice?   

Besides the flat out surprise at being asked, I just don't have much experience at giving advice.  I am pretty lame at it, in fact.  (I am too busy trying to keep myself on the trail, there's no time to pay attention to anyone else.) 

I just don't know what to say to help her out.  She's been nursing an injury for a month.  But she has been injured before and she knows she's in for a recovery ride.  She's ridden the Econ a thousand times, so the terrain is no surprise either.  What is surprising, at least to me, is that she is not feeling the 29r magic.  How can that be?

Switching to a 29r really is a kind of magic.  It should roll over just about anything you point it at without nearly as much need for the rider to lift the front end up and over.  For those of us with less than Charles Atlas shoulders, it should feel like a vacation.  I just can't immediately think of one single reason why she isn't feeling a big difference from her old 26. 

But suddenly Semi's old bit of Turkey Creek wisdom pops into my otherwise empty brain and I reach out to feel her brand new front tire.  Rock hard.  "Let some air out.  Here, feel your tire, then feel mine." 

Yet another reason to never give advice.  It always backfires somehow.

I reach down and give Killer's rear tire a demonstration squeeze.  Instead of the expected slight give, it practically collapses under my thumb.  Whoops, too low.  Way too low.  (Thanks to Stan's No Tubes it is holding, but sooner or later it will bottom out on a root or a rock and could damage the wheel.)  

My friend gives Killer's tire a (squashy) squeeze for herself. 

"Well, not that low of course, but you get the idea" I say quickly.

Her husband shakes his head as I mumble something about more rubber on the ground.     

The mountain biking part of my brain is apparently as dried up as my Stan's.  We've been so preoccupied with the new house that I have let 6 months go by since re-upping my tire sealant.  Rookie mistake.   How can you tell someone else they are running their air too high, when you are clearly running yours way too low?

I shut up, my credibility blown.  As is my big chance to pass along the best Florida mountain biking advice ever.  

I sigh in resignation, and get out a CO2.  Being tubeless has definite advantages.  A couple of puffs and good to go again.  At least I can catch up quickly and (try to) pretend it never happened.

We have moved.  Hooray!  We are mostly unpacked.  Hooray!  We can go riding again.  Hooray! 

And we do.  Friday night, Saturday morning, and Sunday afternoon.  Three days in a row.  Not bad for a two day weekend.

Thanks to TriLady, I have some practically new tires in reserve. 

Thanks to Popeye's highly developed organizational skills, they were actually easy to locate, even after moving twice in 10 months. 

And thanks to Stan's I can run them with hardly any air.  Because Jolly Jeff Rogers is back from California for a few days, and the old Intersil gang has cooked up a Friday ride at good old rooty, sandy Turkey Creek. 

Just like old times.  Only not.

Once the rough and tumble new trail in town, cut by Semi and friends a dozen (or more) years ago, Turkey Creek now seems a little sissified.  But not for the reasons you'd think.  The big oak and palmetto roots might be a bit worn in places, but there's still plenty of 'em.  And the sand hasn't gone away either.  The trail still alternates from creekline to scrub, technical to boring. 

The sissification of Turkey Creek seemed to happen as we replaced our old bikes over the years.  Without tubes, the guys don't worry about pinch flats any more, and I don't worry about careening off the palmetto roots and into the creek.  Full suspension takes away the old energy suckage of standing up for every bump.  Big wheels roll over most anything you aim them at.

So how do you make the same old haunt of Turkey Creek more exciting?

Ride it when it feels old and haunted.  

After dark.    

I don't get down here often any more.  The dry parts of the loop are still fast and fun.  But there's been a lot of water under the bridge lately.  Literally.  It's the rainy season. 

Plus, I forgot about the new bridge.  

I pull off trail abruptly and let the guys ride by.  One by one they are out of sight as the bridge takes a turn to the left around a big spooky tree.

I stand on the bank.  There is not enough traction in these new tires - or in the world - to get me to ride this long winding bridge through the swamp at night with the rain falling like tiny globs of spit from the sky.

I get off to walk.  The flowing water makes no sound.  Nothing splashes.  No frogs croak.  There is no moon.  The dark is even deeper than the creek.  The water sweeping by just under the long, narrow boards will be leaving it's mark on the trees for tomorrow.  

There could be anything outside the narrow cone of light from my headlamp.  I think about last season's finale of the Walking Dead.

But of course it is the thought of gators that really livens my step.

The guys are waiting up the hill.  "Where were you?" someone asks.  

"Had to stop for a picture," I say, not lying, but not confessing how spooked out I am either.

The rest of the loop goes fast.  I wish we could stay and socialize but Popeye has his way-too-early Palm Bay ride in the morning.  I get up sorta early myself, skip my intended bridge repeats, and ride Killer to the park instead.

Nearly forgot.

They burned Wickham again a couple months ago.

(on behalf of the gopher turtles and scrub jays)

Regrowth happens quickly.

Then back to the Econ on Sunday.  Finally a perfect weekend.  3 perfect rides, and no worries, about shrubs or swales, or builders or  boxes.

Back to the Econ

Turkey Creek is not the only place the water was high.

The high water mark is shoulder height.

See the dried grass and sod wrapped around the tree?

Back home again.  It's Monday.  The new backsplash tile is stacked in the garage and the cabinet guy is on his way over - again.

I am thinking of a quick road ride in the meantime, but the ever organized Popeye has put my road bike in the attic (where, I cannot argue, it belongs).

The sure-footed 29r is the perfect street ride anyway.

I walk out into our clean, new garage and locate the pump.  But before I up the pressure to 30 or so for my pavement ride, I give Killer's front tire a squeeze. 

There is a nice springy feel of "give" under my thumb.  After three trail rides in a row, I know it's just right.  There's really no need to check the gauge. 

(Except that now I am curious about the number, so I do.  It is 15psi, in case you are curious too.)  

But all I really need to know is that low pressure is perfect pressure.  In more ways than one. 

Chocolate Cake with 7 Minute Frosting - Work in Progress

We have finally moved - hooray!

Just in time for Popeye's birthday.

I know, I know, you want to know all about the new house and the move and all that.  Later, OK?  I promise. 

But first, a birthday request has been made for Saturday.

Chocolate Cake with 7 Minute Frosting.

It's a Wednesday.  Which means I am home alone.  And I alone am responsible to see that an experimental amount of this 7 Minute Frosting makes it to the freezer. 

Cake can easily be made ahead and frozen.  As can buttercream frosting.  But I need to see if this Fluff-like, special request frosting can be made ahead of time.  I'm thinking not, but it could pay off to try.  Especially if you have a long list of other things to do on the day of the birthday.   And a lot of unpacking in the meantime.

Before investing 7 minutes, the unpacking must continue until the double boiler can be found.  I have never attempted to make 7 Minute Frosting without a double boiler and do not wish to start now. 

Fortunately Popeye (a Virgo, duh) is of a meticulous nature.  He has already sorted his boxes into his pile, and my boxes into my pile.  So I have my share of the unpacking all in one spot.  Unfortunately, any dawdling really shows when your pile - right in the middle of the dining area - isn't dwindling in a timely manner.  

But I locate the double boiler after only the second box.  So, ha!  Let the dawdling begin.

First of all:  Do not be afraid of your double boiler.  It's easy.  Just follow these two rules - even if you're not a Virgo.

#1  Put enough water in the bottom pan until it is at a level just short of touching the top half.  

#2  Set the lower pan on medium heat, to boil gently while you put the ingredients together in the top pan, away from the heat.

OK?  Here we go.

 

7 Minute Frosting

 

2 egg whites at room temperature

1 1/2 cups granulated sugar

1/4 tsp cream of tartar

1/3 cup water

1 tsp vanilla extract

 

In the top half of the double boiler mix egg whites, sugar, cream of tartar, and water.

 

With a portable electric mixer, beat egg white mixture on high speed until thoroughly combined.  Scrape sides and place over boiling water.  (Gently boiling water on medium heat.)

 

Continue beating with mixer at high speed for 5 to 7 minutes or until frosting is thick and stands in peaks when beaters are lifted. 

 

(When I was a kid I never believed that my mother loved me.  Looking back, I admit I could be wrong about that.  She never once said the L-word.  But she did make this frosting on my birthday - with a hand cranked egg beater.)

 

When the frosting peaks, remove from heat, add vanilla and continue beating until frosting is thick enough to spread.  Makes enough to frost a two layer cake.  Or it does if you don't eat it all up first.

 

 

 

In this, the experimental phase, I want to try both freezing the 7 Minute Frosting by itself, and also frosting a cake and freezing the whole thing.  Just to see if it's still viable and pretty once thawed.  Otherwise, I can make the cake ahead, but will need to wait and make the frosting on the day of the birthday dinner.

 

Now to make the cake...  just as soon as I locate the directions for this new oven.

 

Postscript:

 

The new KitchenAid oven is awesome - and intuitive.  Never did find the directions.  But these cupcakes tested perfectly the first time.  Right on the money at the prescribed temperature and baking time.  Hallelujah. 

 

Now, to find a way to get the most possible frosting per bite...  

 

 

 

 

Chocolate Chip Banana Bread - or - How to wait for a realtor.

So the last post was not about bikes - except possibly the need for a garage to put them in.

This post isn't about bikes either.  Pretty much the same reason.  What can I say?  This house project is driving me bananas.

Closet shelves built into the wrong wall.  Unsodded land and an unguttered roofline ganging up to wash another half ton of dirt into the carefully constructed swale.  Squabbles over the well shared with a neighbor - a neighbor who doesn't want to share.

That was the list for this morning.  God only knows whats happening over there now that I have come back to the townhouse to wait for the realtor.  The realtor who was planning on four but can't come til five.

So what do you do with an extra hour at home?  Clean?  Vac?  Mop floors?  Yeah, maybe you could do that.  But I can't.  Not today.  I have had enough you-know-what for today.

I'm gonna bake something.  

This may be a problem unique to Florida, but in the past few weeks we have had three bunches of bananas come ripe.  And we have one more green one up there to go.  With about 80-90 bananas to a bunch, that's a LOT of bananas.   

See em up there?

Hanging just left of center with a big pink blossom underneath.

Here's what they look like up close (and ripe).

Small. But plentiful.

It's a typical August afternoon on our side of Florida.

I am trying not to think of how much mud there will be

to shovel back up that hill later.

The sod had better come tomorrow.

So, might as well go bananas the old fashioned way.  (As long as the electricity stays on.)

And what the heck?  The place will smell pretty good when the realtor arrives too.

Chocolate Chip Banana Bread 

(Not even enough mental energy left today to experiment.  So this one is straight out of the Hersheys Chocolate Cookbook)

2 cups unsifted all purpose flour

1 cup sugar

1 tsp baking powder

1 tsp salt

1/2 tsp baking soda

1 cup mashed bananas

1/2 cup shortening (I'm not a fan of glucky shortening, so I used butter.)

2 eggs

1 cup Hersheys chocolate chips

1/2 cup chopped walnuts

Grease bottom only of a 9x5x3 inch loaf pan.  Set aside.

Combine all ingredients except choc chips and walnuts in a large mixer bowl.  Blend well on medium speed. 

(That's it for batter directions.  Simple, huh?  I creamed butter and sugar first though, then mixed in eggs and bananas, before adding the dry stuff.  I know - such a slave to convention.)

Stir in the chocolate chips and walnuts.

Pour into prepared pan.  Bake at 350 degrees for 60-70 minutes or until cake tester comes out clean.  Cool ten minutes, Remove from pan.  Cool completely on wire rack.

Now this is how to wait for a realtor.

And boy am I glad I didn't knock myself out to clean the place. 

She never showed.

Oh well.  Her loss, right?

Demolition to Almost-House

Warning:  To read about biking click back to July.  This particular post is not about bikes or anything related to bikes.  Except maybe that driving this project from the beginning was the need to have an actual garage and get our nine bikes (plus bike workshop) out of the living room.

This post is for everyone who has asked, "How's the house coming along?"  

Which would be pretty much everyone we know.

Honestly, I can't thinking of a more boring subject, but here are a few pictures since the first of the year, when the actual build started.   

The tough part, getting it right on paper, took most of 2011.

We are just hoping that the build doesn't take all of 2012.  

December 2011 - August 2012

Move in date - ????

Matt, with Jose, our builder.

Eager to get started wreckin' stuff.

Demolition Day.

Me, with Kathy from next door.

Is it any wonder she keeps her shutters up?

Frank, next door on the other side, supervises daily.

Walls and Trusses

Looks big, doesn't it?

Windows and drywall.

Half wall for the kitchen island.

Too many choices!

But we have to narrow it down to two - inside and outside.

Sky blue.

(Also known as Gin Bottle Blue.)

The old dock and seawall were pretty messed up

after that no-name storm last October.

New seawall.

And unfortunately, also a new swale.

There goes our native vegetation.  :(

Meanwhile indoors...

Decisions, decisions.

"Driftwood" laminate flooring...

cabinets, appliances,

granite...

..."watermelon" pendent lighting.

Anyone recognize Blownfuse without a helmet?

Fans up, and lighting in.  Hooray!

Back outside for some sea grape modification.

Matt having waaay too much fun borrowing the neighbor's chainsaw.

Matt and our builder, Debbie.

Measuring what's left of the sea grape

for native plant requirement.

It's still a mess.

Both front... 

...and back.

But we like to think it has potential.

 

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!