Epilogue

ep·i·logue also ep·i·log (ěp'ə-lôg', -lŏg') n.

1. A short poem or speech spoken directly to the audience
   following the conclusion of a play.
2. The Performer who delivers such a short poem or speech.
3. A short addition or concluding section at the end of a literary work,
   often dealing with the future of its characters. Also called an afterward.

We drove to the Jacksonville airport, said good bye to dad. He found an earlier flight and took it back to Charlotte. We hung around for our flight to Manchester, New Hampshire. We looked forward to seeing Chris's dad, helping him around the house. We also had scheduled a pancake fund raiser at Applebee's. Chris's sister Barb arranged it all, including a visit from a Manchester Union Leader reporter. We'd have an opportunity to tell our story about our moms and about pancreatic cancer.

When we're in Manchester, we always visit Newbury Comics and Stoneyfield Farm Dairy in Londonderry, New Hampshire. The comic shop has music, books/comics, postcards, magnets, bumper stickers, Red Sox Nation paraphernalia and Spawn figures. The place is fun and we usually find something we can't live without.

Stoneyfield Farm Dairy offers plant tours. The tour includes a short video of some history, then a quick out-and-back walk down one factory hallway. The highlight comes at the end of the tour. A tray overflowing with all their products sits on the table, no-limit yogurt consumption, lactose intolerance be damned. If you've never tried YoBaby Original, do so immediately. The top layer is whole cream fat. Growing babies need that extra layer for brain development and long winter nights. It's also a good thing babies can't yet read the nutrition label and fat content numbers.

No tour this time, just stocking up on yogurt and yogurt drinks for Pete, Chris's dad. We get talking to the folks helping us out. We mention we're from Oregon, we love your stuff, we always eat Banilla (Banana/vanilla) yogurt when we can find it and that we come in every time we're in town. They remember us. Out comes the sample tray, well alright!

We eat yogurt, drink yogurt. Chris grabs a strawberry soy yogurt, pops the top, takes a bite. Something is very wrong, but the alarm does not go off in time before she swallows that first bite. The good-through dates are past on a few of the items on the tray. Chris let's them know, we leave.

Immediately it hits, like a stomach flu. Ka-Boom. All the basement action causes a fissure, a lovely hemorrhoid. Nice. Our drive to Portsmouth, New Hampshire the next day was uncomfortable and long for Chris and this was just the beginning. We buy the usual remedies at the drug store.

Still suffering two days later, we catch our flight to NYC. The connection out of JFK turned into one of those precious travel experiences that never translates into words, like being in the military or war. You just have to live through it. Let's just say it was unbelievable. Our gate, stuck between a jumbo jet flight to Italy and another flight to Mexico City was clustered with passenger-in-waiting overflow, all three flights leaving within 20 minutes of one another.

Finally on the plane, the back up in the big blue is so severe, we sit on the tarmac for two more hours. The way the pilot explained it, our on-ramp into the sky was metered, keeping us waiting behind 25 other planes while air traffic cleared out.

Airborne, we pray for a movie, as the flight is almost 7 hours. Every 15 minutes or so, Chris would quickly inhale in pain, the knife-wielding butt barnacle slashing, jabbing and poking for the fun of it. It sounded like she was taking a quick hit off a fatty, not like either of us knows what that sounds like. I'd look at her grimace with eyes squeezed shut. What could I do? I'll write a poem to mark the moment. There is no better way to pay our respects to such circumstances.

The aircraft starts its descent, we know we'll be home in a little over an hour. Emily drops us at the house. We drag ourselves in, open some windows to clear the stale air. The flight delay put our arrival at home around 1 am. Too tired for a shower, brushing my teeth will have to suffice, then to bed. In the darkened bathroom I grab the paste, loading up my brush. Two or three strokes. Did we pick up a new toothpaste? This stuff has no taste.

I turn on the light and check the label - Preparation H.

over and out-until next time

Final mileage and Thank You All

Total mileage:

2918.09

32 days of riding

(yes we skipped Sanderson, Texas to Del Rio, Texas - too much righteous Texas weather)

91.19 miles per day average

14.48 mph average

Grand total raised for the Pancreatic Cancer Action Network

Just over $14,000

Thanks to . . .

Dad and Phyllis for all the support in the form of food, company, ride to Del Rio, Texas, photography, everything; Pete Panagos for the air miles, room and board when we stopped in; Roxane and Jubal for the great GPS phone (everyone loved it); Peter and Max Panagos for meeting us in High Springs, Florida and bailing us out of a tight spot; Barb Desclos for all her help with the Applebee's Pancake fundraiser; Monica and Deb and their contingent of extremely aware and generous friends; Deedra Tackett for checking on us every day and worrying; Emily Ohlin for keeping Porter happy; Mr. and Mrs. Ohlin for sharing the finish with us and taking St. Augustine pictures; Tom Trissel for the gear hook up; Marsha Ware, the best pod mate ever, for the map and hotel confirmation support; Brad Potts for the cards; Cord Amato for the card graphics; Nicholas Freedman and David L'Heureux for the bicycling.com connection; Dave Baker at Gila Bike&Hike, Silver City, NM for the $10 labor spoke replacement/wheel true, and for being open on Sunday; PanCAN for spending the money wisely and helping people out; All you TRUCKERS out there for slowing down and giving us a bit more room - you know who you are; all the convenience store clerks, for letting us use your bathrooms even when we did not buy anything; everyone who donated to the ride - we want to thank all of you personally for your generosity; Jasper the Cat, for not running too far and inspecting our gear every time we set foot in the MoHo; Salomon USA and West Portland Physical Therapy Clinic for their super-generous donations; David Munk for kicking down with budget money as a donation; Carol, Georgia, Grant and Pam for being great neighbors and checking on the homestead in our absence; Hammer Nutrition for keeping us fueled; Best Western for the most kick ass motels out on the high plains, and to both of you out there reading this blog - we thank you.

Thanks Nina and Phylis for watching over us.
We love you

Day 39 - East Palatka, FL to St. Augustine, FL 45.14 miles/15.0 mph average 2 hrs 47 min

Leaving East Palatka

One more short day. Not much to say different about this day that has not been said about others. We missed our turn coming out of town, back tracked and corrected. The route heads north along the St. Johns River. It is more scenic, but if we ever do this again, we'd stay on highway 207 straight into St. Augustine. Dump trucks replaced logging trucks on the scenic route, no shoulders, Sketchville Central. 207 is a wide boulevard with 8 to 10 foot shoulders. Shoulda. coulda, woulda stayed on 207. Next time for sure. The last 16 miles due east straight into a head wind (surprised?). We just laughed at it while dodging the dumpers. They must have been filling in low areas because they were swarming.

Dump Trucks, no shoulder, life is sweet

The plan for the finish included riding to the Atlantic, wheel dip and all. Once we arrived into St. Augustine, we realized quickly this would not be easy. Traffic converges on this little town like a blood clot. Everything backs up everywhere. Highway # 1 busts at the seams, while the streets in the city proper are Lilliputian. We canceled the beach ride, proceeding straight to the bike shop where dad and Emily's parents waited for us. There were no fireworks or tears (we cried them all out in Texas), very anti-climatic. In one word: RELIEF.

"Ask me in a month if I'd EVER do this again . . . "

fish-belly hand tops, tanned fingers

I'd turn around and ride back to Portland if I could see my mom again

My hamhocks were cooked - time to quit

We stripped everything off the bikes, put on our street shoes and left the bikes at the shop for shipping. Although we felt a bit flat at the end we were grateful to be safe and also pleased that we could get rid of the bikes and not look at them for a while (maybe UPS would divert my rear wheel to Siberia, no problem).

Let's dump the bikes and go eat

Dad already staked out the UPS store. We dropped in and picked up a shipping box to send all the ride-specific gear back home. We'd be in Manchester, NH for about a week starting tomorrow and did not want to drag the stuff around. Back at the Scottish Inn Motel, we combed through everything and packed just what we'd need for the remainder of the trip, the rest to the UPS store. Business tended to, we coordinated dinner with Tom and Cathy, Emily's parents. It was great having them in St. Augustine for the finish.

Tom and Cathy Ohlin, dining with a few undesirables

We drove to the beach (much further than we thought) stopped into a book shop, found a Dairy Queen (I ate a burger and fries - I just can't stop myself) for dessert then went back to the motel to rest up.

Thanks for everything Dad - We love you

The water was about 80 degrees - for real

over and out

Day 38 - High Springs, FL to East Palatka, FL 94.71 miles/15.0 mph average 5 hours 47 min

The brick bike path out of High Springs - lasted about a mile

With 95 miles today, we decided to sleep in and go have breakfast with Peter and Max. Waffle House one more time. Just walking in the door feels like eating a meal, so much of the cooked food hangs in the air. Like a contact high, only better. Peter marveled at the quantity of food we consistently ate. Honestly, it was getting old. Pounding food is not something either of us really enjoy. Feeling full all the time distracts from the rest of your life. By the time we ate, got back to the room and prepped to leave, it was nearly 9 am and getting warm. We said our good byes and headed out. Peter and Max planned a few activities for the morning, and we'd see them one more time a bit later.

My first trip through the outlying Gainesville area featured perfect roads, minimal traffic, pure cycling joy. As seen below, it's still the same, but better. Making good time, we rode passed a few high caliber, competitive runners out training on the country roads. With what looked like 2 to 5 percent body fat, we figured they skipped the Waffle House this morning.

OK, no shoulder but who cares?

this road is dreamy, I think I'm in love

The route heads around the north side of the city, then drops south to the Gainesville-Hawthorne State Trail. 16 miles of controlled access recreational path. Such paths work great with the caveat that extra care is needed with families cycling with children. They tend to swerve a bit. The path reminded me of the Birk-Gilman in Seattle, Springwater Corridor in Portland.

(http://www.floridastateparks.org/gainesville-hawthorne/)

Sign at the trail head

Trail starts here - enjoy the ride

The trail proved easy going, just a few rough patches and hilly sections. A doe bolted across the path 15 feet in front of us at one point. Thickly wooded land hid most of the wildlife. The trail parallels state road # 20 into Hawthorne. Dad flew down from Charlotte earlier in the day, and we met up with him in Hawthorne when we stopped for lunch.

From Hawthorne we had about 40 miles remaining on the day. Our plan to stay on state road # 20 fell through since it was Johnny-Dangerous. The logging trucks were once again ridiculous (was it the same pack of 20 following us across the country, running circles around us?). With no shoulder for safe riding, we popped north to the prescribed route, which did turn out better. Jamming through Melrose, Putnam Hall, Florahome and Carraway, 10 miles left to East Palatka. The St. Johns River separates Palatka and East Palatka. Just West of Palatka, Chris states categorically that she has a rear flat. I look down at her tire, it looks OK from where I'm sitting. We are so close and in a groove, I did not even want to stop and check. How awful is that? I look down again, certain that the tire is not losing pressure. I then ask her if it feels like the tire can finish the next 4 miles or so. Stopping to change a flat so close to the end, what can I say, not a good thing.

as it turns out, the tire was not flat, possibly her energy was. We'd been pushing hard against yet another head wind for the last 30 miles. It added up. I felt it. Over the bridge into East Palatka, the Best Western there on the right, dad snapping pics.

does her rear tire look flat to you?

Best baked beans ever

Hot by the end of day, we scrounged change for the Gatorade (what else?) machine outside the room after checking in. We immediately started thinking about food once we cleaned up. Dad did not notice the combo Dunkin Donuts/31 Flavors on the way into town, but we pointed it out on our way to some BBQ with absolutely the best baked beans I've ever tasted. The little bowl of beans with my meal was not enough. I wonder how a baked bean buffet would've worked out. Not pretty, I'd imagine.

We hit 31 flavors on the way back, then retired to dad's room to watch the Red Sox on the tube. Pure bliss, even though they lost to the Yankees, 6 to 2. Bitter.

over and out

day 37 - Madison, FL to High Springs, FL 75.22 miles/15.4 mph average 4 hrs 30 min

We had little idea of the road conditions on #53 and federal road # 27, but were willing to take a chance. A Florida state trooper was gassing up last night and he told us that 27 had a decent "skirt" or shoulder, and that he remembered it being resurfaced not so long ago. We'd take it.

Up at 4 am, everything organized and ready to go from the night before. We ate in the room, filled our bottles with ice from the ice machine, pulled the door closed and took off. With no city lights polluting the darkness, it was pitch black out. Sunday at 4 to 5 am is too early for church. The only drivers on the road are typically those coming home from bars or parties.

Chris's red flashing light needed batteries so we dropped into the market attached to a gas station next to the motel. We rolled up and a surly group piled out of a car, a drunk girl screaming some choice words and phrases at the driver as he walked toward the store laughing over his shoulder at her. Ah, true love.

Once we got 100 yards from the station, it was like riding into an ink well. Our headlights provided ample light for the road in front of us, but not enough for the sides of the roads. I'd pivot my light back and forth occasionally when approaching a side road or driveway. Chris gave me a Surefire flashlight a while back. Finally, a chance to use it. The light is incredibly bright and tough, made to military and law enforcement specs (http://www.surefire.com/).

We'd hear cars coming miles off, before we saw headlights. The whining, white sound of a single car travels far in the vacuum of no other noise. We decided to pull off the road, douse the bike lights and hide out from the cars. Call it paranoia, but we turned it into a game; hear the car, see the lights, find a driveway to hideout - this usually coincided with a pee break anyway, no harm, no foul. At one point we heard the high pitched whine of 4WD pickups screaming down the road behind us. We scooted to a side road, turned out the bike lights and waited. The pitch of the tires wound down as both trucks slowed to take a hard right onto a dirt road less than 100 yards behind us. Any conversation with the natives at 5 am would probably not be a good one.

The horizon on our left turned from black to purple to deep red, red, than orange as the sun rose. By the time we hit federal road # 27, daylight flooded the woods, and we felt much safer. 27 was the perfect road, all requirements filled; good shoulder and surface, flat, dry weather. We chewed away at the miles until a red rental car slowed down with Peter and Max inside.

Peter, pale Max and Chris

We met up with them between Mayo, Florida and Branford, Florida. Max got out of the car looking a bit pale. He said hello than said "I'm not getting back into that car again, I think I'm gonna throw up." One thing I've discovered about kids, when they say they're going to puke, they usually do. Irony and sarcasm don't apply in these cases. He puked, several times. We could do nothing but feel bad for him while trying to aid in keeping the stuff off of his shoes. His technique will no doubt improve over time. Practice, practice.

25 miles left to High Springs, Peter and Max took off and did some sightseeing. We put our heads down to finish as soon as we could, taking advantage of our early start. One last food stop and I called Bob to let him know the wheel held together, and should make it to town where we'd take it in for another repair. 95 miles on a broken spoke. We finished just after midday, again meeting up with Peter and Max once we hit main street. We followed them to the motel, not just any motel, the Cadillac Motel. $45 a night and well worth it. Diving is popular in the area. The Cadillac is base camp for hoards of middle aged men, staying for weeks at a time, diving the local hot spots.

the wheel I know and love

We pull into the motel. As Chris checks in, Max gets that pale look again and suddenly blows vomit all over the walkway in front of the rooms. A total surprise attack. Was it us? The red paint on the rental car? Video games in a moving car? The state of Florida? What could possibly incite his stomach to hit the reject button? I asked the motel cleaning person for a bucket. Filling it with water, I rinsed the globs off the walkway, double power rinse. Doctor Peter said it was a 24 hour bug.

The Swamp

We cleaned up and dropped the wheel in the trunk, ran it to the shop. The shop guy suggested a Mexican place for lunch. The food was good, but I chose a coconut drink, expecting a sweet liquid. It was bitter with small chunks of diced coconut floating around in the can. Take a drink, chew, take a drink, chew. It sucked.

Peter wanted to take pictures of the Gator stadium (Ben Hill Griffin Stadium). We stopped by, saw workers with a gate open and walked right in. We crawled all over the place and even saw a few nuts running stairs in the heat. http://virtualtour.ufl.edu/campus_sites/stadium.htm. Once inside, it was like a heat sink, the sun beaming down into the center of the stadium, magnified by the bowl-shaped seating structure.

Max, throw up over there, not here

I walked up the stairs to take this picture. The next day on the bike, I couldn't figure out why my calves were on fire. Duh . . . When you do one thing everyday for almost six weeks, your body protests when asked to adapt to a new activity

We drove around for 30 minutes (thanks Peter) looking for Dos Equis. The bike shop guy said it was the shop beer of choice, so we promised a case for saving our asses. Beer as a peace offering or sign of appreciation works. There is nothing better than a free buzz. Enjoy this bit of beer trivia from Wikipedia:

Dos Equis is a Mexican Beer. It was first crafted in Mexico by the German brewmaster Wilhelm Hasse in 1897. Originally called "Siglo XX" ("20th century"), the brand was named to commemorate the arrival of the new century; since the Spanish language uses Roman numerals for centuries, the bottles were marked "XX", two Xs, or "Dos Equis".

On the way back to the motel, Chris treated us to smoothies ($24 total cost, wow), then back to the room for some down time. A fifties style cafe sat 1/8th of a mile down the road for dinner. burgers, salads, fries, Linguini (we taught Max the word - LING + WEENIE, it worked). Then Coronas on the freshly rinsed walkway outside the rooms. Thanks to Peter and Max for coming down to visit us and making the day a great success. Chris summed up by saying that it was a touch of reality, of family, of things that really mattered. It lent perspective to being on strange roads, seeing strange new things, day after long day. Riding every day like this is not real life. Family is always the truest connection to our lives.

over and out

Day 36 - Quincy, FL to Madison, FL 94.61 miles/14.4 mph average 6 hrs 04 min

Leaving the motel around 6 am, we head north, back on state road # 267 to the interstate 10 junction, with the hope that we could merge onto the interstate for five miles to Midway, where the route picks up again. We rolled down the on ramp with a non-motorized Vehicles prohibited sign stopping us cold. No bikes, skateboards, Big Wheels or Razor scooters allowed. No exhaust, no passage. Weighing the lost time involved with getting stopped by Florida state trooper, we backed up the ramp then headed north to the Quincy city limits, turned right, east on state road # 268.

19 miles into the ride today we pass through Tallahassee, Florida. Car dealerships, strip malls, gas stations everywhere. Nearing the eastern rim of the city, we stop for a quick water/food break then head back out onto beautifully shaded country roads. State road # 20 proves the better option, since the bike route takes a lengthy and unnecessary diversion onto a bike trail south to Woodville, Florida. It adds at least 12 additional miles so we skip it. Sightseeing is low on the list at this point.

About five miles west of Monticello, Florida and we are making great time. The surface is smooth, shaded roads, minimal traffic. Then suddenly, PING - another spoke breaks on the rear wheel, drive side! The wheel immediately wobbles out of true, rubbing on the left chain stay. I pull off the road, get off the bike and stare at the wheel in disbelief. I throw it my best stink-eye while simultaneously spewing some colorful language. To put this in context, of the thousands of miles ridden since I started cycling in the late 70's, early 80's, I've broken two spokes. Additionally, weighing just over 170 pounds, I am very good to my wheels, unweighting as much as needed, reducing undo impact. Now, in the span of less than 3000 miles, two more spokes break on the same wheel. There is some bad energy trying to get out of this infected hoop.

As a rule, if three spokes break on the same wheel, the wheel is placed on death row. I see a defective component no longer able to perform at a baseline level. It's fate is sealed. When we get back to Portland, I'll take it apart, cut out the spokes and have a new wheel built up around the existing hub. A new Velocity rim from Australia combined with straight-gauge DT spokes should rid this wheel of all negative energy and psychic weakness.

I come to my senses upon realizing I still need this wheel. I coddle it, apologize and talk nice to it, convince it to hold together for an uncertain distance. I call Bob on his cell and he suggests easing tension on some of the spokes near the broken one. He then assures me the wheel will not fail catastrophically if ridden in its current state. Wobbling into Monticello, we ask around for a bike shop at the corner store. "Yeah, sure, there's a shop back a ways, take a right at the traffic circle," two people tell us. Great! We backtrack but see no shop. Two businesses, one a hardware store, have no idea of any shop in town at all. What?

There is no other bike shop listed in our map until Gainesville, Florida. With Chris's brother meeting us in two days in High Springs, about 15 miles outside of Gainesville, we could bum a ride to the shop. The trick would be to first get to High Springs under our own steam. From where we are, that's about 95 miles. That's a whole truck load of wobble. We press on, nonetheless. 30 miles left to Madison, our next stop. Around Greenville, Florida, half way between Monticello and Madison, we see this sign:

We're too close to quit at this point so we snap the picture,

have a laugh and commence wobble.

The Reduced Speed Ahead sign finally comes into view for Madison. Endorphins flood our brains whenever we see this sign. It tells us we are either at our final destination or close to a lunch break, change in direction, scenery, energy. Again, the motel, this time a Super 8, is close to the interstate so we head south on state road 53 for more than five miles. I check the map and see that we can stay on # 53 for the first 20 miles tomorrow morning, head east on Federal road # 27, straight into High Springs. Though Shalt not Backtrack.

We check in, clean up and walk 100 paces to the Denny's right next door. Food makes everything better and I forget my wheel woes a bit more with each bite. We need an early night since we want a super early start in the morning, allowing enough time to get to the bike shop and wheel repair. My early night turns into watching V for Vendetta. Great movie. This second viewing reveals so much that I missed the first time.

over and out

Day 35 - Rest Day Quincy, Florida Zero miles

4 days of riding left to go!

With no transportation at a hotel removed from everything except for a Chevron gas station/quick mart, we hung around the room, waiting to get started again. When I did the ride in 1999, I arrived into Gainsville, Florida for my last rest day. After only a few hours I decided to skip the rest day and finish one day early. Physically, you're in great shape and feel you can continue riding day after day, but mentally you are over it. The compulsion to finish steels your resolve, specifically if new and interesting obstacles pop up.

over and out

Day 34 - DeFuniak Springs, FL to Quincy, FL 111.22 miles/15.4 mph average 6 hrs 38 min

Give it up Florida

We knew every mile ridden today was one closer to a day off the bikes. Chris's knee was holding up well, while the only real elevation gain/loss came in Chattahoochee, Florida. Just a few miles from the Florida/Georgia border, we smelled the fires for the first time when we stopped for lunch in town. The road shoulders played nice and stayed fat the entire day.

http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2007/05/15/national/main2803447.shtml

Note the average speed of over 15 mph. We know it sounds tame, but the record for the RAAM (Race Across America) is 15.40 mph set in 1986 by Pete Penseyres. Every year a new crop of riders try to break it. It still stands. He did it on virtually no sleep, and who knows what he ate back in 1986. Were Powerbars around then? Check him out - he's quite the dude:

http://www.ultracycling.com/about/hof_ppenseyres.html

We passed through so many little towns with great names:

Argyle

Ponce De Leon

Bonifay

Chipley

Cottondale

Marianna

Sneads

Gretna

The last 28-mile stretch between Gretna and Quincy went fast and furious. I think I may have dropped down onto my aero bars once or twice. We again turned south out of downtown Quincy toward Interstate 10 to find the Holiday Inn Express. We arrived mid afternoon. Chris went to check in and it turns out we made a reservation at the hotel next door, that use to be the Holiday Inn, but in the time between us making the reservation and arriving today, the Holiday Inn built a new property, sold the older one where we were suppose to be, next door. It did not make perfect sense to us either. The important issue is that they honored our rate, which for some crazy reason went up in the interim.

The older hotel, now new to us, still worked out great. It was a fine home for two nights and one full day of rest. It was isolated from restaurants however. The Domino's Pizza delivery menu got dog-eared and very familiar, with this the only day in my life when I've eaten Domino's Pizza twice within 8 hours. We did the usual catch up; laundry, supplies, bike fiddling, TV watching. We even took a decent walk down a side country road for a few miles.

The motel also offered a continental breakfast. We dropped in on our rest day around 8:30 am for food. A young family with five kids fueled up for the trip down to Disney World or some similar attraction in southern Florida. It reminded me of the times we went to Disneyland as kids. Some formula they have there, printing money.

over and out

Day 33 - Pensacola, FL to DeFuniak Springs, FL 91.47 miles/15.0 mph average 5 hrs 38 min

Today we pick our way out of Pensacola along Cervantes Street which turns into Scenic Highway/90 high above Pensacola Bay. We could live in Pensacola. It seemed bike friendly, clean, nice place to retire. Just a thought. the route winds through several small towns; Riverview, Milton (we stayed on Highway 90 and skipped the Blackwater Trail out of Milton - saved 9 miles), Holt, Milligan, Crestview and finally Mossy Head, 14 miles from DeFuniak Springs.

Highway 90 parallels Interstate 10 most of the route, as we ride just north of Eglin Air Force Base. while leaving Crestview, we rolled along a section of 90 with plenty of residential homes. coming up a slight rise in the road, an older car piloted by an even older man slowly pulled out from a driveway, taking up the entire shoulder. We braked, allowing the driver to casually pull out and eventually get up to speed, merging off the shoulder into the lane of travel. We are certain he did not see us, as he did not bolt out into the lane to beat our arrival. He only cut us off due to the speed we were traveling. I noted the sticker on the right corner of the bumper, knowing it belonged on no other bumper than this gentleman driver's:

Prepare to meet thy Lord

How true. I'm thankful he gave us the option of picking our own Lord, and not sticking us with the standard issue Lord. I then imagined him hitting a pedestrian or cyclist, blissfully oblivious, driving on. The victim now lying prone in the road, this bumper sticker the last thing they see as their eyes close. It's not often such an experience comes complete with instructions.

On the outskirts of DeFuniak Springs, I called the motel wondering where they were. Nobody in town knew of it. I then looked at the name; Rodeway in Mossyhead. Oops, motel 14 miles back in the wrong direction from where we stood. One rule we'd adhere to at all costs: No backtracking - if we're not heading east, we're going nowhere.

I immediately canceled the reservation. Continuing on to Downtown DeFuniak we found all the chain (read predictable) motels lying on the Interstate 10 corridor. Another 5 miles and we pulled into a Days Inn, under new management. Book the room honey! By the time we showered for dinner, the rain poured. The short walk to the local buffet restaurant paid off. We ate well, good American food, desserts, ice cream, just perfect.

On the way back to the room we stopped in at a Chevron for cereal and juice for the next morning. It was only later that I looked at the receipt. One box of Raisin Bran - $7.00. Worth every penny.

Over and out

Day 32 - Bayou La Batre, AL to Pensacola, FL 79.83 miles/13.4 mph average 5 hrs 30 min

Hill repeats anyone?

Shorter day, more sleep. We got on the road at roughly 6:30 am. Road 188 T's at Road 193. Take a left on 193 and the road ends on Dauphin Island, Alabama. The bridge to the island is huge. A few miles before the bridge a sign read First ferry - 8 am. I looked at my watch and it was 7:20 am. We had 5 miles to go, no problem except for the severe headwind that we've tried to shake since we started out in California. Although we were heading due south the wind was crazy strong, kicking back at each pedal stroke. Sweat poured off us while the headwind offered little evaporative effect. We were grinding to make the first ferry, since the next one arrived 90 minutes later. The apex of the bridge offers a view of the area unlike any other since there are no high points. The bridge height allows watercraft passage underneath, bomb proof enough to survive Katrina without sustaining any damage. The bridge replaced the causeway swept away in 1979 by Hurricane Frederick in 145 mile wind gusts. (below).

A full time ferry service as a long term solution proved too expensive for the state of Alabama. The Figg Bridge Engineering Group (figgbridge.com) designed and built the bridge in just 34 months. The highest point consists of three spans, the main 400 feet in length. This is the first 400 foot span on a precast concrete segmental bridge. The dual, I-shaped piers feature an integrated driving surface. (details courtesy of Figg Bridge website). Words fail in describing how big this bridge is. As I write I realize I have a crush on the bridge. It has what I need. Twice in my life it quietly channeled me away from difficulty, delivering me to where the colors run brighter, the land lay flatter, closer to the end of the ride.

The significance of this bridge can't be overstated in the context of the entire ride. By the time you step onto the Fort Morgan ferry from Dauphin Island, all the effort, stress and challenge of the past 7 states unhinges from your primal brain. The ride experience suddenly vibrates with renewed energy. You're still in Alabama at the ferry dock on the Gulf Shores side but the new land is near and that new land is called Florida. That square-wheeled trailer you dragged across Texas finally falls away and your mood changes. The going is flat, faster than before and more rewarding. Hurricanes, floods, sticky heat and love bugs are all the price paid for the warm life on the gulf. Be sure to visit Dauphin Island sometime. We suggest using a car, but it's not too bad on a bike.

Fort Morgan Parkway whisks (yes, literally whisks) you east toward Gulf Shores. By the time we reached the far side of Gulf Shores we stop into The Waffle House for gut bomb extraordinaire breakfast number two. We ate, sat for another twenty minutes, acclimated outside on the curb for a few more, then fork lifted our full guts onto the bikes. Dessert was the cleanest, most amazing (superlatives fail once again) bike path we've EVER ridden. Behold the shining bike path of your dreams:

Chris refused to pose for this one-Perdido Beach Blvd

Note the rumble strip barrier - an early warning system

designed to prevent squished cyclists

Perdido Beach Blvd morphs into Gulf Beach Highway. They should call it Condo Row. Nearly every free section of beach front on this stretch either has a huge finished condo, a building in progress or, where there is a view, a notice of land use sign standing proudly, a parking spot reserved for an even bigger building. This stretch of road is not very scenic from a car, unless you're shopping for a condo.

We skirt the southeast rim of Pensacola, heading northeast on Barrancas Avenue. Traffic seems tuned into cyclists, probably a result of all the triathletes and roadies training out on this perimeter road. Pensacola is home for many triathletes given the number we saw in just a few miles. The temperature is low 90's and all we have is warm Hammer mix in our bottles. I can barely stand it on ice, let alone at armpit temperature. As we looked out for the next corner store, I hear a strange aircraft noise, unlike anything I've heard before. here are a few details, courtesy of fas.org:

The V-22 Osprey is a tiltrotor vertical/short takeoff and landing (VSTOL), multi-mission air-craft developed to fill multi-Service combat operational requirements. The tiltrotor design combines the vertical flight capabilities of a helicopter with the speed and range of a turboprop airplane and permits aerial refueling and world-wide self deployment.

I'd never seen one in flight before, and it was a strange sight. The oddest aspect is the 38 foot diameter "proprotors." From the ground it looked like it was gliding, although it may have been on approach for landing. There have been three crashes between 1989 when the first prototype took flight and 2000. At over $80 million each, it is an impressive aircraft.

We took a bathroom/juice break at a corner market, remounted the bikes and started jamming. We passed by the front gate of the Naval Air Station and also saw three Blue Angels cruising around. Everything seemed great; we were out of the headwind, about 12 miles from the motel, hitting speeds of over 20 mph (finally), just soaking in the day. suddenly I hear a yelp from Chris about 15 yards behind me. She yells in pain again. Oh shit.

We roll up to a church driveway, pulling off at a safe distance. Chris's left knee gave a shock of pain and she could not fully straighten her leg. It was not that the pain prevented her moving it past 30 degrees, the joint simply bottomed out at that point, range of motion finished. If she tried to flex or extend at the knee joint the nerves would fire and I'd watch the blood run out of her face. Pain is an extraordinary thing, and this was the most pain I've seen her responding to. We got her off the bike and sat down, all while several tractor ditch mowers made passes along the road, kicking up dust, chopped grass, exhaust.

The knee finally gave in after the rough section yesterday. Chris described it as lateral cartilage shifting. We sat there in the dust and flying grass, formulating our new plan: OK, we call AAA, they deliver a car, we load your bike in the back, I keep riding and finish the day, then we hole up in the motel and ponder our options. Florida held such promise, now this. It was one of those moments when you stare off into the distance and ask yourself if this was really happening. Sounds greedy, doesn't it? All the things that DID NOT go wrong, all the times we did not get hit by cars, all the weather we dodged, bad food, dogs, ditches, logging trucks, heat, cold, snow and fatigue. After all of that, we sit on the side of the road mourning her left knee.

As a physical therapist, Chris has the wisdom to just sit still for a bit and see what effect if any, time produces. After 20 minutes or so, she stood up, gave a little knee movement, a bit more. The pain seemed to drain off a bit and she said it felt like the cartilage "unfolded" and smoothed out, releasing pressure on the noisy nerves. We then lowered her saddle, to a point where she looked like a BMX'er in the saddle after a long day spent terrorizing an empty lot or school yard.

Back on the bike, the cranks turned slowly at first, then up to a moderate speed. I kept looking back to make sure her pedals were still turning. Looking back stressed me out, I can't imagine what she felt and thought as the owner of the knee. I'd look back half expecting her kneecap to simply pop off.

We had one last rest day after two more days riding after today. Rest day sorely needed, we need it right now. The Seville Inn sits in downtown Pensacola. Again, the place was nearly empty, and the room big and clean. We showered, gulped hammer recovery drink, then got Chris's knee on ice as she called AAA about our situation. They said that each AAA field office makes their own decisions but that it was likely they'd deliver a car to her as a long-standing AAA member. We held out hope for our first option; convincing her knee to get with the program, but contingencies are always useful.

The front desk clerk pointed us to a corner pub just down the street and what better time than now to get our buzz on? We ate, drank beer, shook our heads, wondering about the next few days. As we sat there, several cyclists rolled by along with a steady stream of runners. Why don't we just buy a little place here in downtown Pensacola, call it a day? We found out later there is a running club that gets together for a "Pub Run." They log miles between bars, get free beer upon arrival, socialize, plan the next outing. After dinner we needed a few supplies. We walked around downtown for about one hour and still did not find anything open. With Chris's knee no longer locked up, full stomachs and beer buzz, maybe we had everything we needed at that moment.

over and out

Day 31 - Wiggins, MS to Bayou La Batre, AL 94.53 miles/13.7 mph average 6 hrs 23 min

White line - White knuckle

With Wiggins off route, we decided to stay on state road # 26 to state road # 63. Only 36 miles, and it was more direct and ostensibly easier. The route was shorter in miles but longer in misery. We saved 31.5 miles. The conditions were as follows:

no shoulder

constant logging trucks in both directions

very few side roads/driveways for pulling off

(is this story getting old? It is for us . . . )

We pulled off the road for all trucks, any size, no matter what they were hauling (except Wal-Mart rigs - We'd go head to head with them every time) We'd quick head-check back for truck traffic, pulling off as they rumbled by. Monday's are busy down here and constantly yielding slowed us way down. I think I said "we're not suppose to be out on this road" about eight times to Chris.

Passing through Brenndale, Mississippi we crossed over the Pascagoula River a few miles later, then into Lucedale, where we took a hard right south on state road # 63. Conditions improved but the shoulder came and went like the tide. We'd roll along and watch the gap narrow, staying as close to the fog line as safely possible.

Heading south toward Escatawpa, Mississippi We came upon two large groups of prisoners out of a Dr. Seussian fantasy. They wore bright green and white horizontal striped prison garb while picking up roadside trash. We'd roll past, they'd all looked at us. A shotgun-equipped guard sat in an idling truck a short distance behind. I could not help wondering what put them behind bars. Convicts are people just like the rest of us but their crimes define them. We draw immediate conclusions about a murderer, far different than those drawn about a car thief.

We finally arrived in Escatawpa where Interstate 10 crosses over state road # 63. We ate a quick lunch at a freezing cold Subway. As we buckled down to leave, an SUV pulled up. The man in the passenger side asked if we were riding for a cause and raising funds. I quickly outlined what we were up to, he whips out a $20, hands it to me, wishes us good luck as the rig pulls away. Dinner paid for, and thanks so much for the gesture.

A few miles south on 63 we hang a hard left heading east on US Federal Highway 90. The road surface was brutal; old concrete with expansion seams. Sitting in the frigid Subway for lunch combined with 15 miles on jarring surface pushed Chris's right knee to the limit. It started nagging her at the top of the pedal stroke in flexion.

The land flattens out with no hint of elevation gain or loss. We're running along the gulf coast now closing in on the Alabama state line. Finally off of 90 onto state road 188, we cruised through dense forest with perfectly smooth roads, flat, comfortable, warm. A few turns left before arriving into Bayou La Batre, I looked back and Chris was slowing down. I looked back a second time and she says "can I get some help here?" meaning, drop back and let me draft a bit. Keep in mind she is a stoic rider, never asks for assistance or issues a "wait up" but just keeps churning. Her knee pain had ramped up again, power output down significantly. I dropped back and pulled her along, helping where I could.

Just outside of the town of Grand Bay, a dog trotting inside a fenced yard had a two-foot piece of aluminum siding in its mouth. He started barking as soon as he saw us. The bark vibrations shot through the siding, raising the pitch of his protests, like he was barking through a harmonica. I yelled "grab your camera" to Chris. As soon as she pulled it free of her bag the dang dog dropped the siding but kept on barking. The full effect would've been lost without sound.

Bayou La Batre (pronounced Bah-you luh BAT-ree) or by locals as (by luh BAT-ree) is "the seafood capital of Alabama" and is more famous than most of us will ever be:

Bayou La Batre is mentioned in the film Forrest Gump as the home of Forrest's army buddy Benjamin Buford "Bubba" Blue, whom he met during the Vietnam War. After Bubba is killed in combat, despite Forrest's attempt to save him, Forrest eventually fulfills a promise to Bubba by moving to Bayou La Batre, buying a shrimp boat, and trying to catch shrimp. Forrest and another character in the book, Lt. Dan, are out shrimping in the Gulf when Hurricane Carmen strikes the region; Forrest, Lt. Dan, and the boat survive, but the rest of the Bayou La Batre shrimp boat fleet is destroyed. Forrest and Lt. Dan then make a fortune catching shrimp and found the fictitious Bubba Gump Shrimp Company, based in Bayou La Batre.

In Winston Groom's book of the same name (upon which the movie was based), Forrest doesn't buy a boat to catch shrimp, but starts a small but ultimately successful shrimp hatchery in Bayou La Batre with the help of Bubba's father.

In April 2005, Disney Studios launched a secretly built pirate ship, the Black Pearl, out of Bayou La Batre for filming sequels to Pirates of the Caribbean: Curse of the Black Pearl.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bayou_La_Batre,_Alabama

Oyster husks piled up everywhere, the crushed shells the staple for use as gravel. The town felt like it was sitting directly on a beach island, the substrate bleached white shells. Here's a random pic pulled from the web, with random guy providing commentary

"Outside were huge piles of empty oyster shells, and a fine white dust

over the cars. We realized that the strangely white road

was actually paved with crushed oyster shells" said random guy.

We arrive at the hotel, clean up and remember the front desk clerk mentioning a great seafood restaurant "about 1/2 mile down after the second light." It was either that or Sonic Burger. We thought seafood more appropriate when staying in the seafood capital of Alabama, right? We stop at a corner store and tank up on juice, since the sweat poured off us in the humidity. We start walking, and walking and walking. The country road (no sidewalks, cars speeding by) winds this way and that, but no sign of the Lighthouse Restaurant. We stop at a car garage and ask how far the place was. We're told "just down a ways around that curve in the road." We walk and walk, crossing a bridge with ZERO pedestrian accommodation. Imagine timing a dive into a small inlet along the coastline while the tide rushes in, rushes back out. That's what it felt like, scurrying across this bridge before another wave of speeding cars came upon us in an instant.

We complete the country 1/2 mile in roughly 45 minutes, marveling at how different it seemed from an ACTUAL 1/2 mile that we'd grown accustomed to over the course of our lives. The Lighthouse had the most amazing hush puppies, while Chris said the fried oysters ruled the land far and wide. I am not a big seafood fan so I had a cheeseburger, one of the stable fuels used since California.

We considered calling a cab for the return trip to the motel but the thought lasted about one second. Once we started walking things got better. Walking after a meal cannot be underestimated. It works.

We slept well this night. The room was large, clean and comfortable.

over and out

Day 30 - Franklinton, LA to Wiggins, MS 67.66 miles/14.6 mph average 5 hrs 12 min

Happy mother's Day

Mother's Day as celebrated in the United States today traces back to Anna Jarvis, who, following the death of her mother on May 9, 1905, devoted the rest of her life to establishing Mother's Day as a national, and later an international holiday.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mother%27s_Day_%28United_States%29

Pete, Chris and Phylis Panagos in New Hampshire

Phylis with Max - she would always push her glasses up

with an upturned index finger

Nina's grave marker - it says

I am in full sunshine now on the bottom

Nina on right with her sister Anne,

possibly in Vancouver, BC 1958

The route today featured 20 mile sections between towns. Franklinton to Bogalusa, Louisiana to Poplarville, Mississippi to Wiggins, Mississippi. When we planned the ride months ago, matching appropriate mileage to a town with a motel was challenging. Wiggins was off route, but fit better as a stopping point on the day. We jammed the first 40 miles to Poplarville, lunching on the curb of a gas station/store.

Good bye Best Southern Inn - hello panniers

While packing our things to head back out on the road, a truck driver with Texas plates asked for directions to interstate 59. We looked at our map and told him to head east on State Road 26, our route. Once we left town, it appeared we'd provided bad directions, and the thought of him coming back toward town as we headed out was not appealing. It turned out that we were correct. The interstate overpass sat four miles out.

We took a few turns in the road then state road 26 straightened out to Wiggins, Mississippi. As we drew nearer the town, I checked our accommodation for the night and it said the Southern Inn. Holy Crap, could this be a kissing cousin of the Best Southern Inn? The rate of $43.59 indicated a possible snake in the grass; we'd think it a great deal until we checked in and reality proved far more random and absurd than our imagination. After last night we needed an even scorecard. We needed a list of amenities to shore up our spirits after the deprivation meted out by the Best Southern.

We stopped for a snack at a cemetery in Bogalusa, Louisiana.

There were several folks paying visits this day.

We snapped this gnome - Nina had a few in her yard.

Wiggins sits at the crossroad between state road # 26 and Interstate 49. 26 slopes down toward the interstate and offers a good view of civilization available to us; McDonald's, Pizza Hut and . . and . . . the Best Western! We looked at each other knowing exactly what the new plan was. We rolled into the Best Western parking lot, Chris checked availability at the desk, I immediately called the Southern Inn and canceled our reservation, stating dishonestly that we'd run into mechanical trouble and were still in Poplarville unable to make it to Wiggins by nightfall. I would have eaten bugs to avoid another night like the last.

There were no bugs on the menu at McDonald's or Pizza Hut. We just had to decide what we'd have for lunch and dinner. The motel was stellar, better than we deserved, almost empty, clean, guest laundry, pool, the works. After check in we immediately did laundry, then used the pool for only the second time since beginning the ride. The first was in Globe, Arizona. Swimming takes a lot of energy after so many hours on the bike.

We combined lunch with resupplying provisions at the gas station/store/McDonald's. After only a few hours we trudged back to Pizza Hut for more food. As I sat there eating, one server stopped in his tracks and said "is that Spawn?" while gaping at my right calf tattoo. We then chatted about Spawn with Eli for the next several minutes, until guests started backing up at the door. Here's this kid working at Pizza Hut, still living with his parents as they disapprove of him spending any money on things a kid wants to spend money on. We could sense his frustration while offering a few helpful words of advice - move out.

I envy those premature adults who, at 15 years old start plunking money into a retirement account. I remember when I wanted a skateboard and realized the best way to get it was earn the money for myself. This skateboard (Logan Earth Ski with Sims wheels, Bennett Trucks) was the singular reason why I started delivering papers instead of stealing (more accurately, why I stopped stealing). No matter where you go, teenagers want the same things; freedom to do as they please. From our perspective finding someone with a common interest in Wiggins, Mississippi made this Mother's Day a good one all around, not to mention the motel.

Thanks Nina and Phylis for looking down on us today and nudging everything into place. We needed a good day and you gave us yet another to go with all the others we remember so fondly.

over and out