If I get too comfortable in any one spot, my anxiety spikes knowing I will have to break out of this comfort zone. Niffy and George laid out the red carpet. Just the guest suite was on parallel with the Ritz. Breakfast, lunch and dinner were all four star. Watching the soccer game at an authentic English pub with George, Paul and Eric was a treat. Shortly there after, Niffy orchestrated a small diner party, putting me at the head of the table. So, you can see how, I was reluctant to leave. Yet, nothing can hold me back from the road. After the pictures and a hugo off I pedaled for Miami Beach fifty miles south.
The addition of a compass to my bars has saved me numerous times.This time I ended up on a highway system leading me to the Fort Lauderdale airport. Working my way out of a concrete highway maze had me riding on the breakdown lane going against the traffic. Just as I reached A1A, I rode over a grass strip and picked up several fire ants which had me swatting them for several minutes. Nothing serious, the stings smarted around my right ankle for a good half hour.
From Lauderdale south the high rise condominiums became a near endless strip as I progressed. Likewise, the crosswalk traffic lights proliferated to accommodate the hords of humanity housed in these highrises. Gear down, stop, wait, start off again to reach cruising speed, to be repeated dozens times, mile after mile. The traffic ramped up but the bike lanes of various types kept me safe, sort of. Without my horizonally mounted orange flag and my glasses mounted mirror help to keep my wits in tact as the cars passed me going five times my speed. Fifty-one miles brought me to the Miami Beach Hostel I booked the night before. Funky place that reminded me of the hostels I stayed in over in Spain and France. I stripped all my bags off my bike and used all three of my cable lock to secure my bike to the bike railing in the back. Security camera at the check-in counter did not placate my doubt I had for the safe storage of my bike. Waiting for check-in, I started up a conversation with a forty-seven year old Brazilian who lives in a town smack in the middle of the Amazon and who is a philosophy professor at a small college there. Feeling somewhat revived after a hot shower, I booked another hostel in Florida City for tomorrow night. With that done, Ceasar, the Brazilian, and I walked a few blocks to a local Latin chicken place and feasted for under ten dollars a piece.
With only thirty-seven miles to Florida City, I will try to ride over to the shore and check out the Art Deco building that Miami Beach is know for.
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