Best day yet

       After checking into motel, other than television, there is not much to do but sleep.  Living in a box is a miserable way to see the world.   With ten hours of sleep, I sprang out of bed and slammed my body and mind into gear.  Packed up and was on my way by 7:25, foggy gray misty morning as I pedaled down past the high rise jungle of ocean drive, Ormond Beach. Stopping at Burger King, I bought a dish of eggs, sausage, pancakes and OJ.  Back on the road in twenty minutes,  I had clear riding with litttle traffic and no wind. The legs and body are adjusting and I managed fifty carefree miles, ending up in Mims at a KOA camp ground. With fifteen miles to go, the sun appeared and the humidity settled in, Florida as I know it to be. Ten miles before Mims I picked up lunch at a convenience  store and struck a conversation with a nice guy on a KTM motorcycle (owns several hot bikes, having owned a motorcycle store), seventy-five years old. We had the same outlook on life, get out there and see the world, no time to waste.
      Once settled in, tent up, everything off the bike,  I removed the back wheel and tightened up the spokes. Erik LaFrambious has been my ‘pro from Dover’on getting my bicycle tuned up for my trip. Over the phone, I gave him the run down on this creeping sound I was hearing from the back wheel. Progressively getting louder, eventually I narrowed it down to the spokes. To precluded any other possible reasons for the creaking, Erik suggested I remove the back wheel and check for anything loose in the wheel hug. Nothing wrong there so I painstaking tightened each spoke one quarter turn.  The creaking sound seems to have gone. Tomorrow will be the test with all the gear loaded on.
     Tomorrow I head for Melbourne where I have a Warmshowers host putting me up.  From what I was told by a passed by at the campsite, from here south I am entering the subtropics. The temperatures are predicted to be in the low eighties. Now for the full summer attire and plenty of sunscreen.

After eighty miles the legs are adjusting

   Off at 8:30 from Jack Edwards’ house, he laid out breakfast before he left before I woke.  Amazing similarities, hope he stays in touch. The first two hours on the road my legs were complaining. The wind was unmercifully, slowing me down way below ten mph. With thirty miles behind I stopped at Flagler beach. After consuming a vitamin drink, chicken salad sandwich and some dark chocolate, I pushed off from a rundown convenience store where no one spoke English. The wind moderated and my legs started getting in the groove.  It was my arms and constant repositioning of my hands on the bars, to fight off numbness, that wore me down.  If I find a good bicycle shop, I hope to buy a bar extender to raising my torso up and reduce my weight on the bars.

     After forty-five miles I rolled into Ormond Beach, a big town with ocean high rises mile after mile. My search for an inexpensive Airbnb or Warmshowers host proved fruitless. I checked a firehouse along the way. A central firehouse closed up, what gives with that?  At a McDonald’s, I hooked up to WiFi and started surfing for a place to stay. Called two churches but got the answering machine. Forget the community on the weekdays, it is just for the Sunday show of being “saved”.  A couple, a bit younger than I, walked in and were enthusiastic about my bike outside. With a little local knowledge, they assured me that there were several inexpensive motels down the road a few miles. With no other option, I had to check into a room on the water. A clean room, bed and bathroom forty-five dollars was the best I could fine. The ocean patio with a spectacular view made it a good deal.  The surf and wind were both up making the patio the perfect setting.  The receptionist was a piece of work, who grew up in South Boston, came out and shot the breeze with me as a rescue crew on the endless beach was trying to find a person who supposably drowned. 

    Tomorrow, I ride to Mimi and either score a Warmshowers place or a KOA campsite near the Kennedy center.  Hopefully the wind won’t be cranked up; it would be nice to keep the bike moving at ten to twelve mph.

First day on the road

       Anxiety builds as the time approaches to get pedaling.  Breaking out of the comfort zone can be fraught with second guessing, do I have it in me and so forth. To not get out of my comfort zone is the beginning of slow death, a boring unfulfilling way to spend the last year’s of my life.  Today, thirty-five days on the road, the wind and light rain hitting me from the southeast.  A bit of soarness in the arms, legs and arse but nothing I haven’t experienced before.
       My Warmshowers host, Jack Edwards, and I hit it off.  Perhaps a bit older than me but our similarities are remarkable.  After seeing historic St Augustine and all it excessive cheap tourism with thousands of people swarming the narrow streets, I escaped back to Jack’s place along with a six of double IPA.  Jack cooked s pasta dish to die for.  We polished off the six pack and talked about our extensive bike odyssey’s and how important it was to keep doing them.  Jack is selling his house to head for some part of the world out of the ordinary.  Whether it be Thailand or Malaysia, he is in search of the exotic that so any of us crave.
    Tomorrow, Daytona Beach beckons.  Everything is booked so I hope one of the three Warmshowers contacts comes through.  There is a campsite tens miles out of my way if everything else fails. Of course, I could also stealth camp but there are alligators down here!

Iiftoff from Providence

        Christmas Eve at Catherine Pratt’s house , just the two of us hanging out in her kitchen having wine, beer, salad, pizza and brownies and  cream for dessert.  It was good to be with a friend given that Cyrus and Julia are on the west coast working Christmas Day. Headed for home around ten. With my pre-trip anxiety getting the barter of me, I awoke at 1:45 and fitfully struggled to fall asleep again. 5:45 came early but I hit the floor knowing Brian Bergeron was picking me up at 6:40. He is a great kid, at nineteen he has it together. We made to TF Green traffic free. I checked in my two monster bags containing my bike and panniers. It is a site to see me wheeling all my gear through the terminal, taking up a good six feet. The looks I get are that of anazement; who is this bald grey haired guy dragging all this gear along. I have yet to meet anyone like me in all my trips. Young guys and girls,yes; a sixty-nine year old guy, never.
        Trying to figure out how to schlep my gear twenty-three miles from the Jacksonville airport to my Airbnb in downtown had me guessing.  Saving the day, my Airbnb host picked me up.  I had agreed to help her out by switching rooms so she returned the favor, on top of permitting me to storing my luggage while I am on the road. As well, her other guest cooked up a killer dinner to thank me for helping him out by changing rooms. Bonfire in the backyard fire pit along with a few cold brews, real nice. Hit the sack around 10:30 and slept like I was dead.
       Day two I assembled the bike and rode around the outskirts of Jacksonville getting the  feel of Florida traffic and climate; it was encouraging to see plenty of bike lanes. Stopped for lunch along the way, All systems are go for the bike and now to chill out before I head for St Augustine tomorrow where I have a warmershowers biker host waiting for me.

Liftoff Christmas morning

The bags are pack, bills paid, plants watered, presents sent and loose ends tied.  Everything is A Ok for departure.  Providence to Jacksonville, Airbnb for two nights, assemble the bike and head for coast, A1A south.  550 miles to Key West, no hills and hopefully no headwinds.  It always takes a little bit of psyching myself up for any of my trips.  Breaking out of my comfort zone is the toughest part of any of my trips.  Once in the road, I enter a world alien to most people. Free of the fish bowl of life, I am on my own.  I wish I could leave now.

See the city by bicycle

   It was nice to sleep in the saunter down to the hostel breakfast at a civilized hour..  Cereal, fruit, toast, juice and coffee fortified my engine for my ride through the city.  The city museum situated in this huge modern building was a history of Montreal dating back to prehistoric times up to the present.  The building was built on top of the first permanent settlement exposed in the basement.  This settlement included a seventeenth century underground sewer system.  For three hours I traversed the entire building absorbing a very comprehensive display of Montreal, past and present.  For the next two days, I meandered around town checking out the neighborhoods both old an new and the waterfront.  A decent town particularly the bike path system throughout the city.  Thousands of bikes were everywhere including  traffic lights at eye level for us.  I have heard Quebec City is nicer but Montreal is a decent city worth seeing.  My last day I met a woman, Suzanne, in my age range, who buddied up with me for dinner and a stroll through the city.  This included taking in a huge music festival with thousands of people gathered in the closed off streets,  listening to the various musical groups displayed on stage and on huge displace screens. Finishing off the night with an ice cream, Suzanne and I headed back where we  bid farewell.  The next morning, early, I found my way to the bus station where I partially disassembled my bike, picked it in a bike box, boarded a Greyhound bus and headed for home. Thirteen hours from one town after another, “The Local” in short. Ellen picked up at the train station in New London. 511 miles, too many hills to count, five nights with Warmshowers hosts, five nights camping, one Airbnb, one hostel and three nights at New Hampton.  No breakdowns but the hills wore me down.  Next trip I need to lose about ten pounds and put on smaller tires for less drag. Where next? Vietnam?

A better, rails to trails to Montreal

     Up at the crack of dawn, pack up and was on the road by 7:15, probably one of the earliest starts I ever had. Perhaps, I was determined to make it to Montreal to make up for yesterday’s ride of total frustration and outright contempt for God himself.  Nines miles of flat terrain brought me to Granby where I found a McDonald’s by a picturesque lake surrounded by a somewhat upscale community.  Topped off, I climbed aboard and head west on 112 to Montreal. A mile down the road I spotted what appeared to be a bike trail. In fact, it was, the god’s owed me big time.  For the next sixty-two miles, with the exception of a few poorly marked areas, the going was effortless. Road signs in Quebec have a tendency to disappear at critical junctures in the route.  Alas, after about three pits to water up and fuel the tank, I arrived at the river separating me from Montreal.  With no clear directions, I meandered around until a local bicyclist lead me to the bike path taking me up and over the two huge bridges into Montreal. Just like the main automobile road, the bike path had two lines and with it, being rush hour, the path was a virtual highway of bikes and pedestrians.  A biker’s rush hour, a new concept in urban cycling. As the path ended and I was in the city, I stopped and began my search for a hostel. I suppose I could have opted for Warmshowers.com but I was in need of some serious social interaction.  With a bit of searching and jerking around with my iPhone, I found the number for one of the city hostels. Thank Jesus,  the place was straight ahead only about five lightly traveled roads away.  Arriving at the hostel was like entering the gates of heaven. Seventy-three miles and I had made it, making up for the day before.  Seeing a senior citizen push his loaded bike through the front door up to the front desk always gets everyon’s attention.  We are few are far between. The guy who checked me in was a prince of a man. He led me to my single room and showed me everything I needed to know for my stay, including places to see around town and restaurants to dine. After settling in, a hot shower to wash off the layers of trail dust and grime, I found my way to the gay district.  Loads of restaurants to choose from along a long and wide pedestrian street.  Planting myself at an outdoor cafe, I dined in style while taking in the local gay color. From a funky campsite to bustling Montreal in one day, I had pulled the rabbit out of the hat.