It's early.
It's cold.
It's rainy.
I'm a little hungover, and I'm functioning on minimal sleep. It’s 4 a.m. and my father is driving me to the airport.
"Nervous at all bud?" My father asks. Optimistic concern in his voice.
"Nope." I replied, still wiping sleep from my eyes.
When I said “nope” I don't think my dad believed me. I don't blame him. To him, my family, and friends, I was about to embark on an insane trip that they learned existed only a few months prior. When I would tell someone of this trip, an assault of questions began. At first they were all scatter-shot questions ranging from the simple to the personal: "What about bathing?", "What if you get hit by a car?", "What if you get diarrhea in the middle of nowhere?" It was unmitigated curiosity, something I thoroughly enjoyed. As the departure date got closer the questions became more general rather than any specific facet of the trip.
At my going away party, just a day away from starting my trip, everyone asked the same thing as my father; and I had the same, honest response. In my head, the trip was this big, nebulous of an idea. It didn't have texture or a taste or a smell or a color. It wasn't a real thing. If anything, it was simply non-existent. It was the blank pages of a book I knew I was just starting to write. It was the first time I had experienced a lack of anxiety in a very long time. If anything, the only thing I felt about this trip was peace. I was prepared and was now merely awaiting for what the World would throw at me, confident in my research and practice.
We pulled into the parking garage and began the final haul to the check-in counter. I had carefully prepped the bike box for this section of my trip. I had triple-checked the weight to keep it under 100 pounds, memorized the check-in procedure for over-sized luggage, and even reinforced the handles on the box thanks to the advice of other cycle-tourers. We pulled the box out of the car and began our awkward-short-step-shuffle to the check-in counters. Immediately, the handles ripped.
Careful preparation didn't even make it fifty yards.
So we readjusted our grabbing positions to something more awkward and continued our move. Along the way people glanced over at us to inspect what the hell was going on. I often wondered if they were thinking: "what's in the box?" or "why don't those two idiots just get a cart?" I hoped for the former but it's probably the latter.
Fortunately, the actual check-in process went extremely smoothly. Kona was placed on the scale, coming in at a trim eighty-nine pounds and then shipped away into the meat grinder that is airport luggage processing. I then moved over into security and said my final goodbye to my dad, who patiently watched as I waded through security and throngs of other travelers to my plane. In my hands I had one pannier filled with a notebook and pencil, some snacks, a bandanna, my ID and credit cards, and a sweater. I reached my gate with no drama and sat down and closed my eyes begging for a nap. My role in this part of the trip was over. Everything was now in the hands of the Airplane Gods, and hopefully not in the Airplane! Gods'.
For the most part the flying went smoothly. We landed in humid Fort Lauderdale just before ten a.m. and I had thirty minutes to catch my next flight to Key West. I awkward-jogged across the entire airport, even having to run outside through the parking lots to get to the opposing terminal. I got to my gate with time to spare just to see the plane rolling up to the terminal. Then, I'm not sure what happened but all I know is this:
Passengers got off.
They called us up for boarding.
We lined up.
The plane left.
We continued to stand in line confused for 10 minutes.
The microphone clicked on and it magnified the tail end of a conversation before someone stammered into it. "--riously? Wow. Uhm--I'm...sorry passengers but there has been...uh--?...a change of planes. Please be seated and we will notify you when we will begin the boarding process." We all looked at one another with slightly nervous smiles before returning to our own little worlds to pass the time. I busied myself with a nap and watching YouTube videos of reassembling bikes to prepare for the work to do in Key West Airport.
Two hours later we finally finished the boarding process and flew to Key West.
And it was a beautiful flight.
It was a short one though. After only forty-five minutes of cruising along the Florida coast the familiar ding of the seatbelt sign came on and the flight attendants began buckling themselves up.
The intercom clicked on and the pilot informed us that we would be landing shortly. I began running the steps needed to get out of the airport ASAP through my head. On paper, it was fairly simple: Assemble Kona; bike to the nearest gas station or grocery store and load up on calories; get to a campsite. The two hour delay seemed like a minor inconvenience but began to grow into a larger problem. I was originally supposed to land in Key West at 1pm. Assembling Kona would take roughly an hour and my campsite was fifty-some-odd miles away, about a six hour ride. The sun sets at 7pm. Landing at 1pm makes this itinerary possible; landing at 3pm does not. I could bike at night. I could also get hit by a car. So, as soon as Kona was assembled I would bike to the first gas station and search on my phone for a new campsite while refueling. It seemed like a slam dunk plan.
Instead, I ran into the problems that life always throws. Our plane landed safely and everyone got their luggage quickly. Given that the walk across the tarmac from the plane and into the hole the luggage handlers were throwing our luggage was only thirty yards away, getting your luggage in only a few minutes makes sense. However, bicycle boxes are apparently sent somewhere else for an hour. No other plane landed so I assume Kona was being investigated. It was was now just shy of 4 p.m. and I was beginning to really sweat from the anxiousness of needing to get my bike assembled and hit the road.
Twenty minutes after four, my bike box finally jammed its way through the luggage hole. I ran over, grabbed the box, and returned to the only area in Key West airport that I had any room: the front entrance. I tore the box open and immediately unpacked everything I could. I now realized that my meticulous packing operation had a major flaw: It made sense for space saving, but it was just chaos for assembly order. My assembly process was: getting my tools (top of the box); then put my disc rotors (bottom of the box) onto my wheels (jammed awkwardly into the sides); next I had to put on my handlebars with the cap (shoved into a box inside of a pannier, somewhere); the wheels could go on with their axle skewers (attached on the drop tube); and finally the seat could be assembled (upside down and wedged between my front fork). Keep in mind that as I am digging for these parts, I am also sifting through pounds of camping equipment and clothing. The airport quickly turned into a mess as I tried to unload and organize my life for the next six months. After an hour of working on my bike a security guard told me that I couldn't assemble my bike here. I looked at him, my hands covered in chain grease and holding a tire, and said:
"...uh..."
"I'll give you an hour. Can you get it all packed up and out of here by then?"
"Absolutely."
And what began as a precise, calm bicycle assembly immediately exploded in an anxiety ridden dash. I became a sweaty mess as I began to just throw parts at my bike and slapped gear onto a half-assembled bike. Despite the security guard being completely reasonable and very calm, I worried I was going to be thrown out of the airport. Eventually my contraption I called bike could be half-pushed/half-carried to a park rife with homeless people and did a proper, final assembly. I wiped the grease away from my hands and finally mounted Kona.
It was now 5:30 pm.
I spun through resort village after resort village as the sun slid towards the sea. People were out enjoying their days while I sprinted to the nearest gas station. I had barely eaten all day and I absolutely needed to get any calories into me. I hurriedly bought some bananas, cans of tuna, bread, and a Gatorade from a shop no larger than a thimble. The sun was now lighting up the Ocean sky in pink and orange hues behind me to the West. I shoved a piece of bread in my mouth and began riding East into the darkness.
After what felt like a few hours of cycling, I took stock of my situation: There were no parks near me for camping, I wasn't comfortable sleeping in a random nook of trees or a parcel of random public beach due to how small the keys are. It was also the day of a New Moon and to say it was dark would be to depreciate the utter lack of light there was around me. My headlamp and tail-light were the only sources of photons and they were eagerly eaten up by the darkness. I couldn’t see anything outside of the small beam of security that my lights offered. I decided that the next available location to sleep, whether that be a gross motel or a hostel or an open dog house, would be my stop for the night. After a few miles of riding I saw lights struggling to glimmer in the distance. I rolled towards them.
I dismounted my bike at a small motel just West of Sugarloaf Key. There I met a man named Kofey. He was short with me and was taking his sweet time slowly typing information into the computer. I handed over my Michigan ID and he commented that his son had attended some small college out in Michigan. "It was like...Saginaw State or somethin'.” The words were falling out of his mouth, colored in a New York accent.
I perked up. "No way. Saginaw Valley State University?"
"Yeah, that one!" As a large smile began to grow on his face.
I grinned as I told him I attended Saginaw Valley. He told me of his son's short tenure there as a football player in the late 90’s. Our conversation then meandered into random directions. I told him of my trip, and life in Michigan and Colorado.He told me of his life in New York and how he came to live in the Keys and own the hotel. At 11 p.m., I finally got the room keys and wheeled Kona to my room.
After nearly nineteen hours of traveling, I can finally collapse onto a bed. It may not be a tent in the wilds like I wanted, but I'll still take it.