Rain.
Mid-forties temperature.
Lots of rain.
Richard and I had neglected to check out what today's weather was going to be, and it was raining. A heavy, but steady rain. He wanted to leave his campsite today but decided to wait it out in his camper and shoot for Georgia in the morning. I had no such option and needed to get out of Florida sooner rather than later. Richard nodded, and made an excuse to clean some laundry in town and offered to drive me to town with my bike if I wanted. I agreed and we loaded up Kona and headed back towards the blue water of the Gulf.
As we approached town the wind picked up, and not in my favor. Richard and I looked at each other in silence, waiting for one of us to acknowledge the unfortunate situation. He shrugged his shoulders as he drove and muttered, "sunny Florida feels a lot like Oregon" as we pulled into the laundromat. I unloaded my bike and gave Richard the hug and goodbyes that a friend like him deserves. He gave me a trash bag to store my electronics in for the rain and told me to stay safe as I traveled. "Hopefully I'll see you in Oregon!" he happily called out as he turned inside into the warm comfort of the laundromat. "I'll see you sooner than you think!" I called back as I began to crank into the rain and wind.
Riding a bike in the rain makes you appreciate the beauty an overcast day can offer.
I was still physically miserable though.
After an unremarkable forty miles of cycling, I showed up to my campsite: tired, wet, cold, and cursing this trip. I rolled into Rustic Sands Campground looking for any spot they had available that was even remotely dry. The camp manager was familiar with cross-country cyclists and had a special little hut on stilts for them; "though," she added while eyeing my dripping-wet clothes, "usually the bikers are going East, not West." Another reminder that the wind I battled today would be the rule, not the exception, as I moved towards the Pacific Ocean. I thanked the manager for her hospitality and hurried over to my spot for the night.
The hut was tall enough that I was able to store Kona underneath away from prying eyes. I took my panniers, handlebar bag, and tent and quickly threw them into the hut. I wanted to get everything as dry as I could or else I'd risk the chance of saddle sores, blisters, trench foot and other wounds from soggy, cold skin rubbing on clothing in the next few days. I creatively hung my clothes around the hut to dry and made camp. My tent, sleeping bag, and packed clothes stayed remarkably dry. I made a soggy dinner of rice, a can of tuna, several slices of bread, peanut butter, and oatmeal over my small camping stove. As I waited for my food to cook I finally began to appreciate the graffiti on the inside of the shed. The most troubling writing was the hurried, scrawled writing of "what is ded???" several times all over the walls in what was clearly the writing of a child experiencing their first existential crisis.
Welcome to the team bud.
After hurriedly shoving my meal down my throat, I found myself with nothing else to do. At the time of seven in the evening, with the sun already nestling behind the horizon, I went to sleep.