Justin was kind enough to drop me off in Gulf Shores, Alabama before he went to work.
Actually, let me be honest. Justin was insistent because, in his words, "the roads are anything but bike friendly." I wasn't objecting, a ride was a ride. After a short twenty-minute cruise through, what were undoubtedly bad cycling roads, Justin dropped me off in front of a grocery store. He pointed me towards the bike path, and wished me luck on the remainder of my journey. "If you're back in Foley, give me a text. It'd be good to see you again." Parting words from an absolute stranger that I can now count on as a good friend. As he pulled away to head to work, I jumped on my bike and began my version of work for the day.
Only to immeditaely stop.
My rear tire was flat.
As I flipped my bike over to change my tube, it was almost as if I could hear the state of Florida laughing at me. After all the days of battling wind, waking up to a broken phone, and having to pretend I don't hear alligators outside my tent, through all 900+ miles of Sunshine State, I thought I was finally done with Florida.
But this flat. This flat was Florida's one final parting gift to me, and I felt personally attacked by the state of Florida—even outside of its borders. I know this was from Florida because of the nature of the puncture, some broken glass causing a slow-leak. The only glass I had rode over was just before the bridge as I crossed out of Florida. Or at least that's what I like to tell myself I remember.
I quickly changed the tube and then began my ride for the day, hoping I can finally put Florida behind me. I began cranking down a quiet, tree-lined path among multi-million dollar homes. I passed by power-walking geriatrics and hard-working landscape laborers as I began to fall into an easy-rhythm. The forests and quiet temperament of the weather lulled me into a pleasant daze.
Suddenly, I was in Florida again. The lush bike path I had begun a few hours earlier had suddenly spit me out among sand dunes and beach bungalows. The sun overhead began blazing as I once again battled slight head-winds full of rough, coarse sand. I could hear the ceaseless lapping of waves off to my right as the sun slowly continued to sear my entire left side. Just like Florida. At this point I had developed an aversion to the open beauty of the beaches. I desired overhead cover or else the rest of this journey will roast me alive or kill me from worry over every mole and freckle that would develop. Fortunately, this is my last few days next to a major body of water for a while. I would no longer have to deal with the sun shining off of--what is essentially--a giant mirror, the sand grinding in my gears, and the throngs of clueless people that beaches attracted. I rolled into Fort Morgan, in the midst of a throng of clueless people and parked my bike on a small beach.
Great...
I carefully weaved myself between people and cars. I rolled up to the toll booth where a hungover teenager handed me a ticket for the ferry. "It's comin' at 11." He told me as he lounged in his shack-like-kiosk, sunglasses on for the sake of his headache. I quietly rolled myself to the water and waited patiently for the ferry ride.
And it was a pleasant wait.
And it was a good ferry ride.
It reminded me a lot of home. Taking a ferry out to Canada or Harsen's Island or across Mobile Bay all felt the same. The loud burst of engines firing, the smell of burnt diesel fuel emanating from the smokestacks, and the rhythmic lapping of waves against the hull reminded me of many summers spent crossing the St. Clair River.
After the short boat ride and some friendly conversation with strangers, I found myself on the other side of Mobile Bay. I re-mounted Kona, crossed some bridges back onto the mainland, and began my strike out towards Mississippi. As I rode the beaches and open water quietly disappeared into thick marshes and, eventually, developed into tall pines and thick undergrowth. A sight that reminded, me once again, of home.
Eventually, after sixty plus miles of cycling, I rolled down a long, paved driveway. As I approached a cluster of buildings, I began to feel an uneasiness in my stomach. I was now in a "campground" called Presley's Outing. The website, and the person on the phone, both made it 100 % unclear as to whether they allowed tent campsites. All information was relayed to me as stories from years past or in a drawl that I just did not understand. I decided to just go for it and hope they took tents. Now that I was here, with the sun quickly setting, I realized that I made a mistake. I only saw RV's and mobile homes. There were no families out enjoying the sunshine or children running around as if on vacation. Instead, there were merely older couples, silently staring at the guy who, to them, probably looked homeless.
The sun was quickly setting and I had no idea where the office was. I knew I was dozens of miles from the next best option for a campground and I really didn't want to stealth camp tonight nor ride in the dark to the next campsite. I rolled up next to a shirtless man in a golf cart with a corgi sitting shotgun. Both pleasantly content with each other's company. In a less stressful situations, I would have laughed at the beauty of that image.
"Hey how ya doin'?" I called out in my Michigan accent as Kona and I rolled to a stop about six feet from the golf cart. "Good, 'n yew?" The man responded. "Good...good. Do y'all take tent campers by chance?" I asked, trying my best to look as desperately exhausted as possible. The man looked over lazily, eyed me from stem to stern, and replied: "Le'mee ask tha bawss." I leaned over on my handlebars and was prepared to follow the man to the campground's main office, and hopefully a bathroom. The man leaned over, whispered and pet his corgi, and turned back to me to say: "follow me."
He lead me over to a small depression just outside of the bathrooms and showers underneath a large tree. He pointed to the ground and shot me a big smile. "Yer free to stay her'. It ain't goin' to cost ya' anything, all we ask is yew pick up yer trash and take-off by eleven. Sound good?" I eagerly shook the man's hand and espoused thanks from the bottom of my heart. He merely told me "nah problem" as he, his golf cart, and corgi returned to their station near the end of the driveway. I'm not sure what that man's role was in the camp, or if he was even affiliated with the camp, but I'll trust his word. I mean, the man has a corgi.
I made camp, ate some tuna and peanut butter sandwiches, and quickly went to bed thankful for the generosity of Presley's Outing. I am also excited for tomorrow as I cross-off another item on my "to-do" list for this trip: Visit NOLA.