I woke up at 6 a.m. to a world that was sunny and cool. The raccoons had made their retreat at some point, fearing the water. The tide had came in, washing over the semi-dry soil that the mangrove roots had settled in. The smell of tepid sear air filled the boardwalk as another camper and I packed up our campsites. The man on the boardwalk across from me had already broken down camp and was in the final steps of preparing his kayak to head out into the ocean. He moved mechanically as he broke down his camp, everything seeming to have an order and a place in his dry bags. I talked to him as I too packed my life onto my human-powered vessel.
He was quiet and answered in tired tones. He was paddling up to twenty miles each day in the ocean. He was going to Key West, having started in Miami, and he was training to one day paddle the western coast of Australia. He told me all this in a quiet voice with mild-accent with short, concise sentences. It was clear he merely wanted to get in his kayak and begin his ride for the day.
"Goodbye and good luck!" I called out with all the energy of a Golden Retriever as he got into his kayak. "Stay safe friend." He responded as he carefully and slowly, pushed himself off into the sea like a turtle. I watched the kayak-man slowly paddle away from shore as I slowly broke down camp. After some quick clean up and stuffing of various camping gear and body parts into their appropriate covers and bags, I began my push North towards the Florida mainland in what could only be described as wicked stellar weather.
After a few hours of rolling past sandy grass and open water, I pulled my phone out of my bag to check my ride for the day. Thanks to the beauty of human kindness and enjoyment of shared activities, WarmShowers exists. A way for touring cyclists to communicated with one another about their location and if they can offer you help on a tour or even join you. The deal being, when your tour is over you offer up what you can. I was crashing with a fellow touring cyclist at his home in North East Miami and knew I would have a longer, but manageable, day ahead of me. The pixels lit up and, little did I know that, in that moment, I would suddenly become incredibly bad at all understandings of mathematics and time. My phone blipped on, only a few electrons of power left, and I read that the day would be a total of 63 miles. I also knew, based on the Route 1 mile markers, that I had already ridden roughly 20 miles. Alright, doing great Rivard! I thought to myself. Biked 20 miles. Fortyish left. Only 10am. Feel good. Keep pedaling. I exited Islamorada functioning under an assumed reality. A reality where my phone read that my day of riding would be 60ish miles and that I had already pedaled a good chunk of the map away. I’ll be done by 3 I cheerily said to myself. However, I was in an assumed reality. A reality built on scanning things over reading them, and, choosing to rely on memory over writing things down.
But Islamorada was pretty and I felt good so who cares.
I rode past similar looking fishing towns and tourist villages, all dotted with groups of people out enjoying the sun. There was a long string of beautifully paved, smooth pedestrian pathways that zig-zagged over the keys that gave me a reprieve from having to ride on the rough asphalt roads. The reprieve of the pavement came with a trade-off.
As time passed there was more and more land. Land tend to has an effect on weather, particularly humidity and wind. The sea air slowly came to a rest as palms and other trees began to move Poseidon further and further away. With this came stagnant warm air that became bloated with the thick, stickiness of moisture. The smooth black surface of the bike trails was throwing the heat of the sun onto my face and chest while the sun beat hard on the back of my neck. I was extremely exposed, but I was living in my reality. In my reality, I felt undeterred and pushed on. I pushed on, spinning at a steady tempo and gobbling up miles at a good pace. I considered stopping and loading up on groceries but decided it would be easier once I got to Miami, considering I only had a short ride left. I made a quick pit stop on the South end of Key Largo at a market and refilled on water as I paused my day for lunch. I found a power outlet, and charged my phone as I snacked.
After a hearty break I grabbed my phone and began to open up GoogleMaps. In the infinitesimal time between my phone screen displaying my route for the day and my brain being able to process that information, lives a Schroedinger’s Box. Until that exact moment, I was existing in a reality where my phone and I were both correct. Then, as my brain registered the text on the phone screen, I opened Schroedinger’s Box and learned about the status of my trip for the day: I was nowhere near done. The cat in the box was dead.
The death of Schroedinger’s Cat ushered in a sea of negativity. The sky was set to go dark at 6:30 p.m. and it was already getting into 1 p.m. As the error in my thinking dawned on me, I realized the multitude of the REAL reality: how much further I had left to go; the dull thumping of soreness in my legs a reminder of how far I have already ridden today; a phone low on battery; not much food; not much time to shop; soreness in the saddle area; etc. I began to think about having to find a place to stealth camp in the alligator-infested Everglades or a dangerously cheap motel on the outskirts of Miami so I didn’t have to complete a 100+ miles by bike. However, I wanted to stay on track. I decided to keep moving. I quickly inhaled my meal and continued riding, determined to get to my scheduled destination.
I sped through all of Key Largo, pushing at a difficult but manageable pace. My pedestrian pathways that had ushered me this far into Florida suddenly ended and I found myself on Highway 1, crossing onto the mainland of Florida via a very large and very exposed bridge. I scanned ahead of me onto the bridge and saw that the six-foot wide shoulder I had would shortly turn into a two-foot wide one. I quickly consulted my phone, the battery now down to a percentage that was the equivalent of the US drinking age. The maps said that the only other option I had was to get off of Highway 1 and add an additional dozen plus miles to an already exhaustive ride and still cross a few bridges along the way. I decided to take my chances.
I pedaled my bike and myself up the steady incline of the bridge, cars whizzing past me at sixty miles per hour with only a foot to spare between me and the mechanical beasts. If I wasn't careful and fell over, I could get myself into massive amounts of trouble. I concentrated hard on staying as straight as possible while battling the increasing wind speeds that were hitting my right side. It felt as if nature was actively trying to push me into traffic. To anyone in their car, they saw a man with a lot of bags on his bike heading up the overpass. I'm sure I didn't even register a second glance to most motorists. Meanwhile, on the bike, I was white knuckling the handlebars and focusing on breathing and staying as straight as possible.
I crested over the overpass and felt the gentle pull of gravity begin to take over. I began to relax, until I began to worry. I was still not quite used to my bike with all the weight on it. I was a clumsy mess that found it difficult to maintain a straight line; and given the flatness of both Michigan and Florida, I had never gone faster than twenty miles per hour. As I quickly surpassed that speed I found myself constantly over-correcting as my camping gear's weight shifted inside of my panniers. I was moving in a small zig-zag pattern within the tight confines of the shoulder while also veering around large drainage grates. Grates that consistently popped up on my descent, eating up half of my allotted three feet and offering the potential to bend my front wheel into a taco shell shape. Fortunately, as my speed increased I found I was beginning to stabilize and could easily maintain my center of balance. My zig-zags turned into soft, rolling lulls. When I hit thirty, I was riding straight-and-true with a large grin on my face.
The overpass softly let me down onto the mainland of Florida right inside of the Everglades. I was maintaining my speed well and had a clear stretch of road ahead. I reached into my jersey pocket and pulled out my phone to see how much farther I had to go until I got to a place where I could hide in the shade and grab some more food. I was still without a substantial food supply and I had already drank all the water on me. I was praying for a gas station or restaurant to refuel at and that it would be a few miles away. I was guessing I maybe had six to ten miles until I could get food and water.
Nope. Twenty-six miles across a long stretch of highway that had no shade, no wind, and was infested with apex predators.
From Key Largo to Florida City there is nothing but swamp, road, and beasts.
Me neglecting to buy food or spare water, at this time, was an insignificant issue. I had drank enough water and had enough calories in me to traverse twenty-six miles fine. It would suck, but it would be fine. However, if I didn't correct this behavior now, then it would be a major issue. To go without food or water, even for a short distance, was guaranteed dehydration and death in the desert. So I rolled on, taking note of my unpreparedness and that I needed to absolutely stop and get food.
I rolled into the first gas station, twenty-six miles later, now understanding the depth of my trip. My muscles hurt down to the bone, my tongue felt like sandpaper, and I had a headache like my brain was trying desperately to drill out of its bone prison through my forehead. The sun had absolutely pummeled me leaving me drained and the long, straight, boring stretch of road left me mentally numb. I was hungry, desperately needed to get into some shade, and needed some electrolytes and salt. I was running on fumes. I parked my bike and slowly shambled into the gas station. My muscles were so sore that as I moved it felt as if my bones were creaking deep to their core. I picked up ramen, potato chips, two large liter bottles of water, bread, peanut butter, an apple, a banana, and a few cans of tuna. I dumped the food onto the counter as I ripped open the bag of potato chips, apologizing for the eagerness to eat. Salt, potassium, and water were necessary first so it would stop feeling like my leg muscles were trying to peel off my femur as I pedaled. I left the store and sat on the cement in front of the building tearing into the food as if I had gone feral. After a short twenty-minute break and some stretching, I pushed towards Miami.
After a flat tire, some strange, yet friendly, interactions with some locals, and a short-spat with GoogleMaps, I rolled into my location for the night. I had pre-arranged to stay the night at a fellow cyclist's house. He usually let cyclists sleep on his couch or sleep in his yard if they wanted. He himself had done a trip from Florida to Denver. He completed it while attaining a unique goal: he wanted to generate only a volley-ball sized bag of trash. I asked him the mechanics of the trip and he dispensed some valuable wisdom to me: the little things matter more than the big. I nodded my head, knowing this fact would expose itself sooner or later to me on this trip.
After a beer, a delicious meal, and swapping stories I headed into my tent. I looked at my phone, curious as to how far I rode today. I had been too focused on other problems throughout the day to properly add up my mileage. I knew it wasn't my average goal of sixty miles, but I really wasn't sure how many miles I rode. I hoped it was more than sixty given my exhausted legs, hands, shoulders, and neck. In the end though I went to bed satisfied and shocked after discovering I rode 112 miles today.