Leaving our trailer park/campground in Ft. Meyers Shores, we pedaled north on state 31 through alternating fields of citrus groves and cattle farms. Clumps of Spanish moss clung to power lines in perfect little spheres like yarn balls. All day, spilled oranges littered the roadside, and at one point we saw a crow perched on a power line clutching an orange in its claws, feeding on its windfall fruit.

Our bellies informed us it was lunchtime as the roadsigns informed us we were entering Arcadia. “Active Adult Communities” lined the highway; had Laura and I been naive to the euphemmism, we might have considered ourselves ideal candidates for such communities. As we entered the city, traffic became nasty, so we migrated to the sidewalk for a while. I was just about to remark to Laura how abnormally wide and smooth the sidewalk was, when we passed a sign: “Sidewalks are for pedestrians, bicycles, and golfcarts only.” Golfcarts!

We popped into Wendy’s to grab a Frosty to complement our picnic lunch. The place looked like the cafeteria for the geriatric ward of a hospital—the only people in the place under 60 were Laura and I, the teen-age minimum-wage burger slaves, and a cheerful manager in his late 30’s, circulating among his apparently regular customers, greeting them by name, reminding them that they haven’t had their Frosty today. I suppose fast food dollar menus are a boon to fixed income retirees for to reasons: 1) They reduce how much it costs to feed yourself, and 2) Bacon cheeseburgers and fries probably reduce by several years how long you’ll have to feed yourself.

Back on the bike after lunch, we saw a billboard announcing that Schlitz “Gusto” beer was back, but one “Must be 55 to enjoy (will check ID).” We began to think that Florida had more of a claim to the nickname “The Silver State” than did Nevada. Raindrops drove us into the public library, where we hoped to use the internet, but the parsimonious library board (tax-averse retired conservatives?) had decided that the “public” library was only public to De Soto county residents. So we instead browsed the atlas and set our sights on a speck on the map called Ona. I tried to borrow a phone book to see if Ona had a fire department or church we might camp at, but the librarian informed me: “Oh, there’s nothin’ in Ona but a couple of houses and a fence-makin’ place.”

We decided to give it a shot anyway and pedaled on, crossing the Peace River onto county road 661, which paralleled railroad tracks through more citrus groves and cattle ranches. Overcast skies kept us cool, but our legs were beginning to protest about all this pedaling after four months off the bike in Hawaii. At long last we arrived in Ona to find not only a fence post plant, but two working gas stations! We loitered at the Sunoco for a while, drinking a coke and using the payphone. A Hispanic man pulled up in a truck and asked, “Where y’all comin’ from?”

“Miami,” I replied. He shook his head, then our hands, and told us, “Wow, you guys got my respect.” Laura asked him if he lived here in Ona. “Oh yeah, right across the street,” he said proudly. We explained how we camp most nights on our trip, often at firehouses, city parks, or churches, but there didn’t seem to be much in Ona. The man lit up with enthusiasm: “Hey, there’s a church right next to my house! You can stay there! It’s a great little community, I’m sure nobody will bother you.” So we followed him down his dirt road to New Elim Independent Baptist Church, which was ready-made for touring cyclists with a pavillion, outside water fountain, and picnic table. Not an hour later, a heavy rain came that lasted most of the evening, but we were warm and dry under the pavillion, enjoying a hot dinner then a good night’s rest.

The following morning, a yard full of roosters began erupting at 5am; by 7:15, we were on the road. A strong tailwind pushed us down county road 663 past rural houses, yards filled with tree dripping with Spanish moss as though the boughs themselves were melting. Later, we rode along next to ten-foot tall earthen berms, encircled in protective fences. Our maps showed massive polygons of man-made lakes, but what were they for? A short while later, a sign gave us the answer: “CF Industries Hardy Phosphate Complex”. Settling pools for phosphate mining.

Eventually we emerged from the phosphate complex into more agricultural lands, riding through fields of collards, green mustard, sugar cane, turnips, and neat rows of strawberries. Lunchtime found us in Plant City, the “strawberry capital of the world”. Fields around the city were full of busy pickers, and the air was heavy with their mouthwatering scent. Road side stands sold the plump, crimson berries (a member of the rose family and the only fruit whose seed is on the outside) by the flat, and the streets were filled with visitors to the city’s Strawberry Festival, held annually since 1930.

We had lunch at Snellgrove Restaurant, which boasted “Good Home Cookin’”. We ordered tea with our fried okra and catfish, and when the waitress asked, “Sweet or unsweet?” we knew that we were getting close to (but not yet in) the South.

That night we spent with a dear friend from back home, Rakesh Gupta, who was working as a consultant for Verizon in Tampa. It was a great joy to see him again and a pleasure to be the recipient of his “our guest is god” Indian hospitality. Yet our joy was alloyed with sadness, for Rakesh was a living representation of how young people in this coutry often leave the deep friendships, intellectual stimulation, and laid-back schedule of college and disappear into the abyss of 70-hr work weeks in an unfamiliar city with few friends.

The weather that night was stormy, and tornado warnings were in effect for most of central Florida. The following morning brought howling winds that could be heard from inside Rakesh’s apartment. Pedaling was nearly impossible, so we took a rest day to hang out with Rakesh. We optimistically set out for the beach mid-morning, and after an hour-long drive through a depressing and interminable sea of asphalt and development, we arrived at Clearwater Beach. The air was cold and the wind howled onshore at 40+mph. We wore long pants, long-sleeved fleeces, and rain jackets, but were still chilly. Swimming was obviously a no-go, but we didn’t need to walk on the beach to experience the talc-white sand of Clearwater: the wind had blown drifts across the parking lot and blocks deep into the city. We ran along the sidewalk through the sand-blaster and out onto the pier where we were joined by sour-faced vacationers who had fled the northern winters only to be greeted by a sand-blizzard in Florida.

Upon returning to Rakesh’s side of town, he treated us to lunch at Tiajuana Flats, a very-local Mexican joint whose specialty was a vast assortment of hot sauces with names like “Smack my (ahem) and call me Sally”.

That evening, Rakesh, Laura and I made the short drive North to Lutz (pronounced “Lootz”), where we enjoyed a grand feast courtesy of Larry & Beth, the uncle and aunt of another dear friend from Oklahoma, Lori Daniels. Lori is a kindred spirit in many ways; she had just finished a stint doing relief work in New Orleans and then riding her bike with a friend from Louisiana to Puebla, Mexico pulling her dog Hobo behind her in a trailer. What a picture! She was now in Florida to help her grandmother get moved back to Texas, so it was a wonderful coincidence to be in Florida at the same time. We took the next day to ride around with Lori (and Hobo) on a beautiful, cool, and windless day, visiting a community farm that holds a farmer’s market and open mic concert every Sunday. Hanging out with Lori all day was a blast, altough by day’s end, we’d pedaled 40 miles–so much for a rest day!

We spent one last night in a cozy bed in Lutz before hitting the road to find the center of Florida, which we’ll describe next time!