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!

We now know why East Coasters go to the Caribbean: it takes forever to fly to/from Hawaii from the eastern seaboard! After three flights, fourteen hours in cramped airplane seats, and five time zone changes, we arrived in Miami—exhausted, Circadian-confused, and ready for a shower. Fortunately, a member of the wonderful Warm Showers List came through in spades. Chris Stroup picked us (and our copious luggage) up at the airport, gave us his living room to re-assemble our bicycle and touring kit, drove us to get groceries, provided showers, and even took us out to dinner in Miami Beach. What a guy!

Chris grew up in New Mexico and had spent nearly twenty years working in mountain rescue. His move to Miami came after the state “restructured” his job out of existence, and now he has been in South Florida for “ten long years”. (The shift to flatland living and office-tedium from the mountain west and an adventure of a job has been tough.)

Our transition from Hawaii to South Florida was a bit less jarring. Certain aspects of the Sunshine State were reminiscent of Aloha-land: winter highs in the mid-70’s, a laid-back populace, palm trees tickling the belly of a big blue sky. However, while Hawaii had presented a benign ecosystem (no snakes!) upon a punishing topography (1,000 vertical foot climb from grocery store to home), Florida reversed these: a pool-table-flat topography teeming with menacing fauna. Here, alligators, four varieties of poisonous snakes, bears, and panthers all lurked in the swamps, awaiting slow-moving touring cyclists to devour. (”Meals on Wheels”?) For instance, as we rode west from Miami along the famed Tamiami Trail through the Everglades and Big Cypress National Preserve, we spotted 81 alligators in one day along the roadside! That evening we stayed in a campground in Big Cypress, where the campsites were arranged in a loop around a large pond. The campground hosts showed us a photo of a huge gator devouring a 70 pound German Shepherd whose owners had neglected the leash law. The next day, we rode through twenty miles of panther preserve where twelve-foot, barbed-wire topped fences had been erected to keep the giant cats off the roadways. Wild Florida indeed!

As we rode through the parks, we marveled at the scenery: great cypress trees, boughs draped in Spanish moss, their forks like hands holding airplants with bright red blooms, their trunks flaring wide as they entered the tannin-stained swamp. Innumerable birds patrolled the canal that hugged our side of the road: Snowy Egrets, Great Blue Herons, black Cormorants, towering Great Egrets, hook-billed Ibis, and watchful Osprey in the tops of dead trees. Alligators lounged in the sun alongside the canal, looking deceptively lazy.

Our second night we camped in tiny Sunniland at a park where the first oil well in Florida was drilled. In this part of Florida, you hit fresh water at a depth of ten feet or less, but they had to drill 11,500 feet to hit oil. A good metaphor, perhaps, for how hard our society is willing to work to maintain clean water or obtain abundant energy.

The following day, we rode through Immokalee (ih-MOK-uh-lee, Seminole for “our home”), an agricultural community based around the growing of vegetables and melons. Fourteen produce companies have operations in this town of 18,000 and five are headquartered here. As we rode into town, we passed “Farm Workers Village”, a public housing project constructed by Collier County for farm laborers. The homes were small and simple (hovels compared to the opulence of the coasts), and were connected to the city proper by a wide sidewalk. Repainted school busses stuffed with farm workers rumbled by us, heading out to the fields, while a few people walked or rode creaky bicycles into town. We stopped at a gas station at the south end of town, which boasted a walk-in beer cooler larger than most living rooms. The local paper had a front-page story about Burger King’s refusal to submit (as had Taco Bell and McDonalds) to the request by the Coalition of Immokalee Workers to increase their price per pound on tomatoes by one cent per pound. The story went on to say that workers’ rights organizations had found the living conditions of Immokalee workers to be among the worst in the nation. We bought groceries at a small store with an overflowing bike rack out front; were a tornado to deposit this store in central Mexico a la the Wizard of Oz, I doubt the residents there would find anything unfamiliar about its decor or product selection.

We pedaled through miles of citrus groves that afternoon; vegetables fallen from trucks littered the roadside. Ears of corn were the most common, followed by onions and tomatoes. That night we set our sights on a campground in Fort Meyers Shores, since a hot shower was in order. When we arrived at Seminole Campground, we found dozens of moldy travel trailers arranged in a grid around a central office, pool, and bathroom. Shoeless children played with sticks in the streets, while a goateed and tattooed man in a cut-off tee shirt buzzed around the grounds on a miniature motorcycle. Confederate flags flew at several “homes”; a bumper sticker on a rusty truck asked, “If your country’s so f***in great, why’d you leave it?” It quickly became apparent that this was a “campground” in name only; we were the sole tenters, and most of these “travel trailers” hadn’t moved in years (and likely couldn’t). For one night, we lived in a zoning loophole. Nevertheless, we got the most out of it: a dip in the pool, followed by a hot shower and a round of laundry in the laundromat.

New York (1st pass)

To get from New Jersey to Connecticut, we had to pass through New York state and cross the Hudson River. Not all bridges across the Hudson allow bikes, so we had essentially two choices: cross in the New York City area (the shortcut), or go all the way up to the Bear Mountain Bridge (the scenic route). Since we would already be spending a week in New York City at the conclusion of the first leg of our journey, we chose the scenic route.

Our first night into New York took us through the village of Tuxedo, where we made a stop at the public library. Here we met the pony-tailed driver of a car that we’d seen several times during the day’s ride (a red VW convertible with a U.S. flag flying from the bumper). His name was Brian Cullen, and after a bit of chatting he invited us to come stay at his homemade geodesic dome home that evening. “You gotta come see the dome, man! I built it for you,” he cajoled in a breathy, the-sixites-never-died voice.

Upon arriving at his house, he gave us cold drinks then commenced a thorough tour of the place. The wall of the lower level was a huge circle built of cordwood. The gaps had been filled with bottles, plaster, oddly-proportioned windows, and random objects (a hammer, a stone declaring “New Program Guarantees Life Till End”). Set atop this wall was the geodesic dome, which enclosed the second floor and sleeping lofts. Triangular windows comprised the south face of the dome, with a massive expanse of sailcloth draped on top to prevent overheating in the summer months. Inside, the ambiance was rustic and distinctly homemade. Everything in sight had been built by Brian’s two hands: the stairs, the stone fireplace, the kitchen cabinets, bookcases. In several places, walls were painted white and then used as giant notepads to post interesting pictures, to write philosophical musings (“The only difference between a rut and a grave is depth”), or record lists of favorite books, movies, etc.

Years ago I got on a kick of looking at pictures of “art cars” on the internet—vehicles that the owner had chosen to ultra-customize in the wildest ways. There were cars plastered with bottle caps or cameras, cars covered with live grass, cars converted into giant drivable chickens. I never quite understood why those cars had intrigued me, but here in Tuxedo, New York, I finally got it. The thing about those cars that had fascinated me was the same thing about Brian’s house that I found so interesting: this home had not only been created by Brian, but it had also been created for Brian. Neither resale value nor others’ opinions were considerations its creation—only the needs, whims, and artistic expressions of one person: its owner. The freedom found in owning your possessions instead of them owning you and the courage to create rather than merely consume are traits that I admire.

Throughout the course of the evening’s hours of conversation, we learned that Brian was an eccentric not only in his home, but in his career as well. During his decades as a high school science teacher, he had been censured numerous times by administrators for his hands-on, inquisitive teaching style. Examples include taking students up in a private plane and diving towards the ground to do experiments in microgravity (a la the “Vomit Comet”), and bringing a roadkill possum to teach about the respiratory system by inflating its lungs via a straw. Brian had also written several books about his battles with local administrators and fought his case as high as the Supreme Court. He was a unique and uncompromising man, to be sure.

The next morning, Brian fixed us “Eggs Dome” before we set off on a beautiful ride through Harriman State Park. The stretch on Seven Lakes Drive was one of the most perfect of our trip so far: almost no traffic, gentle grades, spectacular scenery, and mild weather. After crossing the Bear Mountain Bridge, we headed east through Peekskill and ended the day in Katonah. Here we were hosted on incredibly short notice by Warm Showers List member Alan Cole. The town of Katonah is the hometown of two notable celebrities: the beloved Billy Collins (a former Poet Laureate who gives regular readings at the town’s tiny library), and the not-so-beloved Martha Steward (style maven and ex-con, who tried to usurp the town’s name by trademarking it for a line of furniture). We didn’t meet either of the town’s (in)famous residents, but Alan Cole was a world-class host and we didn’t miss them at all.

Connecticut

While riding through New Jersey and New York, the people we met (save for those fellow cyclists who kindly hosted us) had been noticeably less warm. We worried that this coolness would carry on throughout the Northeast, but as we crossed into Connecticut, an abrupt change occurred. People were friendly again! Every time we stopped—at convenience stores, stop lights, or diners—a friendly banter with passers-by would ensue.

We pedaled past palatial estates on the rolling, forest-lined back-roads of inland western Connecticut, then down to the bustling, plebian coast. We were surprised at this reversal of stereotypes: instead of backwoods hillbillies and waterfront mansion-owners, the wealthy of Connecticut have retreated to the hills, abandoning the coastline to strip malls and industrial parks while the formerly grand port cities slowly decayed.

We spent our first evening in Connecticut in New Haven with some welcoming seminary students in a student ghetto near the Yale campus. I was here again surprised by Connecticut. Universities typically seem to impart an elegant and cosmopolitan aura to the town that hosts it; yet instead of the picture-perfect boulevards and tidy university shops we’d seen in Princeton, New Haven seemed to be, well, a slum. Despite the prolific good intentions of the early Connecticut nomenclators (surrounding New Haven are North Haven, East Haven, West Haven, and Fair Haven), the area did not feel like a haven of any sort. We had expected the college quads to be filled with barefoot coeds tossing a Frisbee surrounded by budding intellectuals reading under trees. Instead, the greens were traversed by homeless people pushing their rickety shopping carts. Yet after our initial shock, we came to see this as, oddly enough, a good thing. Yale was not an ivy-clad fortress where the elite came to escape the messy reality of the proletariat; it was a world-class institution set in a complex, problem-filled city where the classroom is not isolated from, but rather surrounded by, the difficult realities of the inner city.

The following day, we pedaled back inland and spent an afternoon wandering around quaint Middletown, with its thriving Main Street, its grand public library, and one of the most friendly and helpful bike shops we’ve come across yet: Pedal Power. Despite its name, Middletown did not contain the geographic center of Connecticut: our GPS pointed us eight miles to the northwest, to a town called Berlin (accent the first syllable: rhymes with “Merlin” the magician).

Here in Berlin we had an encounter that perfectly demonstrates a process we often experience while bike touring: a stranger slowly becoming a new friend as his initial misgivings melt away through time and conversation.

Our search unfolded like it had numerous times before: GPS in hand, we narrowed our hunt down to one house, then paused to summon the resolve to overcome our apprehensions about the awkward interaction to come. Fortunately, a man standing in the driveway of the anointed house saw us ride up (it seems to ease the initial interaction when someone sees us pedal up on the bike). We smiled, dismounted the bike, and Laura broke the ice, “Hey, are you the one in charge around here?”

“No, it’s my son’s house—he’s the one that just pulled out.”

“Aww, that’s too bad, but maybe you can still help us,” Laura replied. We made introductions (his name was Chris Ayala), then explained our quest and the significance of this property. Chris slowly nodded, then proceeded to pepper us with questions that felt a bit more like suspicious fact-checking than curious interest. As he listened to us speak with ease and familiarity about our journey, he palpably softened and began to open up about himself. A former employee of the local electric company, he had taken up photography in his retirement and was now a paid videographer for local high school athletics.

“Well let me go get my camera, and we’ll head out back and see where the center is,” he said. Reemerging with a professional-looking SLR, he walked us around back where we were met by his other son Christian. Wearing a black shirt with sleeves cut off and adorned with a goatee, large tattoos and “plugs” (ear-stretching cylinders in his earlobes), Christian would at first glance strike most as rough character. Instead, he was immensely congenial and well-spoken—we liked him immediately. Amid our hunt for the center, we learned that Christian was studying art education in college, planning to be a teacher someday. Laura and he bonded in their chosen profession, while Aaron tramped off into the over grown right-of-way beneath towering power lines behind their back yard. The center lay just beyond their property at the foot of a giant wooden power pole, and we all gathered for a picture in their backyard with these power lines as a backdrop.

We continued chatting as we made our way back to the front of the house. Our conversation had by this point become markedly warm and amiable, despite the rocky start. Chris even sheepishly confessed, “You know, this really is my house. I just said it was my son’s because I didn’t know what you were up to. You just don’t know with people these days.” Yet the nature of our quest had forced us to interact for long enough that we broke through this cynicism and befriended yet another stranger.

“Well, is there anything we can do to help you guys?” Chris asked. Christian added enthusiastically, “Yeah, anything at all—we’d love to.”

“Actually, there is one thing…” I replied. “Do you think we might be able to pitch our tent in your yard tonight? It’s getting late and we don’t really have a place lined up.” I had felt confident that our report by this point was sufficient to make this vulnerable request, yet the silence that followed made me question this judgment.

“Your call, pops,” Christian finally said.

“I’ll go talk with your mom,” Chris declared and headed inside. Soon thereafter, Patty emerged and became the third Ayala to make our acquaintance. We learned that Patty was a cancer survivor and worked long shifts at a local grocery store, yet her demeanor was friendly and upbeat. After a few minutes of chatting, she welcomed us to pitch our tent and even join them for the dinner she was preparing.

Hours of chatting, a pile of pasta meatballs, and a bottle of wine later, we felt as though we were dining with family. By the time we made our way to the tent for the night, Chris had provided us with hot showers and was persistently asking if we were sure that we wouldn’t be more comfortable sleeping inside. We insisted that we were perfectly happy with our tent, and when we awoke the next morning, Chris had a box of donuts and hot coffee waiting for us. Over breakfast, Christian presented us with a pair of bracelets that he had hand-made for us late last night, intended to bring us good fortune on our travels.

By the time we had loaded the bike, we were finding it difficult to get away—both because of the bond we had built with the Ayalas, as well as Chris’s continual attempts to find one more way to help us. We were once again amazed at the transformation we had experienced in less than twenty-four hours. Having begun trepidatiously on the edge of this same driveway with Chris concealing his identity as owner of the house, we now were embracing our kind hosts, finding it difficult to leave.