A New Beginning

Generally speaking, a tandem bike doesn’t require any more maintenance than a bicycle built for one. Cables are longer, there are more chains to fuss with, and brake pads do wear more quickly. Other than that, the differences begin to blur. Oh yes, there’s one more thing...the rear tire wears out faster on a tandem. Knowledgeable bike folks recommend that the tires be rotated (front to back) at about 1000 miles and be replaced at the next “service interval”. Matt had commented more than once that we should probably rotate the tires, but things had been going so well for us that he just kept putting it off. Life teaches you that it pays to do preventive maintenance with any mechanical device as sooner or later you are going to have to deal with it. So it should come as no surprise that we awoke to find that our rear tire had gone flat once again.

Common decency and decorum prevent us from repeating what was said at the time. We had one new tube and one that had been patched from the previous day. It seemed peculiar that we rode for a full day with not even a hint of a leak, but there we were, confronted with the brutal reality of a tire flatter than a pancake. Not knowing what was wrong, it was time to throw in the towel and get a new tire. The problem of course was that the closest bike shop was about 8 miles down the road in Palm Beach. Matt put air back into the tire again and it seemed to hold. Maybe he had forgotten to tighten the valve and the air leaked out overnight. It’s amazing what you can talk yourself into when you engage in wishful thinking. Since our “pump and ride” method worked so well a few days before, we decided to give it a go. If we could cycle 3 or 4 miles, stop and pump it up, we’d be at the bike shop without the hassle of changing the tire again. It certainly was worth a try.

We rode over the causeway into Riviera Beach and made it 5 miles before we needed to refill. And that was a good thing because while Riviera Beach is located next to one of the swankiest communities in the US, it is not a place you want to be hanging around, even in the morning. By now Matt had gotten the pump routine down, putting in 150 strokes to get the tire back to normal. Feeling pretty sure that we pushed on and entered West Palm Beach. There’s an old saying that “De Nile just ain’t a river in Egypt“. We were definitely in denial about our rear tire.

This time, we didn’t even go a mile before the tire went totally flat. We stood by our wounded bike and reviewed our alternatives. The closest bike shop was maybe two miles away across another bridge. We could push the bike and walk. Or, we could hitch a ride from some kind stranger. Hailing a cab was also a consideration. After a few minutes we decided to remove the tire one more time and see if anything could be salvaged. We still had one good (albeit patched) tube, and if we could just stay inflated for 15 minutes or so, our day would be considerably brighter. Once again we disconnected BOB, unhooked the panniers, and flipped Olga over on her saddles so Matt could remove the rear wheel. This time he inspected the tire with great deliberation and care. After a minute or two of silence he had a “Eureka” moment. Rubbing his thumb slowly over the inside of the tire, he discovered that the tire casing had worn through, and what he thought to be a shard of metal or piece of wire was actually the tire unraveling on itself. That explained why it kept going flat. The poor tire had reached the end of its service life and should have been replaced hundreds of miles ago. So what to do now?

All things considered, if you were going to have a meltdown, we were in a relatively convenient location. Worse case scenario was a few hours hassle, but we still would get to Mom’s house by the end of the day. Matt spent some time rummaging through our spare part/tool kit to see if there was anything he could come up with to eek a few more miles of life out of the tire. The solution was anything but elegant, and we would advise that you don’t try this at home. We had brought along replacement foam insert pads for our helmets that had been long forgotten and stayed hidden away in a zip lock bag. Matt conjured up a plan to put the pads on the inside of the tire wherever he could feel and uneven surface, refill the tire with our remaining tube, and pedal like hell to the bike shop. Why not?

We rode like demons across the Flagler Bridge into downtown Palm Beach. Some of the names may have changed but the very essence of this highly coveted 14-mile-long strip of paradise has not. In the old days, Palm Beach was the backdrop of an ultra-elite social season originally only 10 weeks long - mid-December to Feb. 23, the day after the George Washington Birthday Ball at Henry Flagler's mansion. When the social season ended in Palm Beach, it shifted and scattered north to New York (the Hamptons), Massachusetts (Nantucket, Martha's Vineyard), Rhode Island (Newport) and Maine (Bar Harbor), and to the mid-western mansions of the world's most affluent leaders of industry. And while changing times and the advent of air conditioning have quadrupled the length of the season, now from November to April, Palm Beach has kept pace.

Henry Flagler (remember him from St. Augustine?) saw a golden opportunity to develop the east coast of Florida. After visiting the area, he became enamored with its temperate climate and saw that hotels and a good transportation system would lure winter visitors. In 1893 he purchased 140 acres on the Atlantic Ocean of what was then called Palm Beach, named because of the many cabbage palms that grew along the beach. In 1894, Henry Flagler opened his first Palm Beach resort, The Royal Poinciana, on Lake Worth. At the time, it was the only oceanfront hotel south of Daytona Beach. Two years later, he built the Port of Palm Beach, consisting of a pier 1,000 feet long to accommodate steamships traveling to Nassau, Havana, and Key West. To keep his golfing guests happy, Henry Flagler then added the first 9 hole course in Florida, along with The Poinciana Golf Clubhouse. Today, it is the location of the Centennial restaurant in The Breakers Hotel, the name taken on by The Royal Poinciana. Legend has it that guests kept requesting a room “by the breakers”, referring to the oceanfront accommodations.

By the turn of the century, Palm Beach was celebrated as the winter vacation grounds for the wealthy. The Royal Poinciana resort was enlarged to twice its size. In 1903, The Breakers Hotel burned to the ground. Mr. Flagler rebuilt it, larger and more attractive. He even had his railroad come right to the hotel's entrance. In 1925, the hotel burned down again. In less than a year, the Flagler heirs reconstructed it into the complex that exists today. Between 1920 and 1927, the population of Palm Beach increased four fold. The community saw new schools, an increase in farming, sugar businesses, hotels, theatres, and services. Hurricanes in 1926 and 1928 brought considerable property damage. To make matters worse, the stock market crashed in 1929, reducing property values in half. It took many years to regain the loss. World War II brought the military into place along Florida's coastline to watch for enemy submarines and U-boats. During the 1950's, veterans from the war began moving into the area. This began a new era in the development of Palm Beach and neighboring communities.

For a while, life was quiet and the heady days of lavish parties and exclusive gambling was a thing of the past. However, it never died. It was just asleep, waiting for the new social climate to awaken, and it has. Today, a revitalization program for the downtown district is nearly complete. Mansions built by industrial magnates in the 1920's are museums. Whitehall is a magnificent example of the opulence of the era. Many of the smaller neighborhood homes are now charming bed and breakfasts. Grand hotels cater to both the business and pleasure traveler. Worth Avenue is once again an exclusive shopping boulevard, lined with restaurants, art galleries, antique stores and boutiques. Palm Beach is still the winter vacationland of many, whether wealthy or not so wealthy. Visitors flock to this historic city all year long. The price of real estate is skyrocketing again.

We located the bike shop on Sunrise Ave., next to the French Bakery and around the corner from a number of highly fashionable haberdasheries and jewelry stores. Finally Olga got some new shoes. Within 15 minutes we were back on A1A cruising past the remarkable Mediterranean inspired mansions... astonishing for their size, landscaping, architecture and sheer grandeur. This wasn’t how the “other half” lives. We were seeing the creme de la creme, with each home more spectacular than the next.

We turned past Mar-A-Lago, the enormous Moorish-Mediterranean estate of Margery Merriweather Post that now belongs to Donald Trump. It's an ultra exclusive club; membership is $750,000 a year. That's just to get in. Every service and activity is extra. If you have to ask, you can’t afford it. We rode on through a corridor of high rise apartments and homes of the well to do, with a golf course or beach park interspersed along the way. Although the towns had different names, they were indistinguishable from one another.

Since we didn’t have to stop anymore to pump life back into the tire, we were making good time. We’d be at Mom’s house by 3 PM, just as we had planned at the start of the day. It was now our turn to find out what it felt like to finish a 70 day bike trip.

We were often asked along the way if we had ever done anything like this before. While we’ve toured over the years, our longest trip up to this point had been 10 days. But by now we didn’t feel that what we were doing was extraordinary. We can still remember people in Bar Harbor shaking their heads in disbelief when we told them we were headed to Florida on a bike. The further we went, the more believable it became and we knew after a few weeks that baring injury or a calamity beyond our control, we’d reach our goal. There never was any doubt in our minds. When folks wondered what it was like to ride day after day, our response became “it’s like eating an elephant one bite at a time.” You take it slow, live in the moment, and don’t fret over things you can’t control.

For Mary Ellen, the trip began the day after she retired as administrator of Head Start in Helena. She felt it was a perfect way to ease into her life beyond work. Matt, on the other hand, will be returning to his job on December 11, working through August of next year before moving on to new challenges. For him, the trip was a culmination of a process that began some 30 years ago when he made an early course correction in his life as well as the fulfillment of an affirmation he had made with himself some 5 years ago.

At the start of the blog we shared some of the reasons as to why we wanted to undertake this journey. We’ve learned once again that ordinary people are capable of doing remarkable things. Both of us feel that it we are most fortunate. We enjoy good health, have adequate financial resources, are blessed with supportive friends and family, live in a great country, and after 31 years of being together and sharing 70 days of 24/7 in exceptional circumstances, we love and respect one another.

It’s been a rare and special privilege to ride with Olga and BOB. We had often thought of what it would feel like at trails end. As we talked about it, we have come to understand that while this trip may be over, the journey into the next phase of our lives has just begun. At the end, there’s a new beginning.

The odometer read 2882.2 miles when we put on the brakes for the last time in Mom’s driveway . We were all smiles when she came out to greet us. Parking Olga and BOB next to the garage, we started to unload our gear. That celebratory pina colada we had been fantasizing on for over 2 months was sure going to taste good.

The World is Flat

Around 1PM we crossed over the Indian River and the intracostal waterwayb once again . The route makes a jog that looks like a squared off “U” on the map to get you from Orchid Island back onto Hutchinson Island and A1A. We decided to take a slight detour into the downtown area to search for a cold refreshment to have with our lunch.

Traversing through the side streets of the docks and industrial area, we rode across railroad tracks a number of times. We had researched tires extensively before the trip and opted on Schwable Marathon Plus. These are German made tires and include an interesting feature known as “Smart Guard”, which is a plastic band imbedded into the tire. The Smart Guard feature is not billed as being puncture proof, but it certainly is added protection. Throughout the course of our journey, we had encountered various road hazards (potholes, broken glass, metal shavings, thorns, rocks, shredded logging tires, bridge grating, etc.) with nary a problem. One of the most common questions we were asked since Maine was “how many flats have you had”, and for 2775 miles we could answer “None”. Considering the load we were carrying and the road conditions, we deemed this to be quite a feat, and had no reason to believe that our good fortune would come to an end.

We had just crossed the train tracks for the third time when Matt started to notice that the rear end was wobbling. At first he thought it was because Mary Ellen was shifting her saddle position. When the stoker moves on a tandem, the bike does shift a bit, so this was not an uncommon feeling. Mary Ellen also noticed that it “didn’t feel right”, and as we rounded a corner, we both came to the realization that there was something amiss. We pulled to the side of the road to figure out what had gone wrong. Matt’s gut reaction was that BOB had sprung a leak. But upon further review it became clear that Olga’s rear tire was loosing air. It hadn’t gone totally flat, but it was no longer road worthy. As we were near the waterfront, we decided to escort Olga on foot for about 1/2 mile where we would have lunch and fix the flat. We had brought two tubes along, so changing a flat while inconvenient, was not going to be a big deal.

Matt removed the tire and inspected it closely, proclaiming that we must of picked up a piece of wire or metal when crossing the tracks. The tire tread was worn but appeared to be adequate for another 100 miles or so of use. With new tube in place, we were ready to go in about 20 minutes. Problem solved, and we were on our way.

Between Fort Pierce and Stuart, there are a number of county beach access parks along A1A. We were in no rush and as it was a warm, clear day, decided to stop about 10 miles south of Fort Pierce and stroll along the beach. The access roads were sand, necessitating that we walk the bike back to the highway. Mounting up we took just one or two pedal strokes and immediately noticed that there was something awry. The rear tire was still loosing air, even with a new tube! This was most unsettling and perplexing. We had ridden a good 10 miles since changing the tube without incident, and now this. Matt was scratching his head, trying to determine what in the world was happening. We still had another new tube as well as a patch kit to fix the other, but it would do no good to change tubes without resolving what was causing the flat in the first place.
Anyone who has had a problem with a car or bike knows the helpless feeling of being on the side of the road 10 miles from anywhere with a bad tire. We started to review our option. It was now about 3 PM, and we had 2, maybe 2 1/2 hours left of good light for riding. The town of Stuart was around 20 miles away and had a bike shop. We weren’t sure if we could make it there before the shop closed, but we could stay the night in a motel and take care of it in the morning. But how were we going to get to Stuart?

Matt pumped the tire up, and decided that what we had was a “slow leak”. Instead of changing tubes, he suggested that we ride as far was we could and when the tire became “squishy”, stop and fill it back up again. Since we had come 10 miles since the first incident, this seemed to be a reasonable resolution to our dilemma. Problem solved again...or was it?

Three miles down the road the back end started to sway. It was going to be a long afternoon. Ultimately we came up with a regime in which we rode as fast as we could for 10 minutes, stopping to pump the tire up and repeat the process over again. It was 5:30 by the time we arrived at the causeway over the intracostal. Stuart was still 5 miles away, our nerves were frayed, the intervals between pumping were getting shorter. It was time to call it quits and find a place to stay, but there was little in the way of choice. We dusted off the credit card and spent the evening at the Marriott resort. It was way beyond our budget but at this point it didn‘t matter. We made full use of the facilities, enjoying the hot tub and sitting around the pool in their terrycloth bathrobes.

Matt removed the rear wheel and took it up to the room where he carefully inspected the tire to see if it was salvageable. Once again he found a small piece of protruding wire that was in contact with the tube. He carefully filed it down, put a patch on the tire, repaired the tube and filled it. It looked like it was fixed but at this point we were a bit gun shy. We decided to wait until the morning, ride it around for while and see if indeed the issue was resolved. Upon reflection, we encountered virtually no mechanical issues on our trip so the saga of our tire was truly just a minor inconvenience. Everyone should be so lucky.

On the following day we continued down the coast without incident. Traffic was moderate to heavy, and sometimes we rode through a corridor of high rise apartments or roadways crowded with beach goers. We were officially in South Florida, and as we crossed the line into Palm Beach county near Jupiter the magnitude of what we accomplished was beginning to sink in. Only one day to go. That night we splurged once again, staying at the Sailfish Marina in Palm Beach Shores. Sipping our beers at the outdoor cafe, we enjoyed our last sunset of the sojourn. We prepared supper in the motel rooms kitchenette and dined by candlelight along side the pool. Fittingly, it was a clear, balmy night. Reggae music drifted across the waterway from the bar on Peanut Island. We sat alone together. It was another memorable day in an adventure of a lifetime.

Down Here vs. Up There

We stopped for breakfast in Cocoa and soon came to realize that once again our world had dramatically changed. This was the Florida of the chamber of commerce brochures...streets lined with palms, ritzy shopping, a plethora of restaurants, waterfront condos and tanned, smiling inhabitants living the good life. It appeared that many (although not all) were of retirement age. While we were still around t 200 miles north of Boca Raton, it was looking more like the south Florida that we had grown accustomed to when visiting Matt’s Mom.

The route took us through the outskirts of Melbourne and then crossed the intracostal where we would ride A1A for the next 50 miles to Fort Pierce. We spent the better part of two days cycling between one resort/retirement community to the next. Obviously everyone in Florida is not retired, but it did seem like the folks we met were from somewhere else. In the grocery store, in restaurants, hotels, campgrounds, beaches...take you pick...we found it difficult to meet a Florida “native”. Peoples accents, which had become progressively more difficult for us to understand as we moved southward now had that distinctive New Yorkish twang. The southern drawl and “How y’all doin?” was being usurped by the staccato bark of “How ya doin, How ya doin” that we last heard some 1500 miles ago. We found this to be fascinating and started to ask the individuals we met where they had come from before arriving in Florida. While this may be a gross generalization, we observed that many of the folks on the east coast of Florida have migrated down from the New York metropolitan area. And, we were told that those who choose to settle on the west coast of the state seem to hail from the Upper Midwest (Michigan, Illinois, Minnesota, etc.). This massive in migration of people has had a profound impact on all of the coastal communities, and has changed this part of Florida forever. Nearly all the newcomers speak in glowing terms of their new home. Hurricanes aside, they talk as if they have found their nirvana. One 30 something man who had recently moved to Florida from New Jersey put it this way...”I like it Down here because the people are mostly from Up there, but the pace of life and weather is so much better”.

Down here, Up there. Hmmm. We don’t know what the natives from Down here think, but our guess is that they feel like they’ve been invaded and conquered by the aliens from Up there. It probably started slowly at first before picking up momentum, but now the demographic shift is pronounced and quite apparent. Florida has becoming a melting pot of people from other states and countries. There's no going back.

Other than the occasional state park or nature preserve, the coastline consists of one town after another. Those patches of private land that have yet to be built on are either for sale or in the process of being cleared. It was an eye opener for us. We’d venture to say that if you looked at a satellite picture of the eastern seaboard, it would consist of a nearly unbroken string of human habitation, generally of the well to do. The ocean has a strong pull on people.

Sebastian Inlet State Recreation area was to be our last night of camping on the trip. Further south, campgrounds either were problematic to get to (far off route) or simply didn’t exist. Camping had been one of the highlight for us. After a full day of riding it was nice to wind down, eat a snack, drink a beer, set up camp and ease into the evening. Our equipment had performed admirably, and cooking dinner was one of the best parts of our day. We’ve both had experiences camping, but never as prolonged as this, and it was something that we were going to miss.

We spent our last evening taking a stroll along the inlet, seeing the tide go out and studying the contrasting styles of the seabirds as they swooped down for the sky to nab their evenings meal. We also watched numerous fishermen going through their machinations in their never ending quest to snare “the big one“. Fishing seems to grab hold of people. Age, nationality, socio economic status doesn’t seem to matter. The fish don’t seem to know or care if the person on the other end of the line is rich or poor. Everybody is equal with their rods in their hands casting one more time into the dimming twilight.

With just a few days left we found ourselves slowing the pace down, trying to wring every moment we could out of the experience. We dawdled before packing up at 9:30 or so, figuring we would stop for a hardy breakfast in Vero Beach. In this stretch , A1A has a good bike lane, and we were starting to see other cyclists on a regular basis. Most give you a nod or a wave as they pedal by. We’ve found this to be the case throughout the trip with one notable exception. It seems that bicyclists who are dressed in matching lycra outfits, pedaling racing machines, and riding in groups of 3 or more do not acknowledge the existence of other cyclists. This was true in New Hampshire (where we first encountered it) and it held form here. It was our custom to either wave, nod, smile, ring our bell or call out "Howdy" when encountering others on the road. Most everyone replies accordingly, but from these folks there was no response, no eye contact, nada. We really don’t have an answer as to why this was so, but our gut feeling is that these folks are so self absorbed in what they are doing, they don’t even see anyone else. Hey, everybody rides for different reasons, but one of the nicest aspects of bicycling for us is that it is so “human”. You get to see, feel, observe so many different things, it is difficult to understand how someone can choose to tune that out.

But who are we to judge? We were having the time of our lives and with only 100 miles to go, nothing was going to take the air out of our tires. Then again, we didn’t count on that railroad crossing in Fort Pierce...

Spaced Out

Shortly after leaving New Smyrna, we found ourselves pedaling along a 30 mile stretch of US1. Generally speaking, the ACA route keeps you off of major highways unless there are either no other options, or else the road has good accommodations for bicyclists. On the whole, we had been impressed with Florida’s efforts to integrate bicycles into their transportation network. In many communities there are excellent bike lanes and signage. Most bridges that we crossed (and we went over a heck of a lot of them) had either wide bike lanes or pedestrian/bicycle walkways. To be sure, the system is far from perfect. Often times you’ll be merrily riding along in your own lane, only to find that it comes to an abrupt end, dumping you back out into the traffic. For sure, there’s work to be on the system, but it is better than most. Bicycle-vehicle collisions are a concern anywhere, and we learned that bicyclists in Florida have been dealing with a number of issues in this regard. We were told that the Florida legislature enacted a law that requires motorist to approach no closer than 3 feet when there is no bikeway. Our experience was that most people complied, although on any busy or shoulder less road, it was still pretty much “bicyclist beware”. Until the day that bicycles become a legitimate concern in roadway planning and our transportation system, long distance touring will require one to ride in less than ideal conditions at certain times. We knew that going into the trip, and our initial estimate that the route (from a traffic perspective) would be 90% enjoyable, 8% “challenging“, and 2% tense and insanely nerve wracking was holding true to form.

As we neared Titusville and Cape Canaveral, we began to notice citrus orchards for the first time. Our journey south was taking us through the transition zone of the subtropics. The subtropics refers to the a range of latitudes between 35 and approximately 23.5 degrees from the equator. We actually entered the subtropics in South Carolina where we first notice a large number of palmetto palms, and even a banana tree or two. These areas typically have very warm to hot summers, but non-tropical winters. A subtropical climate implies that the temperature usually does not go below freezing. This is a threshold temperature for a gamut of plants, and applies to most of southern Florida. Interestingly, the poleward limit of sub tropical climates is higher on the west coasts of the northern continents and lower on the east coasts, because occasional winter cold snaps reach farther south in the east. Some subtropical cities in the US include Houston, Orlando, and Los Angeles. Cities such as Miami are not subtropical, and have truly tropical climates.

Between Mims and Titusville the traffic picks up considerably and the highway shoulder disappears, making for a less than optimal bicycling experience. Titusville is a peculiar town. Located directly across the intracoastal from the space center at Cape Canaveral, one would think that it would be a modern, prosperous city. The polar opposite was true. The section of town we rode through was that of a city in decay. The road surfaces were in horrible shape, houses were neglected, bars were on the windows of the stores and homes. Maybe the town was still recovering from a hurricane or some other calamity...frankly we don’t know. Quite simply, the prosperity that we saw in nearly the towns we had been in Florida had skipped over Titusville. The place gave us the “willies” and we couldn’t get out of there soon enough. It may have been the gateway to “The Space Coast”, but we rocketed out of there as fast as we could.

We spent the night at a county campground 6 or 7 miles south of Titusville. Although it was a wonderful facility ideally situated on the intracoastal, (where you could watch launchings from the Space Center) it confirmed our suspicions that there were indeed some problems in paradise. The park was surrounded by a chain link fence with barbed wire on top. When we registered at the office, they made a photo copy of our picture IDs to “have on file”, just in case. We were told that the gate would be closed at 10 and reopened at 6 in the morning. It’s not uncommon for campgrounds to have quiet hours, but we almost felt like inmates being shut in for the night. Fortunately, we were doing “easy” time and enjoyed the balmy, nearly tropical evening. It rained some, but by morning the sky had cleared.

We fixed a light repast and broke camp early to beat the US1 traffic and put some miles between Titusville and us. The town was definitely an anomaly and there may be an interesting story behind it, but we were content to see it in the rear view mirror as we proceeded on.

Bikers Welcome Here

We arose the next morning to unsettled skies and a somewhat diminished, yet still gusty wind. That was the good news. The bad news was that sometime in the course of the evening, the wind direction had shifted from the northwest to the east, so it was coming in right of the ocean. This presented a challenge, as our course was still in a south easterly direction, and we figured that we would loose about 5 mph by heading into it. Fortunately, we didn’t have far to go this day...just a 40 miler to get to New Smyrna Beach where we would be staying with good friends for a little R & R at the end of the trip.

We rode along A1A for a few miles or so until the maps indicated a turn onto a road that paralleled the main highway on the Halifax River side of the island, affording us some protection from the wind. We rode about 8 miles through some upscale housing areas and then crossed the intracoastal once again into the town of Ormond Beach. Turning left on Beach Street, we stopped for a second to review the map and noticed a mound and historic marker on our right. We had unknowingly taken our “mini-break” right beside one of the finest and most intact Native American burial mounds in eastern Florida, known as the Ormond Mound.

Native peoples lived in and around modern day Florida for many centuries before the birth of Christ. The St. Johns cultural period (as it is called) spanned two thousand years, lasting until the arrival of European explorers around 1500 A.D. The populations of this period practiced the same pattern of living developed by Archaic peoples centuries before, including shellfish harvesting, hunting, fishing, and plant collecting. It was also during this period that domesticated plants, mainly corn and squash, were used for the first time. The St. Johns people occupied two major regions of Volusia County: the St. Johns River basin to the west and the environmentally rich estuaries of the Halifax and Indian Rivers on the east coast. Abundant resources in both areas allowed prehistoric populations to grow and expand throughout these regions of the county, establishing permanent villages as well as ceremonial and political centers at locations where food was most plentiful. Some archaeologists believe that St. Johns groups made seasonal rounds from coast to river and back again to most effectively exploit food resources which were available at different times of the year. Both the river and coastal regions are marked by enormous shell mounds and the remains of prehistoric foods: snail and mussel in the freshwater environs and oyster and clam on the coasts, all of which served for centuries as the staple for the St. Johns diet. In particular, shell mounds on the east coast, such as Turtle Mound in Canaveral National Seashore and Green Mound in Ponce Inlet grew to colossal proportions. These coastal sites represent the largest shell middens in North America. The largest of these sites, Turtle Mound, has been estimated at one time to have reached 75 feet in height.

The Ormond Mound, however, is a burial site where it is estimated that more than one hundred individual burials remain, most dating from the late-St. Johns period, after A.D. 800. Associated with the Ormond Mound was a charnel house used to store bodies before burial. The St. Johns people used such structures to prepare corpses (mostly of prominent people) for the afterlife. The dead were laid out on wooden racks and allowed to decompose, with attendants--usually high priests--carefully removing flesh from the bones. After the bodies dried away, each charnel house priest ended up with sets of cleaned, separated bones that were then bundled individually and interred with special ceremony. This method explains the great number of skeletons found in burial mounds. It seemed incongruous to be straddling our bike in front of a 1300 year old grave yard located smack dab in the middle of a rather affluent housing development, but there it was. We began to more fully appreciate the rich and varied cultural legacy there is in Florida, and that it didn’t begin with the arrival of the Europeans in the 1500s.

We continued to ride along the rivers edge towards Daytona Beach. The homes and neighborhoods started to change in Holly Hill, becoming smaller, older, and in various states of disrepair. Crossing the city line, we passed through an industrial section of Daytona that was definitely not featured in the Chamber of Commerce’s literature. It could best be described as run down, neglected, and not a section of town that we would feel comfortable being in after dark. Cycling along, we noticed a number of signs on the marquees of bars or restaurants proclaiming that “Bikers Are always Welcome”.

Gee, we thought, it’s always nice to be wanted, but from the looks of it they were appealing to a different type of “biker”. And as we got closer to the downtown area, we fully realized that we were strangers in a strange land. For Daytona is the self proclaimed “Motorcycle Capital of the World” (At least that’s what the guy at the Harley dealership told us). We were amazed to see one motorcycle shop after another selling bikes of all shapes, sizes and description. In fact, we learned that we had just missed out on “Biketoberfest”, when hundreds of thousands of bikers nationwide follow the sirens call and head to Daytona to do whatever it is bikers do when they get together. Daytona Beach Bike Week is the largest of the major Florida motorcycle rallies. It started in 1937 with the inaugural running of the Daytona 200 and since then has grown to be a 10 day event. We know that the annual Sturgis rally in South Dakota is somewhat of an “unrestrained” affair, and could only imagine what it was like to be in Daytona during Biketoberfest. And darn it all, we were too late to take in the annual coleslaw wrestling matches (use your imagination)! But we did get to see the Holiday Art Show in the cordoned off streets of downtown Daytona and had an enjoyable time strolling with Olga and BOB through the crowd.
We stopped and chatted with a number of people who inquired about our trip. Interestingly, we both found ourselves answering a question that we weren’t being asked. People wanted to know where we were heading, but we felt the need to tell them where we came from. With our journey’s goal just a few days away, it was starting to sink in that all of this was soon to end. It was something we were going to need to get accustomed to.

We continued south along the outskirts of the city and then rode on a short section of US1 to New Smyrna. We had ridden a good distance on US1 in Maine, and had been crossing it a number of times since the trip began. And here we were, 2500 miles from our starting point and back on the same patch of asphalt. Passing the New Smyrna airport we turned onto a road that once again paralleled the Intracoastal. Our friends had asked us to call them when we got near so they would be able to come out and greet us. We would be spending the next two days with Kate and Bill Garner and Karen and Pete Ringsrud. Kate, Karen and Pete are childhood friends of Mary Ellen from Minnesota, where Karen and Pete still reside. During the course of our sojourn, they had cooked up a plan in which we would converge on New Smyrna and share some time together. We had been looking forward to this day for the past two weeks, and were thrilled to see them cheering us on as we neared their home. What we didn’t expect was to also be greeted by a reporter from the local press. Kate and Bill had apparently made arrangements to have us interviewed upon arrival. It really was quite unexpected and a bit overwhelming. Ever since departing Bar Harbor, people had asked us if we were being interviewed by TV or newspaper reporters. Frankly, we never even considered it a newsworthy event. Matt, who works with reporters on a regular basis in Montana would say that our trip would only be an item for “a slow news day”. But in this instance there was a good hook... with old friends getting together for an overdue reunion...and the reporter was most inquisitive, asking excellent questions. We spent 30 minutes or so with her, posing for photos, and responding to her inquiries as best we could. The reality of our trip nearing completion was starting to sink in. With merely 5 days left of relatively easy cycling to reach Boca Raton, it all would soon be coming to an end. The reporter asked us how we felt about that, and we had a difficult time responding, as it was a question that we really had not yet considered to a great extent.

We recall meeting a young man near Williamsburg VA who was two days out from the end of his TransAm bike trip. He had started in Astoria Oregon and crossed the country riding solo in about 60 days. We asked him how he felt, what his thoughts were at the time and his response was that he hadn’t thought much about it, other than the fact that he was tired. As for us, we certainly weren’t feeling tired. The rhythm, pace and routine of bike touring were much to our liking. There’s an old bicycling mantra that sums up bike travel quite succinctly... “Eat, Sleep, Ride”. To that we would add “Smile, Laugh, Enjoy, Discover and Persevere.” It’s been one heck of a ride for us and we feel most fortunate.

The next two days were spent reconnecting with friends, meeting a host of new and fascinating folks at the “reception” that Kate and Bill arranged, and sightseeing in the New Smryna area. It was another great interlude, and although we could have stayed longer, both of us felt the pull of the road. Mounting Olga, we bid a fond farewell and proceeded on.

Blowin' in the Wind

It was one of our speediest rides to date. With a strong tail wind pushing us along, we found ourselves averaging an effortless 15 MPH as we “flew” down the coast. The ocean was in view most of the day, and the waves were pounding the shoreline with a fury the likes of which we had never seen before. We saw no ships on the horizon, and could only imagine what it must have been like for the early explorers and settlers to cross the Atlantic on tiny vessels for nearly 60 days before arriving in the New World. They were capable of enduring extreme hardship, and no doubt were made of sterner stuff than we.

Later on we learned that the wind had reach 7 on the Beaufort scale, which is an empirical measure for describing wind speed based mainly on observed sea conditions. If you really must know, wind speed on the Beaufort scale can be expressed by the formula:
v = 0.837 B where v is wind speed and B is Beaufort scale number.

Winds of Beaufort 7 are clocked at 32-38 mph and result in the issuance of a small craft warning. The sea heaps up and foam begins to streak. Trees bend over, branches snap, and it is difficult to walk against a wind measuring 7 on the scale. It is considered to be "near gale force". (Force 8 or 9 winds bringing about a full gale warning). We were very thankful that it was blowing all day behind our backs because any attempt to ride into it would have been both fool hardy and futile. It already was a challenge keeping the bike stable, and our guess was that we would have been blown clear back across the Florida/Georgia border if it had been coming from the other direction.

We dreaded the thought of setting up the tent that night, and could only hope that there was an adequate wind break at Gamble Rodgers State Park where we had reserved a campsite. You read that correctly. Reservations are highly recommended at campgrounds in Florida. We would be arriving on a Friday night, and had been warned by fellow travelers to secure a spot as the campgrounds fill up quickly. We heeded the warnings and were glad we did because when you arrive at the check in at 4:30 PM in a Beaufort scale 7 wind, there aren’t many other options available to you. But that was to come later in the day.

As we were propelled southward, we sped through Crescent Beach, Summer Haven, Marineland and Hammock, taking time to put on the brakes, shake the sand out of our teeth, and enjoy Washington Oaks Garden State Park just north of Palm Coast.

Although the formal gardens are the centerpiece of this park, Washington Oaks is also famous for the unique shoreline of coquina rock formations that line its Atlantic beach. Nestled between the Atlantic Ocean and the Matanzas River, this property was once owned by a distant relative of President George Washington. The gardens were established by Louise and Owen Young who purchased the land in 1936 and built a winter retirement home. They named it Washington Oaks and, in 1965, donated most of the property to the State. The gardens make remarkable use of native and exotic species, from azaleas and camellias to the exquisite bird of paradise, sheltered within a picturesque oak hammock. Visitors can picnic and fish from either the beach or the seawall along the Matanzas River. A number of short trails provide opportunities for both hiking and bicycling.

Regretfully, we weren’t able to see any of the coquina rock as we were there during high tide and the seas were so turbulent that no shoreline whatsoever was visible. The wind was so strong that it nearly lifted our helmets off our heads, and we had a hard time standing upright. It was time to get a move on to our nights destination.

We stopped in Flagler Beach to purchase provisions for our evenings meal, not knowing if we would even be able to light our stoves in the howling wind. Flagler Beach is one of those towns in Florida that seems to be on the cusp of being discovered, but right now has the right combination of older buildings, motels, trailers and small stores to make you feel that it has a unique character. So many of the other towns we passed through looked exactly alike, but Flagler still looked pretty much like it did 20 or 30 years ago, and that made us feel good.

As mentioned above, we checked into the campground at 4:30 and learned that our site was backed up right next to the ocean. On any other night this would have been most welcome news, but we were less than enthusiastic on the prospect of trying to pitch our tent in sand during the middle of a gale. We had visions of our trusty tent becoming a hang glider as we tried to secure it to the ground. But as they say, necessity becomes the mother of invention, and after scrounging around the campground awhile, we picked up enough large pieces of coquina rock to hold the tent and ourselves down. Matt fashioned a wind break of sorts that afforded enough protection so we could boil up our steamers, cook our rice and vegetables and have ourselves another well earned feast. We double secured everything on and in the tent, and after polishing off our dinner and bottle of wine, scurried into its safe confines to try and get some needed rest. We had hoped to enjoy the full moon with a quiet stroll on the beach, but that proved to be wishful thinking. We had been fortunate indeed that the wind was basically our ally for the day, but knew all too well that she can be a fickle friend, and had no idea what the dawn would bring.

The Oldest City in North America

The guy at the bike shop could have been a bit more tactful. He wanted to know what "fool" had torqued the headset so tight that it was barely functional. Matt had to sheepishly admit that he was the culprit. The mechanics at the shop in D.C. had told him to tighten up on the adjusting bolt when he heard it creaking, and since it was creaking most of the time, he dutifully complied. He had wondered if there was such a thing as "too tight", but it didn't seem to do any harm giving it a torque or two every now and then, and besides, the noise had dissipated. Fortunately, the final verdict was that while the bearings may have been tweaked a "tad" too much, the headset was still functional and would get us through the rest of the trip. Which was a good thing, being that replacing a headset can be an all day affair. The mechanic patiently explained that "creaking" happens, and at this point, live with it. While Olga didn't get the full "spa" treatment, at least her head pains were gone, and the steering felt firm and accurate again. All was well with the world. Tongue lashing aside, the fellows at the bike shop were most accommodating, dropping everything on short notice to help us get safely back on the road. Dutifully chastised, Matt swore an oath never to touch the headset again, and we spent the rest of the day exploring historic St. Augustine, which was founded forty-two years before the English colony at Jamestown, Virginia, and fifty-five years before the Pilgrims landed on Plymouth Rock in Massachusetts - making it the oldest permanent European settlement on the North American continent.

St. Augustine has become a major tourist town. Trolley's and horse drawn carriages give visitors an open-air tour of the city and all its attractions. The old part of the city has some interesting back alleys and historic buildings, but in some ways it's a bit too much. We opted not to visit the Ripley's Believe it or Not Museum, and somehow didn't get to the Alligator Farm, Wax Museum, or spend time in the shops along the pedestrian mall. Instead, we focused our attention on the rich and varied history of the city, and it’s importance to the settling of the New World.

Between 1513 and 1563 the government of Spain launched six expeditions to settle Florida, but all failed. The French succeeded in establishing a fort and colony on the St. Johns River in 1564 and, in doing so, threatened Spain's treasure fleets which sailed along Florida's shoreline returning to Spain. As a result of this incursion into Florida, King Phillip II named Don Pedro Menendez de Aviles, Spain's most experienced admiral, as governor of Florida, instructing him to explore and to colonize the territory. Menendez was also instructed to drive out any pirates or settlers from other nations, should they be found there. When Menendez arrived off the coast of Florida, it was August 28, 1565, the Feast Day of St. Augustine. Eleven days later, he and his 600 soldiers and settlers came ashore at the site of the Timucuan Indian village of Seloy with banners flying and trumpets sounding. He hastily fortified the fledgling village and named it St. Augustine. Menedez proved to be a shrewd tactician, destroying the French garrison on the St. John's river. This battle had a rather gruesome outcome. The 245 defeated French Huguenots were given the option of either become converts to Catholicism or face certain death. The area of their garrison is now maintained by the National Park Service and is called Fort Matanzas, which translated from the Spanish is "slaughter". The Spaniards took no prisoners that day.

Yet St. Augustine was far from secure, as it would be subject to attacks over the next two hundred years. In 1586, English corsair Sir Francis Drake burned the town. Then in 1668, the pirate Captain John Davis plundered the town, killing sixty inhabitants. Finally, after the British established colonies in Georgia and the Carolinas, Spain authorized the building of a stone fort to protect St. Augustine as assaults from the north became more frequent. The Castillo de San Marcos took twenty-three years to build but, once in place, stood as the town's stalwart defender. Amazingly, the Castillo, although attacked, was never taken by force. Since the beginning of its construction in 1672, the Castillo has played an important role as a strategic military post in the New World, and its‘ history is interwoven with that of Florida. Many flags have flown here during its illustrious history as an active military fortification, including the Spanish, the British , the Spanish again , the United States of America ,the Confederate States of America ,and finally the United States of America again. The Castillo was not the first fort built by the Spanish but was in fact the tenth, with the previous nine forts being built of wood. Following a pirate attack on St. Augustine in 1668, the Queen Regent Mariana made the commitment to have a masonry fortification built to defend the city and port. The founding of Charles Town (Charleston) in 1670 by the British less than two-day's sail from St. Augustine further emphasized the need for a stronger fort. Construction of the fortress that would become the Castillo de San Marcos was begun in October 1672.

For this new fort the engineers chose to use a local stone called "coquina". The name means "little shells" and that is exactly what the stone is made of-- little shellfish that died long ago, and their shells have now become bonded together to form the rock, a type of limestone. The coquina rock was quarried from Anastasia Island across the bay from the Castillo, and after rough shaping had been done, was ferried across to the construction site. The mortar to bond the blocks to each other was made on the construction site by baking oyster shells in kilns until they fell apart to a fine white powder called lime. The lime was then mixed with sand and fresh water to produce the mortar that still holds the Castillo together today. After 23 years of work, the Castillo was declared completed in 1695. It had its first test when British forces laid siege to the city in early November, 1702. At the start of the siege the people of St. Augustine crowded into the Castillo to take shelter. Over 1200 civilians and 300 soldiers of the city would remain within the walls for almost two months as the British troops occupied the town. The British cannon had virtual no effect upon the soft coquina walls, which merely absorbed the shock of the hits with little damage. The siege was finally broken by the arrival of a relief fleet from Havana that trapped the British ships within St. Augustine's harbor and forced the British to burn their ships to prevent their capture by the Spanish. As they withdrew from the area, the British put the city to the torch just as their countryman Sir Francis Drake had when he burned the city in 1586. After the 1702 Siege, it was decided to improve the Castillo and fortifications of the city of St. Augustine itself. With these improvements to the city, coupled with those to the Castillo, St. Augustine became a far more difficult city to attempt to take. In 1740 General James Edward Oglethorpe laid siege to St. Augustine from the newly established English Colony (in disputed territory) of Georgia. Oglethorpe placed troops and cannon batteries on Anastasia Island to fire on the city and the Castillo. He hoped that a sustained bombardment and blockade of St. Augustine would cause the Governor of Florida, to surrender the city and fortress to the British. The English guns fired on the Castillo, but were unable to breech the walls and Oglethorpe was unable to organize an assault on the Castillo. With the dawn of the 38th day of the siege, the citizens of St. Augustine saw that the British had withdrawn from the area.

It was not until 1763 that Spain ceded Florida to England in order to regain the capital of Cuba, ushering in twenty years of British rule in Florida. This period coincided with the American Revolution, during which Florida remained loyal to the Crown. In 1783, under the Treaty of Paris, Florida was returned to Spanish rule for a period of thirty-seven years. The Spanish departed for the last time when Spain sold Florida to the United States of America. At a colorful military ceremony on July 10, 1821, US troops took possession of the territory and Spain relinquished control of Florida forever. In 1845, Florida became the twenty-seventh state admitted to the Union. The Castillo de San Marcos was renamed Fort Marion in honor of a Revolutionary War hero Francis Marion (The Swamp Fox), and the capital of East Florida was moved from St. Augustine to become part of the state capital in the new town of Tallahassee.

The town had finally begun to prosper when the American Civil War broke out in 1861. Although Florida had seceded with the rest of the Confederacy, St. Augustine was occupied by Union troops throughout most of the conflict. When the war ended in 1865, the town was three centuries old. The wars end brought speculators and land developers to Florida along with the beginnings of the visitor industry. The arrival of Henry Flagler in 1885 marked the beginning of a golden era for St. Augustine that extended through 1914. Enticed by the city's temperate climate and unique ambiance, Flagler saw great potential for St. Augustine as a popular winter resort and playground for rich Northerners. A co-founder of the Standard Oil Company with John D. Rockefeller, he immediately put his vast fortune to work building his dream. He constructed two lavish hotels, the beautiful Alcazar, and his masterpiece-the Ponce de Leon. These hotels allowed St. Augustine to accommodate the wealthiest of travelers with luxurious lodgings and a fine array of leisure activities. His Florida East Coast Railway ensured a transportation link between New York and St. Augustine, and he built a two-story depot to properly receive arriving guests. Flagler was also responsible for building the town's hospital, city hall, and several churches. Flagler expanded his dream south toward Palm Beach when he moved there in the early 1900's, but had given St. Augustine an era of prestige and prosperity - the effects of which are still evident today.

Leaving the fort behind, we crossed the St. Johns River and camped at Anastasia State Park. Florida has an outstanding state park system. The facilities are clean, well maintained, and offer a welcome oasis to for weary travelers such as us. We spent a good deal of time walking along the beach, learning about the sea turtle habitat, manatees and enjoying another splendid sunset. The wind was beginning to pick up, and we were told that a cold front was heading our way. We naively assumed that it would mean a bit of morning chill and some clouds. Imagine our surprise the next day when we awoke to winds gusting to over 40 miles an hour and threatening skies. Fortunately it was a north west wind, and we were heading south. If it didn’t rain, it was going to be one fast day down the coast.

Fountain of Youth

Continuing south from Amelia Island, we followed a route that essentially kept us either on or very near the Atlantic coast, skirting the Jacksonville metro area as best we could. Jacksonville is the largest city (in total area) in the US, and the only way to avoid the sprawl was to pretty much hug the coast, which is how you pass through on the Adventure Cycling route. We soon began to appreciate the value of the state and county parks in the area, because without them it would be one continuous real estate development after another for the next 300 miles. Like every other coastal area we encountered on our expedition, the land was either developed, under construction, or available to those with enough money to purchase their own “piece of paradise”. To be sure, there are pockets of undeveloped tracts to be found as well as a few small communities that appear to have been skipped over or frozen in some sort of 1960s time warp. But overall, construction activity and development seemed to be bustling and the price of real estate, especially along the water, seemed astronomical by our standards.

The ACA map tells you to “expect urban cycling conditions” in the coastal beach towns. What they mean is that in many of these communities you are bicycling through both old and new neighborhoods, down narrow alleys, through parks and beach shopping areas...observing a real oleo of homes, shops, high rise apartments, duplexes, beach rentals...it was truly fascinating. We became enthralled with the town of Atlantic Beach and decided to splurge and spend the night at the pastel painted Sea Horse Motel right on the ocean. The town was more funky than fancy, having an eclectic mixture of restaurants, a few popular watering holes and a good laid back feel. It was a wonderful interlude and a well earned respite to get us ready for our final push south.

The next morning we weaved our way through the towns of Neptune and Jacksonville Beach, and found ourselves pedaling along a beautiful bike path in the posh town of Pointe Vedra with its manicured landscapes, resorts, golf courses and multi million dollar homes. Leaving that behind, we rode through the Guana River State Park for the next 20 miles or so. It brought back great memories, reminding us of our time spent on the Outer Banks of North Carolina, with the surf pounding on our left (east) and the marshes and tidal plains to our right. It was a warm, windy day, and we stopped a number of times to soak up the ambience as well as take a few quiet walks on deserted beaches. We could have stayed there longer, but we knew that we had to get on and visit a bike shop. Olga had developed a severe “creak” in her headset. Matt had been noticing it for quite some time, and would periodically tighten up the bolts, but now he was getting concerned that something “serious” was going on that was affecting the steering and handling, and we needed professional, or maybe supernatural help. St. Augustine was the logical place.
According to tradition, the natives of Hispaniola, Puerto Rico and Cuba told the early Spanish explorers that in Bimini, a land to the north, there was a river, spring or fountain where waters had such miraculous curative powers that any old person who bathed in them would regain his youth. Juan Ponce de Leon (1460-1521), who had been with Columbus on his second voyage in 1493 and who had later conquered and become governor of Puerto Rico, is supposed to have learned of the fable from the Indians. The fable was not new, and probably Ponce de Leon was vaguely cognizant of the fact that such waters had been mentioned by medieval writers, and that Alexander the Great had searched for such waters in eastern Asia. A similar legend was known to the Polynesians, whose tradition located the fountain of youth in Hawaii.

As described to the Spanish, Bimini not only contained a spring of perpetual youth but teemed with gold and all sorts of riches. In that age of discovery, when new wonders and novelties were disclosed every year, not only the Spanish explorers but also men of learning accepted such stories with childlike credulity. Ponce de Leon, like most of the other early Spanish explorers and conquerors, was looking primarily for gold, slaves and other "riches," and no one knows if he actually put much stock in the fable of the fountain of youth, if he had heard about it at all. On March 27, 1513 after searching vainly for Bimini among the Bahamas, Ponce de Leon sighted the North American mainland, which he took to be an island, and on April 2 he landed somewhere on the eastern coast. Nobody knows for certain where he first set foot on Florida soil. Some suppose that it was north of St. Augustine, while others think it was as far south as Cape Canaveral. Either because the discovery was made during the Easter season, or because he found flowers on the coast, or for both reasons, he named the country La Florida. In Spanish, Easter Sunday is la pascua florida, literally "the flowery passover." "And thinking that this land was an island they named it La Florida because they discovered it in the time of the flowery festival."

For over 2400 miles, Olga has been our stalwart companion with nary a complaint. We've subjected her to torrents of rain, mud, sand, grit, salt air, pot holes, curbs, gravel, broken glass and other maladies with nary a complaint on her part. She has performed admirably and has exceeded all our expectations. Her last visit to a bike shop was in Washington DC, and it was time to give her some well earned TLC. And as we would soon discover, it wasn't a moment too soon.

Two Different Worlds

There was no marching band to greet us, no ticker tape or F-16 flyover, heck, not even a "Welcome" sign. But nothing could have dampened our spirits as we crossed into Florida at 10:22 AM on our 60th day of riding. The computer told us that we had travelled 2451 miles, and while we were understandably excited, we were acutely aware that the trip was far from over. There were still 10 or more good days of riding left to traverse the 400+ miles to Mom's house.

The first place we stopped was at the Florida State Agriculture inspection station to get a highway map and have the officer take our picture. Throughout the trip, we have taken very few photos of us "together" on Olga. But we felt we needed this one as a momento of an incredible journey. Assuming it comes out ok, it will probably grace our Season's Greeting card for this year.

Officer J. C. Whitten was most gracious, taking our photo and reviewing our maps and route, commenting that we needed to take great care between Callahan and the coast, as there would be lots of trucking (especially logging), congestion, and a high volume of traffic to contend with. We knew that there would be some rough sledding, and realized that our days of pedalling down quiet 2 lane country roads would soon be coming to an end. We just had no idea how abrupt the change would occur. He bid us safe journey, and we pushed off to conquer our 13th and final State.

The route to Callahan was relatively easy going. There were a number of logging trucks to contend with, but they generally gave us wide berth, and since there was little vehicular on the roadway, it was a pleasant introduction into the Sunshine State. All of that changed the moment we pushed off from Callahan onto A1A/200 heading due East. We've been to Florida before and have driven A1A in the southern part of the state along the coast, but this was decidedly different. The next 25 miles were as tense and nerve wracking as any section we've ridden on the trail.

The maps do give you a heads up that traffic will be heavy and shoulders may be "inadequate or non-existant". What they didn't prepare us for was the shear volume of logging trucks...one right after another...that would go whizzing by at 60 mph. More often than not, there was a shoulder to ride on, but often they are strewned with debris, in need of repair, or disappear, changing into a right turn lane into a shopping mall or subdivision. It was like riding a bike in a video game. Vehicles were coming at us from virtually every direction. People were in a hurry and we were in the way. The signs told folks to "Share the Road" with bicycles, but this was one of those segments of the route that were simply about getting from one place to another. Our goal for the evening was the Lofton Creek campground just east of Yulee. We arrived about 30 minutes before dusk with frayed nerves and tired legs. Our greeting came as quite a shock.

Mary Ellen went to check in and returned to the bike with a distraught look. While the map directory showed this to be a campground, she was informed that they didn't allow tents. There were about 40 RVs crammed into a small space and it was apparent that the "campground" was actually more of a semi permanent RV housing "development" located right next the noisy highway. And these were not $300,000 motor homes. It was readily obvious that the folks in this campground were living there, somewhat like a modern day hobo village. The RV's were of many different shapes and sizes. Some where permanently "moored", surrounded by a porch. All had definitely seen better days. This was their "home".

We had virtually no options available. There was no way we were going to get back out on the highway in the quickly fading light. We put on our best puppy dog looks, and asked if it would be ok to simply find a patch off ground, pitch our tent, and be gone with the morning sunrise. We even pulled out the "We rode all the way from Maine and never encountered anything like this" gambit, hoping the owners would have pitty on us. After a few tense moments of silence we were told to find a spot near the rec room and set up camp there. We slipped them $20 cash to consumate the deal, thanking them profusely. We lucked out again.

The next morning we arose a 6 AM and broke camp as quickly as we could. We wanted to get going to beat the traffic. There was already alot of activityin the camp, as people were going about their business, and leaving for work. This was not the Florida vacation home for these folks. As we exited the campground, we rode past three kids who were slowly walking towards the highway to wait for the school bus. We greeting them with a "Good Morning" and received blank gazes in return. Maybe they were tired, maybe grumpy about going to school. We don't know. But it struck us that the sight of two people on a loaded tandem was a foreign concept to them. Their lives were so different from ours. We pondered what it would be like to grow up in the conditions they were living in, and what would become of these kids. It was a harsh wake up call to the day, and we rode in silence for the first 30 minutes or so, deep within our own thoughts.

The map indicated we had about 8 miles to go before A1A split off of highway 200, heading south on Amelia Island. 200 continues east with its terminus at Fernandina Beach, which has two large paper mills and a port which explains why there were so many logging trucks on the road. Mills consume trees...large volumes of them...and the pines of southern Georgia and north Florida seemed like they were being sucked into Fernandina to feed the mills. As soon as we crossed over the North Amelia river onto the island our world dramaticly changed.

Turning right onto A1A, the trucks were gone. We were greeted with a beautiful bike lane and as we rode a bit further, we started to see the manicured greenery of the nearby resorts, golf courses, and homes. We were back on the Atlantic Coast and into a world of retirees, vaction goers, construction workers, and housing for people of means. Since we had left camp before breakfast we were famished and stopped at the first place we found. It was a local deli, serving fresh hot bagels, coffee...all the big city trappings. It was in stark contrast to where we had been just an hour before. This was a dream world compared to what the folks were living in back at the campground. The TV was on in the restaurant. We've been in a number of establishments that have the Weather Channel or ESPN on. But this place had two plasma wall units tuned into MSNBC, with the stock ticker zipping across the screen and the talking heads opining on the next hot stock. It was another wake up call for us. We have seen incredible wealth on our trip, and have encountered some that have been less fortunate. It appears to us that the gap between the "haves" and the "have nots" is widening, and it became more evident as we rode the Florida coast.

The Land of the Trembling Earth

Outside of Odum, we were in store for a special treat. A little over 5 years ago, through the magic of the Internet, Matt had reconnected with Linda Kline, a childhood friend of his from his summer camp days who has livesd in Atlanta for the past 20 years. They had been conversing back and forth by email, and about 2 1/2 years ago concocted a plan to meet "somewhere in Georgia". We never realized at the time that "somewhere" meant a 4 hour drive from Atlanta, but as the day of the redezvous approached, we coordinated schedules and spent a wonderful evening together with Linda and her husband Walt. It's amazing how easily old friends can reconnect, and even after nearly 40 years feel comfortable and at ease with each other. That night we rode in their van through the Georgia countryside to a local backwoods steakhouse that reminded us of "The Marysville House" near our home in Helena. Down a clay road, no lighting or signs pointing the way...a true local hang out. Conversation came easily as we talked about our trip, their lives, and all of our collective hopes, dreams and desires for the future. It was another one of those special moments that we will remember about our trip, and look forward to hosting them in Montana in the near future.

The Biggest and the Best
The last big "landmark" for us in Georgia would be the Okefenokee Swamp. For two days we rode, observe the subtle changes in the landscape. Farm land and slight rolling hills gave way to scrub pine forests and logging trucks. It looked as if we had gone back into South Carolina, except that the trees were a heck of a lot skinnier, and the trucks were more numerous. We were making a bee line south to Folkston, which is the gateway community to the swamp and national wildlife refugee. We knew we were close when we started seeing billboards and alligator logos on the buildings. Folkston is a pleasant community that for us had special significance because it was the first "real" grocery store we had seen since Statesboro, some 200 miles ago. After chowing down on a hardy lunch buffet (let's just say we got our money's worth) at the local diner, we stocked up on our essentials. We did choose to forgo the alligator tail and frog legs that were on special in the meat department, opting instead for chicken. Anyway, doesn't it all taste like chicken?

The Okefenokee swamp remains one of the oldest and most well preserved freshwater areas in America and extends 38 miles north to south and 25 miles east to west. Okefenokee is a vast bog inside a huge, saucer-shaped depression that was once part of the ocean floor. The swamp now lies 103 to 128 feet above mean sea level. Native Americans named the area "Okefenokee" the "Land of the Trembling Earth", because of the peat deposits (up to 15 feet thick) which cover much of the swamp floor. These deposits are so unstable in spots that trees and surrounding bushes tremble by stomping the surface. The slow-moving waters of the Okefenokee are tea-colored due to the tannic acid released from decaying vegetation. The principal outlet of the swamp, the Suwannee River(of Stephen Foster fame) , originates in the heart of the Okefenokee and drains southwest into the Gulf of Mexico. The swamp’s southeastern drainage to the Atlantic Ocean is the St. Mary’s River, which forms the boundary between Georgia and Florida. The swamp contains numerous islands and lakes, along with vast areas of non-forested habitat. Prairies cover about 60,000 acres of the swamp. Once forested, these expanses of marsh were created during periods of severe drought when fires burned out vegetation and the top layers of peat. The prairies harbor a variety of wading birds: herons, egrets, ibises, cranes, and bitterns.

Native Americans inhabited Okefenokee Swamp as early as 2500 B.C. The last tribe to seek sanctuary in the swamp were the Seminoles. Troops led by General Charles R. Floyd during the Second Seminole War, 1838-1842, ended the age of the native americans in the Okefenokee. The Suwanee Canal Company purchased 238,120 acres of the Okefenokee Swamp from the State of Georgia in 1891 to drain the swamp for rice, sugar cane, and cotton plantations. When this failed, the company began industrial wetland logging as a source of income. Captain Henry Jackson and his crews spent three years digging the Suwannee Canal 11.5 miles into the swamp. Economic recessions led to the company’s bankruptcy and eventual sale to Charles Hebard in 1901. Logging operations, focusing on the cypress, began in 1909 after a railroad was constructed on the northwest area of the swamp. More than 431 million board feet of timber were removed from the Okefenokee by 1927, when logging operations ceased. It became "protected" in 1937, and it is now one of the largest wilderness areas east of the Missisippi.By this time, numerous squatters and others had come to the swamp and even though they never really owned the property they were on, had to be removed from "their" property by the Federal government. It was a difficult time for all involved.

The best way to see the swamp is from a boat, and we signed up for a guided tour that tooks us through the historic Suwannee Canal drifting through a tangled forest of bay, cypress, pine and shrubs, then out into the open expanse of Chesser Prairie. Our guide Joey was a 6th generation "Swamper", and shared his knowledge of the swamp’s natural and cultural history, regaling us with interesting swamp stories and identify plants and wildlife along the way. We encountered egrets, herons, , red-shouldered hawks, and of course, numerous American alligators.

The American alligator is a member of the crocodile family, whose members are living fossils from the Age of Reptiles, having survived on earth for 200 million years. However, the alligator can be distinguished from the crocodile by its head shape and color. The crocodile has a narrower snout, and unlike the alligator, has teeth in the lower jaw which are visible even when its mouth is shut. In addition, adult alligators are black, while crocodiles are brownish in color.

Today, alligators are found throughout the Southeast, from the Carolinas to Texas and north to Arkansas. As during the Reptile Age, alligators live in wetlands, and it is this vital habitat that holds the key to their continued long-term survival. Alligators depend on the wetlands -- and in some ways the wetlands depend on them. As predators at the top of the food chain, they help control numbers of rodents and other animals that might overtax the marshland vegetation.
The alligator has a large, slightly rounded body, with thick limbs, a broad head, and a very powerful tail which it uses to propel itself through water. The tail accounts for half the alligator's length. While alligators move very quickly in water, they are generally slow-moving on land, although they can be quick for short distances. Alligators reach breeding maturity at about 8 to 13 years of age, at which time they are about 6 to 7 feet long. From then on, growth continues at a slower rate. Old males may grow to be 14 feet long and weigh up to 1,000 pounds during a lifespan of 30 or more years.

They'll eat eat just about anything, but primarily consume fish, turtles, and snails. Small animals that come to the water's edge to drink make easy prey for the voracious alligator.
The alligator's greatest value to the marsh and the other animals within it are the "gator holes" that many adults create and expand on over a period of years. An alligator uses its mouth and claws to uproot vegetation to clear out a space; then, shoving with its body and slashing with its powerful tail, it wallows out a depression that stays full of water in the wet season and holds water after the rains stop. During the dry season, and particularly during extended droughts, gator holes provide vital water for fish, insects, crustaceans, snakes, turtles, birds, and other animals in addition to the alligator itself. Sometimes, the alligator may expand its gator hole by digging beneath an overhanging bank to create a hidden den. After tunneling as far as 20 feet, it enlarges the end, making a chamber with a ceiling high enough above water level to permit breathing. This is not the alligator's nest but merely a way for the reptile to survive the dry season and winters.

And although you could have fooled us, the swamp and the entire southeast part of Georgia were in the grip of a rather serious drought. The water level of the swamp is totally dependent on rainfall to replenish itself, as no rivers flow into it, and was down significantly. Normal year to date rainfall is 50 inches, and as of now, heading into the "dry" season, only 35 inches has come down. The lack of hurricanes or major storms to visit the area was a welcome relief to homeowners (and their insurance companies) but had become a serious concern. The locals talked about how "brown" everything seemed to them, although to our untrained eye, it still looked mighty green to us.

We camped that night at a private campground just outside the refuge. We were a bit taken aback at the $25 price tag for the opportunity to pitch a tent, but in a way we had become spoiled. In all the states until Virginia, this would have been slightly belowthe average tariff. Once we left the Cape Hatteras region, prices of $15~$20 became the norm. In most of rural Georgia the prices had dropped to $7~$10, so our sticker shock needed to be put into perspective. After all, we were in a prime "tourist" locale, and with the Florida border just a few hours away, we figured that prices would be rising. The showers were clean, the crickets and frogs serenaded us, and with the moon nearly full, we cooked a meal repleat with fresh vegetables and a hardy ration of wine. We'd be crossing into Florida in the morning, and it began to really sink in that our journey was nearing it's end. The smell of the nearby swamp was noticeable. We had become familiar with, but never accustomed to the smell of "Swamp Gas" over the past month. "Swamp Gas", sometimes called "will-o-the wisp" or "foxfire" and even known in some quarters as "wetland flatulence" is a naturally occurring phenomena caused by decaying organic matter transforming into a gaseous state and on extremely rare occasions takes on certain properties of luminescence. In the 1950's many UFO skeptics used this uncommon swamp gas occurrence to dismiss numerous sightings of weird lights and objects in the sky. It reminded us of the odor we encountered along the banks of the Delaware River in New Jersey and Pennsylvania from the recent floods. It's distinct and definitely not a pleasing smell, put something you get use to (or "tune out) with time.

With standard time now back into effect, the sky gets light enough to start coffee and get breakfast going at around 6:15 or so. We broke camp by 8:00 and headed due south to St. George, located in the middle of the Georgia "panhandle". Actually, when you look at the map, Georgia is seems shaped more like a large kitchen cleaver, with a little finger of land jutting out along the Florida border forming the handle. The aforementiioned St. Mary's River that flows out of the swamp forms the southern border of the state, and after refueling at Rhoda's Cafe on a cheese omelet and grits (along with 38 cent coffee) we turned due east to cross into the "Flowery Land" and our final state of the trip. We were psyched, proud and exhilarated. Florida was ours for the taking! During our journey many folks commented to us that it should be easy, because, after all, from Maine to Florida is all downhill on the map. Now we were beginning to believe that maybe, just maybe, they were right.

Nutritionists have an Uphill Battle

Like all the states visited so far, Georgia has had a rich and colorful history. Spanish and French visited the coastal areas in the 1500s as part of their struggle for supremecy in the New World. However once again, it was the British that established a permanent presence. Georgia was the last of the 13 British colonies established on the Atlantic seaboard. It was founded by James Edward Oglethorpe with 114 original settlers on February 12, 1733, at the present site of the city of Savannah. Oglethorpe was noted as a philanthropist and for his benevolence, including helping children and defending seamen against impressment (being forced into service against one's will). It was his work on the Prison Discipline Committee that brought him in contact with the idea of creating a colony of debtors in the New World. Proposed by a number of writers and in at least one book, the concept gained some acceptance before Oglethorpe became a driving force in the movement. As more people settled in the colony of Georgia, the Spanish in the Florida area became increasingly uneasy at the growing British presence. On July 7, 1742, Oglethorpe, then "General and Commander in Chief of the Forces of South Carolina and Georgia", defeated the Spanish at the Battle of Bloody Marsh on St. Simons Island, removing the Spanish threat to Georgia. In 1743 General Oglethorpe sailed for England never to return to Georgia. During the Revolutionary War, many Georgians still felt loyalty to England. Therefore, the war was fought not only between American and British forces, but also between citizens who became revolutionaries, the Whigs, and those still swearing allegiance to the king, the Tories.

Georgia suffered both a loss of population and considerable physical destruction because of the Revolution. In time, settlers, attracted by the availability of land, moved from the other states-some being lured by an additional tracts of western land opened through a series of treaties with Creek and Cherokee nations. The desire for land, and later gold, created a swift expansion beyond the old frontier, carrying with it increased trade along rivers and migration of people along new roads into the wilderness. The primary basis for this new growth and economic expansion was the production of cotton thorough the slave labor system. In 1860 the national debate over the extension of slavery into new territories reached a crescendo. Following the election of Abraham Lincoln as president, a special state convention voted on January 19, 1861, to secede from the Union. Only a few months later Georgia formally joined the Confederate States of America. Georgia did not suffer direct devastation from the war until 1864 when General William Tecumseh Sherman advanced though Northern Georgia in the previously mentioned March to the Sea. During the war years, Georgia lost nearly 120,000 men and boys in battle as well as much of the state's material wealth. The rebuilding of the state afterwards was a slow and painful process. There were political conflicts between the newly enfranchised black citizens who, for the first time, were allowed to hold seats in the Legislature, and the prewar social structure, which sought to minimize the changes it had to accept in its traditional way of life. Georgia's economy was also crippled because of its heavy dependence on cotton production at a time when world market prices were are historically low levels.

Following World War II, the pace of industrial growth became more apparent. Atlanta, begun in the mid-1880's as a transportation center, gained recognition also as a commercial, financial, and cultural center for the Southeast. New industries developed in Georgia, and others moved from outside into he state. Meanwhile, rural Georgia was revitalized as Georgia's farmers, who had been driven from cotton production by the destructive boll weevil, diversified their planting operations and adopted new agricultural techniques. Georgia is a leader in peanuts and pecan production. We spent the good part of two days riding through a landscape of pecan orchards, tobacco farms and cotton that was nearly ready to harvest. It was fall bicycling at it's best, with warm days, cool nights, and little traffic.

Generally speaking, we were riding in a corridor about 30~40 miles from the Atlantic Coast. The small towns we passed through were spread 15~20 miles apart, and there was very little sign of commerce other than the occassional general store or gas station. There were no restaurants to speak of, and the few places we did come across served variations of deep fat fried chicken, pork rinds, or fish. If you wanted something that wasn't fried...well, there always was some form of pulled pork available, served on a squishy white hamburger bun. The "lunch box" special generally contained two pieces of fried something along with a choice of two sides (stewed vegetables like pole beans, cabbage, okra, or lima beans). We also found that in some places, macaroni and cheese was considered to be a vegetable. At the larger food outlets, the menu also featured fried gizzards and livers. Being a nutritionist, Mary Ellen felt compelled to take photos of the menu offerings, along with snapshots of the different "parts" being sold in the few grocery stores we would come across. We couldn't find fresh produce, fruits or any selection of bread to speak of. The diet sure was different than what we were accustomed to. In fact, Matt commented that some of the butcher selections reminded him of his travels in mainland China, where they pretty much consume all parts of an animal, and you're never really sure of what it is that you're eating. Let's just say that we ate a lot of pasta for dinner and oatmeal or grits for breakast.

Many of the stores in these small towns had gone out of business. When we stopped to ask where one could buy groceries, we often were told that the closest place was the new "Super WalMart" about 15 miles down the road. We could see first hand the impact that these supercenters have had on these communities. The commercial center (small as it was) of these towns had disappeared. People voted with their pocketbooks, and took their business down the road. You can't blame them really, and it's a story being played out across rural America. But it felt as if the life blood had been sucked out of those towns and left us with a touch of longing for what used to be. But progress, such as it is, doesn't stand still...and neither did we.

We found ourselves riding at an efficent but steady pace averaging over 11 MPH, which for us was pretty darn good. Having set our sights on Florida, we rode with a sense of purpose and confidence. 12 states down, one to go, and we were still having the time of our lives. Now if we could just find some whole wheat bread for our peanut butter, all would be right with the world.

Peachy Keen In Georgia

Upon entering Georiga, the change in topography was both startling and refreshing. The terrain became much more varied, opening up to reveal irrigated fields of cotton, peanuts, tobacco, hay and even a few cattle ranches. The soil seemed to be a combination of sand and clay, but apparently quite fertile. We had not seen farms of this size since our time in Virginia, and even though the map indicated only a few hundred feet in elevation, it was in stark contrast to what we had been experiencing for the past two weeks. While we still rode by swamps, they were much smaller in size, and far less wooded. We actually encountered a few hills that required some concentrated effort to climb, rediscovering muscles that had not been used for a long, long time. Even so, it was nothing like the "hills" of New England and the mid-Atlantic states. We were making good time, and thoroughly enjoyed the route as it took us on extremely low traffic county roads that were in very good condition. We needed to finish 70 miles before an expected rainstorm would hit, and by 4 PM with clouds building and the wind picking up, rolled our way into Statesboro, home to Georgia Southern University and the largest community we would pass through on our trip south.

Although it is true that Statesboro and Georgia Southern University have historically grown and continue to grow in tandem with one another, the city cannot be considered a true college town where the community is built around a college/university, Statesboro was a well established community whose civic leaders built and continue to build the university to this day. Although the university is run by the state government, it has very strong ties to various citizens of Statesboro. Statesboro-Bulloch County offers a diversified array of employment opportunities in agriculture and industry. However, the "Town-Gown" relationship is very real, although not as intense as it could be since a large portion of the student population are also Statesboro natives. Because Statesboro is like a college town, there are a number of restaurants, bars and a couple of coffee houses where we could actually take care of our "latte" craving for the first time since Charleston. Statesboro may be familiar to music-listeners through the song "Statesboro Blues" written by Blind Willie McTelland covered by many other musicians, including Taj Mahal and the Allman Brothers Band. We found it to be an enjoyable oasis, and opted to spend the night in a motel room so we could spend time walking through the downtown area and splurging on a good old fashioned Southern bording house meal. My, my, those fresh homemade biscuits are sure tasty!

Statesboro was "visited" but not destroyed by Union Soldiers during the Civil War as part of General William T. Shermans' infamous "March to the Sea", which still engenders bitterness even to this day. The Union's goal was to demonstrate to the Conferederate citizens that their goverment was no longer capable of protecting them. It began with the burning of Atlanta on November 15, 1864, and ended with the caputre of Savannah on Dec. 21. It is said that Sherman wired President Lincoln on the next day, offering the city and its many thousands of cotton bales to Lincoln as "a Christmas gift".

The campaign was designed to be similar to Grant's innovative and successful Vicksburg campaign in that Sherman's armies would reduce their need for traditional supply lines by "living off the land" after their 20 days of rations were consumed. Foragers, known as "bummers", would provide food seized from local farms for the Army while they destroyed the railroads and the manufacturing and agricultural infrastructure of the state. The twisted and broken rails that the troops wrapped around tree trunks and left behind became known as "Sherman's Neckties". Furthermore, the army would be out of touch with the North throughout the campaign. Sherman's scorched earth policies have always been highly controversial, and Sherman's memory has long been reviled by many natives of Georgia, but slaves, many of whom left their plantations to follow his armies, welcomed him as a liberator. The March to the Sea is considered by many historians to have demonstrated Sherman's superb command of military strategy, and his commitment to destroying the Confederacy's ability to wage further war may well have hastened the end of the conflict.

That night we decided to forgo a visit to Savannah and continue to travel south. To take the spur road into Savannah would have required two additional days of riding, as well as a day or two for sightseeing. Given that the nights were not getting any warmer, and with daylight savings time soon to end, we opted to continue our "March to the South" and more friendlier climes. Even though we were traveling with no set itinerary or time schedule, we felt that Florida was calling us. So under a blustery and threatening sky we left Statesboro behind and cycled off into the rolling countryside to find out what awaited us around the next bend.

Carolina in our Minds

Our final day in South Carolina took us through more of the same...mainly swamps and forests. The morning chill lifted, and it became a brisk but wonderful day for bicycling. There was no traffic to speak of at all, and for the first time in what seemed like eons, there were actually small grades to ride. Nothing that required much effort, but a welcome change from the never-ending flat lands.

Since we had the road to ourselves, we spent a long time discussing our thoughts and feelings about our journey through the Carolina's. One of the wonderful things about a tandem is the ability to easily communicate with your partner. There are times, especially in urban traffic situations when it is difficult to hear each other over the din. But our guess is that for 95% of the ride, we could easily converse in normal tones. There are radio communication sets for tandem riders on the market, but in our humble opinion they serve no real purpose.

We both shared the same observation on the racial diversity of the South. Being from Montana (where 94% or thereabouts of the people are white), we have very little interaction on a daily basis with African Americans. It was refreshing to converse with different people, although we both had difficulty with the increasingly heavy Southern drawl. We often found ourselves asking each other "what did they say?", and generally had to listen two times before we could truly understand. But, we discovered that they had the same problem with our accents, and we had a good laugh with a number of them about the "foreign" language we were speaking. In fact, we found it more difficult to understand the white folks than the black. Don't ask us why. We didn't notice any animosity on a face to face basis...only the occassional "get yer ass off the goddamn road" invictives as a pickup truck sped by. But nothing of concern, really. It seems to us that Southerns don't consider people from Montana as "Yankees", but as some people who talk with a strange accent that happen to live far away. It was an interesting experience.

We also learned that hurricanes play a major role in the lives of folks from Virginia on down the coast. Like forest fires in the West, people remember hurricanes, and know exactly when they occurred, and the damage done. "Floyd, Irene, Ben, Inez"...all have meaning to those who lived through them. All through the lowlands there are "Hurricane Evacuation" route signs, meaning that these storms are not isolated occurances, but an accepted "risk" to living there. People often say to us that they could never live in Montana...it being too cold, or the risk of fire, or being eaten by a bear...that sort of thing. But after witnessing 10 inch downpours, seeing all the houses built on stilts, observing the "high water mark" road signs, etc. , we'll take cold over hurricanes any day of the week. You choose you're risk, and live with the consequences.

We've seen lots of roadkill on the trip, (which is something you notice on a bike) but about 30 miles from the Georgia border, we saw our first armadillo.

The armadillo first forayed into Texas across the Rio Grande from Mexico in the 1800s, eventually spreading across the southeast United States. Wildlife enthusiasts are using the northward march of the armadillo as an opportunity to educate others about the animals, which during the Great Depression were known as "Hoover Hogs" by down-on-their luck Americans who had to eat them instead of the "chicken in every pot" Herbert Hoover had promised as President. Armadillos are prolific diggers, and many species use their sharp claws to dig for food such as grubs, and to dig dens. The armor is formed by plates of dermal bone covered in small, overlapping epidermal scales called "scutes". This armor-like skin appears to be the main defense of many armadillos, although most escape predators by fleeing (often into thorny patches, which their armor protects them from) or digging to safety.

They have been officially declared, albeit with some resistance, the state small mammal of Texas where it is considered a pest and is often seen dead on the roadside. In the state of Washington, it is illegal to own an armadillo. Armadillos can be kept as pets, although they require moist ground in which to dig and catch insects. They are difficult to fully domesticate. They make common roadkill — jokingly described by some as "possums in a half shell" — and a burrowing nuisance to homeowners, cemetery caretakers and golf course superintendents. Armadillos have short legs but can move quickly, and have the ability to remain underwater for as long as six minutes. The North American Armadillo tends to jump straight in the air when surprised, and consequently often collides with the undercarriage of passing vehicles.

"Climbing" ( a gentle but steady rise) out of the Black Swamp, we crossed the Savannah River into Georgia, where we stopped at the "El Cheapo" (real name) gas station for a quick refreshment and mini celebration of sorts. Georgia had become the 12th state that we would traverse, and with one more to go, we actually began to feel as if the end was in sight.

We had learned a few days back that when asked the question "Where ya headin'?", it no longer sufficed to say "Florida". In 21st century terms, we were actually just a half day's drive on I95 to the Florida border. We found that people were now much more interested about where we came from, rather than where we were going to end up. After spending a brief respite talking with the patrons (who were mainly hunters), sharing stories, and listening to tales of hunting, fishing, and grumblings over federal management of wildlife areas, we bid adieu, mounted up once again and proceeded on.