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 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.
posted by Matt and Mary Ellen | 9:41 PM
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