Murrs Across America

Lake Swan Camp was spectacular. The owner hiked over as we were breaking camp with her baby on her back. They don’t typically let campers stay, she told us, but that day she had received two requests before us, and she was glad we enjoyed the grounds, so they might reconsider their policy. Since the camp is right on the Adventure Cycling Southern Tier route, I suggested she contact the organization so they can put it on their terrific maps. For our $12 it was a fantastic experience.

About a mile down the road we met our first cross-country bikers. They were two days away from finishing their trek, with their two rear panniers apiece and their light, fast looking bikes. Go Kirks! I hope you got yourself some Atlantic Ocean on your wheels.

Lunch was nearly unremarkable: a foot-long Subway sandwich split four ways and a bag of chips, with the promise of fruit, avocados, and leftover pasta down the road.  The kids were about to nap, and we didn’t take time to dine because we knew they would be walking and playing on the Gainesville-Hawthorne trail ahead.

Attention bicyclists: 219A to the trail doesn’t have a shoulder. And it’s peppered with “trucks entering” signs. However, there is little traffic and clear visibility. Stuart and I pedaled quickly to the trail, stopping at a flaming red florist shop in Hawthorne to refill water bottles and to inevitably screw ourselves by interrupting nap time.

Once on the trail the kids walked, helpfully pushing the Burleys from behind. Brady launched a three star tantrum because his shirt wasn’t fast enough for him to run reallyfast on the trail (his shoes and Cardinal hat were, but his shirt was not). This tantrum was followed, 14 miles later, by the great “I want to ride on Daddy’s shoulders” tantrum; four stars.

We were told to visit the alligators on the La Chua trail. The sign said they feed by size (toddler size), so we were very careful to hold hands and carry the wee. The alligators yawned; flicked tails; eyed Brady very carefully, turning as we walked, sizing.

We navigated to the Gainesville Country Club home of friend-of-friend-turned-friend, Jorelle and husband, Michael.  Our gracious hosts allowed us to ring their tub and took us out for a fantastic Asian dinner at a local restaurant. Stuart and Michael later discussed technology as Jorelle and I mulled over reading, relationships, and the direction of dreams.

Today is Patrick Parnell’s birthday and the Murrs hope it is a happy one. We would also like to thank Drury University president Todd Parnell for his support and encouragement.

We didn’t ship anything back today, but we spent a lot of time packing up camp in the churchyard and doing computer work. A late start and a rough shoulder put us behind on our plan to reach Gainesville to stay with friend-of-friend, Jorelle, but despite this, we had an incredible day.

The kids napped early, and when they woke up, Stuart pulled out a special treat: music and speakers. Bungeed to Stuart’s back pannier rack, my shuffle played my running music mix, and I struggled to keep up with Stuart and his newfound energy on some pretty rough shoulder.

We found a produce stand just before lunch and bought a half flat of strawberries, lettuce, carrots, and cherry tomatoes. We dined in Florahome park (the town is called Florahome because it is the location of Flora’s home, a white washed road site house that was built in 1861, according to Chris the “Florahommie” and local mechanic). Chris said we were the first people to use the park in ten years, which is a shame since it such a silent, mysterious Spanish moss cathedral where light flickers like the recollection of a fairy tale.

We stopped at the local market, met Connie and her son, then visited Sissy, the baby ducks and chicks, the requisite resident peacock, turkeys, rats, Hercules-the-big-dog, and Amy-the-baby at the feed and hardware store. Sissy gathered some fresh eggs for us and supplied us with a part for Stuart’s safety flag.

Down the road, when it was clear we weren’t going to make it to Gainesville by dark, we found Lake Swan Camp, a peaceful summer camp for churches…or a setting directly from the mind of Stephen King. We swam in the sparkling lake and played on the sandy beach. I cooked dinner (whole wheat pasta with cannellini beans, zucchini, squash, onion, garlic, and red pepper tomato sauce) while Brady ran around naked in the sand, and we ate on the dock as the sun set.

Many happy returns of the day, Patrick.

Happy Earth Day, Earthlings.

Right out of the gates, Jane lay down in some gum that we had to cut out of her hair.  However, after we packed up camp and sent home our daily shipment of stuff edits, we pedaled to the beach, dipped our wheels, and officially began the biking portion of our adventure! (Note: The excitement wasn’t even thwarted by lugging our bikes through the sand.)

We traveled south for a ways, down A1A (I had assumed from the Vanilla Ice reference was in California) to 206 west, which was a fine road with a good shoulder. I saw one huge dead snake, lots of discarded CDs, and we had to dodge wood chips from the logging trucks. We stopped for a brilliant lunch a little way down the trail at a conservation area: deli cut Italian salami, baguette, cheese, tart granny smith apple, leftover cheese pizza.

The kids conked out in the trailer after lunch, and Stuart and I got some good pedaling in. Our route left the main road and went through a town entirely canopied by live oak and Spanish moss. Locals sauntered along the street, occasionally, and at one house a young girl belted out something that sounded holy, even if it wasn’t. Cabbage and potato fields lined the road. The sun felt just right.

We made it to East Palatka just in time for a blood sugar crash. I said something unkind to Stuart after he stopped quickly and I fell over (still getting used to the clipless pedals!) so we decided calories were the first order of business. Ahead, a Dairy Queen billboard beacon pointed us into Palatka. Fortunately, we saw Angel’s Diner first; Angel’s is the oldest diner in Florida, and the waitress crew is shown here. Tall milkshakes hit the spot, and we met a family preparing for an adventure to teach for a few years in Saudi Arabia. Caroline (7) showed Jane how to write her name in “Saudi Arabian” and the girls exchanged pictures and peacock feathers. Brady showed John (5) the gear in the bike, and Baby.

None of the locals at the diner, or our maps, had suggestions for places to stay on this side of town, so we pedaled downtown to the local bike shop for more direction. Dana suggested the Rice Creek conservation area 6 miles out of town on Highway 20, which he assured us had a bike lane. We headed that way, but I wasn’t seeing a bike lane and had a nervous feeling. I saw kids playing on the (huge) lawn of a church, so I decided to ask if we could pitch our tent in the church’s back yard.

The folks at the College Heights Baptist church were incredibly warm and hospitable. They invited us in for fried chicken dinner, put us on the prayer list, and let us camp out in their lawn and use their facilities. Brady even got to rock out on their drum set! One of the church members put in a call to Richard, who had toured the same cross country route a few years ago, and as we were settling in for the evening, Richard drove over to talk with us.  His advice and enthusiasm really hit the spot at the end of our first day on the road.

Thank you, Richard and College Heights Baptist church.

Our tour of St. Augustine, indeed our entire biking trek, began in the parking lot for the Castillo de San Juan National Monument. You’ll appreciate this photograph of Chris as he drove our truck away, after soliciting repeated assurances that we were ready, that we didn’t need the truck any more, that we were going. He helped us on our way and has been sending us encouraging text messages ever since we watched him drive away. We can not thank him enough for his flexibility and hospitality.

Nearly immediately we realized we had too much stuff. The bikes were heavy with our panieer set ups, and the Burleys were bulging. Both Stuart and I had works in progress on our personal computers, and though we had intended to ship them after we finished things up in a few days, it became obvious that they had to be shipped home rightthisinstantnow. We took some heroic photos at the historic fort and biked one block to Christy’s coffee shop where Stuart set up a computer lab. The kids and I stormed the citadel.

Oh the guns. Now. I grew up around guns. I earned my hunter safety education card when I was in the fourth grade. I’ve seen my dad shoot a black snake off a Purple Martin birdhouse pole in a lightening storm from a hundred yards. I know how to handle guns and I’m not afraid of them, necessarily, but it drives me pretty batty that my two-year-old son is completely obsessed with them. The fort had all manners of historic “shooting guns” and swords and probably a hundred cannons, all of which Brady loaded with imaginary “shooting gun balls” and “fire”. He shouted “Mommy, there are the pirates and these are my shooting guns…Two! Three! Four! Ready! Aim! FIRRRE!”

We enjoyed the fort, hooked back up with Stuart, then biked to a park to eat lunch. It frustrates me to no end to report that not a mile into the trip I had my first wreck and wound.  I caught the wheel of the over-heavy Burley on a curb, flipped it, and landed on the ground on my knees. I fixed a pretty good gusher with high-pressure water bottle irrigation, a tampon to clean out the sand, alcohol, Neosporin, butterfly Band-Aids, and a protective bandage. I did all this while Jane held my foot and said comforting words and while a school orchestra played ultimate Frisbee yards away.

I rested my knee and chatted with Chris, Gina’s daddy, while the kids played in the park and I worked up the gumption to get back on the bike. We biked to a shipping store to loose the computers and other weight, then on to the campground where Brady drove a golf cart into a deck railing, obliterating it. I was feet away at the time, so I grabbed him and he wasn’t hurt, but he was pretty shaken up.

The day looked better on the other side of some calories, and I walked to my tent from a big beer and a lovely cheeses pizza along A1A with a fresh baguette under one arm and the other one holding a sandy, stinky, wiggly boy who patted my back and sang a song to the beach.

A Purple Martin and Canada Goose alarm clock woke us up for luscious tent cuddles, a foggy lake morning hike, and dewy wildflowers. Jane is making a flower journal, in which she tapes flowers, leaves, and grasses. She is collecting small rocks, iridescent strands of Easter grass, and crayon rubbings of various textures. She scored big at Old Oak Lake.

I prepared coffee and oatmeal as Stu and the kids explored the lake, then we packed up camp and headed to Jacksonville. Most of the day was spent answering that we were not yet in Florida, not yet at the beach. And when we did arrive in Florida, there was an extended song in the back seat extolling the majesty of the beach along with a decimal shattering rendition of “Mommy says I can have my markers back and I love my markers,” (I had taken them away in Missouri after Jane’s full body tattoo incident.)

Our gracious host, Chris, met us near his apartment, drove us directly to his potty, and pointed us to the beach. The kids dug and rolled in the sand in the dark, and while Jane waded out a bit into the surf with us, Brady declined, saying there were whales and probably tree frogs (terrifying).