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Mile Post Zero, Key West, Florida.

Yesterday afternoon, at about 1pm EST, Jon Natkin and I pulled into Key West, reaching a location on the map that has dominated our thinking for the past 6 months. I'm truly amazed that we made it this far, it seems like only yesterday I was sitting in the parking lot of Wilson Backcountry Sports, hopelessly trying to reassemble my bicycle and attach my front rack (the instructions were ridiculously oversimplified, it essentially said "attach rack" as it's one and only step). Now, some three and a half months past our start date, we are sitting at the southernmost point in the continental US, succesfully raising a smidge over $8,000 for Reach Out and Read.

While I am overjoyed that I have arrived safely, my heart is heavy that my adventure is coming to a close. With horror, it has dawned on me that my daily diet of 3 snickers bars, 2 cokes, and a pound of cheese will probably not fly in the real world (unless I want take on the likeness of a bloated elephant seal), and that my diet that every five year old dreams of will be replaced by one replete with vegetables and whole grains (at least, that's the plan, we''ll see what actually happens).

Throughout the last day, images of past experiences continually have been perculating in my mind. Burned in my soul are the prints of what we witnessed: the desert sky, ablaze with fiery and intense tones of indigo and gold as the encroaching night quarrelled with the setting sun, or the tired eyes of our West Texas hosts as they talked about the way things were.

Tomorrow I'll be home, in the loving embrace of my sweetheart. The trip is over for me. But it will live forever in my heart as one of the most important experiences of my life.

Milepost 106

Key Largo, FL

We have jettisoned the mainland in favor of the more laid back, caribe attitude of the Florida Keys. While island life is intoxicating, the slow down tick of mileage posts as we approach Key West are a sobering reminder that our heady days of adventure will soon come to an end.

Yesterday, we made our final right hand turn, heading westward once again, causing me to reflect fondly on my time in the saddle. While I started out on the trip intending to ponder the hazy nature of what it is I want out of this crazy thing called life, I have found that those questions remained relativeliy imponderable, and instead I have enjoyed the scenery as it rolled idly by. The joys of the road are astonishing in their utter simplicity. A clean public restroom, and a shower, taken for granted in every day life, are causes for jubilation while on the road. Every day I have been reminded that life's true pleasures come not from the complex machinations of modern society, but from the warmth of a stranger's welcoming smile or a hot meal at the end of a long day's ride.

This is not to say that I'm not excited to return home. I miss my girlfriend and family dearly, and look forward to our reunion. I only hope that I am able to carry in my soul the lessons of simplicity which I have learned on the road.

Erik

We're in the News!! Again!!

http://http://www.nhregister.com/site/index.cfm?newsid=17574907&BRD=1281&PAG=461&dept_id=517515&rfi=8

The New Haven Register has written an extremely kind and somewhat flattering article about Mr. Natkin and myself. Click on the above link to check it out!

-Erik

New Shots

Check out our new Shots from Pensacola to High Springs, FL

Full Metal Natkin

New England suburbanites are generally not know for their prowess with firearms. In fact, generally we have had very little contact with the things. So when we entered the south, Jon and I began to fantasize about going shootin'.

At first, we attempted to get adopted by a hunter in Texas. Whenever someone in camo would talk to us, we would casually lament how it was difficult for us to go hunting as we couldn't carry a rifle across state lines (as if either of us had even owned a rifle). Another tactic, when someone told us he was "out in the sticks," to hunt, was to say, in a very sad voice, "oh, we've never been hunting before," and hope that the dumbstruck Texan would load us into his truck for an afternoon of siiting in the woods with guns.

After many failed attempts, we were finally told why no one would bend to take us out. In Texas, there is no such thing as public land. Individuals had purchased huge tracts of turf, fenced it off, and charged normal folks upwards of $300/ day to shoot things. As Jon and I had no desire to spend that much money to go shoot a cute little deer, (we prefered to do it for free) we quickly abandoned our hunting dreams.

So we continued our ramble across the southland, occasionally being buzzed by a pickup truck with guns in the window, or hearing the sound of gunfire off in the woods (more common than you would think), causing our desire to feel the cold steel of a firearm in our hands to grow. As we apporached Florida, Jon began to talk of his Appalachian Trail friend, Ninja (his trail name), a North Florida native and hard core libertarian who was studying criminology at FSU. Now, to me, the equation of southern native+libertarian worldview equalled only one thing - gun owner. With this knowledge, we quickly began pondering how we would convince Ninja to take us out for a fun filled day of shooting paper targets.

As it turned out, convincing Ninja to take us out shooting was a whole lot easier than we had anticipated. I simply asked "How many guns do you own?" to which he replied "8." I followed that question up with, "can we shoot them?" To my heart's delight, the answer to this question was, "of course!"

Moments later, we were off to the Tallahassee shooting range, blowing away pictures of Osama Bin Laden with glee.

Bird Slayer

(In response to Natkin's post)

At least I don't run them over, BIRD KILLER!!!!

And in my defense, it isn't quite mace, as it is labelled "irritating spray," rather than "extremely hurtful pain-fest," and I only called one barking dog, before I knew of the full power of the weapon.

So quit your yammering before I mace you!!! (just kidding, of course)


-Erik

Exploits of a Puppy Macer

For all of my life I have enjoyed the companionships of dogs. They are so cute and cuddly. However, for some reason, dogs seem to hate bicycles. Every time that we ride by a house with dogs, they bark and chase us. My heart skips a beat as I glance over hoping to see a fence or leash restraining the animal. More than a few lack such devices. You would think that we could just out run them. But our bikes our heavy and don't move that quickly, especially if the dog strikes on an uphill. Sometimes we yell out commands such as "Stop!" and "Bad Dog!" I have found that the most effective deterent is my most fierce bark or growl in return. This will usually get them to stop and turn back.
All this has changed recently. Erik has purchased some puppy mace, commercially known by the more genial name of "HALT." In his first attempt at using this spray, he almost fell off his bike. He has since refined his technique. No longer does he fear the barking beasts. Erik now slows his bike and calls the dog to him. He then aims his spray at the dogs face and laughs his full belly laugh as the puppy retreats a few feet before falling to the ground. Not knowing what hit him, the innocent little pup buries its face in the ground trying to rid itself of its burning eyes. We believe that the pepper based spray wears off after short time but have never stuck around to see. For now word seems to be spreading among the canine community to beware of the two wheeled blinder out travelling the roads of Florida.

Friendship Cake!!

When I first set out on this trip, my one worry was that I was going to run into a bunch of psychopaths as we moved from campground to campground. It seems that everywhere you look, you see stories stoking the public's furnace of fear, spreading the notion that our nation is a deeply divided and troubled place. With all that is supposedly wrong with the world, it is surprising anyone gets out of the house.

One of the beauties of travelling the country by bicycle is that you are completely dependent on the goodwill and kindness of those around you. Exposed to the nation, Jon and I have had the pleasure to have our guards melted by the amazing people we have met along the way.

If you want to read some stories of a couple of truly great peole we have met, please follow these links:

Shawne and Jodie:
http://www.travelblog.org/bloggers/double-leo/

Rachel and Chris
http://www.ourwalkoffaith.blogspot.com

Mississippi Tango, Continued

(Continuation of The Whiskey Tango Bridge post below, mom, avert your eyes)

Now, judging from the run down state of the pickup, and the whooping nature of the fellows we were about to ride with, I should have heard that small voice inside of me telling me that maybe I should wait for another, saner looking ride to appear. However, any sense of self preservation which I may have posessed was blinded by the idea of fried turkey, so Jon and I heaved our gear into the bed of the truck, delicately packing it around welding equipment which seemingly had been left to the elements for years, and hopped into the cab of the truck. As we settled in for what we presumed to be a quick trip over the big muddy, our soon to be guides rushed out of the service station, carrying what appeared to be half of the store's supply of liquor. "Well these guys really like to do it up on Thanksgiving," I thought as they squeezed into the truck, fired up the engine, and roared out of the parking lot at what seemed like 80 mph.

Much to my chagrin, as soon as we had departed the safety of the gas station, the passenger, Mike, was opening a bottle of Grey Goose vodka and mixing an enormous red bull drink, which he immediately passed to the driver (we'll just call him Luke) to see if he approved of its strength. "Dats a good," he growled at his friend as he opened his large bottle of smirnoff ice and accelerated to 90 miles an hour, "dat's a real good." We started to ascend the bridge, our new companions whooping and hollering about how insane we were to ride our bikes all the way from Wyoming, and looked out over the wide expanse of the waterway which drains America. "Dassa Mississippi river!! Biggest river in the World!!" Screamed Luke (I was in no mood to correct him on that point). At this point, Jon made the mistake of mentioning how happy he was to see the Mighty Mississip, causing Luke to look back at us and drawl, "You wanna see the Mississippi?? I'll show you the MISSISSIPPI!!! It won't take butta sec!!"

When we reached the other side of the bridge, Luke and Mike took a break from screaming the word Mississippi, and instead pointed to a set of tire tracks ripping across the grassy median strip. They talked excitedly in a deep southern drawl about something about a police car, traffic and him going airborne across the road. "Holy shit," I thought, "we are definitely going to die." But before I could even make sense of what was occuring, Luke screamed around around a corner, reversing our direction. and roared back towards the bridge we had just crossed. Again we passed by the deep grooves in the grass, and I was able to gather that the previous night (or week, not quite sure), Luke had been tearing ass across the bridge (much like he was on this day), and suddenly came upon a line of traffic. Seeing as he had brakes which were "a little bit sketchy" (as in not really working), he was forced to swerve around a police car, jump the median, and skid to a stop on the opposite side of the highway. Jon and I exchanged looks of extreme distress as we heard this story, and sheepishly asked about the current condition of his brakes. "They'all good now," said Mike, "but dontcha worry, he used to be a dirt track racer!!" With this information, I began to frantically search for the seat beat buckle, only to find that it was buried deeply in the seat and irretrievable (obviously).

Once back on the western side (aka the side WITHOUT the fried turkey) of the river, Luke turned the car hard to the right, abandoning the road in favor of the scrubland leading towards the water. He deftly manuevered the truck up over the concrete embankment which keeps the Mississippi from flooding the area, and plowed through the marshy terrain towards the banks of the river. For a breif moment, I was convinced that we were actually going to drive into the water, but our intrepid guide stopped just short, took a large slug of his drink and jumped out of the truck. "Thissa the MISSISSIPPI," they all screamed, "you wanna go for a swim?" Thinking the idea of swimming in the nation's Toxic runoff might be hazardous to our health, we passed on his kind offer, instead insisting that we had to get to dinner (we would have really like to run away screaming at this point, but since our gear was trapped in the back of the truck, this was not an option).

Back into the truck we piled, and I resumed my desperate search for the seat belt as we jostled through the swamp back towards the road. At this point, Mike and Luke had decided that they were fond of us, and would drive us all the way to our final destination, and peeled out for the southern entrance to the city, the I-10 bridge. Driving southward, Luke got kicks in scaring the crap out of us by driving with only his elbow while he looked back at us to carry on the coversation. "THE ROAD THE ROAD!!!" I kept on screaming (inwardly, there was no way I was going to tell this guy how to drive) everytime he peered back into the cab of the truck. But luckily, we got close enough to where we were going that I could tell him to drop us off.

Once we were safely out of the truck, we said our goodbyes, and chalked up another fantastic adventure (albeit scary as hell).

Erik