Murrs Across America

Turns out Florida isn’t flat. The foothills of Appalachia start in Tallahassee, where bike lanes are scarce as whole wheat bread in a southern diner. We slowly made our way out of town, having bid farewell to our exceptional hosts, Ashleigh and Dustin, in their neighborhood full of “Max trees” that Brady said looked like they were straight from his favorite book, >Where the Wild Things Are.

Because we had a flat tire, and because our optimism was waning in the face of pulling our 100-pound loads up the first hills of our trip, we stopped for coffee. Then we stopped for gyros. Then we stopped for something else and something else.

Eventually, we made it to Quincy, where Quincyfest was underway. We met the gentleman in charge of biking for the Florida Department of Transportation and exchanged information. We waited in the hot sun for the kids to get painted by volunteers outside Quincy’s exceptional Gadsden Arts Center, and enjoyed the exhibits, air conditioning, and cool water fountains inside the historic building. Other children in line to be painted were curious about our bikes and clothes and asked us about our trip. They were amazed we were sleeping outside, and though they were nonplussed when we said we were headed to Oregon, it was really impressive to them that we were biking, that afternoon, all the way to Chatahoochee, which is apparently way far away.

Sporting fresh ink, we pedaled onward toward Chatahoochee, pausing briefly for Jane’s five star tantrum over a ripped sticker page.

Finally, we enjoyed a birthday feast at Jerry’s Restaurant, the only eatery in town, which was hosting its monthly gospel sing. The restaurant was homey, if, like Stuart’s Mema, you’re a fan of (lighted) Thomas Kinkade art and heart-shaped grapevine wreath decor. The cups were pretty filthy (but promptly replaced by an attentive waiter) and the Fried Calories were excellent. Plus, if an Elvis impersonator wasn’t going to sing me Happy Birthday (see the note for Brady’s birthday), at least I took tremendous pleasure in the local scene, which could have been one from my own home town. At one point, the gentleman who was singing about holding the hand of the Lord extended a trembling hand skyward and just missed whacking off some fingers in the supped up ceiling fan. I didn’t wish him any ill will, mind you, just I thought it was a funny scene, and I’m glad no one got hurt. The music was a treat. The day was a treat.

A kind Jerry’s patron gave us a recommendation for free camping, and we descended our last hill of the day to camp in frog and star song and to drink a bottle of BP’s finest draught.

(Photos to follow)

It rained. We rested. Stuart took the kids to the interactive children’s museum, where they saw “Big Robot Dinosaurs” and enjoyed themselves thoroughly. I caught up on blogs and made a few film clips for the Spring Out Springfield Family Jamboree and Brady’s third birthday. I also received my one-day-early birthday present: a massage by Eric at Artful Massage. It was heavenly.

Dustin made a feast for dinner: barbeque chicken, veggies, salad, and mashed potatoes. I made my favorite chocolate cake recipe and blew out a candle.

Actual conversation from Highway 27 on the way to Tallahassee:

Stu: Hey Katy, I made up a song.
Kate: Oh.
Stu: I can sing it for you!
Kate: OK
Stu: It’s great, it teaches math, and it can just keep going! OK. Ready?
Two dead possums on the road,
Two dead possums nowhere to go,
One was skinny, and one was fat,
Now all the possums are pancake flat.
Three possums on the road…
Kate: Got it.

Besides the possum song, Highway 27 into Tallahassee, a departure from our maps but the most direct and recommended route by the locals, was pretty unremarkable. However, we did stop beneath a huge live oak for a rest and ice cream. We navigated Tallahassee’s non-biker friendly streets to Mecca: showers, laundry, fantastic lasagna dinner, and new friends Ashleigh and Dustin.

We had met Ashleigh and her mom last year on the Katy Trail. They were headed west on the Trans American Trail across the country. She was one of our chief inspirations for making this journey, and for avoiding as much of Kentucky as possible. Over dinner she shared insights from her adventure and told stories of the kindness and oddities she had encountered.

When I’d asked Mike, our gallant rescuer, what the four freedoms of Madison were, he said they were a park. Riding through the small town/ county seat we investigated this confusing postulation and found The Four Freedoms Monument in a beautiful park complete with bandstand and dancing-naked-in fountain. The monument symbolizes four freedoms conveyed in a Franklin D. Roosevelt speech: freedoms of speech and expression, freedom of worship, freedom from want, and freedom from fear everywhere in the world.

We ate Mexican food for lunch, and pedaled on to Monticello, stopping at another monument in Greenville, childhood home of Ray Charles. The kids played at the playground and chose to have Nemo gummies (one of Brady’s Winn Dixie birthday gifts) instead of having ice-cream, which Stuart requires by 4:30 pm each day in order to remain civil.

You can imagine the fit that ensued at the gas station as Stuart and I ate ice-cream and the children learned about choices. The attendant offered the kids treats to stop the howling, but we declined. It is difficult to remain steadfast in the face of children crying for ice-cream, but such is parenthood. The whole affair was draining. I purposely lagged behind the Burly of Unhappiness after I heard Stuart growling primally at the children.

We camped the Monticello KOA and cooked vegetables purchased at the Jefferson Farmer’s market. We met motercyclists headed to Key West from New Mexico, and Jane made friends with Brooke, a girl with baby dolls and a stroller. Brooke and her parents stay at the KOA while her father builds hospitals nearby. Brooke rattled off about 9 states she has lived in. Jane enjoyed caring for the babies and playing with her new friend.

(Photos to follow)

Jane is an “art artist”: she unwinds whilst wielding scissors; she finds solace in glue sticks. If there is a spot of paper (or her body) without color on it by the end of the day, she just feels off. She woke up with the need to do a craft on this morning.

Our second tire leak required surgery. While Stuart extracted a tiny, staple sized wire from my rear wheel, I took the kids down to the river to play at the beach. The kids are amazed that even the rivers have sand in Florida.

The day was uneventful if you don’t count the wind, which was exceptionally happening in the direction of our faces. We rode through the small town or Lee, “Small but Proud,” and on to Madison “Home of the Four Freedoms”, where dark clouds started happening, too.

We were down to our last diaper (after the Lightening McQueen Incident we had been liberal with their usage), so we stopped at the grocery store to restock. Prompted by the clouds, I decided to ask Mike, a man with his name on his shirt, where we might find a local hotel. Mike said there were a couple options four miles out of town, that we would never make it there before it stormed, and we should just throw our bikes in the back of his truck. We had more gear than he figured on for his short bed/ toolbox situation so we opted to load my bike and the two Burleys. Of course that left Stuart and his bike out in the rain for the not-four-but-six mile ride to the Super 8.

We dined at Denny’s on roughly 4000 calories each, and Stuart pointed out that he probably could have fit his bike in Mike’s truck after all. I did laundry at the hotel, and talked to Linda, en route to her home in Palm Beach with her moving truck. Later that night as I caught up on work and scarffed a chocolate chip Waffle House waffle, Linda kindly folded my laundry and chatted with Stuart, who had just stepped out to devour a large chocolate milkshake.

We ate like kings in Madison. And slept in beds.