Murrs Across America

The birthday boy woke up bouncing. Beneath our Yurt, our fatigued muscles and sore spots received body blows, elbow jabs, headbutts, and otherwise steamrolling wiggle assaults as Brady reveled in serious three-year-old birthday ecstasy.

We (as in Stuart) fixed our first flat of the trip, a slow leak from a previous patch on the old Burley’s wheel that required a new tube. We pedaled half a mile to the Blue Hole Springs trailhead. We toted (forbidden) food, presents, and decorations down to the spring, which was so clear that Jane declared it “fairy water” and spent the rest of her time there on sharp lookout for water sprites.

Our new friends, Stephanie and Doug, were kayaking nearby, and after hearing Brady on the trail, they joined us at the spring for lunch and a birthday party. We all had a ball, especially Brady.

After the party, we rode in the wind to the Spirit of Suwannee Music Park and Campground on the coffee-colored Suwannee River. We ate chicken fried steak and the like, and enjoyed the Elvis Impersonator-supplied karaoke and the senior citizen two-step rave.  Elvis called Brady to the stage, and the assembly (more lively than they sound here…kind of) sang Happy Birthday.  Later, I sang Bobby McGee as the children boogied and stockpiled yet another dancehall memory to share with future therapist(s).

6:14 am: Chihuahua six inches from my head barks in yappy series of five.

6:18 am: Benevolent woman calls dog away from tent.

6:34 am: Two crows caw six inches from my head in throaty series of five.

6:45 am: Brady wakes up, all smiles, ready for cuddles.

Shalanda said we should knock on her door in the morning to come in and use the bathroom. We did. And for a long time, she didn’t answer, but once Brady found a long metal pole and started playing “shooting gun” and “my arrow it” outside Shalanda’s open windows, she welcomed us in. She made us breakfast. She showed us photographs of her family. As Brady crawled inside her hutch to hide his eyes for a game of hide-and-seek, she told me about her grandmother and her mother; about how her mother died first, then after making a huge Forth of July family diner, her grandmother died in her arms at the fire rescue station. She recalled with tears eating the food her grandmother had prepared as the family gathered to mourn two days later. That’s the story of Nana’s Soul Food, and why the new High Springs restaurant bears her name.

After bidding Shalanda and Terrance fond farewells, we pedaled over to the Winn Dixie to buy supplies for Brady’s birthday the next day. He kept telling me he wanted a shooting gun for his birthday, which I ignored; but he also said he wanted a Spider Man cake. Naturally, I went to the baking isle and gathered all the supplies I thought a Spider Man cake would require. As Stuart entertained the kids isles over, I finally started to come to my senses: BUY A FREAKING CAKE, my senses said. So I did. I bought a big cookie cake and an oversized Spider Man cupcake. Friends who know me know this was a difficult thing for me to do. Le sigh.

As we were leaving Winn Dixie, the clouds didn’t part, and a voice from heaven didn’t boom a command that we should go to church. Rather, the clouds clumped, thunder rumbled, and it started to rain. Straight out of the parking lot was a church with a big covered walk way. We went to church.

We decided, after the service, to ask if we could hole up to see if the storm might blow over. Graciously, the High Springs Baptists invited us to a picnic lunch that had been previously slated for the park. The kids ran around in the gymnasium, making friends, and I contributed Brady’s cookie cake to the long table of potluck cold cut sandwiches, chips, and deserts. Amy was having a birthday too, so everyone sang to the birthday kids, and Jane and Brady blew out candles. I was thankful Brady had other children to celebrate with.

Lunch and chatting and a hunt for Jane’s missing pink teddy bear allowed us to meet some fantastic people. After a kind woman gave Jane some money to buy a new teddy, young Blake and Emily ended up finding the lost bear in the boy’s bathroom (go figure). With an emotionally overwhelmed little girl, and a sugar maniac birthday boy we set out toward our campsite at the Ichetucknee Springs campground.

Of course it poured on us. Poured. And we made a wrong turn and had to head back into the deluge. Eventually, we made it to camp and it stopped raining. We showered and hung wet things, and I made Brady a special mac-and-cheese dinner with noodles from Jorelle’s pantry and Publix American cheese singles. We enjoyed meeting Stephanie and Doug, and talked with them as the kids slept in the dark woods among the first fireflies of the season, which Jane described as “the sparkles before your fairy godmother comes”.

Jorelle and Michael were engaged 41 days after they met. Though they advise their friends against hasty courtships, they’ve been married three years, and they have a lovely Rumi poem on their piano:

“The minute I heard my first love story,
I started looking for you,
Not knowing how blind that was.
Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere,
They’re in each other all along.”

The couple left early to pancake fundraise and then baseball game cheer for 9-year-old Liam, and we caught up on laundry and computer work. We bid farewell our generous hosts, after Liam taught Jane how to put and Brady peed on Liam’s room, and headed across Gainesville to High Springs.

Bicycle Magazine ranks Gainesville as America’s 16th best biking city for good reason: spectacular bike lanes abound. On this record temperature-setting day, we were able to wet down the kids and head quickly out of town, thanks to some brilliant city planning, and the shipment of another 20 lbs. back to Murr Island.

Our ride was spectacular, mostly through tunnels of Live Oak, along cool, smooth roads. We just missed the Frontier Days Festival at High Springs, but we cruised Main Street, noting their farmer’s market and various businesses before dining at Nana’s Soul Food on pulled pork and fried chicken and excellent corn fritters.

At the restaurant, a Timothy McVeigh documentary complimented our fare, Brady peed on the floor, and then, ten minutes later, had a more substantial accident. Now, I know my child’s potty training isn’t your primary reason for choosing this blog for your summer reading, but I’m mentioning it here for authenticating detail, and to highlight that most cross-country bicyclists probably don’t end up washing Lightening McQueen underwear in public toilets, and that it totally sucks and makes my left eyebrow twitch.

As it was Nana’s grand opening and the joint was hopping, I offered to sanitize the bathroom. Gracious owner, Raynyoda, declined saying it was her job, she would go take care of it, and to take our bikes to her house and pitch our tent in her yard.

So that’s what we did. And we watched the ring around the moon expand as Hatian Bruce (resident HUGE black dog) kept  the riffraff at bay.  Raynyoda stopped by before we turned in to tell us we were just fine and welcome, and that if anyone tried to mess with us we should just say, “Shalanda says it’s OK, baby. We’re OK.”

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.