Haters Gonna Hate
January 23, 2017 – Anastasia State Park – Saint Augustine Beach, Florida
I've never accused anyone of embarrassing me. I'm quite capable of doing it all by my myself, thank you. – Thoughts
I'm nearly packed up, the Beasts of Satan are hibernating, and it's time to ride my green, scaredy-pants ass outta here. I have a reservation at Gamble Rogers State Park tonight, so completing a few short miles today shouldn't be an issue at all.
Today I get to ride along our magnificent A1A Coastal Highway, which I plan on taking all the way to the Florida Keys. White sand, sea oats, muted blues, fair winds, beach bums, retirees, majestic bridges, marshland, free birds...thoughts.
Everything's loaded on the bike and (this is my today self speaking) I look positively ridiculous.
It's a clusterfuck of crimes against physics, mixed with zombie apocalypse, with a spritz of what is this chick doing? Huh...whatever...probably homeless.
Since I refused to buy any fancy cycling gear and vowed to only use what I had on hand, my rig presented thusly:
A cheap, shitty bike. They call them “comfort cruisers”. It's sort of a mountain bike meets beach cruiser. Wide, flat tires. Shocks. 20(?)-something speeds. Rust herpily clinging to every surface not covered in “chrome” finish. At least I sprang for the gel seat.
Atop shitty bike is a, meh, I guess not so shitty rear basket. I use it when I go to the grocery store. It's served me very well thus far; hasn't broken a single pastured egg or rustled a single gallon of raw, happy-cow, monk-blessed milk.
But hilarity always ensues when I'm around, so here we go:
A backpack. As I mentioned before I have no panniers. Fuck that pansy shit. I put all my crap (way, way, way, way way too much crap) in a “backpacker” backpack. You know the ones the kids these days use when they travel around Europe for the sole purpose of getting good Instagram photos? Snug around the hips, carbon fiber chassis, top heavy...cause that's where the weight belongs if you're using one of these packs properly...on a body. A body is not a bike. On a bike, the weight belongs as low to the ground as possible. But not for this rebel! I threw that shit right into the basket and threw an ailing bungee cord over it to “secure the load”. Bwahahahaha!
If you could only see see this setup. The backpack rises like a friggin' three-foot, bulbous tumor out of the innocent little basket. The bike is so heavy it can't even rest on its own kickstand. I have to lean it up against a picnic bench to shoehorn all my crap into it's rotten, tired body.
And, of course, my “tent”. If you're not yet entertained enough about my choice of tent, oh my friend, just sit back and get comfy.
Yes, it folds down nice and flat into a roughly 2-foot diameter disc. It's a pop-up tent after all. But believe me when I tell you that Yours Truly is probably the only soul in the entire universe of God's creation who has ever opted for one of these on a long-distance cycling trip. Ever.
Why? Oh, where do I freakin' begin? Let's just say they're not as small and lightweight as possible – valuable features when you're planning on riding your bike five-hundred-and-fifty freakin' miles – and, as I'd soon discover, they are the arch nemesis of aerodynamicity. In other words, when you are peddling dozens of miles per day, and I'm not a scientist here, it helps bigly not to have a large parachute strapped to the back of your bike.
This is something only a psycho or masochist would do, kids.
There's is no room for my “parachute” on the bike 'cause, of course there's not. So what do I do? I shove the tent down in between the back of my seat and the basket, the disc's face perfectly perpendicular to the 60-mile-per-hour gusts we're experiencing today because of the cold front brought in by the storms last night.
But me? I'm just as derpy as I can be. I look at my rig and experience what it must feel like for a proud parent to look at their loser kid and have absolutely no idea. I smile and point: See everyone? I made that!
Lord Almighty.
And then there's Yours Truly. It's only Day 2 and I look like haggard shit run over by Mad Max. Tactical. Bitch-faced. Black wool from head to toe. Vibram Five Fingers. Determination in my eyes. The struggle is real.
Two park rangers are cleaning up the campsites as I heave my ridiculous ass onto my ridiculous bike.
They laugh at me.
Them: Wow, that's some load you're carrying there. You might wanna put some of that weight down a little lower on your back wheels. It's kinda dangerous the way you're riding.
Um, first of all, shut...up...cute Ranger People. How dare you? This is my system. I'm sorry if you have a problem with it. What? You never seen anyone be different before?
Me: Oh...haha. Yeah, I know. I'm planning on getting everything figured out once I get to Daytona. Thanks! Have a great day!
I pedal the Clampett-mobile's Slow Cousin out of the park and into the beautiful, beachy world.
Haters gonna hate, amirite? Screw em...I'm gonna have a great day!
So what if there's nearly tropical storm force winds out there and I have a parachute strapped to my back? So what if my bike weighs 483 pounds, with all the weight concentrated up top, which to a normal person would signal a dangerous riding situation in which I could lose control very easily and die? So what if I have to employ my recently-out-of-shape ass to hike all this shit up a few bridges in the current conditions?
So what, right?