Normal bike lane shot. We’ll call this the gold standard. A little less detailed:

A more detached feel; could use some brushing up.

I guess this guy just didn’t want to use the whole canvas. There’s something to be said about negative space.

Apparently, this part of Georgia has a lot of rice paddies. They were very specific on who could ride in this lane, so I swung into town to at least try and find a sombrero.

This lane was reserved for bikers wearing parachute pants. Either that, or it was designated for pregnant, bald women who love to play horseshoes.

Afro’s are really making a come back:

There’s a really strong old school hip-hop scene on the East Coast.

More abstract feel; touch of surrealism.

I woke up for sunrise and got a few good shots before breaking camp. It was a Saturday morning, and I had heard that the “7 Mile Bridge” can get a little hairy later in the day.

I packed up the trailer and hit it. The infamous bridge was within the first 10 miles of my day. I had never crossed it before, but I had met multiple people on this journey who spoke of the “7 Mile Bridge.” Throughout the trip, there was a certain degree of fear and respect for the structure that had been growing in my head, and when I finally came up to it, I definitely had some butterflies. Then I noticed an old bridge that runs parallel to it, and I thought I had found my way around the bridge altogether:

Here’s the nice gentleman who explained that I couldn’t take this bridge across:

Here’s why:

The “7 Mile Bridge” was definitely sketchy, but it was more of a mental thing than anything else. Fortunately, I played my cards right with the conditions, and the crosswind wasn’t too nasty. It was pretty tight quarters and there was some shrapnel littering the shoulder, but I would take this over 17 South any day. I made it through to the other side unscathed and without popping a single tube.

After that, I cruised through Bahia Honda–it didn’t look all that great anyway. Actually it did.

Then I stopped in the 4 mile stretch where the Key Deer spend a lot of time. These things are apparently their own species: normal deer, but super tiny and super cute. I cruised around the backroads hoping to spot a Key Deer–I had daydreams of coaxing one onto the top of my trailer. But after 20 minutes with no luck, I kept rolling. They’re even harder to spot than normal-sizers back at home, so at night, you gotta be extra cautious. Apparently they’re endangered:

After that, it was beautiful key after beautiful key. The winds were light, and since my previous day was so easy, my legs felt great. After about 45 miles I started to get that lightheaded feeling again. With the finish line in sight and so many beautiful views, I was so excited that I forgot to eat. I also had decided to finish the rest of my food the night before, and I had eaten my last cliff bar that morning for breakfast. Started wondering if I could land some free food nearby:

I don’t know how they heard me sneak up on them, but they were surprisingly fast. I gave up after a while and pulled in to a gas station about 5 miles from town instead.

I’ve grown to love my gas station produce, and I grabbed two bananas and a Gatorade. I moseyed back outside and did a little stretch by the bike. This older guy came strolling down route one. He had a rugged beard and his shirt off, and he stopped and chatted with me about adventure cycling. I learned that he had biked across the country throughout his life and he had also done a tour in Canada where he went 100 miles a day for 40 days straight. My trip was basically peanuts to him, but he wasn’t shoving it in my face; he was actually really impressed.

Then this big guy with white hair, Aviator shades, bandana, and a massive gut rolls up on his super-nice road bike. He also had his shirt off, so I fought extra hard to contain my laughter. He asks casually, “you guys talkin bikes?” We smiled and said yes, and he went on to explain how he does a race from Marathon to Key West every year. He talks about all the intricacies of his racing bike, the dangers of the “7 Mile Bridge,” and how he trains for the race. After about 10 minutes, he asks me about my bike and some of its components. I told him I didn’t really know much about all of the details, but that they worked for me. Then he asked me where I was riding that day, and I said I was finishing up in Key West, coming from Marathon. He then asked where I lived, and I said Washington, DC. He looked at my trailer and put the pieces together, and said, “Wait, so you don’t live in the Keys? Are you riding all the way from DC?” I smiled and said yes, and he screams, “Holy Shit!” We laughed and chatted a little more, and he rolled away. I clipped back in myself, and smiled to the rugged guy–if he had asked about the other guy’s travels, he might have had a heart attack.

It’s funny how many people I’ve met on this trip who have done a journey like mine. No matter what, there will always be someone who has done more, for longer, through tougher conditions, etc. But I’ve noticed that the real road warriors don’t talk about it like they’re better than you. And it’s not like those “fish stories” where the ride changes to impress people every time they talk about it–it’s more of a brothers in arms type of deal. Every journey is different, and every mile is different. We all know that, and we also know that no one else experienced what you went through. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone, but there’s a silent understanding between us. We talk about little tricks of the road, strategies and routines for camping, and ideas for routes to take. We nod and smile as we try to explain the inexplicable to each other: the beautiful views, long, hard days, cold, quiet, early nights, and countless amazing people. And even though we can relate, we can’t really relate–we just know what it’s like to live in this framework. But no matter what, every time, we are both so very happy we got the chance to do it.

I hit the last five miles with utter giddiness. I cruised over the last bridge and into town screaming at the top of my lungs.

People were looking at me and I realized I didn’t exactly have an arrival party. Then I swung my way right into a huge construction project. There was dust, potholes, and orange things everywhere. Cars were gridlocked and people were honking. I saw a little bike path on the other side of the concrete barriers and went for it.

At this point I didn’t really care. I didn’t even know where I was headed anyway. The bike path ran along the North side of the island, and I tried to follow signs for US 1. There were detours everywhere but I figured I was heading in the right direction.

The whole thing was so anti-climatic it was ridiculous. Like a lot of the other towns I pulled in to, I knew nobody. At this point, that didn’t bother me, and I’ve gotten pretty good at making friends. But I kept imagining what it would feel like to finally make it, and when I finally did, it was much less glorious than I expected. People just kept milling about, cars and trolleys rolled by, and just I pedaled through the area trying to figure out what I was doing. I started laughing to myself. It didn’t matter. In the end, it wasn’t the end that mattered. It was the journey. And what a journey it had been.

I had to find an information desk to tell me where I could find the actual “finish line.” I hopped back on my bike and went to the classic Key West landmarks to document the end of the road. I got to the end of Route 1, and there was literally no one around. I sat there soaking it all in until a family walked by. I asked them to take a picture and they did, and then they asked me why I was celebrating. I said I just made it from Washington, DC. They thought that was awesome, which made me feel a little better.

Matt Reed had given me a good little itinerary and mentioned a few places to check out. He also had given me the name of an Inn right in the middle of the main drag, Duval Street. I felt I was allowed to celebrate a little, so I called ahead and spoke with the guy who ran the joint, Josh, and got an actual room for the night.

Josh also owns the “World’s Smallest Bar,” which is basically an alleyway that he turned into a bar–complete with one stool. The Inn is located right behind the bar, and I shared my hallway w the outside seating area at a Cuban restaurant. I definitely got some weird looks from people as I walked my bike and trailer into the back. But hey, it’s Key West.

I went into the smallest bar, got a beer and sat back and smiled. Chatting with the bartender, I got some idea of what to do next: celebrate and relax.