Aside from the interesting conversations, these people were full of life and killer tour-guides. I spent the entire next day riding with them around town checking out the sites of the “Oldest City in America.”

We cruised around all day–it was the best tour of any town I had been through this entire trip. Bikes are pretty cool ways to go about something like this, especially when you leave the 40 pound trailer behind.

Figured Longboard Santa should make the cut:

We also checked out the beach. There weren’t any waves, but we took our bikes out and rode them on the beach. That was wild, and when the tide is low enough, you can really get moving…Then they took me to a spot that might have sealed the deal for a return trip. Apparently, this place gives Seacrets a run for their money:

We found some shade and took a breather:

Then Frank almost took us out on the Hobie Cat. After being inspired by my ride, he’s hoping to go on a big sail with Ryan in a few months. I wish I knew the first thing about sailing.

We crossed the bridge into the main part of town for a late lunch. They took off as soon as the bridge connected back down. I’m a newb, and waited for the little things to move out of my way–I almost lost them.

Found them for lunch:

Then we checked out the fort. The thing is made of tiny seashells! This allowed for it to absorb cannonballs, and it is one of the longest standing fortresses in the US.

This town is a hidden gem. I was going to roll straight through it if Alex hadn’t told me otherwise. I had made some good friends in St. Augustine, and I was happy to get to enjoy my surroundings instead of riding straight through them. They were even kind enough to let me stay for another night.

I headed back out to the beach in the morning for a good long stretch.

After I loosened up, I saddled up and said goodbye to Camp Hanna. It was another beautiful day out. A little chilly in the morning, but it really started cooking by noon.

With the wind at my back, I rolled through Atlantic Beach (which was a little different than the Atlantic Beach I had passed through on my way to Emerald Isle), Neptune, Jax Beach, and Ponte Verde. After about 10 straight days of headwind, I was getting used to holding 13 mph. But it was my lucky day, and winds were coming from the North.I experienced my own little second wind to accompany the tailwind. I put my head down and pushed it for all 60 miles to St Augustine, holding about 19 mph.

My little phone has been so great. It’s blasted tunes on the long days, navigated me through countless streets in unfamiliar areas, and has kept me connected to people even in the middle of nowhere.

When my roommate from Australia found out that I would be rolling through St. Augustine the next day, he told me that I must stop in town. He had a few buddies living there and told me to reach out to them. Knowing Alex, I’m sure they were good dudes, so I went for it.

I was hoping to save a little dough and set up my tent in their backyard for the night. Because of my swift ride, I made it to town by mid-afternoon. I met Frank, Ryan, Kelly and Alex (different Al than my roomie from Oz), and after half an hour they offered me a place to sleep indoors. Great, great people.

A couple of pilots, students, and grinders, these guys lived an active lifestyle that was exciting and different than the typical Joe-jobbers back up north. Over some beers and a great meal, we spoke about flying, surfing, fishing and sailing. I began to realize that my current location offered these things year round, and I couldn’t get over the fact that it was late November and 70 degrees. They also liked to have fun:

I took my time in the morning. It was 35 degrees when I woke up, and I didn’t feel like wearing a million layers and then stripping them off and repacking my bag as the day wore on. They were also serving free Belgian waffles.

After my waffles, I packed up and hit the road. It had warmed up a ton, and the sun was shining as I entered the Sunshine State.

I had planned on heading east around Jacksonville and then to head straight down the coast. Today was the day that I finally got off of 17. At the intersection of 17 and A1A, I reflected back on the road that had carried me from North Carolina all the way to Florida. I went through about two cycles of lights, drinking some water and drinking in my memories of that road. There were so many times where I cursed this road, and it seems like there was an assigned headwind no matter where I was. I experienced some of my sketchiest riding and popped about five tubes along the way. But either way, she had gotten me here, and what a ride it had been.

I hopped right onto A1A. It’s about 17 times as beautiful as 17. Some parts remind me of 12 back in the OBX, but the beach towns are more expansive and the weather is a required 70. I rode through a state park and stopped a few times to appreciate the my surroundings.

I also found time to enjoy a snack. So did this fella:

I took a ten minute ferry across to Mayport, and then found my way to Hanna campground. That place is awesome.I took a late afternoon snooze on the beach and then headed back into the dense green to set up camp. There were bike trails everywhere, but for some reason, I had no desire to hop on my bike and ride through them.

There weren’t many people around, so I got to enjoy some time to stretch and reflect. I could hear the waves from my tent.

I begrudgingly left my hotel room the next day. Maybe it was the beers, or maybe it was because my legs felt so damn good in that bed. But I had to keep truckin.

I lucked out with the bike shop in town. I was very thankful for that, because I was pretty much at a loss as to what I was going to do. I had even tried using a presta-valve converter and an air compressor at a gas station to top off the tube. Two different times. But that didn’t work and I was running out of quarters. Fortunately, the bike shop owner would rather fill my tube than stand in line on this Black Friday.

I finally got out of town and back onto 17. Same road as always. The sun was out, but I had a headwind the entire day. There was one stretch of 17 that was the straightest, flattest road I’ve ever been on. It stretched like that for about 14 miles–so with that wind it took me over an hour to get through it. The only moves I made were to avoid the roadkill and dodge the rumble strips. There was a dense forest on both sides, and it funneled the wind right into my face. It was like I was biking on a treadmill and I just hoped I hadn’t been transported into the Twilight Zone.

But I made it about 65 long miles to the “historical town” of Darien. There were no campgrounds within 15 miles. My legs were shot and night was coming. I decided to get a motel in town instead of winging it in the woods somewhere off 17–I could tell that people took trespassing pretty seriously down here, and they didn’t take too kindly to it.

I called ahead to a motel and got the rates–it was going to be cheaper than some campgrounds I had stayed at. Sounded good to me. When I showed up, I understood why. The place next door blasted music the entire time I was there (and through the night) and it was definitely a rough part of town. I put my head down and pulled all my gear inside the room with me.

The one thing I kept thinking about was the kids at the WJA and how tough it must be to live everyday in a place like this. I was only passing through, but I could imagine a place like the WJA could be a complete life changer.

The bed wasn’t anywhere near as comfortable (or sanitary?) as my previous night’s set up, but I didn’t really care. I was able to get some writing done and I fell asleep early. I had another long day ahead and hoped that I’d wake up ready for some more wind in my face.

I actually woke up to a screaming match outside. So I guess I woke up to something in somebody’s face. I packed my things quick and hit the road out of town. It was 75 miles to the Georgia/Florida border, so I put my head down and charged.

The wind was in my face all day. It really picked up in the afternoon, so I was lucky I had an early start. It was a long one. My legs were burning and it felt like I was going nowhere. Then my hands, my ass, and my neck started to go. I would go about 15 miles at a time. It took all day, but I finally got down to the border of my final state.

I felt like I deserved to enjoy a little something, so I reserved a campsite at the Ritz of campgrounds, a KOA. I got a shower, got to charge my phone, and even scored a little TV.

I enjoyed the Florida game in the TV room with some Florida fans. I figured when in Rome, why not cheer for the Romans? The Terps were getting crushed, anyway, and Steve and Karen were super nice. They also gave me some solid suggestions on how to navigate Northern Florida, and even offered me dinner and drinks at their camp. Even though I don’t really know what it means, I’m pretty sure I was the definition of plum tuckered out, so I had to decline. I passed out right after I zipped my tent shut. Tomorrow, I was heading into Florida.

It took me a while to get into Savannah–but it was a nice day and it’s not like I could push it anyway. I do wish I had gotten there sooner to check out all the city, but I still found time to putz around a bit.

My wonderful next door neighbor, Chrissie, had promised to put me up in a hotel on any given night on my trip. I figured since it was Thanksgiving, and I wanted to watch the Skins game, why not? Plus I really wanted to see Savannah and there weren’t many campgrounds nearby. It worked out perfectly.

I rolled into town–sweaty, snotty, and stinky. Of course, Chrissie put me up in style, so as soon as I walked in I was a little out of place. My bike shoes clicked across the floor as the lady tried to keep a straight face. But then I told her I had a reservation and boom! Now the smelly kid in the red jacket is the one who’s laughing. (I didn’t actually laugh.)

But the place was awesome and the people were super nice.  And my goodness, was it way different than sleeping in a tent. I think I’d be able to get used to it.

I put all my stuff in my room, enjoyed my complementary glass of wine (what did I tell you?), put on my one “nice” shirt and jeans and headed into town. I headed straight towards the music, and found this guy playing some great tunes. He even threw in some holiday stuff to put me in the mood.

Hey Hido, I knew the Mad Hatter was south of Dupont Circle, but this is a bit of a hike:

Savannah is awesome. I’m definitely going back there again. The place has a lot of history and they’ve done a great job at preserving it. Big ships were posting up right near the main cobblestone street, and then even bigger ships would glide past them in the background. There’s a huge drop off between the riverfront and the next level of town. Old, skinny cobblestone steps adjoin the two areas, and I wondered how many people have wiped out on those things.

There’s a certain small town feel to it, but you’re definitely in a city. When I was noodling my time in Savannah on the way there, I began to worry that nothing was going to be open for my stretch in town. Fortunately, I was way off. The place was buzzing, and as the afternoon wore on, more and more things started to open up.

I swung into a little pub on the water to catch the end of the first game and see if I could do some thanksgiving grub. The place was surprisingly packed and I squeezed up to the bar. A nice lady sitting down said they were leaving and that I could sit in their spot.

So I plopped down and ordered a beer, and we got to talking as she waited for her husband. Tracy and Tony are from Baltimore, and they have a place in Ocean City, MD. We bonded over the classy OC spots, like Seacrets, and 20 minutes and a beer later, they asked me what I was doing down in Savannah. 45 minutes and another two beers, and I had made myself two new friends. But they had to get going, because they actually knew some people in town. As they were closing their tab, they had the bartender throw mine on theirs. They said it was the least they could do, and I just sat back and smiled. People are great.

Then I decided I should probably get some food, which was the original reason for going in there–to go a full day without ramen or a PB no J. Thanksgiving dinner: cup of turkey chili and a turkey club sandwich. That was the closest I could get! It was really good though. And it was much easier to swallow as RG3 and my boys were playing lights out.

Then a couple on the other side of me struck up a conversation. Their names were Patti and Frank, and they were great. Out of a small town in North Carolina, I talked lovingly about the places I had been in their state, and not so lovingly about picking up 17. They were also experiencing their first Thanksgiving without family in years, so we bonded over that. I ended up telling them about my trip, and we spent some good time laughing about a few of my close calls, mistakes, and some of my favorite parts of the ride. We were able to strategize a bit about my next moves and they offered me some solid tips about heading southward. I got to really enjoy a few pints and some great company in this joint.

Our wonderful bartender informed me that you are actually allowed to take a beer “to go.” This town keeps getting better and better. I ordered one for the road, and asked to close out. Then Frank leaned over and told the bartender that they would take my bill.

I know it may not seem like much, but my goodness. And it’s not just the Thanksgiving spirit–stuff like this has been happening since I left. It’s not only refreshing, but it’s also quite touching every time it does. The compassion I have found in complete strangers has been absolutely stunning. From everything I see on the news, I would think the complete opposite, but I know it’s true because I’ve gotten to experience it first hand.

And now that I don’t have my career/social circle/ratrace blinders on, I’ve really gotten to open my eyes. I try to take the time to get to know the people around me, and going on this trip has allowed me to sit down and do that, it’s amazing. I’m so thankful for all of this, and I’m especially thankful for all of the people I have met. Maybe most importantly, I’m thankful that I found the courage to make this journey. But I’m not done yet–at this point, I’m about halfway. Gotta keep on truckin.

After some good shelter from the storm, Wednesday morning finally brought the sun. Even though I would have loved to stick around for Thanksgiving, I had to get moving. I had a long way to go.

No matter all the research and planning (or lack there of), it’s funny how things turn out on the road. I had heard that November is awful for the Outer Banks: it was supposed to be wet and cold, with constant winds from the south to whip me in the face. That leg turned out to be one of the most beautiful parts of my trip, and it was very easy riding. As for Charleston, every time I had talked to my family down there, it was beautiful weather, and I was looking forward to riding in short sleeves. But as soon as I rolled into town, we got soaked in a multi-day cold front. If it snows in Florida, I’ll be pissed.

My Uncle Michael took me through the city and out to the other side to save me some time and dodge a lot of the traffic coming into town for Thanksgiving. We said our goodbyes at a gas station and he pulled off. My Aunt Elli had put a little parting gift on my bike to wish me well on my travels.

The next person I knew was a state and a half away, in the middle of Florida. Here we go!

I hopped on 17 and chugged along. That storm had brought some solid north winds, so I got to enjoy a tailwind for the first time in forever. I made some great progress, both due to the wind and also due to the fresh legs, and I made it the 50 miles to my planned campsite by 1:30. I figured I should keep rolling while I got this wind–I’ve learned you can’t trust the weather forecast, especially near the coast. You never know when the wind will switch, so I figured I’d take advantage of it while I could.

I made it another 15 miles, and then I got to a point where the shoulder got so skinny that I had to move onto the rumble strip. I hit it harder than I thought. My hands have it bad enough as it is–honestly, they’re one of the most brutal parts on 8 hour rides–but when you hit a deep rumble strip with numb hands, it really stings.

Then I looked down and saw the all too familiar “goofy tire” on the front wheel. At least that’s easier to change than the back tire. I pulled over and changed the tube like always–I’m actually getting kind of good at it. I typically use my hand pump and fill her up as best I can, then I’ll roll into the nearest town and find a bike shop where I can top it off. Mid-way through the tube change, I realized that today, tomorrow, and the next day I probably won’t be able to find an open bike shop. Awesome.

Riding with a partially-filled tube is not good. It actually makes you more susceptible to popping the tube, and you go WAY slower. I kind of liken it to trying to run with one shoe untied, you could totally bust that ankle and you definitely can’t go top speed.

Even with the wind at my back, it was much slower going. I made it to my campsite in Hardeeville right before sunset, on a partially filled tire. For some reason, I figured I’d easily be able to find someone with a bike pump. In “actual world,” no chance. Fortunately, it was only 40 miles to Savannah the next day.