Caitlin Ravages Florida Coast

Posted by Cait on Jun 2, 2009 in Southern Tier 2009 | 7 comments

Selfishly, I’ve always dreamed that a natural disaster would come along sharing my first name. Not necessarily the kind of Class 5 Kill-storm that callously wrecks entire cities and lives, but something with the audacity to turn a few heads—something inevitably allowing me to cheerfully clip headline articles reading “Caitlin Ravages Florida Coast” and “Path of Fiery Destruction in Caitlin’s Awesome Wake”. So naturally, May 2009’s featured tropical storm “Anna” was a disappointment in more ways than one. First of all, news from The Weather Channel was horrifying. We were riding directly into the eye of the storm, and “Anna” showed no sign of letting this go unnoticed. Second of all, no one named “Anna” has EVER been suspected as having the capacity to cause a wake of fiery destruction—they might as well have named the storm “Millicent” or “Patty”. Yes, I realize that they’re working in alphabetical order, but if they really want people to take all those Watches and Warnings seriously, I think “Apocalypta” has a nice ring to it. Better than “Anna”, anyway!

As we reluctantly surrendered to Anna’s sinister clutches, the skies grew dark with the threat of imminent storms. Anna showed no mercy, tightening her hold and preparing to ravage, her relentless, pounding rains and unpredictable headwinds proving a daily challenge to our constantly fluctuating morale. Increasingly, we sought out the relief and succor of a good KOA kabin, but no ruggedly air-conditioned pine fortress could protect us from the tropical anger and untamed passion of sweet, scornful Anna. It just really sucked. I hate wet socks.

Admittedly, even in the absence of a troublesome antagonist like Anna, Florida would not have been my favorite state. I liked the stark desert mountain ranges of the Southwest and the sweet, rolling magic of Texas Hill Country. Flat, monotonous riding has never really been to my taste–I grew up in Kansas, and could do without the endless, mocking horizon. It’s much more exciting to cut a swath through dark, mystical forests, wondering what sort of grueling climbs or thrilling descents lay around each corner, or even to spend six hours creeping slowly to the top of a majestic peak just to earn a single hour plunging into transcendence. Most of my crew rejoiced over the considerable ease of Floridian terrain, but as in most things on these rides, I was the odd man out.

It bears mentioning that Florida provided relief in one major area of considerable personal suffering—food! As we made our way across the panhandle, the distances between small towns decreased from 30-60 miles apart (in the West) to a mere 10-20. Access to crucial snack items (I believe the polite term for this is “snackcess”), like the sacred triumvirate of Dark Chocolate Peanut M&M’s, Rold Gold Honey-Wheat Braided Twists, and Yoo-hoo (I know–I’m a mess) swiftly went from Code Red on the terror alert meter to low-level Green, as I blissfully indulged in my chosen nutrients at leisure. (Vegan options, as ever, remained at large.) If any representatives of these fine products happen to be googling this on a lark, I’d just like to put it out there that I’m willing to entertain multiple product endorsement deals on the fitness-enhancement qualities of any member of the aforementioned sacred triumvirate. Yoo-hoo, especially, could probably stand to revamp its syrupy, countrified image, and I’ve been mistaken for a teenager (albeit, a haggard one) often enough to think that I can bring just the right amount of “Gossip Girl” meets “Outside magazine” to the job. Think about it, various CEOs and snack barons, and leave your contact information in the comments section!

Skipping ahead through the space-time continuum to the final day of the trip, I have to say that the last ten miles were much more harrowing than expected. In an effort to foist a sense of group identity onto my weary cluster of riders, I suggested (nay, demanded!) that everyone ride together for the bulk of our final day on the route. We would storm the beach as one! Our families and friends would marvel at the excellent photographic opportunities hand-fed to them by our bold, athletic unity! Cue “Ride of the Valkyries”!! Or the theme song to Karate Kid!

Needless to say, that’s not how it all went down. We had a mere 35 miles to cycle together, and proud memories of the first 6 will remain with me always. Although the riders may hate it, I love it when the whole group is all clustered together. Rarely do I have a chance to keep an eye on the entire roster, trailing maternally along behind them with absolute certainty that no one is stranded or injured or shot-gunning Olde English by the side of the road. My anxiety sinks to an all-time low—a rare opportunity for a leader on a long trip like this, especially one haunted by the long-ago loss of a cyclist to an automobile. Naturally, it didn’t last. The British guy got his FIRST flat of the entire tour (the individual average being around 6-8, mostly due to rough West Texan roads), and the two of us immediately fell behind to change the tube. Once back on the road, we hammered hard to catch up with the pack and soon met up with the recumbent rider taking his thrice-daily chocolate milk stop. We set off together, and were within 10 miles of the triumphant finale of our 3200-mile journey when the bike in front of me suddenly slammed to a stop under unexpected attack from a nefarious bee. With no time for evasive action, I crashed immediately, sailing over the handlebars and Supermanning out onto the pavement. Yes, I was drafting off a recumbent. But why does that make my war wounds more laughable than impressive??

We finally caught up to the rest of our mystified team waiting at the outskirts of St. Augustine (“Where have y’all been? And why are you covered in blood?? “), and two other riders were attempting to ignore their flat tires, just wanting to survive long enough to touch wheels into the Atlantic coast. The general attitude was “We’ll get there if we have to crawl across the sand on our hands and knees, dragging nothing but a battered bicycle frame behind us.” Bruised, bloody, and covered in grease and road grit, we finally rode out onto the beach at Anastasia State Park, looking as non-triumphant as possible. Pictures were taken, stories were told, and almost immediately, we scattered to be with family and friends. Once you ride across the country once, you’ve pretty much abandoned the opportunity to impress anyone with a repeat performance. Nevertheless, I was pretty stoked to be standing on the sunny Atlantic coast, surrounded by ecstatic riders, celebratory families, and the most important personal of all—my mom, bearing homemade baked goods and a get-away vehicle. I’ve never been so ready for a day off!

The truly hard part about writing these trip updates is not mentioning anything remotely personal about the riders on the tour. Each group is so unique and weird that it’s nearly impossible for me to resist chronicling everyone’s foibles. The experience of traveling with a completely random assortment of humans—especially with this year’s particularly motley crew–is really what shapes the story of my journeys, but confidentiality demands that I keep the funniest, most riveting stories to myself. The result is that my trip updates reveal very little about the actual experience of the tour, which is a bummer. What may seem like a fairly routine, leisurely jaunt across the southern United States could have actually made for a wildly-dramatic reality TV series, and I have enough war stories this time around to fill up a year’s worth of happy hours. Now that the adventure has ended, I feel a little bit lost—like a captain without a ship or a crew—but that sentiment always kicks in at the end of these tours, as does an unexpected struggle to reintegrate into a “normal” lifestyle. It’s a strange feeling to spend two months traveling and forming tight-knit bonds with a small group of people that you’ll (possibly) never see again– like phantom limbs, their swift detachment is something I haven’t yet grown accustomed. At the risk of further spiraling into a long-winded self-assessment on the nature of leadership and my post-trip emotional state, I’ll just wrap this up here. There’s nothing more I can say about the Southern Tier that the following epic ballad, written by one of my riders, doesn’t say more poetically and with a more bizarre, homosexual conclusion.

BALLAD OF CAITLIN G
(Inspired by a walk along a dangerous highway and railroad crossing in Silsbee, Texas )
Wolf packs have their alpha bitch
Honey bees have their queen
The Southern Tier has Caitlin
Whose future could not be seen

Sixteen riders left San Diego
On a sunny March day
Their plan was to ride
Across the USA

Caitlin G was their leader
As strong as she could be
But she never made it past
The Texas town they call Silsbee

Chorus:
Caitlin went to Walmart
But now she’s heaven bound
For she never saw that freight train
Come roaring through the town

#2
Caitlin led the Southern Tier
From Alpine to Globe
Through deserts, mountains, wind and dust
She made her charges go

Sixteen began the tour
Showing no fear
One was left at Blythe
When he couldn’t give up his beer

Another left in Three Way
When he blew out his knee
When B. got the call in Mimbres
We were sad as we could be

When #13 texted Caitlin
And told her to say “good bye”
We jumped for joy and clapped our hands
And prayed that it was not a lie

Repeat Chorus:

#3
Caitlin led the Southern Tier
She was brave and strong
But you had to keep your eye on Caitlin
Cause sometimes she was wrong

In Franklin she turned left
When she should have turned right
I promised not to tell on her
Just to avoid a fight

But another wrong turn on Munson St.
Also was wrong
So I had to immortalize
The mistake in this stupid song

Repeat Chorus:

#4
Late one night in Silsbee
Three bikers were bored
So they decided to walk to Walmart
Where they could maybe score

K. wanted a camera
Fuji Film is what he got
Caitlin wanted bug spray
So the bugs would bite her not

They walked down to Walmart
Across the railroad tracks
Caitlin got her bug spray
But she never made it back

Repeat Chorus:

#5
The bible beaters tell Caitlin that she can’t go to heaven
But that’s not the way it works in Gods eyes
For Caitlin’s up in heaven having map meetings with the angels
And forever painting rainbows in the sky

Repeat Chorus:

(Sing to Oh Susanna – or any tune that works for you; try Rap, Blues, Zydeco, etc)