Another Florida Ride After Ian

Yesterday I took another ride to the ocean.  I started the same way as I did the other day, along Palm Coast Parkway to the Hammock Dunes Bridge.  At the foot of the bridge, however, I made an opposite turn and pedaled south, along A1A to Daytona Beach.  In all, I  rode about 105 kilometers:  slightly more than the other day.

My first stop:  Painters Hill.

As usual, it lived up to its name.  It's not much of a hill, but the light, on the beach or the street, always seems to have a soft--dare I say it?--brushed quality to it, even on the brightest, sunniest days. Plus, whoever happens to be there--the swimmers (though there were none yesterday; it was forbidden), the fishermen, the strollers--seem to have been created from images in the eye of an immediate but vivid memory.

Along A1A I continued, through Beverly Beach to Flagler Beach, a mist on the water and high cirrus clouds accenting rather than veiling sunlight. 

After I passed the pier at Flagler, though, I had to make several detours and, at a couple of points, walk my bike, if for only ten meters or so.  As I continued southward, I could see where Hurricane Ian unleashed more of its force than it did around my father's house. A number of seaside restaurants, cafes and small inns, have been closed.  So were two convenience store/gas stations I passed.  In some of those buildings, the damage wasn't so obvious, so I suspect that they were flooded and, as a result, have structural, fire and other hazards. But some edifices were turned into piles of matchsticks.

What amazes me is that next to some houses and other buildings stripped bare by raging wind and rain were others that looked as if they'd barely been touched.  But even in front of  such homes and businesses, boards, pads, rugs, furniture and other home and office fixtures were piled curbside, or on the paths and sidewalks.

And what Ian didn't strip from homes, offices, hotels and eateries, he took from the beaches.  Sand was strewn, sometimes piled, across the roadway and on the bike lanes and sidewalks.  Even with the wide, knobby balloon tires I rode, the bike skidded and skittered on the shifting sand.

Still, I enjoyed the ride as much as any I've taken along the coastline.  Perhaps I was simply grateful that I could ride it.  Oh, and I met up with a couple of friends along the way.

Later today, I will head home. Perhaps I will return here one day and while some of the structures will have changed, the ride will remain familiar. Or so I hope.  

Me, Dad, Ian, Rita, Maureen And Delilah

The other day I took a ride to the ocean. 

And I took another yesterday.

From those images, you probably can tell that I'm not talking about the Rockaways, Point Lookout or Coney Island, my most common sea-bound treks.

For that matter, I don't mean the Jersey Shore, where I haven't gone in some time.  Rather, for the past two days, I've done two other seaside rides I've mentioned--though, again, not for some time--on this blog.

I arrived in Florida on Friday evening.  The purpose of this trip is a visit with my father, whom I hadn't seen in three years, since my mother's funeral.  We'd planned another visit but, like so many other plans by so many other people, it was put on hold when "COVID happened."  

Since arriving, I've had nearly perfect weather for cycling and, of course, have taken advantage of it.  The bike I rode during previous visits--a balloon-tired beach cruiser--got rusty and dusty. My father, thinking the bike was beyond redemption (it just looks that way) went and bought another bike--a cheapo full-suspension bike--from a friend.  I rode it on Saturday, along the Lehigh Trail, over the bridge in the first photo and up Route A1A through Beverly Beach and Painters Hill.

Along the stretch from Flagler Beach to Beverly Beach, I was looking at some of what Hurricane Ian wrought.  While the damage wasn't nearly as widespread as what befell Sanibel Island or Fort Myers, there were piles of debris on roadsides, testaments to damaged or destroyed buildings and trees. As I looked at one of those ruins, a car door opened.  Just when I thought I was about to be "doored" again, a woman emerged from the half-opened portal and said, "You write a bike blog!"

Nothing like being famous, eh?

Actually, she is someone I met during a previous visit, about seven years ago.  I'd stopped at a gas station-convenience store for a cup of coffee or to use the bathroom--possibly both--when Rita broke me out, for a moment, from my stereotypical New York "don't talk to strangers" mode. (If I recall correctly, I had just arrived the night before.) We stayed in touch for a time but I think her number was part of the data that didn't transfer from my old to new phone, in spite of the salesperson's promise that everything, including a bunch of photos, would make the journey.

I didn't experience a near-catastrophe-turned-happy-coincidence the following day, when I pedaled up to the Castillo San Marcos in Saint Augustine--49 kilometers, or 30.5 miles--into a gusty wind, on the rusty and dusty balloon-tired beach cruiser.  Upon arriving, I wended through the shops and houses of the historic old town before enjoying a picnic lunch on the waterfront promenade and riding back--with that same wind, of course. So, I reckon that I at least rode a metric century on that rusty beach cruiser, though that was not the point of this trip.

After that ride, I showered, got dressed and went out to Mezzaluna for a delightful meal of mussels in a sauce of butter, garlic and lemon with even more delightful company, which included my father and his friend Maureen, a retired Canadian nurse.  She, as it turns out, was something of an avid cyclist and hiker before, as she said, "arthritis found me."  Afterward, we went to her house, filled with her plants and handicrafts, photos and paintings by friends and her late sister, all against backdrops of walls and alcoves painted in very Floridian shades of blue, green and yellow, and "guarded" by my newest friend--Delilah, her cat.

So now there are two Delilahs--well, a Delila and a Dee-Lilah, on this blog. Both are synonymous with delight, even if one is furry and black and white, while the other is lilac-colored and probably would have loved the ride I took today.

So why did I come to the Sunshine State this weekend?  Well, today is Columbus Day, Italian American Pride Day or Indigenous People's Day. (I prefer the latter because, not in spite of the fact that, I'm of Italian heritage: Why should our "pride" day be in honor of a guy who got lost?)  That meant a long weekend and, while some people traveled--There were quite a few out of state plates along A1A and foreign languages spoken at St.Augustine--it isn't nearly as hectic or expensive as traveling at, say, Thanksgiving or the Christmas-New Year season.  Plus, I didn't want the focus of my visit to be a holiday. Rather, I wanted to see Dad again, and because I wondered what it would be like to meet him without Mom or other family members.

I met him into a new phase of his journey--and, I suspect, mine, as I took familiar rides for the first time in a long time.

 

Sun, Sea And A Summer Storm In January

Since I've come to Florida, I think I've seen every kind of weather one can find when the temperature is above freezing.  Today, I thought I was entering a path of sunshine.

Light and warmth threaded through those tree limbs and filled the sky as I rode the Lehigh Trail, which begins about two kilometers from my parents' house and extends for five kilos to Colbert Road, which leads to SR 100 and the bridge to Flagler Beach.

There are few things in this world that I love more than descending a bridge to an ocean I can see on the horizon

even if I turn right at the end of the bridge and pedal 50 kilometers straight into a 30 kilometer per hour wind that, at moments, gusted to 40 KPH.

I mean, how could I complain when my ride was filled with the wind, the light and the hiss of the ocean--which meant that they were filling me>

Like Flagler Beach yesterday and today, Daytona Beach did not lack for people walking along the sand on the warm day.  At Flagler and Daytona, however, swimming was not allowed.  No one was allowed even to enter any of the beaches along the 50 or so kilometers of Atlantic Coast between them.

After savoring two of mom's meatball sandwiches and polishing them off with some strawberries and a mandarin orange, I started my ride back.  After the ride down, it was almost too easy:  the wind I'd fought on the way down was blowing at my back.  But that wind also brought something else:

gray clouds thickening ahead of me.  The fact that I was riding about as fast as my body could move the ballon-tired beach cruiser under it meant that I could ride right into the rain.

Which is what happened after I turned left from the Flagler Beach pier onto the SR 100 bridge.  After climbing away from the ocean and descending on the "mainland", a cascade dropped from the sky on me.  There was no prelude of light showers gradually turning to rain; that storm dropped straight on me.  It was like the "instant storms" that often soak this area, momentarily, late on summer afternoons.  The difference was that this storm didn't include lightning and thunder.  But it ended about halfway into the Lehigh Trail--about fifteen minutes before I got to my parents' house.

In The Sunshine State, In A Cloud

The rain that pattered the canal yesterday turned, for a time, into a barrage last night.  When I woke this morning, raindrops were poking ephemeral pockmarks in the face of the water.

But, by the time Dr. Phil's show ended (Yes, I watched it with my mother and father.), the rain had stopped and the sun looked like it was trying to wedge itself between clouds.  I got on the bike a while later, and the clouds closed ranks on the sun.  Still, I managed to ride along some trails to the Palm Coast Parkway Bridge, where the scene changed just a bit.

Of course, when you see something on your left, you look to your right.  Or is it the other way around?  Who told me that, anyway?

In any event, I looked to my left and saw this:

I thought, for a moment, it was sea mist.  After I descended the bridge and turned onto the Route A1A bike/pedestrian lane, it thickened faster than the makeup of a reality TV star.

The shrouded area is known as Painters Hill.  It's a very lovely area where, on many a day, breezes skip across sea oats and other grasses and shrubs on the dunes that line the ocean.  I would have loved to see how a painter might have rendered it in the light I saw today.

The Flagler Beach pier jutted out into water that dissolved into mist.  The eponymous beach, about 10 kilometers south of Painter's Hill, was the only one open along  A1A from Palm Coast to Ormond Beach.  The area is still recovering from recent storm and the surf was rough.  Nobody was swimming at Ormond, but of course, a few surfers flung themselves into the tides.

Finally, as I reached Ormond Beach, the fog began to dissipate and the sun that, earlier, had been trying to get a few waves in edgewise pushed some clouds aside--and shone through a light mist.

I must say, though, that I don't recall much, if any fog in my previous two dozen or so trips here.  Certainly I had never before seen what I saw today.

A Painterly Ride

I am going to write something that might cause envy or resentment in some, especially those of you who are reading behind sleet-streaked windows.

Yes, today's weather was once again glorious.  Actually, it was a bit warmer than the past few days:  During the return part of my ride, the temperature rose to 82F (28C), according to the sign on the Buddy Taylor Middle School.  And the sun shone through puffy cumulus clouds that drifted across the sky.

So I rode up to Bings Landing, the site of the Mala Compra ("bad bargain" or "bad buy") plantation, and back down Route A1A, including one of my favorite stretches.

I wish my photos could do justice to the light that flickered with the dance of the waves and reeds.  At the observation stand from which I took those pictures, I chatted with a retired couple from North Carolina who commented on the light, and the view.  "Now you know why it's called Painters Hill," I explained.

As the saying goes, a lovely time was had by all--especially the ones who came dressed for the occasion:

With their fashion sense, how could I not share my nuts, seeds and granola bars with them?  And, even in such finery, they were not too haughty to refuse!

I was not surprised to see people walking through the sand or fishing. A few even tried to ride the waves, such as they were.  But I didn't see anyone swimming.  Yesterday, I was tempted to dip myself in the water, but after taking off my sneakers and socks, and letting a few waves lap up to my calves, I realized that the water was a bit on the cool side.

Normally, on such a day, people would line the pier at Flagler Beach, whether to fish, watch birds (or wait in the hope of sighting a dolphin, whale or shark) or simply pass enjoy the view and pass the time.  But I noticed that the pier was empty, as it was yesterday and the other day.  

I also couldn't help but to think that the pier looked smaller than it was last year.  Sure enough, it is:  Hurricane Matthew washed away part of it and, according to the gate keeper, it might be closed for another year because the insurance company doesn't want people there until repairs are made and the pier passes inspection.

Still, it was a wonderful day and ride. With the kind of light I had, how could anything have been otherwise?

After Speed And Flight: A Free Lunch (Or Dinner)?

I don't remember the last time I've had such luck with weather!

Once again, the day began sunny, with a temperature of 60F (15C) on my parents' porch, and quickly climbed over 70F (21C).  By late afternoon, after thick cumulus clouds passed over, it was 77F (25C).  Although the clouds muted the sun and had dark undersides, there was never any real threat of rain.  Such clouds are not unusual on warm days in coastal areas.

Yes, I rode along the ocean again--along Route A1A, to be exact.  Today I would follow it from the Flagler Beach Pier, along dunes and beaches of hard-packed sand to the beach that bills itself as the World's Most Famous.

Although I have been there a number of times before, I am always a little surprised at what I find in Daytona Beach.  It's not like any other beach town or resort--at least, not like any other I've ever seen.  Driving is actually permitted on some parts of the beach, as it is in other nearby beach communities like Ormond Beach.  But that beach--which is often called "the birthplace of speed", where several land speed records were set--today has a speed limit of 10MPH.

  And, it also has an important place in early aviation history, where several speed and altitude records were set.  Not surprisingly, the nation's premiere aviation college, Embry-Riddle, is located nearby.

It has its share of beach-town cliches, including the taffy stands and tacky souvenir shops.  But it also manages to combine, in a few blocks near Main Street, everyone's idea of Haight-Ashbury in 1967, Woodstock in 1969, the East Village of those years and a current NASCAR rally all in one.  Oh, and there are religious folks and some genderqueers that would make most drag queens seem like suburban housewives.

And there are residents who are, or seem, completely oblivious to--or just don't care--about it all:  

They probably follow this bit of advice:

and don't even pay for it!  Of course, they might not get the best seats in the house.  But, hey, if you were eating stuff that people pay real money for, and it didn't cost you anything, you wouldn't complain, right?

Then again, there are some folks who, one hopes, won't follow that advice:

Actually, I'd worry about them eating Joe himself--except, of course, that alligators don't go into the ocean.  (Then again, there is the occasional shark!)  But I love the warning, "When fed, the alligator loses its fear of humans and becomes accustomed to handouts."  Hmm...Is there a political philosophy expressed in that?

Interesting that it should be posted at the entrance to the Lehigh Greenway Rail Trail,near the end of my ride.  Is there some kind of cosmology here:  Humans spend their Hamiltons and Jacksons (soon to be Tubmans) on stuff sea birds eat, and said humans can become an alligator's free meal by feeding them what those birds eat?

How does it all end?

I tried to find out whether that was Flagler Beach's version of Stonehenge.  But nobody seemed to know what it was.  I did see a sign nearby that exclaimed "No seawall!"  

For me, it's hard not to agree.  Then again, I just visit once or twice a year.  I don't know how I'd feel if I lived there and my house was inundated by a storm.

Thankfully, I don't have to answer that question.  I didn't have to do anything; I just rode.  

And what a lovely ride I had.  At the end of it, I didn't eat at Joe's:  I ate at Mom's.  And I didn't have to pay for it.