What Happens On Painters Hill

I got home from Florida very late last night.   Once I set myself down on my couch, Max and Marley wouldn't let me back up!

They wanted to hear about Florida.  I assured them that although I met a couple of friendly and cute felines in the Sunshine State, none could compare to them.  But Mom's cooking and the bike riding were really good.

I mean, how could it not be in a place called Painters Hill?  That's one of the places my last ride of this year's holiday visit took me.  Though it was chilly, the sky--and the sea--were as blue as could be.  Nobody was swimming or surfing, but I saw quite a few people (yes, including a couple of women) fishing.  

Well, maybe these fishermen are a little difficult to see.  After all, men often go fishing so that others--namely, their wives, children and girlfriends--won't find them!  On the other hand, this fisher is making no attempt to hide, but is doing quite nicely:

Since this winsome avian creature is not running away from anything, Santa sees fit to leave a reward:

I've no idea of how that got, or what it's doing, there.  Let's hope that there's no rule saying that whatever happens on Painters Hill stays on Painters Hill.  Well, at least for most things, anyway:

Along The Coast, Again

Every ride along a seashore seems to begin with a descent from a bridge:

And, of course, the descent from this particular bridge is a sure sign that I'm in Florida--Flagler Beach, to be exact.

At the foot of the bridge, I took a right and cycled south along Florida A-1A, which shadows the dunes, palm trees and beaches along the Atlantic Ocean.  Every time I ride it, I see more cyclists.  I guess that's not surprising when I realize that A-1A has long been a favorite of motorcycle riders.

Just 36 hours after an early-morning frost, the temperature had climbed over 70F (21C).  So, I had the sort of company I wouldn't normally have on the day before Chrismas in New York:

At leasst one of his flock wasn't going to let him steal all available human attention:

Although the main reason (actually, nearly the only reason) I come to Florida is to visit my parents, I am very happy to spend this holiday here this year.  For the first time in nearly two months, I was able to cycle to the ocean without seeing sand, twisted metal and broken concrete pillars where there had been, days earlier, a boardwalk.  It was also the first time since Hurricane Sandy struck that I was able to see dunes that hadn't been eroded or leveled by surges of wind and surf, or shell-shocked people left in their wake. 

Sandy, and the Nor'easter that followed it only a week later, ravaged the coastal areas I know best. Perhaps they are not the most beautiful, but they will always mean the most to me and, for that reason, the destruction I have seen has been heartbreaking.  Also, that sort of devastation "wasn't supposed to happen" along the coasts of Long Island, the Rockaways, Coney Island and New Jersey:  Sandy was a "once in a century" storm, and having such a storm followed so closely by another was unprecedented.  


So, it was ironic, to say the least, that I would have to go to a shoreline that's less familiar (though not completely unfamiliar) to experience the sort of ride that I usually take as a local escape.  What's even more strange, though, is that nearly everything I recall from previous rides along this stretch of Florida's Atlantic coast is as I remember it from previous rides--and that few places in the world experience more hurricanes and tropical storms (or, for that matter, tornadoes) than the so-called Sunshine State!  

A Simple Life?

Normally, I'm happy to get home from a trip to Florida.  These days, I'm happy to see my parents, in part because I don't know how many more years they'll be in this world.  But, apart from them and some lovely bike-rides (The good and bad news is that they're all flat!), I have almost no motivation to go to Florida.


Since I got back last night, though, I'm feeling a little wistful. I think the feeling started on Monday, when I rode down A1A through Painters Hill and Flagler Beach.  Along the way, I stopped, for no particular reason, in one of those stores that sells things made out of seashells.


The proprietress was one of those friendly, helpful and sun-bleached people you meet by the sea, though not necessarily by the trendy beaches.  "Anything I can help you with, let me know," she intoned in a voice of sunshine and sea salt.  She wasn't one of those surly, hipper-than-thou storeclerks you see working in trust-fund enclaves.  She probably wasn't making a lot of money, but she also, most likely, didn't need to. 


I imagined myself in her place, but with my cats and bikes.  I imagined myself closing the store and riding Tosca up and down A-1A or along any number of other roads.  It used to amaze me there weren't more fixed-gear bikes in Florida; this time, I saw a pretty fair number in and around St. Augustine.  Of course, their riders were young, or seemed to be:  I don't expect a senior citizen who hasn't been on a bike since he or she was a teenager to hop on a track bike.


Anyway, I'll be back to my normal rides, work and such soon enough.  One day, if I can afford it and don't have to worry about property values, I might have a house that looks like this (ha, ha):

Whatever Doesn't Stop Us, Slows Us Down

All right.  So I've slowed down, and I can't blame it all on riding a cruiser.  I also won't make the excuse that I'm enjoying the sunshine, blue skies and surf, although I am indeed reveling in those things.

I won't even blame the not-much-longer-than-my-hand lizards that darted across my path in Painters Hill.  I must say, though, that I found myself thinking of Geico commercials, even though I have absolutely no reason to buy auto insurance.

However, there is one thing I can blame for slowing me down momentarily.

This adorable (in his/her own way, anyway) creature wandered into my path after a few lizards played chicken with my wheels.  What he/she expected to find in the path, I'll never know.  That particular stretch of path is bounded by tall grass that ends on the banks of the Florida Intracoastal Waterway, which parallels the Atlantic beaches on the other side of the path and Route A-1A. 

Perhaps my armored friend was confused or trying to evade a less likeable creature.  Or, perhaps, he/she didn't find any edibles to his or her liking, and thought that a cyclist might be carrying some tasty carbohydrates.  In fact, I wasn't, as I was trying to burn off the lunch I had with Mom and one of her friends, and build an appetite for dinner, which would consist of leftovers from Easter dinner.  Fortunately, said dinner consisted of foods that taste better the second or third day.

Mr./Ms. Tortoise rowed along the path on front legs that were more like flippers, and back into the tall grass.  Then the lizards darted out, and the ocean seemed to deepen in a shade of turquoise at the end of a surprisingly desert-like dune.

Christmas, 4512 Miles From Casablanca

Do you see what I see? 

This is what, among other things, I saw for my Christmas Day ride.  It ain't Rockaway Beach; that's for sure.

I saw these sights while pedaling along the Atlantic Ocean on Route A-1A from Matanzas Bay to Ormond Beach in Florida.  When I got to Ormond, which is about ten miles from Daytona, I encountered something you'll never find in the Rockaways:

This guy thinks it's about time we've been slowed down.  And he means business:

Seriously, though, he wishes us all a good holiday!

Route A1A and The Nomclemature of Two Wheels

It wasn't exactly jet lag.  But when I got to my parents' house last night, I was exhausted.  And as much as I appreciate you, dear reader, I wanted to spend whatever waking moments I had with my parents.  After all, they're getting on in years.  Then again, we all are, I guess.

Anyway...Today was very much a summer's day:  the temperature reached 90F (32F).  And the sun lit a nearly turquoise sky and a sea that was only slightly more opaque.  The temperature was a few degrees warmer than normal for this time of year in this part of Florida, but some brisk winds tossed flags about, particularly along the ocean.

Along the way, I stopped at Flagler Beach, where an outdoor market filled with people who shopped the produce stands and whose kids had just hunted for Easter eggs in a nearby park.  In the market, a woman who makes jewelery from beads and shells was selling her wares at discounts because it's going to be her last day at the marketplace until the fall.  Naturally, I bought a few items and got into a conversation with the woman, who says she's going to spend her summer in Wyoming, where she is going to manage the Native American jewelery section of a National Park's gift shop.  She can't sell her work there, she says, because it would be a conflict of interest.  However, being there will give her the opportunity to collect some Native beads and other items, as well as some ideas, she might use. And she'll be able to hike and camp in the mountains.

After shopping, I ate a banana, a pear and a Lindt dark chocolate bunny and washed them down with a bottle of spring water while sitting on a bench facing the ocean.  Another woman on a bike walked by; we exchanged pleasantries about what a beautiful day it was.  Her cell phone rang and her family said that they'd finished doing whatever they were doing, so she was going to meet them. 

She motioned to a bar across the street.  "I'm going to the bikers' bar," she explained.  "The one for the real bikers."  Of course--given that we were on Route A1A, about halfway between Daytona Beach and Saint Augustine, she was referring to the ones whose motorcycles, mainly Harleys, were parked outside that bar.

From "Motorcycle and Bicycle Illustrated, July 12, 1917

I didn't have the chance to ask her what made them "real" bikers, as opposed to us.  Now, if she'd said that they were "bikers" and we are "cyclists," that would have made some sense to me because I've never referred to myself as a "biker" and most other people I know who ride bicycles reguarly refer to themselves as "cyclists."  

Not so many years ago, "cyclists" were referred to as "wheelmen" and the first club to which I belonged was affiliated with what was then known as the League of American Wheelmen.  That organization dated from the days of penny-farthing or high-wheeler bicycles and, I guess, hand't yet heard about feminism.  Then again, if they had, what would they have called themselves?  "Wheel men and women?"  "Wheel people?"

Can you tell that I got more sun today than I've gotten in the past four or five months?