There are at least a couple of different ways in which you can experience deja vu during a bike ride.
The most common way, of course, is to see familiar sights during along a route you've ridden before. More often than not, that is a pleasant or at least agreeable situation. After all, you wouldn't be doing the ride again if you don't get some kind of pleasure from it.
Then there is what I will call, for lack of a better term, situational deja vu. Any number of situations or other experiences can repeat themselves during a ride. Among them are weather, road conditions, fatigue, exhiliaration or some emotion or another that you're dealing with.
Yet another kind of deja vu is, paradoxically, the most ephemeral yet the one that affects us most deeply. It's the one in which we recall feelings or memories which may have come to us on rides very different from the one we're on at the moment. Or we have expereinced those emotions during rides we did much earlier in our lives, or in places very different from the one in which we happen to be riding.
There are other ways, I'm sure, in which we can experience deja vu during a bike ride. I've just mentioned three I could think of at this moment. They also happen to be the ways in which I experienced deja vu on today's ride.
Although this is my first visit to, and therefore my first bike ride in, Florida in two years, every inch of today's ride was at least somewhat familiar to me. I had previously ridden every crack and grain of sand my tires tread, though not necessarily in the sequence in which I rode them today. But it seemed that the flow of sense memories was all but seamless.
It began when I crossed the bridge from Palm Coast Parkway to Route A1A:
Hannibal is said to have shouted "Excelsior!" after conquering the Alps. Whatever he was feeling, it has nothing on the sensation I experience as I reach the apex of a bridge that connects the mainland to a strip of land along the sea. At such moments, I feel as if I'm exhaling for the first time, whether the bridge is the one I crossed today, the one that connects Broad Channel to Rockaway Beach, the one I crossed over the estuary of the Dordogne river to the coast near Bordeaux or the one from Highlands to Sandy Hook in New Jersey.
It was over that last bridge that I took my first long rides during my early teen years.
And that bridge led, like the one I crossed today, led to a spit of land that stands, almost defiantly, between the ocean and another body of water. When you ride along Route 36 from Sandy Hook to Long Branch, the ocean is never more than two hundred feet to your left and the Shrewsbury River is no further than that to your right. When you ride A1A from Palm Coast to Flagler Beach, the dunes of Painters Hill (such an apt name!) and Beverly Beach are practically at arm's length on your left, and you're separated by no more than the width of a grove or mobile-home "campground" from the Florida Intercoastal Waterway.
Even though this is Florida, I'll admit that today's ride is more beautiful than the ones in New Jersey or to Rockaway Beach. But in the end, I enjoy it--and, more important, it matters to me for the same reasons as those rides, and the one in the southwest of France. They all are bridges to deja vu.
Dear Reader, I really want you to feel pity for me.
Yeah, I know, I'm spending the holidays in Florida. And, in doing so, I avoided the Great Christmas Blizzard of 2010 (or whatever the media are calling it) that hit the Northeast.
But where I am, while it's lovely enough, it ain't South Beach. Then again, I never really wanted to go there. In fact, I never had much of a yearning to go to Miami, or to come to this state at all. My reasons are beyond the scope of this post or this blog, but suffice to say that my parents are the reason I come here, to a place that's about halfway between Jacksonville and Orlando--and, for that matter, about halfway between Saint Augustine and Daytona Beach.
Now, all of those towns except Jacksonville (which, frankly, I don't know very well and--again, for reasons beyond the scope of this post and blog--don't want to know very well), have much to recommend them. The town in which my parents live is not without its charms, including some nice pedestrian/bike lanes.
So, there's some good riding here. The problem is this:
Yes, this is what I have been riding. My parents borrowed it from a neighbor. While I appreciate that neighbor's kindness, I have to wonder how much she actually rides it. I saw it two years ago, and it looked no more used when I saw again this week.
It's a very cushy bike: the sort of machine on which you'd float along on a boardwalk or around the golf course. But try to ride it more than half an hour, or make it go more than about three times your normal walking speed, and this bike will ignore your efforts and continue on its merry but very slow ways.
It's not too bad when ridden on level ground (which, around here, is pretty much the only kind of ground) and with the wind. But pedal against the wind, which sometimes kicks up along the coastline, and it feels as if you're riding suspended in syrup.
This is giving me incentive to order a Brompton. Of course, if I were to bring it (or any other) bike down, I'd have to check it in. Usually, I bring everything I need for a trip down here in a carry-on.
Well, I'm glad I have a bike to ride, anyway. And this one makes me appreciate my own bikes all the more.
This is one way you know you're in The South (and I ain't talkin' about the Bronx):
Between this bike/pedestrian path and the ocean is a strip of land about 200 yards wide, consisting of more trees-- like the one in the photo-- with moss cascading from them, interrupted by roadside ice cream and hot dog stands, biker bars, gated communities and a Publix supermarket. Between this bike/pedestrian path and the Inland Waterway are a couple of state parks, a couple of convenience store/gas stations, a couple more biker bars and a couple of "professional buildings."
I stopped in one of the convenience store/gas stations. The latter is owned by Citgo, but the store is part of a local chain called Jiffy. This part of Florida, like much of the US, has experienced its coldest weather on record for this time of year. So, I had a yen for something I never craved in my previous trips down here: hot chocolate. Also, I started the day with a headache, which I incorrectly thought I could pedal off. So I also wanted aspirin.
While there, I got talking with Sharon, the store manager. I can best describe her as a redneck wife, and I don't necessarily mean that disparagingly. She's somewhere between my and my parents' age and has lived all of her life in this area. Business was slow, she said, but that's how it is everywhere: "Nobody has any money."
She said she'd seen a report saying that the county in which her store is located--and in which my parents live--has the highest unemployment rate in the country. It's hard not to believe that: Everywhere I've pedalled, and every place I've gone with my parents, I've seen empty stores and condo buildings. A so-called European Village consists of a pedestrian plaza ringed with restaurants and shops, about half of which were vacant. When I last saw it, two years ago, all of the spaces were occupied and business, although not booming, had yet to be wracked by the ravages of the implosion of the local and national economy.
Sharon says she's never seen anything this bad. In a nearby town, where she sometimes has to go on business, she sees "kids with eighteen siblings, and none of them have the same father." And, she says, "They're white."
Five years ago, someone with no job, no income and no assets could get a loan to buy a house. Today, this county and other places are full of young people with no job, no education and no future. Now, if they had education, they'd be like certain young people in the Northwest of England nearly four decades ago. What did they do? They became the Johnny Rottens and Sid Vicouses of this world. If, instead of education, they had religious dogma, they'd be suicide bombers.
But those young men and women truly believe in nothing at all. At least, they're not willing to die for anything, and they're living, not for the future, not for (much less in) the moment, and not even for the present or the Eternal Present. Instead, they are in a chasm that cannot be filled with anything, not even their own deaths.
You can see it on their faces. In fact, during the time Sharon and I were talking to each other, three of them--the "rock-heads," as she called them, came into the store. One young man used the bathroom and left; a girl, younger, tried to buy cigarettes and another bought a case of beer.
"You've got to watch out for them," she warned me.
"They look pretty scary."
"You're on your bicycle. You're a woman riding alone. Around here, that can be dangerous, epecially between here and the bridge."
"What do you mean?"
"They attack people and rob them. And sometimes they do worse."
I thanked her for her advice and wished her a happy new year. And she wished me a safe trip, which I continued under the trees with moss hanging from them.
