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:
Where I am now--about halfway between St. Augustine and Daytona Beach--is not what comes to most people's minds when you mention "Florida." Although some of the flora and fauna--at least the ones found here now--are similar to what's found further south, the climate is different. Frost covered lawns on the first morning of my trip here; the next day was like one in May in the New York area.
And, contrary to what you might have heard, there are seasons here, though they are not as pronounced as the ones that rule the north. There are no maples and oaks that blaze orange, red and yellow before burning into ashen shades. Instead, you are more likely to see something like this:
And it's likely to be found in this sort of landscape:
With backdrops like those, houses festooned with lights and other decorations seem incongruous, and sometimes even disconcerting. To me, some of the most attractively decorated houses actually look best in daylight:
Here is a view of the right side of that house:
At least the end of the day--the holiday, anyway--ends with something familiar and welcome:
and other rewards:
I shared the eggplant lasagna, stuffed mushrooms, meat sauce, salad, cheesecake and cookies with people I love. After all, even after a Christmas Day bike ride, I couldn't eat everything all by myself!
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!
