Grassy Key   April 26

Out as early as daylight safely allowed. Lots of cars heading into KW so my side of the road was OK.

My side was a bike path, part of the Overseas Heritage Trail System that runs up the Keys, or down depending on your perspective. These paths are generally separated from the highway by grassy swaths and occasionally rows of trees. They provide a pleasant change from the constant worry of being on heavily travelled US 1. The Heritage Trail is part of the East Coast Greenway, http://www.greenway.org/, which is developing a traffic-safe bicycle route from Canada to Key West, nearly 3,000 miles along the eastern seaboard.

However marvelous and safe a bicycle route is, weather is always a major factor on the enjoy ability quotient of a ride. Today it was the cyclist’s old nemesis—headwind. It sucks strength and spirit as quickly as an alcoholic drains a bottle.  Damnable thing. How could it be coming directly at me when I was heading north expecting to be pushed forward by warm southern Gulf breezes as they awaken the rest of the country to spring?  

A look at my map provided an answer for this fool—I was headed east northeast—due to the curvature of the Keys. Only when I reach the mainland will I begin to orient northward. So, as I did for hundreds of miles across Wyoming’s vast wind-swept sage prairie in 2010, I shifted into my granny gear (lowest and easiest in which to pedal), put my head down and pedaled.

The worst point was crossing Seven Mile Bridge between Little Duck Key and Marathon.  But here, in the midst of my adversity, I found a spirit-lifter. A blue bath towel lying beside the road. At this point my family is shouting, “No, not more roadside trash pickup!” But it is a nice towel. And I need a regular one since I brought only a camp towel me with. A little further on I picked up my first bungee cord of the trip. Perfect shape. Never have enough of those to keep everything onboard. To hell with the wind. It was a good day; I’m a towel and bungee cord richer!

Tonight I’m camping amidst million-dollar RVs on the Gulf side of Grassy Key. The massive motor homes are on the land; I’m on an island just in front of them, perhaps messing up their otherwise privileged view of the water.  

Key West      April 25, 2012 

I can’t work up much enthusiasm about Key West, at least not as much as it seems a lot of other visitors have. Or the same kind of enthusiasm they have.

They clog the souvenir shops to buy the same geegaws, gimcracks, knickknacks and crap they’ll buy when they visit South Dakota’s Badlands except these will say “Key West” on them.  The “Everything-in-here-is-$5” yell of a shop’s street barker draws them in like lemmings. They rent jet skis, electric carts, scooters and bicycles and believe they have carte blanche on the road and water ways. They jump onto jet skis to rip scars across the water. Some can barely drive the scooters they rent. And they crowd Sloppy Joe’s Bar because Hemingway hung out there. He would be appalled at what it has become. They jockey for photo ops in front of the Southernmost Point in the United States marker.

And what is this town’s lunacy with its location? I spotted signs for America’s Southernmost State Park, Southernmost House, Southernmost Hotel on the Atlantic Ocean, Southernmost Hockey Club, Southernmost Little League, Southernmost VFW and Southernmost Foot and Ankle Specialists.

This town is quirky enough without having to make claims that the rest of the nation doesn’t really care about. There’s the tribe of resident street people, wild-haired folks of the type we see in every American city. Except these people with their book-leather brown skin from too many hours in the sun look like burnt husks of what they were in some former lives.  And then there are the chickens! They’re everywhere. Why?

The enthusiasm I have for this place is in the lovingly restored clapboard houses with their   filigreed detailing shaded by massive live oaks and banyans. It’s also out at Fort Zachary Taylor State Park with its beautiful uncrowded beaches. Bird watchers flock to the fort to see the arrival of wrens returning from a winter vacations in Cuba and The Bahamas. “I’ve seen 26 different wrens in the last few days. That’s an amazing amount,” burbled a broad-hatted lady from Ohio, her chest festooned with an impressive set of binoculars and a camera whose lens rivaled an elephant’s trunk for length.

For one who loves two wheels, Key West is a glory. Bicycles are everywhere.  People ride on the sidewalks. In the streets. They weave dangerously among walkers and vehicles. Young, old, fat, thin, speedy athletes and puffing/chuffing out-of-shapers mount up.

My enthusiasm is also in the out-of-the-way places like the Blue Heaven restaurant with its sumptuous blueberry pancakes served in the backyard of an old house where chickens roam and El Siboney, home of the finest Cuban sandwich I’ve ever had.  At The Café I was served delicious conch chowder and stuffed peppers by Carl, a cross-dressing waiter with an inch and half ring stretching his left ear lobe. “Is there anything else you want from me?” he asked as he gave me my order. “Ah, no I don’t think so at this time,” I said, “but I’ll let you know if I do.”

Time to get on the bike.