Pinelog Bday bike camping Bikepacking

Our Adventure Vibes 2 bicycle camping trip started, oddly enough, in the car. The group had only coalesced around the idea of camping mid-week, propelled by the argument that Robby would soon have a job again and Sam and Mary Ellen were leaving the next weekend. Unfortunately, due to the beautiful weather and the Florida Ironman, camping spots were limited. Top picks Topsail and Grayton Beach State Park were full, which meant a last-of-the-season beach camping trip was out. Since we were riding with a couple of casual riders (me and Jennifer) and a couple of fit non-riders (Sam and Mary Ellen) the options were also constrained by distance. So Jennifer, Robby and I loaded up our car and drove north on 79 in the hopes that we would grab a first-come first-served camping spot at Pine Log State Forest early Friday morning.

As we drove through the campsite, we were increasingly dismayed by the “Reservation Only” signs posted prominently on each site. One by one we passed the prime camping spots on the pond, until we finally reached the last two sites. The only sites that didn’t require reservation. Sites 19 and 20. And site 19 had a RV, and it looked like it had been there all summer. With pleading eyes we glanced as one at Site 20.

Empty.

With a collective sigh of relief, since the whole trip was riding on our securing a site, we pulled in and jumped out, unloading all of our gear with speed since we were already a little behind, and we needed to get back in time to meet with Sam and Mary Ellen (henceforth known as Sam-Ellen for brevity’s sake. or Mary-Sam. But don’t tell Mary-Ellen’s mom).

Leaving all of our precious and heavy gear behind, we sped south again to drop Robby off in time to drink coffee and eat before he headed over the bridge to meet us down in the Cove, where we’d set off to Lynn Haven to meet with Sam-Ellen.

We agreed on 10. At 10:15 I texted Robby. At 10:30 he rolled in, sweating in the only mildly warm air of late October.

“I got stuck waiting on a train,” he smiled, not breathing heavy despite the obvious speed of his journey.

“So I went around.”

We assured him it was no problem as I shot a text to Mary-Sam and we finally set off, barely carrying any gear but sunblock and Robby’s Bluetooth speakers. Don’t worry, this was not the same speaker than only lasted 10 seconds on our last trip. Maybe, I dreamed, the speakers would last a whole song.

Five miles north on 77 and we approached the Wal-Mart area where we’d planned to meet up with Sam-Ellen.

Mary-Ellen is the sister of last adventure’s hero, J.Michael. Compound names are a family trait, although Mary-Ellen and Michael are different in other, less obvious ways.

Mary-Ellen and Sam were in town, having just returned from Spain where they did something nefarious for a year to make ends meet, strung together by shoe string trips to Mallorca for volley ball tournaments. There were rumors of mafia activity. Or weapons trafficking. J. Michael would be joining us later in the evening after work, but Mary-Sam were borrowing bikes, and ominously, his saddles for the trip. They were also loaded down with fresh fruit and vegetables, along with a great deal of grouper for dinners.

We spotted Sam-Ellen by the side of the road and met up briefly before deciding to hit the Wally World for supplies. And because Robby had forgotten to eat. We mentioned there was a Subway in the Wal Mart, so Robby headed for food while we got other needed items.

When we got back to the bikes were Sam was standing guard in one of Mary-Ellen’s bright yellow tournament tank tops, impressively tanned guns on full display, we realized Robby had completely missed the Subway and instead bought mac-n-cheese and barbeque chicken.

At one point as Robby scarfed down his food hurriedly, I glanced over and noticed he was leaning on the nearby grocery carts as he ate, not remotely seeming to enjoy the meal. He laughed and packed up the leftovers for later.

At last we pulled out heading north again, on 77, before wheeling off onto a side road to ride through less heavily trafficked neighborhoods until we reached the Bailey bridge.

We cruised merrily along in a loose formation through shaded suburbs. The sun was bright but the air was not yet hot. Suddenly, our peaceful ride was thrown asunder, as Mary-Ellen, riding with Sam at the rear the five ship formation, shrieked.

Just then, a squirrel darted from a well-manicured lawn, hell bent for the sweet release of a rolling bike tire. With no time to react, Robby’s death machine continued forward as the tan flash of fur darted right into his wheels, its head wedging into a spoke, spinning him around and casting him out like a weak child from a merry go ‘round. Just milliseconds later, Sam’s bike rolled right over the poor rodent with a quick thump thump.

In shock, we rolled on for half a block until we turned back to look, jabbering, aghast at what had just happened.

There, in an ironic pocket of sunlight, dead center in the middle of the unlined street, lay the squirrel, twitching and writhing, unable to run away.

“Should we do something?”

“We should at least move it from the road,” Mary Ellen suggested, taking the moral lead.

We all agreed.

We slowly approached the still spasming vermin.

“Should we kill it?”

“Yeah, snap it’s neck.”

“I don’t know if I can do that.”

“Let’s just move it off the road.”

Mary-Ellen knelt, gently touching it’s fur, which seemed to calm it.

She reached carefully under his heaving torso and lifted him, cradling him to her chest. Pacified, it seemed to grip her fingers, as if holding on to life.

The rest of us stood transfixed.

After a few moments, Mary-Ellen placed the squirrel in the grass near a shrub in the hopes that it might recover a bit, or at least die with the dignity it would be denied in the middle of the asphalt strip that had been its reckoning.

Someone shifted the feet, and the squirrel shockingly leapt nimbly a few steps before stopping.

We were all amazed it had moved, seemingly without injury.

Finally, it leapt ever farther away, quickly and with vigor.

As we moved away, we were all relieved to see it dash up a pine tree. He would live after all!

Or die out of sight. Either way, our conscious was clear.

With dazed but lifted spirits we hit the road again, heading north with all the speed our ragamuffin group could manage.

5 miles up the road or so, we stopped off after an uneventful stretch at a Dollar General to refill water and snack on ice cream before continuing on our journey. It was now officially hot, and the route was decidedly not shady. Robby turned the speakers on and we were propelled to the beats of gangster rap and techno-pop, or something like that anyway.

We finally turned west on highway 20 where we began to see Ironman markings on the road, and where 20 miles or so into the 30 mile trip, Sam had to wrap J.Michael’s much beloved Brooks saddle in towels to aid his ailing buttocks.

At last, as the sun approached the horizon, we turned onto 79 to head 1 more mile to Pine Log after a quick stop at the convenience store.

It was downhill, so we were moving nicely until Sam had to stop as Tupperware’s full of some exotic homemade hummus tumbled off his rack, which went unnoticed by Robby who kept right on rolling, feet tucked on the top tube as he descended the gentle slope towards the state park.

After securing his load, we restarted the final stretch, before Mary-Ellen struck a sharp rock, puncturing her narrow road tires. The slow leak allowed us to arrive at the dirt road entrance before it finally gave way. And so, unceremoniously and 5 hours later, we arrived walking our

 

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