Day Two-Hundred-Two, Insofar as I Remember It

It is now the morning of Day 203.  I should have typed this up last night.  But you get to talking.  I'm again at the Knightens'.  In beautiful Crestview, Florida.

I spend all my weekends here.  This is my third time here.  But I earned it this time.  They did not come and get me.  I got here under my own steam.  It's nice to be back.  I do pity them.   A little James goes a long way.

Which is not to say that I'm so awful, but even if I didn't stink.  I am big and clumsy and in the way.  I hold contrary opinions.  I talk a lot.  I eat all their food.  I keep unusual hours.  I snore.  I know it is but a matter of time before I spill something on their couch.  Or break something or clog their drains with clumps of hippie hair.

Bless their kind hospitality.  Reward their forgiving nature.  The Knightens have been the saving of me.  The Knightens have dragged me to church.  The Knightens have lent me their street address, which I need to fix my computer.

They've been a grand help.  What's in it for them?  Perhaps I will make them stronger.  I'm a Biblical plague, a minor one.  I'm one of life's many trials.  I have been sent to Test Their Faith.  I'm a boil in corporeal form.

Which is not what I aspire to be.  I want to be a Force for Good.  A radiant source of sweetness and light.  I'm happiest when I'm smiling.  Which I'm doing more often in my old age.  It may be this Florida weather. 

There have been warm days since Winter hit.  Tupelo was nice.  But it is always the sun doing most of the work.  The air itself remains cold.  But it's summer here.  It is this week.  There are summery smells in the air.  Scents remembered.  Places I've been.  Kyushu.  Dubuque, Iowa.

I put in close to two-dozen miles.  That's a respectable day.  I woke up early.  That's the key.  I woke up too close to the road.  It was dark; I did not want to explore the woods.  There might have been gators back there.  Or hogs or snakes or wild dogs.  I was in a thoughtful mood.  I had to pack up before I was noticed.  I think I was in someone's yard.

The Panhandle.  Lower Alabama.  I like The Florida Alps.  My own coinage.  There are hills here.  Which is odd because everything's flat.  Everything.  Lawns.  Forests.  Farms.  The land has no features.  Not a bump, not a furrow.  Just a whole lot of flat.  Except, of course, for the hills.

Which I could manage.  They ain't the Cascades.  I've been uphill for days.  In a ditch by a road.  They keep it well mowed.  I'm always on the lookout for gators.  You cannot see them; that's how you know they're there.  They are prehistoric killing machines.  Their favorite food is James.

It does put a little bounce in my stride, that spike of adrenaline.  The one our cave ancestors used to flee the dinosaurs.  And beard the mighty mastodon.  Not a lot has changed.  It's still Man vs. Nature.  I don't care who wins.  I don't know whose side I'm on.

May the best man win and I hope it don't hurt.  That is my happy motto.  I'd just as soon not be murdered by snakes, but if it happens it happens.  I don't question Fate.  I shun it.  I am free.  I am off  the Grid.

I found down the road the city of Holt.  There I had a lovely breakfast.  At Uncle Something-or-Other's Country Buffet.  They had biscuits and gravy.  And a Christmas tree hung with ketchup and mustard in little plastic packs.  And plastic forks and a hunting cap.  A Redneck Christmas Tree, it was called.  And it was lovely.  I would have used condoms.  They come in all colors these days.

My pack was rather bothering me.  I have two or three tender toes.  I was feeling fat and unattractive because I'd eaten too much candy.  But good weather is good for a lot.  I did not feel the walk.  I was sweating like a monkey but that was OK.  Like I said, it was warm.

In Milligan at a gas station I met a man called Vaughn.  Pulling a load on a bicycle.  The guys with the trailers aren't bad.  Turns out he's involved in a race.  From Key West to San Diego.  Which is a good haul.  They plan to do it in something like fourteen days.  That's more than two-hundred miles a day.  He's a superhero.

It's a race for special forces guys.  Vaughn is young but retired.  From the British army.  Now he lives here.  I guess that makes him SAS.  But that's a secret.  He seemed real nice.  I'm sure glad he's on our side.  Big fellow.  Big enough to look good in a bicycle jersey.

They are in most cases emasculating.

Let's wish him luck.  I hope he wins.  It is all in good fun.  If it were a war I would cheer for an American.  War is so polarising.

I ambled on into Crestview and to a Verizon shop.  Where we discussed some things.  Promises were made.  My optimism is gone.  But you give it a shot.  What more can you do.  Sometimes Verizon just sucks.

They're real nice, don't get me wrong.  I've only met one or two jerks.  The rest have been really nice to me.  And I've met hundreds of them.  But I'd like to move on.  I've got places to go.  I've got gators to feed.

It was on up the road to the Knighten's house.  They've taken me in once again.  And here I sit at Verizon's whim.  Bless them for their good intentions.

GATOR'S FAVORITE FOOD?  Marshmallows.  You heard it here first.

IF I WERE a big muscle man, I wouldn't wear a cycling jersey.  I wouldn't even wear a shirt.  I'd just go around flexing at people.