It didn't take us long to bike out of tiny, verdant and [hilly]{.underline} Tallahassee. Pumping our way out of town we thought of the \"village idiot\" back in Marianna, who had told us the terrain would flatten out East of the capital. We postulated that he had never been East of Tallahassee, which he'd visited only once, to pay the back taxes due on his trailer. The road we followed was unquestionably the prettiest one we'd been on in a long while. It was called Old St. Augustine Rd. (which made us feel like we were nearing our goal, plus heading in the right direction) and was self-billed as a \"canopy road\", meaning that the long branches of live oaks and other trees had all but engulfed it entirely.
The best part of all, though, was the utter lack of traffic, which we were to enjoy for the remainder of our extremely long day of riding. Fred kept turning to me and saying that he was beginning to like Florida again, against his better judgment. At our lunch stop we met a family who was very curious about our travels. We answered their many questions and learned that they were in the process of moving to Oklahoma. The dad was a fossil hunter, and told us that if we got into any kind of trouble we should go to a church.
He told us his favorite flavor of church, too, and I wondered for a moment if his and his family's enthusiasm had an agenda behind it. When we complained about all the rednecks in the Panhandle, his response was: \"Just consider yourselves lucky you're not riding through Georgia; it's much worse there.\" I told him we'd seen \"Deliverance\" and thought to myself that the Sunshine State wasn't looking so bad after all. After following a series of beautifully abandoned back roads, we hooked up with the 90 again near Greenville, where we were surprised to find a shoulder and a dearth of auto traffic.
In a sleepy old town called Madison we stopped at a pharmacy and soda fountain for root beer floats and a routing pow-wow. Several logistical factors made us decide to head towards Jacksonville rather than St. Augustine. Our goal for the evening shifted from a campground on the Suwannee River to a motel some twenty-five miles further down the road, making me wonder if we'd ever find a use for all the camping gear we've been lugging along. The sun had nearly set by the time we reached the cluster of highway culture at exit 84 of Interstate 75. We were exhausted, sweaty and encrusted in road dirt and dead bugs, so my attempt at bargaining for a better room rate was especially feeble.
When I saw the sign outside proclaiming the motel as \"American Owned\" I was prepared to deal with a redneck, yet inside was another friendly Indian gentleman, who told me that he was just filling in for his friend and that the owner was indeed American. I wanted to ask him how he felt about the racist, xenophobic sign outside, but my desire to get under a shower was too strong. The nearby \"3 B's\" (we never did ask what the b's stood for) looked like your basic roadside diner, but the food was surprisingly good. You could tell that someone in the kitchen actually gave a damn about what s/he put on the customers' plates.
We both needed to carboload after such a long day of riding, and devoured our plates of pasta like wolves. The beverage selection was more disappointing, however. When I ordered a beer, the waitress insisted on my proof of age, which I had left behind in the room. No problem, I said, just bring me an O'Doul's beer-flavored non-alcoholic beverage. When she said I'd need an ID for that, too, I nearly lost it; but Fred placated me into settling for a big cool glass of water. Not much later, I fell asleep giddy with the thought that we'd be finished with our transcontinental journey in less than twenty-four hours.