The Wrong Way on 30A

On travel, cycling, and the subtle art of shutting the fuck up.

I spent the weekend with my best friend and soul mate - Sun, as I have named her here - and her family. It filled me up. My weekend was full of laughter, silliness, and a little friendly hair play while watching Netflix.

I taught her 8 year old how to improv with one sentence. She picked it up better than any adult I've seen. She hasn't yet lost that thing that a lot of adults lose at some point: leaning into the absurd.

Writing fiction is a lot like improv to me. I am just constantly “yes and'ing” myself on paper. If you're collaborating with someone, even more so. I'm also trying to lean in to the absurd a little more in life and my art.

My best friend's husband has started writing a book and I'm trying my best to get him on here. He hasn't seen the value yet. I played him a review of a very meager short story I wrote for a prompt podcast, showing him how much support I have gotten from this community of artists. He's thinking about it. I tried to explain the amount of support received here for just putting yourself out there. It has kept me writing. I have written more this year because of Substack than I have in my whole life. I am just going to have to lean into the absurdity of the social media aspect of it. It still feels better here than anything META.

Sun is a children's minister at a Methodist church. We kept distracting her from getting her lesson plan together for Sunday, but she did finally get it done by Saturday evening after the kids went to bed.

Here's a few photos from that night. S'mores and a fire. The moonglow was being extra!

We were sitting by the fire that night and she told me that she was trying to find someone with farm animals for a “Night in Bethlehem” that the church was putting on for Christmas. The guy with the sheep and goats isn't responding. “The only one that has been responsive is the one with the chickens and bunnies”.

“Then just do Christmas on the farm”, I suggested.

She liked the idea.

“Bethlefarm”. She laughed.

“BETHLE-HEY Y'ALL!”

That did it. We were both rolling.

The weekend had been filled with these moments. Like I said, it filled me up.

I had brought my bike to her house and Saturday afternoon we all rode bikes around her neighborhood.

Sunday morning as she was getting ready for church, I packed my stuff up to go back home and loaded my bike. I said my goodbyes and promised to come back soon. And I will.

I drove an hour to 30A after having looked up paved bike trails on the coast or somewhere on my way home. Chat GPT said that 30A had an over 18 mile path that spread across most of the stretch of the coastline of 30A, offering not only views of the ocean, but several coastal dune lakes, which only occurs in five other places in the world.

I had never been to 30A. I've heard a lot about it and seen a lot of those stickers with the sun on the back of expensive vehicles. Two things I did know about it was that it was apparently one of the most beautiful coasts EVER and if you had the privilege of even vacationing there, you were one lucky bitch.

The paved path starts right as the highway does that stretches across 30A. You get there by hitting 98 East like you're heading to Panama City. The path follows most of that highway.

Chat GPT also told me to start at the Dune Allen beach access around mile 1.5. There was one space left and I pulled in just as an older surfer was packing up his stuff in the car next to me.

I was airing up my bike tire. I wanted to make sure that the path I was seeing was the Timpoochee Trail, which was the name of the paved path. He confirmed that it was. My brain had already done that thing it does when it switches around directions on me without any forewarning and he pointed towards the direction I should go, towards all of those lakes and coastal views. I didn't let him finish, which is something that I have a problem with. If I would have listened to him, my brain would have righted itself. But here was a man tired from his cold morning surfing, and he wasn't going to spend too much time on me if I wasn't listening. “But doesn't the trail go that way quite a while?”

He dropped his finger from the way he was pointing, and smiled and agreed.

“Just making sure” I said, apprehensively.

Even then, not realizing my mistake, I silently chided myself for interrupting him. I knew that I might have gained valuable information regarding the trail if I would just shut the fuck up.

The view from this starting point wasn't too bad either.

So I turned Westward on the trail. In my mixed up brain it was East.

When the pave trail suddenly turned onto 98, it still took me a moment to realize I was heading in the wrong direction. I had already been feeling fine and fancy free on my ride and enjoying the sights of the path. It wasn't until a few minutes after I turned where I was and that I needed to turn back. By the time I had gotten back to the trailhead, I had already biked 6 miles.

I sent this to my friend who also loves Dungeon Crawler Carl. If you are also a fan, then I hope you get a good laugh from this eatery's name.

I am actually somewhat thankful for having to go back. I had worn a sweater when I first ventured out, and now had an opportunity to leave it in my car.

I decided to take a little bit more time taking a look at the view before I headed back out on the trail, while I drank a little water.

Not bad. 🥵 No complaints. There were surfers galore on surfboards riding the waves, which is something I have not seen on the Florida or Alabama coast until this visit. Apparently, 30A is also a place for surfing.

My goal was to make it to mile marker 9 at Seaside, the town where The Truman Show had been filmed.

I was getting hungry around mile marker 4 or 5 and noticed a place called “Cowgirl Kitchen” and made a point to swing by there for lunch on my way back. I passed by so much sprawling wealth. Every new housing development or construction site said “Low 900’s” like that was a good thing. These homes had double decker balconies with views of the ocean and most came with their own personal pool built into the home’s structure.

I passed a woman skipping on her walk. That made me happy but then thought that she probably has a lot to fucking skip about. One of the five star resorts said on their marquee sign “Thank you for the good life”.

Yeah I'm sure most everyone here can say that. Try asking the bartenders and the ones taking out your trash.

The coastal dune lakes were fucking great.

The ocean did look like fucking emeralds.

When I got to seaside, 30A had completely woken up from its slumber. Bikes and pedestrians were everywhere. At the post office, there were carolers.

I stopped for a seltzer at a seaside bar and drank my high noon peach while looking at the water.

I stretched and used the restroom and headed back towards Cowgirl Kitchen. My watch died at 16.8 miles right before leaving Seaside. GPS said I had 8 miles back to my car.

25 miles.

If I hadn't gone the wrong way, I would have only gone 18 or 19. Small blessings. Or could I have gone longer and seen more? I guess we will just have to try again. Next time I'll do 36! I'll just do the whole fucking thing!

On my way back I passed a couple and their young daughter on her “first big ride”. The dad warned her I was passing on her left. She looked back and then went out of control right as I passed her, even with a soft warning for me that I was passing slowly and to keep going. I felt so terrible. When they passed me while I was stopped to take photos I mouthed that I was sorry to mom. The girl was crying. She said it was fine and that she's “had worse”. A little further along they had stopped and the little girl was crying and frustrated. The mom said something like, “I don't feel sorry for you. Let's go!” I kind of felt bad for the kid. But she really was fine. She was a really fast trucker too. She was mashing down like a madwoman on that trail. I hope she wasn't too traumatized.

poem that I published on Substack before I finished it.

I drank a beer at Cowgirl Kitchen and wrote a Poem that I published on Substack before I finished the beer.

I bought a cowgirl sticker I put on my bike about getting on your horse or something. I found it fitting.

I sat right under that open sign next to where my bike was chained.

Just before my ride ended I noticed a hand painted sign that said “Subs this way” and with an arrow pointing to a restaurant in the back of a hotel”. I almost turned around and took a picture for an absurd Substack Note. I wasn't feeling absurd enough apparently.

When I got back to Dune Allen and the beach access where I had left my car, I stretched and then walked to the water’s edge. I let the water crash up against my legs and soaked in everything before heading to my car.

When I got on the road, the beautiful weather that had been with me all day for my adventures, broke away with the crash of a downpour. It rained my entire way home.

I stopped at Peach Park for ice cream and chicken fingers. Mostly ice cream. The place was practically empty at 5 pm. I took a picture at a different angle of the peach than I normally do. I guess I've never realized there was such a resemblance to….