The alarm went off at 4:15 in the morning. I was already awake, staring at the ceiling and wondering if this was a good idea. The air was still and thick, the kind that sticks to your skin before sunrise. Sandy pulled up in her old pickup just as the sky started to lighten, her bike rattling in the back. We didn’t say much, just loaded up bottles and checked tires. It felt like the start of something too big to talk about.
We rolled out from Lake Ella before the sun was up. The streets were empty, and the air carried that damp smell of summer grass. The first few miles felt easy. Our bikes hummed softly over the pavement, and every pedal stroke seemed to find its rhythm without effort. The sky turned from purple to gold as we headed south, and by the time we reached Crawfordville Road, the light was sharp and clear.
Our first stop came at a gas station near Sopchoppy. The man behind the counter had a weathered face and a quiet stare. He asked where we were headed, and when I told him we planned to ride two hundred twenty-two miles, he raised his eyebrows and handed me an extra bottle of water without a word. We sat outside on the curb, drinking and stretching, watching the small town start its morning.
The road to Perry is long and straight. It gives you time to think. We didn’t talk much, just took turns leading. The heat came early, and by the time we reached the outskirts, it felt like riding inside a hair dryer. We stopped at a diner called HuddleHouse. The sign was fading, the door creaked, and the coffee came in chipped mugs. We ordered pancakes, bacon, and Cokes. The waitress asked if we were training for something, and Sandy said, “No, just living,” which made her laugh.
After Perry, the road opened into scrubland and pine. The smell of salt and dust hung in the air. Around mile one hundred twenty, something moved in the brush. Three wild boars burst out of the trees, thick and fast. Their hooves clattered across the road, one close enough for me to feel the rush of air as it passed. Sandy shouted, and we both stood on the pedals, hearts pounding. When they were gone, we stopped and just stared at each other. Then she grinned and said, “Well, that’s one for the story.”
By afternoon, the sun had turned mean. The light bounced off the asphalt, and the wind felt like an oven door opening. We found a small store in Aucilla where the owner sold cold Gatorade and fried chicken. We sat on the curb, eating slowly and not saying much. My legs were beginning to tremble when I stood up. The air buzzed with heat and insects.
The last stretch toward Monticello was quiet. The fields glowed in the evening light, and the sky turned the color of old copper. Cars passed occasionally, each one raising a wave of warm wind that pushed against our tired bodies. Somewhere around mile two hundred, we both fell silent. The sound of the tires was the only rhythm that mattered.
We reached Tallahassee just as the streetlights flickered on. The city looked soft, familiar, like it had been waiting for us. I unclipped from the pedals and nearly stumbled. My back ached, my face felt tight with salt, and my hands tingled. Sandy leaned her bike against the car and laughed. It was the kind of laugh that comes from somewhere deep, full of exhaustion and disbelief.
Two hundred twenty-two point six miles. One long, sun-soaked loop through the backroads of North Florida. We stood there in the quiet, our bikes dusted with road grit and sweat, the sky finally giving way to night.
Sandy looked at me, smiling through the tired. “You know,” she said, “we could have done two-fifty.”
I shook my head and laughed. Maybe next time.
