Welcome To Florida

April 30, 2013
I left Dothan, Alabama on this bright, sunny but cool morning -- a welcomed change from two days of rain. Within 40 miles I entered Florida just before the town of Marianna and was quickly aware all my stereotypical thinking about Florida is wrong. I've always heard it is flat, boring and filled with little blue-haired ladies driving around with their left turn signal on. Instead, at least the area I rode through is sparsely populated, lush-green,  wind-free, and covered in pine forests. Absolutely beautiful.

Even the stretch of Interstate 10, which I traveled for nearly 100 miles, had light traffic, only thickening a little around Tallahassee. Shortly after bypassing the Capitol city I branched off the freeway at Monticello and rode U.S. 19 to Fanning Springs on the Swanee River where I selected backroads bordered with purple wildflowers in checking out the nearby towns of Bell and Trenton. Then it was on to my day's destination at Cross Creek to visit the historic home of Marjorie K Rawlings (1896-1953) whose claim to fame was her 1938 novel, The Yearling.

The road to Cross Creek is lined with Spanish-Moss-hung-oak-trees and cow-filled pastures -- stunning scenery. I arrived in the area 1/2 hour before the Rawlings exhibit closed, too late for more than a picture from the shoulder of the road. But that was okay. I would seek nearby lodging and visit the site in the morning.

According to the Internet the small town of Citra, six miles further, was home to the "Orange Blossom Motel," its coordinates already programed into my Garmin GPS. The darkening sky and prediction of afternoon thunderstorms quickened the need to cover those six miles soon. But in a sudden turn of luck on what had been a beautiful day of riding, the Garmin led me to a vacant, debris filled lot on the side of the highway at Citra, a town too small for more than one motel. What now? I turned around and re-rode the last couple of miles, thinking I missed it. I hadn't. It still wasn't there.

Incidentally, this wasn't the first time the Garmin had misled me today. When leaving the motel lot in Dothan I knew I needed to turn right but the Garmin said go left. We argued. Remembering the Texas ordeal, I gave in and went left. Then another left, as instructed, and another (after a substantial wait at a red light I might add).  This delightful little side trip put me right back where I started, and you guessed it, the Garmin said turn right. I went in a complete circle! FOR NOTHING!

There was nothing left to do but ride on, sixteen miles to Ocala. As I neared the south city limits of Citra, on a rise across the divided highway, was the Orange Blossom Motel, a ramshackle establishment on a dirt lot, probably built in the 1940s and has had minimum upkeep since. Actually, except for a couple of weathered pickup trucks, the place looked abandoned.  The sudden appearance of orange traffic cones blocking the recently-asphalted inside lane told me I wouldn't be checking it out anyway, at least not for a few miles until finding an opening to get to that side of the highway.

The cones lasted about 4 miles. By that time it was raining and my focus was finding a wide enough shoulder to pull off and waterproof my luggage and myself. There was no wide shoulder. Had to settle for the corner of a wide intersection. It was there I struggled to fit my rain cover over my "expanded" pack, a dimensional issue I hadn't thought to experiment with before leaving home. It would not fit. I tugged, jerked and wiggled the cover trying to make it fit. I was like OJ trying on the gloves during his big trial. I figured I could be in Ocala before I accomplished the task, so rode on, determined to select the first lodging I saw. It happened to be the $32 Holiday Motel.

If there's a sign on the office counter that reads, "No Prostitutes In Rooms," you just might be in a bad section of town. I put my key in the rusty doorknob, unlocked the door, then could not remove the key. I tugged, jerked and wiggled. Nothing. It would not come out. Before accessing the pliers from my tool kit, I figured I'd first call the office and report the malfunction.

The manager said he'd come by with a can of WD 40, saying it should resolve the problem. He was right. He was also right about there being no prostitutes in the room. There was no coffee either.

11-Minute Video of Today's Ride
From Dothan, Alabama To Ocala, Florida

268 Miles