By Matt “Ned” Brown, September 2008

{Well known in Gainesville’s cultural scene, long time resident Matt Brown passed away last month in a kayaking accident while traveling through Canada. Excerpted from Brown’s journal of his bicycle tour from Tampa to Brooklyn, summer 2004; shared with permission and minimal edits.}

I didn’t think it would go this well. Maybe a smidge of knee problems. Nothing at all at the moment, and I’m just now realizing I forgot to stretch even a little bit.

And look at that! Eighty-five miles! Eighty five!—with a trailer stapled to the bike like some sick wheeled anchor! Holy goodness.

Ok, some events.  What happened today? Better, start last night. I decided to stay in Gainesville because the Forth were playing. And this was the show I had set up, so it would make for a nice last night in town. The show was great; got to sleep around 1:30 after tidying up the room one last time and organizing for the last pack in the morning. Woke up ahead of 7, moving about 8:40. Gainesville was easy; got a new mirror for the eyeglasses so it was mostly getting used to that little fellow.

Stopped in Melrose, filled up on water and hot dogs, stuffed a handful of mayo packets in my jersey. The water I got out of the fountain was carbonated! This ranks very highly with me. So whatever that gas station is in Melrose, just before that little $%&# “bike lane” begins and the shoulder disappears—it owns. So you know.

Bike, bike, bike: nothing exciting. Looked like it was going to storm, but didn’t.  I almost wish it had, give me a chance to bust out the fancy-pants raingear I got. Crossed over the St. Johns River in Palatka, to the glorious new road heading towards St. Aug.  Bike lanes, lots of room: amazing. But they are still working on it in parts; bad construction.  Evil construction.

There were a few miles of completed road that were all mine—mine mine mine—then it got rocky and bumpy. Back on the road, pale rider.

Then, finally, rolled into St. Augustine.

—So that’s where I am now, Anastasia State Park. It’s nice. But is it $25 nice? —No.  Sorry. It was late and I have nada for other places to go, but man—25 for a park? For me—guy on a bike, no fires, no nothing? For a family of five, I’m sure that makes sense, but for me it just ain’t gonna work out in the long run.

Wah, wah. Got to my site, gravel and seashell shrapnel. The ranger warned me repeatedly about raccoons: they’re evil; they’ll get into anything; they open zippers, unhook bungee cords, solve quadratic equations; whatever. Lovely. Right now, my handlebar bag is suspended from a tree above my tent. All the food is in there. I also inverted the Bob trailer and laid the bike over it, figuring that should be good enough. I hope they don’t decide they want in here; but I got my little Anti-Mammal or whatever spray, so I’ve got some defense.

Ah, and went to the water. Dipped the wheel in the Atlantic, submerged myself. Got my little sample, and some pictures—one of me, and then another when I saw the first and thought I’d look more presentable if I had my jaw shut. Biked halfway back to camp in the near dark, squinting at the road signs—wait—I’m squinting? Where are my glasses? Check the bag, check the aerobar bag, errrrrr…they’re back at the beach. I took them off to shower.

Bike bike bike, zoomzoomzoom. The bike is a whole new animal unloaded, oh me, oh my. Love it.  Back to camp, back to now, gonna go over some maps, play some guitar, get some sleep.