Pinellas Trail, Florida - New Year's Eve!

When the Northwestern Wildcats won a spot in the Outback Bowl in Tampa on New Year's Day, we thought: Road Trip! The original plan was to trailer the motorcycles down for a couple of days of midwinter riding.

Due to an ill-advised left turn at Royce Road, my car, the one with the trailer hitch, ended up in the shop over the holidays. I bought a trunk mount for my wife's car and brought the bicycles down instead. In retrospect, the bicycles probably turned out to be the better choice for what was essentially one day of riding.

Googling for "bike trails Tampa" before we left turned up the Pinellas Trail, a nearly 40-mile-long urban rails-to-trails path that starts in downtown St. Pete and wends its way north through the 'burbs.

After three days and 1,300 miles of driving, we got on the Pinellas Trail in the town of Dunedin. Turned out to be a charming little suburban downtown with quirky mom & pop restaurants and shoppes. It was overcast, but 73 glorious degrees. We quickly shed our sweatshirts and sweatpants. Shorts and T-shirts on New Year's Eve — what a treat for a couple of Chicago-area riders!

The trail is paved, wide, in great condition. There's something to be said for the lack of a freeze-thaw cycle. Much of the trail has a separate, smaller lane for joggers. The trail is also very well marked.

On the down side, the stretch from Dunedin for about 10 miles south had numerous cross-streets. I suspect the entire trail is the same way. All are very well marked, and local drivers are extremely courteous and wary of bicyclists at these crossings. But you're not going to maintain a steady cadence on this trail.

We stopped at Pinellas Trail Bicycle Rental and Repair in far south Dunedin looking for a long-shank U-lock to replace the one that apparently bounced out of my rack bag during the long trek south. They didn't have one, but the owner was extremely helpful and talkative. He seemed kind of lonely; if you're taking this trail, please stop in and talk to the poor guy.

It didn't take long until I was in full Mr. Pither mode: blissfully, stupidly happy and fully absorbed in the scenery. Spanish moss, bamboo, blooming hibiscus, banyan trees. A bridge took us over a small bay where curlews probed with mud with their long beaks.

Left: These railroad-signal-inspired sculptures let you know when you've entered another town. In this case, Largo.

A bit of the trail started to look a bit iffy just north of Clearwater. Some very run-down houses, graffiti. Just a short stretch, though. Through downtown Clearwater, the trail jogs through a series of sidewalks and surface streets, then back to the rail right-of way. We stopped after about 10 miles; I didn't want to overtax my wife, who's not a distance biker (Unless she's on a motorcycle).

The sun finally burst through the thin overcast on the way back, and the 10-mph breeze made the return journey just a bit easier.

Bottom line: If the 'Cats find their way to Raymond James Stadium again next year, I want to come down a day or two earlier and do the entire Pinellas trail. It was a very interesting find and a midwinter treat.

* * *

Later in the afternoon, I set out from the hotel to find what looked like a side road or trail along the Courtney Campbell Causeway. This turned out to be a hard-to-get-to, but very pleasant, stretch of pavement paralleling the highway across the northwest lobe of Tampa Bay. To gain access from the west end, one has to ride along the extremely busy highway for a few hundred yards and lift one's bike over the barrier — or — as I discovered on the way back, sneak through the DeVry University parking deck and do a few yards of off-roading.

Either way, the reward is about four miles of smooth pavement along a shallow, calm bay occasionally traversed by Boston Whalers on their way to or from the main bay and the Gulf of Mexico. A few fishermen work the rocky shoreline for snapper.

I rode fairly hard on the way out, working off the fish tacos and wine I was planning to have that evening. I took my time on the way home. It was a bittersweet ride in the fading light of a warm day -- the last warm riding day I would see for at least four months.

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Cold toes!

OK, so it's 32 degrees, I'm bundled up and I get about five miles out and suddenly my big toes are smarting from the cold. I mean, ouch!

I wonder if the toe cages aren't conducting heat away from my feet. Next ride: wool socks. If that doesn't work, maybe I need to reinstall the basic pedals. Bummer.

Springbrrrrrrrook

Going stir-crazy on a Sunday morning, I decided to give some cold-weather distance riding a try. Based on previous, overdressed and overheated attempts when the temperature was in the 40s, I didn't bundle up as much: just a T-shirt, sweatshirt, balaclava and winderbreaker/shell. Fleece sweats, thick insulated gloves, ski helmet. Trés fashionable.

Figured I'd stay close to home and do the Springbrook Prairie trail (see previous entry on this trail). When I arrived at the trail head, I slipped on my secret weapon: ski goggles left over from the same Breckinridge vacation catastrophe that produced the helmet I was wearing. On previous cold-weather rides, the icy wind made my eyes water heavily -- not just unpleasant, but dangerous since it was like trying to see oncoming traffic through a waterfall.

I snapped the goggles on and started down the trail. The crushed limestone was hard as pavement in the 32-degree morning. A light southwest breeze was starting up. The prairie was a sea of muted browns and grays under weak sunlight filtering through a milky sky.

The goggles were a godsend. Not only did they prevent the eye-waterfalls, they kept the upper half of my face warm. Soon I had to stop and lose the thick insulated gloves (an Ace hardware bargain-bin bargain at $4.99!) and open then armpit vents on the shell to let some of the heat out.

The trail wasn't as deserted as I thought it would be. I onyerleft-ed several joggers and nodded to biker or two as I circumnavigated the forest preserve.

Once I warmed up, the ride was actually pleasant despite the freezing temperatures. "I can do this," I said to myself. There's no reason to store the bike away all winter and content myself with a stationary bike at the gym or the trainer down in the basement. A 10- or 15-mile ride in two or three times a month will go a long way toward helping me maintain my sanity through the long winter.

And maybe those lunatics at Bike Winter are on to something.

A quick 10 on a cold day

Bright, glorious sunshine the day after Thanksgiving. I went to work for a few hours -- sweet productivity, all alone in the office with no interruptions! -- and figured I'd get outside for a while during the afternoon.

All geared up in my ski helmet, balaclava, windbreaker/shell and sweats, I set off on my standard 10-mile round trip to the grocery store for a few essentials.

It was about 40 degrees. A light but cutting breeze from the west-southwest, right in my face for the outbound leg.

It felt wonderful to be back on the Trek after what seemed like a month of overcast and drizzle. Far overhead, a flock of sandhill cranes croaked and clattered their way south. A man was pulling his snowmobiles out of storage, the day after I'd put my Harley into the shed for the winter. A woman was putting up Christmas lights. A couple bagged the last few leaves on their front lawn. A middle-aged man in shorts (!) and earmuffs roller-blading. Some sort of cold-weather fellowship had taken hold; all greeted me with a wave or a hello as I passed by. The chilly breeze was at my back as I headed home.

Tomorrow is supposed to be a few degrees warmer. If I can sneak away from the family obligations, I'll hit the limestone for a 20-miler.

Drivers, nasty and nice

Many, if not most, of my fellow riders on the Chainlink forums seem to have bad experiences with drivers on a daily basis. I feel pretty lucky in that respect. I can count the road ragers I’ve come across on three fingers — and only one instance that I thought was going to end in a physical confrontation.

... screen shimmers, minor chord plays ...

A major intersection in my neighborhood is undergoing a major renovation, forcing several thousand cars a day into alternate streets, one of which is a usually quiet four-lane boulevard that happens to be my usual bike route to the grocery store. Traffic is generally light enough that cars can easily pass me in the left lane for the half-mile stretch where there is no shoulder, bike lane or sidewalk and I’m forced to ride in the street.

One recent day, with traffic heavy and slow, I was in the right lane on my way home from the store, chugging along with a pannier bag full of double-fiber wheat bread and bananas. One driver, no doubt already annoyed because of the detour and heavier-than-normal traffic, pulls up three feet behind me and starts blowing his horn. Apparently, I was supposed to hurl myself, Trek 7100, groceries and all, off the pavement over the curb and into the parkway grass to let him by.

One assumes that his rage stemmed from his having to apply his brakes, which required the application of several ounces of pressure on a conveniently placed pedal, and having to drop his speed from 25 mph to 15 mph for several seconds, maybe as many as 20, until a gap opened up in the left lane and he could pass me.

When he got the chance, he pulled up alongside me and started yelling the usual stuff about “you don’t belong on the road.” Well-dressed, mid-thirties, nice car, about the kind of upwardly mobile professional dipstick you’d expect.

I looked him right in the eye and blew him a kiss.

It took me years to figure out that the finger isn’t the right response if you want to both confuse and enrage a self-important blowhole. A finger says, “You have succeeded in making me angry,” when what I really want to convey is, “Your rage is pathetic and I refuse to be a party to your dysfunction. Not only that, but I don’t even take you seriously.”

The silliness of a blown kiss seems to be such an unexpected response that the self-important blowhole’s brain kind of short-circuits. A matronly woman in a Lexus responded by sticking her tongue out at me while she almost drove off the road, which gave me the giggles for days. I hope she still blushes with embarrassment when she thinks about her 2nd-grade-playground reaction.

Well, Upwardly Mobile Professional Jerk swerved in front of me and slammed on the brakes, apparently preparing to respond to my gesture of affection with violence. Anger-management issues and a complete lack of perspective, that’s an attractive little package you’ve got going there, Bub. How’s that play with the ladies?

I pulled the U-lock off the handlebars and started to dismount, but the driver apparently decided against parking his car on a busy four-lane boulevard and attacking someone who was most likely in better physical shape than he. After a fist shake and some not-very-nice words, he drove away.

... screen shimmers ...

Actually, most of the drivers I come across are too nice. I’ll come rolling up to a four-way stop (of which there are 17 million in Naperville), carefully adjusting my speed so that the car that always seems to be simultaneously approaching the intersection can do the standard "California Roll" through the stop sign and proceed ahead of me. That way, I can just blow though afterward and not lose my cadence.

However, if the driver sees me, he or she almost always comes to a complete stop. Then I have to stop too, because I (a) don’t trust a car driver as far as I can throw a Buick, and (b) I want to be a good bicycle ambassador and stop for the stop signs when someone is looking. After an awkward exchange of “you go ahead” waves, we of course both start across the intersection at the same time, stop, and repeat the waving. Sometimes this Dance of the Four-Way Stop goes on for three rounds until somebody just goes through the damned intersection already.

I’d almost prefer drivers who’d ignore me and just crank on through the stop sign with just a token tap on the brakes. Those drivers are predictable. It’s the nice guys who give me fits.

Upgrade the ride?

I like my bike. A lot. Discovery 7 has been veddy veddy good to me. The Trek hybrid has been instrumental in my weight-loss program (now at 57 lbs. and counting — I’m the original Fat Cyclist). However, I’m thinking about getting an actual tour/road bike.

After a long ride, like last week’s meander down the I&M Canal Trail, I noticed I’d lost feeling in a few of my fingers, especially the ring finger on my left hand, the one with an actual ring on it. I think the handlebar angle is just five degrees or so too far back – just enough to cock my wrists at an angle and mess with the grip. No big deal, I could just replace the ‘bars, I suppose.

But for the longer rides I enjoy so much, 20+ miles, I think I want the drop handlebars to cut down on the wind resistance, and fenders to keep the limestone grit out of the chainrings and cassette (not to mention my water bottle – urrrgh.)

Where I think I’m headed is a good road/tour bike for the weekend expeditions: Cannondale Touring 2 or the Trek 520, something in that range -- but I’m open to suggestions! I’d keep Discovery 7 for local rides and grocery shopping.

I’ve got about 15 lbs. to go to reach my goal weight. When I hit that mark, and maintain it for a month or two, I think I’m going shopping.

I&M Canal, take II

A personal best today – 38.7 miles, from Channahon to just past Morris on the I&M Canal trail. And it may just have been the most enjoyable bike ride of my life.

Drove on I-55 south to Rt. 6 west, and followed the signs to the trail access. The Lonestar Restaurant and Lounge in Channahon provided the traditional pre-ride diner breakfast. Pretty good food, and the waitress might have called me “hon” if she had seen me there before.

This time, I set off in the correct direction from the trail access (see my earlier entry on the I&M Canal for a description of the bass-ackwards map signboards).

Lock #8 and the locktender's house.

The Channahon access is right where the Kankakee and Des Plaines rivers come together to form the Illinois River. As you head west, the canal is on your right and the Illinois is on your left. If you’re doing this on a brilliant fall day under a crisp, cloudless sky, with the water a brilliant sparkling blue and the maples on the hillsides exploding with red and gold, well, there was so much color it was almost painful to behold. "Spectacular" is about the only word for it. Just about every time I looked up, I gasped.

The trail is the standard limestone screenings in good shape. There are a few short, 50-yard stretches that have been patched with gravel, mostly in the three miles between Locks 6 and 7 and Lock 8. After that, the trail is in very good condition, at least as far as Morris and about two miles beyond, which is where I hit the 20-mile mark and decided I’d better turn around.

The mile markers include factoids about the I&M Canal, such as: "Canal diggers often demanded that whiskey be provided as part of their wages because they believed it would protect them from diseases." Yah. "Diseases," got it. Payday must have been interesting back in 1846.

I really needed a Diet Coke at the halfway point, so I left the trail at Morris and explored the downtown area, looking for a fountain (personal peccadillo: it’s a fountain Diet Coke or nothing. No cans or bottles, please).

Downtown Morris was deserted on a Sunday morning, but uptempo music was playing through speakers mounted on the lightpoles. Stoplights dutifully cycled for no one. Yes, it was creepy.

The Jacob Michael Eckstein towboat (5,600 horsepower) rumbles past the Discovery 7 (.4 horsepower).

Found “The Bigger Bite” sandwich shop and got my coke, but not before the woman behind the counter warned me about “all the homeless people” that live along the towpath. I hadn’t seen anyone but yuppies on expensive bikes (no fixies; that trend hasn’t really hit here yet) and retirees on tandems. Chalked it up to urban legend.

I chugged back east, ruefully noting my average speed dropping as my legs gave out. Twelve mph, 11, 10 ... Then the bicycle gods smiled on this unworthy one in the form of a nice breeze from the southwest. The 15-knot zephyr definitely helped get me through those last five miles.

Arrived back at the car wobbly-legged and ravenous – I absolutely vaporized a Subway six-inch chicken teriyaki on wheat on the way home. Pretty sure I could have eaten three.

I’m not ready for the Century just yet – but I’m starting to think it just might happen next year, and probably on the I&M Canal Trail.

There's lots of online info on the (more interesting that you'd think) history of the canal, including maps 'n' such.