Confessions of St Augustine (USA Day 166)

Rain, the forecast said. Rain and wind, both in the wrong direction. (For wind, the correct direction is Westerly. For rain, the correct direction is up.) We woke to heavy clouds and dragged ourselves pessimistically onto our bikes very early, knowing that only a full day of riding would get us to the coast.

Luckily, our host David had given us the inside track on some really good bike routes. The first few miles were characterised by rush-hour traffic and gustery blusts that knocked our front wheels about, but before too long we saw signs for a separate bike path and marvelled, absolutely marvelled, at the result. Clean, flat, smooth, straight, these are the foundations of a good bike path. This had the lot.

By the time we’d reached Palatka, we’d ridden more path than road. The sky was still dark as frowns but we scuttled into a donut shop for eggnog-flavoured coffee and donuts (obviously), then pushed back on. To MORE bike paths! They didn’t last all the way to St Augustine, although that’s the ultimate plan, but by the time we re-joined the highway there were single digits of miles left until we reached the coast.

Honestly, we expected the headwind to kick in much quicker. We thought the rain would thicken out by lunchtime. Given this, our abominable last fifteen miles were nothing. The wind blew savagely, making each pedal a challenge. The rain whipped around, so we hid our phones and made up the route. But nothing could stop us: we were within sniffing distance of the Atlantic Ocean.

We pressed through St Augustine (we’ll see it tomorrow) and battled over an exposed bridge, getting our first good view of the rugged sea and its constant white horses. Then, over on Villano Beach, we turned due north and struggled against the strongest headwind we’ve had for months. The momentary glimpses of the ocean between houses to our right was enough to spur us on. Three miles became two-and-a-half. Then two. Then one-point-nine. Then I stopped counting.

Our host offered us cold beer and a hot tub, both of which we slipped into, no longer bothered by the rain. We’re back east – as far east as we can go. But with almost six months of cycling under our chamoix, the last thousand miles without a single rest day, we’re both exhausted. Tomorrow the wind is due to blow from the north even more fiercely than today, but we’ll be travelling south. That’s too much of an allure to pass over. Then we’ll rest.