Day 16 – From puddles to fritters

Today started with a triumph at 7:30 AM. That’s right, folks—7:30 AM! Who am I? I actually woke up and got moving like a responsible adult! No post to work on,and trail already reviewed. Off I went to the gas station to pick up some extra water for what I thought was going to be a smooth day of biking. But no sooner did I walk out of the store than the sky opened up like it had a grudge. Rain? Oh yeah, it was pouring. So there I was, huddled under the gas pump cover like a stray cat, waiting out a 45-minute downpour. Not exactly the high-energy start I had imagined.
Once the rain stopped, I figured US1 wasn’t the best idea since I couldn’t see a bike lane—or any shoulder for that matter. I wasn’t feeling particularly confident about turning into roadkill, so I did what any rational person does: I Googled an alternative route. Ah, Google, that modern oracle of wisdom. It offered me another route, which I followed exactly. You’d think I was off to a great start, right?
Wrong. The “road” quickly transformed into a bike trail, but no worries, it was wide enough for me and the ole 559 (my trusty bike). Then came the potholes. And the puddles. Oh, the puddles. I went from biking to what I can only describe as amphibious hiking. At one point, the puddles were up to my knees, and I thought, “Okay, I’ve biked through some stuff before, but this…this is next-level.”
Decision time: Should I turn back, call it a day, and wait for a ride to Key Largo? Nope! Move forward, young man, move forward! So, I did what any adventurer would do: I took all the bags off the bike, carried them across what can only be described as the baby cousin of the Atlantic Ocean, and then went back to get the bike itself. You know, the kind of activity you love doing first thing in the morning. Two hours in, I had covered almost two whole miles. Two. Miles. At this rate, I was looking at a cool 72-hour trek to Key Largo. Not exactly on my itinerary, but hey, onward we go.
Then, after four more miles of swampy misery, Google pipes up: “Left turn in 300 feet.” Oh, great! A road! A real, actual road that should have shown up four miles ago! It didn’t have a shoulder either, but the traffic was very  light, and the drivers gave me a nice buffer when they went around me. They had to see me, I had lost all my flags so I put my bright lime green t-shirt on the flag poles. And the arms of the shirt flapped in the breeze. You could seee me from a mile off. So, I put the pedal to the metal, or as much metal as I could muster, so i could get  off that road as fast as I could (15 miles later)
And then, salvation! I rolled up to the infamous Alabama Jacks. If you’re in the biking community, you know Alabama Jacks is famous for its conch fritters, and let me tell you, they are worth every pedal stroke. I devoured them, feeling like a king. But no sooner did I wipe my mouth than I was back on the road, only to be greeted by the grand puba of bridges. This wasn’t just a bridge; it was a test of willpower. About three-quarters of the way up, my lungs were wheezing like a busted accordion. I sounded like a steam train, but did I stop? No, sir! My legs wanted to quit, but I reminded them who’s boss (my mind, of course), and together, we pushed through.
At 2:30 PM, I officially entered the Florida Keys. Victory! But wait—still 15 miles to go. Of course. By mile 10, I thought, “Why is it so hot?” Turns out it was 92 degrees with a heat index of 117. That’s right, folks, I was officially roasting in the Florida oven, a proud member of the ‘Bikers Who Decided to Cook Themselves’ club. I met up with my son for a great evening, Ben will be my support team for the rest of this leg. He’s going to keep me hydrated, alive, and—hopefully—away from any more knee-deep puddles!
So today was one of those days where nothing seemed to go as planned. I had to make a lot of on-the-spot decisions that challenged me. There are moments, in both life and TBI recovery, where we find ourselves standing at a crossroads, unsure of what lies ahead. It’s in those moments you realize it’s the only way to move is forward, even if you can’t see what’s waiting around the next bend.
For me, today wasn’t about what could have been. Sure, things might’ve gone smoother, but what good does it do to focus on that? I couldn’t change the obstacles I’d already faced or the setbacks from the rain, the trail, or the swamp. So instead, I focused on taking the next step, however small, one at a time. Rather than dwelling on the slow start to the day or how far behind I was compared to my itinerary, I kept my eyes on the goal. It was less about how fast I could move and more about just moving.
There were definitely moments where turning back felt like an option. In fact, I told myself that if I was still stuck in that swamp by noon, I’d turn around. Because the truth is, sometimes in life and recovery, taking a step back isn’t failure—it’s a recalibration, a strategic retreat to gather strength before moving forward again. But today wasn’t one of those days. Today was a day for pressing on, even if it was only one muddy, knee-deep step at a time. That’s how I made progress—slow, steady, and with the belief that the next step was enough to keep me going.
And that’s the key, right? In the toughest moments, you don’t have to see the entire path or be at full speed—you just have to keep moving forward, one step at a time.