Mark Twain 1886: "Get a bicycle. You will not regret it, if you live."

Week 6: Gulf Shores AL to St Augustine Beach FL. 508 Miles. 11,000ft Ascent. 2885 Total Miles

Over the last week, things have changed significantly. The number of baptist churches has declined significantly, replaced in part by other denominations, but mostly there are just fewer places of worship. Likewise pickups have gone from the most common vehicle to just-another category, and their once obligatory trailers have almost disappeared completely. The only thing that has not changed is the percentage of black pickups with custom rims (and no trailer) whose owners are the biggest assholes on the road.

On Tuesday of this week we hit no fewer than five "real" bridges one falling into that last lowest category, but all eclipsed and forgiven for the opportunity to add the Pensacola Bridge to the lifetime achievement award category.

We get the occasional comment from a car driver, suggesting not so politely that we should use the crappy uneven bike path instead of attempting to share the road with fair-minded tax payers such as themselves, or 70mph 18-wheelers who amuse themselves by passing with their near-side wheels on the white line and 18 inches from our elbows, but for the most part it is the black pickups who are most likely to be looking for trouble, stamping on the gas as they go by, pulling tight to the curb in traffic so we have to stay behind them, and on and on.

Following my bridge pontificating (see what I did there?) last week and the first of the so-scary-we-needed-protection bridges, how wonderful that this week starts with a new addition to my Top Bridges list: Pensacola.

Tuesday April 11 Gulf Shores AL to Ft Walton Beach FL Elevation: 7ft

Temp: 62f - 74f Ascent: 1234ft Distance 75 Miles

A tough day of headwinds, but otherwise a glorious day of beaches and bridges. The day started with fifty glorious miles along the beaches of the Gulf Shores National Seashore, and straight into the teeth of a 30mph headwind. Even the big dogs feel beaten up. We have not had anything resembling a prevailing wind for a month now.

If a friendly passer-by had not pointed out the itty-bitty little marker showing the actual line of the Alabama-Florida border we would have missed it. We knew it was here somewhere in the middle of miles of classic beach resort coastline: shoulder to shoulder high-rise condos blocking any sort of sea view from the road, and then across its four lanes of traffic an equally monotonous parade of restaurants, bars, night clubs, souvenir shops and drug stores—in short everything you need for a vacation-party.

Note the Pensacola Bridge on the skyline.

Next up: Pensacola Bridge. The biggest of five b i g bridges in one day, but by far the best. In fact the best bridge on the whole trip. I loved it, principally because it not only had a bike lane, it was completely separated from the motor traffic. In addition to being an order of magnitude safer, this also made it quieter, and free from the regular detritus dropped off, and out of cars. We had time and space to stop and admire the view.

The bridge landed in Gulf Breeze and almost immediately the second bridge appeared onto the narrow strip of land that was Pensacola Beach. But before hitting that Bobby and I peeled off the pack to head east to the National Park Headquarters for the Gulf Shores National Seashore where I could nab a precious stamp for my National Parks Passport. Bobby had nobly volunteered to come with me which I could not thank him for enough. It was a real grind but having him there made it safe and fun. Mercifully it turned out to only be a couple of miles off route (but still adding 5 miles I did not need to an already long day). What I really did not need was to find it shut. Not a sign of life. Not even a supply of stamped stickers like I'd found at Visitor Centers that were closed because of COVID. I almost cried it was so frustrating/unfair. But again, having Bobby there made all the difference, and we shrugged, peed, and set off back to catch the rabbits who had crossed the bridge onto the shoreline and were now hopefully waiting for us with lunch.

Our usual picnic lunch was in a parking lot near the beach. Bobby and I rolled in as the others were starting to wrap up. A wonderful surprise was Shelley's friend Steve from her ½ XC ride last year showing up to meet us. He was in the line of riders with Shelley r on the fateful day near Austin. But, like Shelley, he too was back on his bike with a big smile on his face, which was incredibly heartening to see.

With the cloud cover and snow-like sand, this shot looks as bitter as it felt. It was not nearly that cold, but it was not warm either and the stiff headwind provided the overall effect of a winter storm.

Dinner was at The Shack. But to get there we had to cross the aptly named Miracle Strip Parkway. The problem was finding a gap in the west-bound traffic to cross it on foot. And then across the central reservation (without which it would have been absolutely impossible) there facing the same issue with the east-bound traffic. The miracle was a police cruiser that stopped dead, blocking both west-bound lanes so we could cross, then cutting a U-turn to provide the same service on the other side.

The Shack was right on the water, and it was finally warm enough for us to be served al fresco. Just as encouragingly, they served cocktails by the pint and this was a new (and final) state, so what was a boy supposed to do? I think Dave and I both had Rum Runners. I had Jambalaya Pasta: linguine pasta tossed in a Parmesan cream sauce topped with grilled bell peppers, smoked sausage, grilled chicken and crawfish. It's making my mouth water again just writing that down.

L to R: Steven; Bill; Betsy; D-t-Y; Shelley; RT; Dennis; Doug; Bobby; Kevin

The only thing worse than leaving a half-finished drink on the table, is leaving a half-finished drink that somebody else paid for. When I saw Dave-the-Elder struggling with his bucket-o-rum I gallantly volunteered to finish it for him, but even I couldn't finish it in the time left at the table. So I tucked it under my coat and took a slow walk back to the hotel through Sound Park, trying not to slosh it over myself. Sound Park was a perfect place for a slow walk. Located on the narrow strip of land between the highway and the water, it was dotted with bronze statues depicting scenes from every day life. A little oasis of tranquility to contrast with the mayhem of the Miracle Strip Parkway.

Scenes from Sound Park.

Wednesday April 12 Ft Walton Beach FL to Chipley FL Elevation: 118ft

Temp: 64f - 77f Ascent: 2182ft Distance 86 Miles

The next two days were a bit of a slog across the Florida panhandle. 190 miles just taking care of business, getting from A to B. Because of the Century option today, Kevin persuaded Dennis to start us earlier, so the B Team set out at 7:35a. It was a long day even for the non-century people, rain was coming, and since the winds typically picked up later in the morning, the further we were into the ride by then, the better.

The Armament Museum was a complete surprise, especially being able to walk around the SR-71. It and a bunch of other bombers were accessible directly from the highway! No fences, no gates, just fifty yards of lawn between the hard shoulder and the planes.

Another rant about the headwind. Granted it was not as bad as yesterday, either in terms of its ferocity or its consistency, but it is uncanny how day after day no matter what our heading, the wind has adjusted to be head on. Above a certain speed (and we spend a lot of time with it being above that speed) it whistles through your helmet like a winter gale around the house, making it hard to hear anything else except the roar of constant traffic, a roar that rises to a muted scream when the road surface turns to concrete (on bridges for example). After lunch, when the century riders peeled off to do their extra miles, the traffic at least dropped to much more manageable levels. But compared to the byways we've sometimes been on, where there is one car perhaps every ten minutes, and a tailwind which is completely, blissfully, silent, there is no comparison. Instead one is numbed by the noise, and cursing about having to even pedal downhill to maintain speed. Draining. Physically, mentally, emotionally.

Thursday April 13 Chipley FL to Midway FL Elevation: 200ft

Temp: 65f - 80f Ascent: 2339ft Distance 78 Miles

This morning got our attention by starting with a tornado warning from 9 am to noon. Dave-the-Elder: "I keep looking for signs of thunder, or tornados, but I don't know what I am looking for." As it turned out we had a rain delay until 8:30, and after that we never saw another drop. Nor any tornados. Another day, another bullet dodged.

Chipley is pretty much right underneath the tornado symbol.

Record for shortest distance/time before a photo op: the hotel is in the background.

The Chattahoochee River divides Florida from Georgia further north of here, but it still provides the line between Eastern and Central time, so we lost an hour as we crossed the bridge. Some folks did the extra four or five miles to bag the State of Georgia, but again I ask myself: "Why?" Apalachicola River now. 45 miles in

Having said that, I did have my personal closest call that day. We were riding a three foot wide hard shoulder and had to pass a tractor and mower mowing the verge right up to the shoulder. I was half way past the mower bed when the tractor turned 90 degrees into the road—and right across my bows. I locked the brakes and nearly went down (and under the tractor) when it stopped, allowing me to escape around the front—in the middle of the slow lane, but fortunately there was no other traffic passing at that moment. By the time I was clear the tractor was reversing again, allowing my buddies safe passage. As far as we could tell the driver never once looked over his road-side shoulder so we suspect he still doesn’t know we were ever there.

The Tour of Italy Restaurant was actually in north Tallahassee so it was a bit of a drive, but so worth it. Betsy claims we "had eaten our fill of grilled oysters and other shellfish over the past couple of days" which seems a stretch because how could you ever get tired of that? But especially as we were able to sit outside, this was Italian rustic cuisine at its best, and that never gets old either. I had my perennial favorite and chef-tester Shrimp Fra Diavolo: Spicy Shrimp, Spicy Italian Sausage with marinara sauce over spaghetti (can choose spice level). "Turn it up please." Wowsa. I can still taste it.

Friday April 14 Midway FL to Madison FL Elevation: 190ft

Temp: 62f - 80f Ascent: 2156ft Distance 77 Miles

Another misty (delayed) start. Otherwise a glorious day. No wind, no rain. Against Dennis's better judgment, the route took us straight through Tallahassee (the first major town we’ve touched since El Paso) but we were carefully timed not to be in rush hour and by weaving through the University campus we avoided problems mostly, with only one section where the road narrowed to a single lane with high curbs which looked pretty but was extremely stressful for cyclists. Any attempt to overtake us would have forced us off the road, so we had no choice but to take the lane, and pull over where we could to let the impatient line of cars come by.

The reward for getting through this section was ten of the loveliest miles on the whole ride. "Canopy Road" was lined with Live Oaks that surprise surprise often closed ranks over the road. It's official name, Old St Augustine Road 😳 was a reminder of how close we were getting to the finish line.

As we came through Monticello we could see it raining in front of us, and soon had several miles of absolutely soaking pavement. So we got pretty wet but from the bottom up instead of the top down. It was also miles of road with no traffic so we didn't get sprayed either.

Lunch was another unforgettable location, in Greenville the boyhood home of Ray Charles. We picnicked in the shade of the trees in the Ray Charles Memorial Park. The Charles Restaurant, adjacent to the park, blasted music loudly enough that townspeople sitting under a pavilion and we in our camp chairs were both able to enjoy it. The life-size statue of the man himself sitting at the piano captured him brilliantly in his straining-to-see-over-the-top-of-what? pose, and most of us posed with him too.

Several people reported bald eagle sightings. Unless they were all good enough to identify juveniles which do not have the distinctive white heads, I missed them all. The one picture I saw also, IMHO did not sport the white head. On the other hand, black vultures are quite big enough and we saw a ton of them, some in real close-up. Just sayin'.

The last few miles seemed to drag. We were already in Madison but then had to turn south and head several miles down Rt 53 to the intersection with Interstate 10 and it was one of those straight roads that the GPS claimed was a steady down hill but which actually had it's fair share of rollers so there was still work to be done. But the prize was worth it: straight into the welcoming arms of the local Dairy Queen, miraculously located directly across the street from the hotel. After finally scooting across the road to the hotel, our bags, showers and happy hour, we trailed back to the DQ side of the street for dinner at (how could I forget) Smackin' Lips Diner, a canteen-like space with a distinctive 50s/60s vibe to it.

A young waitress was serving the whole canteen with a delightful amount of confidence, patience and good humor. I'm so glad someone thought to capture the wonderful murals that adorned the entrance walls of the diner, especially now I realize how perfectly this one captured her. (Obviously it is not here, the resemblance is just a coincidence.) I had beautifully moist pork fillets, fried green tomatoes and a gallon of Arnold Palmer, but sadly, given that I had brazenly challenged Billy-Bob to buy a round, there was no alcohol to be had.

Saturday April 15 Madison FL to Alachia FL Elevation: 138ft

Temp: 58f - 88f Ascent: 1421ft Distance 84 Miles

We started with another fog delay, but other than that it was mostly uneventful riding on dead-straight Highways 10, 137, and finally 41.

As we crossed northern Florida, the wild flowers became common again, enough to be spectacular if we had not been spoiled by the just incredible displays out west. We enjoyed them nevertheless. Behind and beyond the flowers, the large properties that have been ranches all across the country are now called plantations. One of them at least was clearly planting sugar cane.

I was surprised by the number of actual bike trails and designated lanes marked off on the roads in Florida, so I did a little research. Let's face it, they should be the best in the country with year-round biking weather, plenty of natural beauty and a flat terrain that makes bicycling easy, the region should be bicyclist heaven. As a deeply red state it is easy to understand why such projects might not be a high priority but new rail-trails are being steadily added and expanded especially in the northern half of the state. Between 2001 and 2016, they added more than 200 miles of multiuse asphalt and concrete paths: not a blistering pace, but at least they are still building.

There is also more traffic. One woman rolling forward out of a parking lot waiting to turn into the traffic was reading her phone and not paying any attention at all to the bike lane she had to cross first. She wasn't even looking out of the window. I shouted at her and fortunately the driver's window was down, so she heard me clearly, jumped out of her skin and stood on the brakes. She stopped right on the edge of the bike lane. We were never in any real danger—we could have stopped in time if we needed to, but still. Hopefully she had something to think about too.

What is commonly known as Flea Across Florida is a 275-mile yard sale stretching along Highway 90 from Pensacola all the way to Live Oak. (Why not all the way to Jacksonville is a mystery). Traditionally, the Flea Across Florida event takes place twice every year, the first and second Friday and Saturday in April as well as September. So here we were tooling down Highway 90 on the second weekend in April and they were everywhere. Single cars parked up under some shade, all the way to entire supermarket parking lots filled with vendors. Vendors with all types of "goods, collectibles, vintage treasures" along with a bunch more with let's just say questionable resale value. One of the primary goals of the sale is to help revitalize and support the historic communities along the highway, and surely that was working because there seemed to be a lot of chat and a lot of business going on.

As we cycled passed a golf course it came as a bit of a shock: it was unusual. Thinking back I only remembered one other course in the whole trip, next to the bike path around the outskirts of Tucson.

Until now, if we were not the only people in the hotels and motels, it felt like we were the youngest. But for the last two nights, the hotels are filled with youngsters. Teenagers with mountain (gravel) bikes, college kids being rowdy at the pool at 9p. We even provided some of them. Dave-the-Younger's son Alex and daughter Audrey, and of course their mother Neala, showed up for the evening, then were off on another adventure until they returned for the real event, the finish line at St Augustine Beach.

Due to a hotel SNAFU there were insufficient rooms that night. Dave-the-Elder and I bunked together, as did the ladies I believe. Dennis and Captain America were punted across the street. Consolation prize: free beer that night. Easily worth it. The beer was served at El Patio the dinner choice conveniently situated between the two hotels. A final treat that evening was a candidate for next year's ride being invited to dinner with us. We had plenty of answers for him. A fellow Kilimanjaro-bagger, he was more of an all-purpose adventurer like myself than the big dogs, but it was quickly apparent that he would make a splendid addition to 2024 XC.

A very touching moment at dinner, when Dave-the-Elder called us all to order and announced that it was his wedding anniversary. It was also the first anniversary that he and Cathy, his wife of 45 years, had spent apart. He wanted to call to wish her a happy anniversary and to have us all say hi. So we did. While Bobby videoed the whole event from the other end of the table, each of us in turn making some pithy, sweet, vulgar or humble remark, all of which of course showed how much we loved and respected him, and appreciated her sacrifice.

After supper Bobby and Shelley the ice cream hounds rustled up a posse to head into the center of town for a scoop, which was a lovely way to spend a few more minutes with Dave-the-Younger's family.

Sunday April 16 Alachia FL to East Palatka FL Elevation: 16ft

Temp: 58f - 88f Ascent: 1401ft Distance 66 Miles

We suddenly seemed to be able to smell victory and there was an unspoken but unmistakable release of tension and everyone in a carefree frame of mind. I was acutely aware of my own change of demeanor because I knew how much pressure I was putting on myself to stay safe, fit, and healthy but it seemed to affect everyone including the weather gods who finally seem to have given up leaving the air wind-free and warm. At one of the water stops, Bobby bought donuts! Dave-the-Younger and Betsy found masks to wear, then just as mysteriously made them vanish again, It was that kind of day. Sultry hot so I had to stand in the shade when we were stopped.

I have no idea where these masks came from or where they went.

One of my favorite shots from the whole trip. It tells you everything.

Lunch was at a trailhead of the Palatka Lake Butler State Trail and again somehow it seemed perfectly fitting that this was the day there were other cyclists, regular folk, making brief conversation with us as they pedaled by. Somehow it made me feel like we were part of the scene instead of merely rolling through it. We spent the afternoon tooling along the trail's shady route through the swamps / bayou all the way into Palatka.

Clockwise from D-t-E: Kevin; RT; Shelley; Betsy; Dennis; Bill; Steven; D-t-Y; Kevin

Why I like bike paths.

Brilliantly, Betsy had figured out how to meet her husband Glenn and sons John and Ryan at one of the many intersections so they could ride the last 10 miles together.

Just before the final bridge was a Dairy Queen and so there was another compulsory ice cream stop. The service was amazing. Having stood in line at one window waiting to be served, by the time one had walked to the second window ten feet away, the order seemed to be ready. It was only another 10 feet before one started the losing battle to get it into one's mouth before it went on the floor. Because I'm a pig, and because despite that I always order a small, I managed to consume the vast majority of my calories, but others were not so lucky.

Then just another skip over the St Johns River and we were done for the day. It was a weird motel in three pieces, the reception and breakfast room having their own building. The pool was open and happy hour was held there, but it was almost too hot, and there was no shade. It was not hot enough I have to admit, to tempt me into the too cold water. Picky picky. Naturally Bill had no such concerns and performed his customary pool-emptying bomb dive and a few laps while he tried to persuade the rest of us to join him. No thanks this beer is perfectly refreshing enough.

Best restaurant name of the trip goes to Corky Bell's Seafood at Gator Landing. If only we could actually have eaten there. It had spectacular views from a magnificent sprawling deck that tumbled in layers down to the water. We had been unable to make reservations and the wait for a table was over an hour. Doug and I snuck into the bar to grab a quick one while the backup plan was hatched, and soon a bunch of other folks found us. I finally managed to coerce Bill into buying a round at an establishment that served alcohol and then rather unsportingly got as many people as I could to add an order to the tab. To his great credit Bill took it like a gentleman. Then we all had to guzzle them at a rather unseemly rate while Dennis stood around tapping his foot.

Monday April 17 East Palatka FL to St Augustine Beach FL Elevation: 0ft

Temp: 60f - 85f Ascent: 279 ft Distance: 33 Miles

The last morning was a contemplative affair. We ate breakfast pretending everything was normal, but it wasn't. I imagine it was like the last day of the Tour de France. There's still a little riding to do, but we could do it in our sleep. The race was done, the winners had won (in our case, gloriously, that would be all of us) and now this was more of a victory parade than a final tour segment. We (yes even me) cleaned up our bikes, and in a show of unity, respect, honor, and pride, we all donned our COLA jersey/uniforms, and the victory parade started to roll. We rode in a tight group along a tree-lined bike path all the way into the old town of St Augustine. Wonderfully Betsy's son John joined us for the first 32.9 miles of the ride (give or take).

In uniform. RT; Kevin; Betsy; Bill; Doug; Bobby; D-t-Y; Dennis; D-t-E; Shelley; Steven

When we got to the edge of town, we regrouped again to create an even tighter group right in front of the sag wagon which was to give us cover one last time as we crossed the narrow bridge across the Matanzas River in downtown St Augustine. We were all lined up on the grid in front of the van, F1-style, but I needed to pee. Badly. I ran behind the van, saw a parking lot and was all ready to use it for cover when I noticed that every vehicle in it was a Police Cruiser. Better still, some of them were occupied. Desperate, I asked the occupant of the first cruiser what a boy could do. He told me to go into the Station. Back passed the gang, shouting apologies, and into the front door. The receptionist was not keen to let me through the air-lock, but presumably a) my age b) my outfit which clearly was not capable of hiding much c) my face which did not know whether to turn red or blue, caused her to relinquish and I shot through the door before she changed her mind.

In a completely different frame of mind, and amid ironic applause (all I could do was make a polite bow and remount my trusty steed), the peloton finally set off through town. As we crossed the bridge, several pedestrians started hootin' and hollerin' and taking pictures. Other peds turned to watch the spectacle of a dozen uniformed riders followed by their support bus and trailer taking up the whole lane. Now it really was a victory parade.

How do I know it was 32.9 miles? Because mom was counting, and in a class act, John peeled off from the group right before we entered the St. Augustine Beach parking lot after the shortest day of the trip: 33.1 miles for the day.

In addition to the hardy folks who had cheered us across the bridge, more than a dozen supporters were there at the line. They included I'm humbled to say, three who'd come to confirm for themselves that I'd actually done it: my son Adam who happened to be in Orlando at the time (but who'd promised to be there regardless) and our lovely friends Ken and Sue Franklin who also had driven up from Orlando that morning. Priceless. Absolutely priceless.

Speechless. Absolutely speechless. I might have been numb emotionally as I tried to process being done, but having people turn out to share this crowning moment with me was emotionally overwhelming. It was hard putting simple sentences together. Fortunately Adam, Sue and Ken are all low maintenance people and all seemed to understand that we didn't need words. Their being present was beyond enough. They helped and watched as we maneuvered the bikes over the sea wall and down onto the surf line. Adam braved wet feet to get a picture of the B Team with their front wheels in the Atlantic, got a group photo of the Champagne celebration, and then it was time to check into the hotel and find lunch.

Sláinte! Victory roll call: Bill; Doug; Betsy; Dave-the-Younger; Kevin; Steven; Bobby; RT; Shelley; Dave-the-Elder; Dennis. And for good measure: up on the steps looking on Sue and Ken Franklin!

Random folks on the beach

The B Team!! RT; Shelley; Dave-the-Elder;

All the visitors were invited to join us for lunch, and the four of us randomly ended up at a table with Dennis, Bill and I'm embarrassed to say a couple of others I do not remember. I only bring it up because we actually had quite a lively conversation, with Sue in her usual dogged fashion baiting Bill with well-aimed questions and counter-proposals. It was fun because Bill happily took up the challenge.

We still couldn't relax because three of us had bikes that needed to be shipped home, which meant loading up the van and driving several miles to Island Life, the bike-shipping-specializing bike shop. Another hour lost, while Adam, Ken and Sue (who had never met before) cooled their heels together. But finally I was all done, and the rest of the day was ours. Except that it was 3pm already.

The Franklins and I had agreed in advance that we would all enjoy a visit to Castillo de San Marcos, a fort that has guarded the city's waterfront for over four centuries. They because they love forts and castles, me because I love National Parks, of which this is (a Historical) one. Critically I hoped to replace my National Parks Passport, the original having received a fatal injury when I spilled coffee over it earlier in the trip.

We arrived at the Castle with 15 minutes to spare before the Visitor Center closed. But they had the replacement Passport book, and I christened it with the Castillo's stamp and finally, finally I could relax. It was a spectacularly beautiful afternoon, and I for one just meandered around with my brain in neutral, loving life. Good times, good people, good weather. The views of the city and the bridge we'd crossed so triumphantly earlier in the day were at least as good as the views inside the well-preserved fortress.

Lovely view from the fort across to this morning's final bridge of the ride (under van escort)

Too late for any guided tours, which generally enhance such visits ten-fold, I think we were all pretty much done when it was time to be done, and we all piled back into Adam's car for the five-mile-or-so ride back to the hotel, the Franklin's car, and the shuttle to dinner. We bid a very fond fair well to Sue and Ken, and then to our amusement/frustration discovered that dinner was walking distance from the Castillo. Adam decided therefore to drive back, so he could leave directly from the restaurant rather than make yet another round trip.

We therefore got there first, and early, so the restaurant was not yet open. We bumped into Doug and Kevin and their wives, and agreed that the sporting thing to do was to repair to the nearest open facility and quench our thirsts while we waited for the others, who presently drove by our table as they looked for parking.

Catch 27 did not have a table large enough for our now significantly expanded party, (with 20+ people, few would) but we did have two large adjacent tables which was nearly as good. Adam had Old Bay poached shrimp with datil pepper cocktail sauce and remoulade sauce, and I had Blackened fish with orzo pasta, cherry tomatoes, Tuscan kale and Parmesan in a kale pesto cream sauce. Perhaps more importantly we had Catch 27 G&T's with St. Augustine Gin, Thyme Tonic, and Pink Peppercorn, and of course I had to have a shot of the gin to make sure I knew what it was doing in the G&T. Definitely more importantly it was just a wonderful Last Supper. Lots of reminiscing, fond farewells, hugs, tears.

But wait! There is more! Dennis had one more surprise up his sleeve! Back at the hotel he gathered the team together around a table in the foyer. He had a wonderful customized trophy for each of us, commemorating the ride, and as he handed them out individually he had something to say about each of us and a touching related gift. I remember Kevin got inner tubes to celebrate his record number of flats, and I got a jar of Pepper Jelly he'd noticed me admiring at Brady's (one of my favorite restaurants), an equally fitting gift acknowledging my fondness for our nightly culinary explorations. And with that, we were done.

The End