Panama City, Florida

Yesterday we entered Bay County, Florida, and, without expecting it, found ourselves on Central Standard Time! Having just the day before been amazed at the speed with which we crossed the Floridian Peninsula, for me this was another marker of just how incredible a machine the bicycle is. Now I've appreciated this fact for some time, from when a bike first expanded my 13 year-old horizons to enable trips to swimming holes 7 or 8 miles away, made my college commute to class almost instantaneous, and showed me that traversing DC's city streets with 30+ lbs of groceries was not only possible but offered a unique kind of satisfaction.

Now that my days, measured in miles, are timed by thousands of pedal strokes and the steady thrum of two wheels on the road, there's ample opportunity to dwell on just what bikes can do. They've carried 33 people who range from racing cyclists to those who still go cross-eyed at the mention of "derailleur" about 450 miles in less than a week. Most of all, they're powered by a renewable energy resource which our country enjoys in superabundance: calories! Even after doing about 400 miles in 5 days, I can now tell you how quickly a generously provided Southern Breakfast (thank you Sopchoppy Baptist Church!) will put fuel in the muscles and energy coursing in the blood vessels.

That our mode of transport just happens to display the virtues of forsaking vehicles glutted on gasoline is especially poignant as the towns we see brace themselves for the impact of oil on their shores. It is clear to the people here that BP will be unable to do anything to staunch the flow of oil into the Gulf until August, when they will attempt, in the middle of hurricane season, to drill a second hole which they hope will relieve the pressure enough to stop the spill. No one is holding their breath; the oyster fishermen in Apalachicola and the beach shop owners in Parker, Fl, and Panama City all know that their hard-earned livelihood and their communities will be utterly devastated, if not completely destroyed. The sense of impending disaster is palpable, and as we head west and hear that oil is now lapping the shores of Mobile and Pensacola we understand that we're getting a last glimpse of this very beautiful place as it never will be again.

If that's a slightly somber tone for what should be (and is) an overwhelmingly exciting and positive experience, it's worth asking how we got here, and where (and how) we go.