My philosophy of no freeways, no fast-food is broken. My plan to meander along the coast road is over and has been replaced with “please god make this journey end”. So leaving Pensacola I hop on the I-10 for the most direct and fastest route to Tallahassee I can find. It’s mind numbingly boring and after riding the backroads for the last three weeks, quite stressful and tense. Eighteen wheelers fly by, pushing me around in their turbulent airflow, I have all the control of a drunken toddler trying to skateboard. On top of this its lashing rain.
I arrived in Tallahassee late afternoon with the haunted look of a man who’s been kicked out of a Elton John tribute band for being too flamboyant. It’s been hours of riding. My wrists, ass and knees are killing me: truck stop rent boys have less wear and tear.
The Year of Living Aimlessly. 