2/28/26
That’s a dramatic title, and overall this post will cover more ecstasy than agony. But man, bike touring in general can really feel like a roller coaster from one day—nay, one moment—to the next… but I felt that especially here on the panhandle.
I’m writing this from Navarre, where I have one more full day left with these two cute kitties, Nike and Sombra. (Too many nature pics to squeeze them in here; I’ll plan to post cat pics in the next chapter.)
I left off last time in Panama City Beach.
My next destination was Fort Walton Beach. My Panama City Servas host Barbara kindly drove me six miles to give me a head start on what would otherwise have been a 44-mile day. I appreciated that; as it was, I arrived shortly before sunset. The riding day was very pleasant, with a separated bike-and-ped path next to the road for most of it. Although I was bicycling very close to the gulf, Barbara had explained that I wouldn’t actually be able to see the water for most of the way, which felt unfortunate. Still, I did pass one beautiful lake soon after embarking.
About halfway through that day, I stopped for lunch at a classic old-school “health food store,” which did my heart good.
(It was even right next door to a bike shop, though fortunately I had no need to stop in there for repairs.) I found a vegan falafel wrap in the cold case, and ate half of it in the small seating area outside. I saved the other half in case I might need it for dinner.
Navigating meals while bike touring and staying with Warmshowers hosts requires some creativity. Some hosts very generously provide dinner when you arrive. Others do not. Sometimes the host will tell you ahead of time which to expect (and sometimes it is in their Warmshowers profile) but if they don’t, it makes sense to not eat too much on the road in case they do offer a meal, but also to have something on hand in case they don’t. Sometimes I gently feel out the situation ahead of time, by letting them know that I don’t expect them to feed me, but that in case they were planning to, I follow a vegan diet, meaning that I avoid all animal products. Generally, if I do that, the host will write back with some indication as to whether they plan to provide a meal or not, so I can plan accordingly. I hadn’t taken this step in this case, though, so I knew I was winging it.
After lunch, I continued my ride, and as I approached Fort Walton Beach, the scenery got pretty darn amazing. I felt like I was in the Caribbean, looking out on some of that mesmerizing aquamarine water.
I ended up feeling slightly awkward at my hosts’ place, though. I pulled up to their house, just a few blocks from the beach, with a Cybertruck in the driveway. The listing for this host had indicated that the couple were very friendly, and sure enough, the husband—who happens to have a Brompton in his bike collection—came out to greet me warmly. I did feel a little nervous when he led me inside and mentioned that one of their three dogs often bites unfamiliar women, though I was slightly comforted when he mentioned that his wife was keeping this dog upstairs.
He showed me to my room and bathroom, and then headed out for his customary sunset walk along the beach. Shortly after, though, he returned and said that his wife had just cleaned their “apartment” for me, instead. He led me back to the carport, and into a snug Airbnb-looking space they had apparently converted from a single-car garage. The space did contain a bathroom with a shower, a mini fridge, and a microwave, and he gave me the Wifi code. He said to make myself at home, and then departed to walk the beach.
It wasn’t clear to me whether we would be dining together, meeting up later to converse, or…?
Not having heard anything after an hour or so, I concluded that this room was intended to be my space here, and that we would not be interacting any more during my stay. It felt a little weird and awkward, but I ate the falafel I had brought, and decided I could use the time to do some Cambly tutoring.
I actually ended up staying there for much of the following day, since I learned that my next host, in Navarre, would not be finished with work until after 5, and it was only about a 20-mile ride, so I figured it wouldn’t take long. (I was also excited to check out a nearby vegan taco truck I had just found on Happycow.net. The panhandle in general is not a very vegan-friendly region, but this place was just a few miles away, and had rave reviews.) The downside of staying longer, though, was that this tiny “apartment” seemed to be very well sealed, so despite my running the bathroom fan continuously—even overnight—I felt rather damp and clammy inside.
Still, I managed to do Cambly tutoring for several hours that next day, and also wrote a blog post. And, I made a point to go out to the beach for a bit of fresh air; it was only a few blocks away.
Unfortunately, though, although this beach was pretty, there was no place to sit and relax, and I didn’t really feel like walking, so I soon headed back to my hosts’ place. I arrived just as they were driving away for work. I thanked them for the stay, and we said goodbye. I planned to leave shortly afterward.
Just after they drove away, though, I found that the code they had given me to unlock the door to my space no longer seemed to work.
Oof.
All my stuff was in there. I needed to pack it up and get on my way soon.
I texted the husband, who said he would return shortly to let me in. I felt bad to inconvenience him, but was thankful he was willing to help.
Then I just sat outside on the deck for about an hour, until he returned.
By the time I got on the road, I was sad to realize that the vegan taco cart had closed. (I later learned they had also been set up inside a military base that day, so without a military ID I would not have been able to go anyway. This was a foreshadowing of things to come, but at the time I just felt sad, but hit the road.)
Despite first appearing to be about half the distance I had traveled so pleasantly the previous day, this day’s ride was a nightmare.
First there was the delayed start. Then the taco truck miss. And then, just riding on Hwy 98, which is a serious auto thoroughfare, with heavy traffic and mediocre bike accessibility.
At one point, Google Maps sent me several miles out of the way, which I didn’t really want to do in terms of time-and-distance savings, but I could tell it looked like a safer and less unpleasant alternative to 98.
I biked probably at least two and a half miles on this “detour,” when I discovered that they had routed me through a military base. I was asked for ID, and when I didn’t have a military ID, the uniformed soldier informed me that I would have to turn around. He was apologetic, and said that this happens to them pretty often—cyclists come through, having attempted to follow their Google Maps routing, only to have to backtrack.
The day was wearing on, with the sun descending, and I did not want to retrace those two and a half miles, only to be plopped right back at the same spot on that blasted Hwy 98. Furthermore, the soldier warned me to be careful going around a big curve just in the distance: “Cars really go fast around there, and they might not be expecting to see a bike.”
Deflated, I pedaled carefully back. The detour wasn’t even much safer or more pleasant than 98, although when I returned to the starting point, it did indeed get worse as I was met with two fast lanes of auto traffic in each direction, no bike lane, and a sand-covered, debris-strewn sidewalk to cycle on instead.
Darkness was falling as I finally approached this oasis of a home in Navarre.
My host here, Kelly, was to be my cat sitting “host,” in her absence, for these two weeks just now ending (as I write this.) But before my sit, I was headed to Pensacola for a couple of days, and she was willing to host me for a night on my way out, which is the only thing that made the whole plan workable. We had a wonderful conversation—over a Thai meal she insisted on treating me to from a place just down the road—and I was so grateful for her warmth and hospitality.
The next day I set out for Pensacola, and once again, the bike-touring agony flipped back to ecstasy as I pedaled through nearby Navarre Beach. (Though the bridge from Navarre to Navarre Beach was not pleasant to bike on, with one auto lane in each direction, steady traffic, no bike lane, and a sidewalk much too narrow for my rig.)
After several miles, I left Navarre Beach and entered the Gulf Islands National Seashore natural area.
I couldn’t use the restrooms there without paying something like a $15-20 national-parks entrance fee, but I found some free restrooms a few more miles down the road, and meanwhile enjoyed the breathtaking, white-sand-and-aqua-water views to either side of the road. Nice wide bike lanes had returned, as well.
Eventually, I reached Pensacola Beach, where my Host a Sister host picked me up to ferry me the remaining few miles (and hills, and a staggeringly long bridge) to her home.
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