Six Weeks on the Levee

Florida felt different this time.

Not louder. Not harder. Just different.

Most of my rides happened on the levee — long stretches of gravel cutting through the Everglades, flat and exposed. No climbs to interrupt the rhythm. No technical sections demanding sharp focus. Just steady pedaling and open sky.

You can’t really hide on the levee. If you stop pushing, you slow. If the wind turns against you, you feel it immediately. So I focused on constant movement. On the gravel under my tires. On the endless Everglades stretching beside me. On the wind moving the tall grasses.

Some days were good.

Most days were simply steady.

And that was enough.

 

One evening, I rode past the bench I used to quietly call “my bench.” It sits along the levee where the sunset hits just right. I’ve stopped there before. Sat there. Thought there.

This time, a couple was sitting on it.

I looked at them, smiled, and waved as I rode by. There was something peaceful about seeing someone else enjoying that place. It wasn’t my bench anymore.

And surprisingly, I wasn’t upset.

It felt like a quiet reminder that nothing is ever really ours. We just pass through.

Another afternoon, just as I was starting my ride, I saw a young man sitting on the edge of the levee playing guitar. I had never seen anyone out there doing that.

It made me smile.

What a beautiful way to enjoy this place.

There was something reassuring about it — someone else finding peace in the same wide horizon. Sitting still. Listening. Playing.

And I realized that riding there is my version of that.

Different movement.
Different rhythm.
Same kind of presence.

Not all of those miles were alone.

A few evenings, after laps at Markham, Jen and I sneaked out onto the levee for extra gravel miles. We rode side by side, mostly chatting away, sometimes quiet, occasionally looking at each other and smiling.

She told me she would never be out there if it weren’t for me. And I felt genuinely happy that she got to experience something I’ve always loved.

The openness.
The wind.
The simplicity.

One evening we misjudged the light. I had no lights and still miles to go. At one point she lost hers and had to sprint back the opposite direction, maneuvering in near darkness.

It was a little chaotic.
A little dramatic.
A little thrilling.

And somehow, very us.

But most of the time, it was just me.

The sun would start high and harsh when I rolled out. By the time I turned back, it would be sinking toward the horizon, wrapping the swamps in gold, orange, and deep pink. The air would cool. The wind would pick up. Birds would begin flying toward their spots for the night before dark.

Those were the moments I felt most alive.

Cool breeze.
Strong wind.
Color shifting across the sky.
Solitude stretching in every direction.

We’ve had a lot of shifts in our lives recently. Big ones. The kind that unsettle everything.

But every time I rolled onto that levee and saw the same horizon, the same grasses moving, the same birds settling in before nightfall, I felt reassured.

The world was still there.

I was still there.

Sometimes I would stop and watch the sun drop fully past the horizon and disappear. Watching that slow fade makes you realize how quickly every second is passing by — whether you’re ready for it or not.

Soon I will be back in my mountains — the place I love deeply. Back to climbing and forest-covered trails.

But I will always miss these steady miles.

The flat horizon.
The endless sky.
The simple act of pedaling forward with nothing in front of me but wind.

Florida didn’t give me epic rides this time.

It gave me perspective.

And that was exactly what I needed.