Ruskin, Florida

It was  240 miles from Miami to my first Carnegie in Florida in Bradenton on the other side of the state, a mere hop-skip-and-jump compared to the 4,000 mile ride from Uruguay to the previous one in Guyana. 

Though the Carnegie in Bradenton is the southernmost Carnegie in the US, it is not the nearest to the Carnegie in Guyana, as there are five in between scattered through the Caribbean in Barbados, Saint Luca, Saint Vincent, Dominica and Trinidad.  It would have been nice to island-hop on the way back to the US dropping in on each, but the bike air fees would have been astronomical. The best bet would be to find someone with a yacht and a penchant for libraries and make a sea voyage of it.

I’d had nearly two hundred miles of rural riding through swamps and woodlands and orange groves and grazing cattle until I came to within fifteen miles of Bradenton, spring training home of the Pittsburgh Pirates, when the residential sprawl out from the Gulf of Mexico began. There was a sudden and dramatic transformation from rural to urban and with it came a maelstrom of traffic. The highway still offered a bike lane, which I had all to myself, but now I had traffic signals and turning vehicles and the general malfeasance of motorists to contend with, not the least of which was belligerent horn blasts.

Downtown Bradenton loomed in the distance marked by the twelve-story Bradenton Financial Center with it’s blue-green windows. Just a few blocks away was the historic Carnegie, which celebrated its centennial two years ago.  As exciting as setting eyes on it was the swelling of anticipation as I came near, as if I could feel it’s presence radiating out.   It was a classic with Doric columns and high windows and a pair of plaques flanking it’s entry, one acknowledging its origins and another it’s designation as a National Historic Place. 

A third double-sided plaque out front traced its history serving as the city’s library for sixty years.  When it was replaced by a much larger library it was transformed into a Historical Records Library, preserving the records of the county going back to 1855.  “Carnegie Library” still graced its facade.  

Less than two miles to the north over the Manatee River was another Carnegie in the smaller town of Palmetto.  It too was in pristine condition and glowed with all the magnificence that is the hallmark of just about every Carnegie, giving me a jolt of joy.  It was now a museum and faced the new bland library that had a sign forbidding bulky luggage and bed rolls.

It was Super Bowl Sunday, so the next order of business was finding a motel.  There was a Motel 6 thirty-three miles north outside of Tampa, where the next Carnegie awaited me.  I might make it by game time, but hoped I’d come upon a non-chain, locally-owned ‘50s era motel with some character.  I passed a handful on my way into Bradenton, but had no desire to stop so soon or double  back to them.  

A motel catering to transients on the outskirts of Palmetto was tempting, but it had no vacancies. Though I was looking forward to watching The Game, I felt disappointment that I couldn’t take advantage of the fine camping in the orange groves I was passing.  I had camped in the rich aroma of a grove the night before.  It was the first night in weeks that I hadn’t been besieged by mosquitoes.  The temperature may have been a contributing factor, as it was 43 degrees when I set out in the morning, colder than it was in Chicago.  I wore the gloves and tights I had brought along for the first time, never needing them in South America.  

As I approached Ruskin I spotted another old style motel, but it too had no vacancies.  I feared I might have to see if any of the many RV parks had a television room and allowed tenters.  Some advertised WiFi and heated pools and bingo, but not “tenters welcome.”  On the other side of Ruskin was at last a motel without a “No Vacancies” sign.  It had one last room and was cash only.  I was fortunate to get it as in the next few hours quite a few people stopped hoping for a place for the night.

I arrived in time for the last couple of hours of the pre-game show.  I had a fine spread of food thanks to the dumpster of first Aldis I had come upon outside of Bradenton—three pellets of Brie, yogurt, bananas and cranberry juice.  I would have gathered much more, but that was all that my panniers could accommodate.

I had no rooting interest in the game.  Whoever won I could feel happy for, but likewise I would feel sympathy for whoever lost.  Both coaches and both quarterbacks had strong reasons to root for.  Kansas City had gone much, much longer without a Super Bowl win, fifty years, so I could feel better for their fans.  But they’d had a strong, competitive team the past few years while the 49ers had been woeful.  Their turn-around from the second worst record a year ago to the best record this year was remarkable and to win it all would top it off.  As close and as exciting as the game was, I was fighting fatigue and looking forward to going to sleep.  Kansas City made a heroic comeback, which it’s fans could greatly celebrate, but the poor 49ers fans had to suffer a collapse when they thought they had it won.  

My strongest emotion by far for the day was that climatic moment of laying eyes on two Carnegies.  And I could go to sleep looking forward to three more such pleasurable moments the next day in Tampa and St. Petersburg.