Special to The Washington Post
By Barbara J. Saffir
Sunday, October 20, 2002; Page E01
They were the words this weekend cyclist with fortysomething bones, and a twentysomething spirit, longed to hear: "City Girl is handling the trail pretty well."
"City Girl" was the nickname I'd earned from my fellow riders after biking along a leg of Florida's 46-mile Withlacoochee Trail. Perhaps they'd doubted my prowess because of the grimace I had failed to conceal when they told me how far we'd be riding that day (30 miles!). Truth be told, biking the flat, well-groomed path wasn't difficult at all, but deciding which of Central Florida's bicycle trails to pedal had been.
Within an 80-mile radius of Orlando, there are five paved trails 16 miles or longer. Two more lie just a tad beyond that. Since I could devote only three half-days to a ride, I opted to limit myself to one locale.
Should I amble along the Pinellas Trail on the Gulf Coast? It starts in the velvety green fishing village of Tarpon Springs and meanders south for 34 miles to St. Petersburg. Or could I cover the grueling, 29-mile straightaway through the sun-baked Green Swamp on the Van Fleet Trail? Maybe I should choose an easier 29-mile course along the Suncoast Parkway Trail north of Tampa -- or try out Orlando's newly extended 19-mile West Orange Trail near Walt Disney World.
Nope, I decided. Even though I'm only a recreational rider -- my usual jaunt is 14 miles along Washington's Capital Crescent Trail -- I opted for Florida's longest-paved path, the Withlacoochee Trail State Park, which follows two defunct 1890s railroad lines.
I longed to pedal and pedal and pedal. And that's just what I accomplished, setting a personal best by biking that 30 miles the first day. With the path seldom rising above a six-degree grade, I never felt a bit of pain.
I was also drawn to the trail because much of it is isolated from Florida's tourist-trodden circuits, and it boasts a Wild West flavor from its turn-of-the-century boom towns. Plus, it cuts through the 154,368-acre Withlacoochee State Forest, dubbed by the World Wildlife Fund as one of the "Top 10 Coolest Places You've Never Seen in North America."
The Withlacoochee -- which takes its name from an Indian word meaning "crooked river" -- seems to retreat through time. Its northern trail head appears firmly planted in modern-day Florida, beginning in a somewhat Fellini-esque setting of asphalt roads plotted through empty lots in a housing development. Toward the trail's midsection, the landscape -- with its 1960s-era towns -- starts to resemble Old Florida. Finally, in the cowboy community at the trail's southern end, time has downright stood still: Trilby, with its pink wooden church and petite post office, appears unfazed by 21st-century worries and Disney, a little more than an hour east.
Although I was staying at a friend's house near the northern trail head, I began the first day of my excursion closer to the Withlacoochee's midpoint in Inverness. I joined a bike group headed by Chris Trangos and Ken Spilios, members of Rails to Trails of the Withlacoochee, the nonprofit association that helps maintain the path.
Nearly every Thursday morning, the group invites riders to wheel along with them from Inverness to Istachatta, a teeny outpost of about 65 residents along the banks of the languid Withlacoochee River. Typically they chow down on biscuits and gravy or other rustic fare at Istachatta's General Store and then loop back. Although their trek attracts the occasional tourist, it's mainly residents, retirees and snowbirds who ride the out-of-the-way trail.
This 15-mile stretch is the trail's busiest point, as bikers share the lane with in-line skaters, walkers and the occasional baby stroller. Virtually the entire 12-foot-wide asphalt pathway, which is fashioned with thousands of recycled tires, is handicapped accessible, including most of the picnic pavilions along the way.
Inverness is the biggest "city" on the trail. Its 1912 courthouse-turned-museum, with its copper-topped cupola, is listed on the National Register of Historic Places. Elvis Presley filmed part of "Follow That Dream" here in the summer of '61.
As we pedaled away from the brick courthouse, one of my fellow riders startled me.
"Most wildlife shies away from you," Spilios said.
"What kind of wildlife lives here?" I inquired fretfully as I watched the trail-side houses start to dwindle.
"You could possibly see an alligator right on the side," he responded with a grin. Rattlesnakes, armadillos and an endless bevy of birds live here, too. (I never did run into a gator while riding, but I did bump into one that evening at Stumpknockers, a restaurant on Inverness's town square, known for its gator steaks and crispy fried gator nuggets.)
During the 30-mile round trip that day, the scariest thing I spied was a flock of wild turkeys dawdling under moss-drenched oak trees. I also saw gobs of tortoise burrows, though I escaped any brush with the snakes and other creepy critters that share their dens.
The next day during another 30-mile ride, though, I did encounter something scary.
While my friend and I were biking alone on the remote southern leg of the trail, which swings through cattle ranches and the Withlacoochee Forest, we learned that hunting is permitted on either side for roughly a dozen miles. In the midst of the forest, Iowan Walt Doyle, his wife and another couple on bikes stopped dead in their tracks when they spotted signs cautioning riders about the hunting zone.
"We reversed our course because of it," said Doyle, a hunter himself. "We voted 4 to 0 against continuing."
Although I was also wary of any cowboy who might be aiming his shotgun my way, it wasn't enough to stop me because I was mesmerized by the procession of sunshine-yellow wildflowers, milky-white plum blossoms and soothing green cabbage palms.
I did, however, broach the subject later with trail manager Harry Mitchell, especially because I didn't see any signs proclaiming hunting dates. He assured me that the path is safe and that hunters are barred from carrying loaded guns across it. "We've never had any incidents," he said.
As it turns out, that part of central Florida boasts a gun-toting Wild West legacy. Nearby San Antonio still hosts an annual rattlesnake festival, and not too far northeast of the trail is where federal agents blasted Ma Barker out of her hideout on Lake Weir in 1935. The entire region was once the site of a roaring phosphate boom that briefly rivaled California's bawdy Gold Rush days. The 1890s boomtowns spawned the railways that the Withlacoochee Trail now follows: Henry B. Plant's line linking Georgia to Tampa, and the phosphate-mining freight trains of the Silver Springs, Ocala and Gulf Railroad Co.
On the final day of my trip, I toured parts of the northern leg of the trail, stopping briefly in Hernando. It reminded me of the sleepy villages I knew as a kid traipsing through inland Florida in the 1960s.
If I return to the trail next year, I plan to take a dip in Hernando's lake alongside the great blue herons and coots. I'd also like to camp beside the Withlacoochee River and paddle its 83-mile canoe trail.
But for now, City Girl needs a little time to rest.
Barbara J. Saffir is a Bethesda freelance reporter who contributes frequently to The Washington Post.
© 2002 The Washington Post Company