The Horrible Hundred (Day One)

Clermont is a small town (population 24,200) and rests about twenty miles west of Orlando, just about smack in the middle of Florida. It is notorious among bicyclists around the country as the home of an event held each fall, affectionately known as the horrible hundred.

And what could be so horrible about a one hundred mile bicycle ride held anywhere in the flat state of Florida? Well, that is what I thought as I packed my gear and readied my bike for my first pilgrimage to this cycling Mecca.

A man needs to get away by himself every now and then. A sojourn would do me good. Good to get away from the tribe, see some new faces. I’m sure there are some guys from the club heading down there, but I see them every week so I don’t need to hook up with them for sure.

I rolled into Clermont around noon on Saturday. The festival was just getting started. A live band played some George Thorogood alongside the shores of picturesque Lake Minneola. Vendors had tents set up where they sold colorful jerseys and displayed the latest in featherweight bikes. I picked up my tee shirt and commemorative jersey and then strolled around the festival a bit. Later, I rested on the tailgate of my Isuzu camper truck and popped a few cold bottles of beer I had on ice in the cooler.

There was not a single cloud in the sky. Cyclists and their families wandered about, enjoying the picnic atmosphere. Children played, their occasional screams waking my slumber as I nodded off, sleepy from the beer. Couples strolled along the lake, holding hands. The smell of barbeque and stale beer permeated the autumn air. The Norman Rockwell aspect of the whole thing was uncanny.

I arrived at Lake Louisa state park around four O’clock and had no trouble finding my campsite. A quick bike ride before sundown to scout out the park seemed in order. I had no trouble finding the shore of Lake Louisa. There, you will find a monument to 1st. Lieutenant Dean R. Gilmore, of Pennsylvania, who lost his life when the P-51 mustang he was flying crashed into the lake on November 11, 1944.

It seemed ironic that the sixty-fifth anniversary of that event had taken place just four days before the very day I was standing there. It was surely a perfect day back then in late November, just like the one I was enjoying now. For a moment, I do declare I even felt the specter of Lt. Gilmore when a cold wind blew across the lake in the late afternoon as the sun began to set. I hastened back to my campsite.

As I set up camp a young woman came by and informed me that the park ranger was giving a presentation later at the outdoor theatre, which was nestled in the woods, down by the lake. I assured her I would attend, not wanting to disappoint her. Dinner could wait, after all it was only six o’clock.

To say the theater was a little spooky would be an understatement. Benches were carved out of tree trunks and were arranged in a semicircle around a camp fire, behind which stood a wooden lectern. Torches cast long shadows in the dark night as I approached. It looked like a scene out of a tribal meeting of the TV show Survivor.

There were not many in attendance, just the young woman who had invited me and a young man dressed in military fatigues. They both seemed strangely out of place for some reason. I sheepishly crept in and grabbed a seat near the back.

The woman announced that the park ranger was taken ill unexpectedly but all was OK, as a substitute was found, in the person of the gentlemen dressed in fatigues. I did not catch his name as he introduced himself, but I did understand him when he began to talk about the air force flyer who had lost his life at the park back in 1944.

The story goes that the weather was perfect on that autumn day when the flyer’s plane suddenly nose dived into the middle of the lake. Although it was twilight when his plane went down, a rescue mission was launched at once. His body was recovered the next day, but the plane was never found. To compound the tragedy, a young woman drowned swimming in the lake the very same day as the plane crash.

The brave lieutenant had flown several missions over Africa in World War Two, and was a flight instructor at a local airbase. He was only twenty-three years old when his life was so tragically taken. The speaker informed us that legend has it that the serviceman’s spirit was still alive in the park. I asked him what he meant by that, and he said that sometimes people hear things in the night, but he did not elaborate further.

When the talk was over, I briefly met with the gentlemen and woman. I told them I was sorry that more people did not attend. They laughed it off and said how thrilled they were that I attended, especially since I had travelled all the way from South Georgia. On the way back to my campsite, I wondered out loud how they knew I was from South Georgia.

Most of the campers were there for the bike ride, and as such they were early risers, so quiet time came early that night. I prepared for bed by wearing my usual cold weather garb: bike pants, then sweat pants, then my bike jersey, covered by a long sleeve shirt, covered by my FSU pullover, then a sleeping bag covered by a blanket. If you have ever slept under the stars, you can appreciate how cold it gets when the sun goes down.

I awoke in the middle of the night to the muffled sound of what I can best describe as cannon fire in the distance. I peered through the screen window of my tent and saw flashes of light on the horizon coming from the direction of the lake. Surely this couldn’t be a storm, I thought, as the weather forecast was for clear skies.

A light was not needed to guide me as I stumbled through the woods, down the path to the lake. Even though there was no moon, the stars shown brilliant like white Christmas lights, accentuated by a sky that was blacker than coal. I strolled out on the pier towards the end where a figure in a gown stood facing away from me, holding a dim lantern.

The person did not move until I was immediately behind her, her features hidden beneath a white hood. "We've been waiting for you", she said in a whisper. At that moment, bright lights appeared from a plane approaching us from directly across the lake. It was so close overhead and approaching so fast and the light was so very bright and it was so low surely it would hit us!
I grabbed for the woman to save her from the collision as the plane roared just inches over the top of us. But just as I grabbed her, in that very instant, she was gone, my hands gathering nothing but air! The plane disappeared into the dark night and then all was silent.

On the far shore, there were several flashes of light that came in a flurry, then darkness. Then I heard the muffled rumble of artillery. The lake glowed as if covered by phosphorous. You could see the outline of giant gars swimming gracefully around the lake, as if in a procession. A shooting star dropped silently down from the middle of the sky and disappeared in front of me, seemingly so close I could reach out and touch it.

I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned suddenly to recognize the young man and woman from the talk earlier at the wooded theatre standing in front of me. "Sorry to frighten you, but we need you to be at your optimal level of alertness" he said. "God bless you, you are the strong one!" the woman declared, as she grabbed me tight and gently kissed my cheek.

"You must help us, no time to explain" the gentlemen said as they each grabbed a hand and squeezed so very tight. I instantly felt my body begin to weaken. I felt a rythmic effort by them as if climbing a hill on a bicycle. And with each effort, I grew weaker and breathed harder.

I began to see stars around me, as if I was gliding through the universe, higher and higher and further away. And then past planets and galaxies and in an instant even beyond the stars we climbed higher and higher still.

'We cannot try more, you must help us!" the gentlemen exclaimed. As if approaching fifty yards from the summit of a massive hill, I dug deep into my reserves and found a second wind of energy. I looked forward through the darkness and saw brilliant hues of color emanating from a small circle in front of us. Surely this is our destination and with it in sight, I will not falter now!

With my final effort we glided in through the brightly lit portal. Suddenly, everything was effortless and I felt powerful bolts of energy flow through me. I cannot describe this place, for it is not of the world we know. It is a familiar place, though, I am sure I have been here before.

"Good luck on your journey, God-speed!" she said as the woman gently pushed me forward. All was suddenly dark as I floated down, so ever softly and with the most pleasureful feeling. Softly down, then further down, and then down further, and further.

My whole body tingled as I regained consciousness, safe in the comfort of my tent. I checked the time on my watch, three AM. I ventured outside my tent and gazed up at the Big Dipper. All was quiet and still. Two shooting stars streaked silently across the entire expanse of sky simultaneously.

Things can be become confusing in the dark of night when a man finds himself alone in the wilderness. The line between things certain and familiar and those beyond normal comprehension become skewed a bit when you awaken in the middle of the night, and find yourself immersed in nature, away from the comfort and normalcy of your home and family. And such it was for me that night in the autumn of 2009.

The spirits of the Lieutenant and the woman who drowned were alive in the park. When they died their souls levitated from the earthly shackles than bound them during their lives, and found a temporary resting place in this beautiful park. To this very day, their presence was felt gliding on the surface of the gentle breezes that rustle the leaves on the branches of stately oak trees, along the majestic shores of Lake Louisa.

One cannot blame them for lingering here awhile before continuing on their journey. They enjoyed seeing the excitement on a boy’s face when his dad took him fishing at the lake for the first time. They accompanied families on nature hikes through the woods. They glided gracefully across the lake on catamarans, their bleached sails shining brilliant against the blue sky. They felt the passion of lovers who hide their lust inside a tent on a starry night. And on this particular evening, they touched the very soul of a solitary man who was on a simple sojourn.

There remain many unanswered questions regarding my encounter that evening with things beyond normal comprehension, but I suspect like many things in life, all will be made clear in time. But for now, suffice it to say my journey was made memorable by my encounter and my life has been forever enriched because of it.