Homeward Bound

Sitting on the sidewalk in front of Pure Triumph I got a bird's eye view of the hectic morning traffic of the metropolis, the three lanes of stop-and-go cars heading into downtown on Highway One. Its a whole different world here, even as the clock closes in on ten o'clock, and its a healthy reminder why people think I'm crazy when I express pleasure in my modest 25-mile commute. My chunk of Highway One is almost never stop-and-go, and the views are quite different.

Pure Triumph is an enthusiast's store, a place staffed by grizzled men with funny accents, tattoos and an obvious history for the past glories of the Triumph marque. I feel a bit of a fraud because I have no history with the past glories of Triumph, and I want nothing to do with opening up the exhaust or squeezing a few more horsepower out of my 865cc parallel twin. I rejoice in the relaxed state of tune that gets me to 90mph before I know it.
I have come to the store for the "first service" an oil and spark plug change and a general check of my machine. I've also ordered the Triumph fabric saddlebags ($250), to give me somewhere to carry my crap while I'm out and about. Over time I've found a lockable top case and fabric panniers give me a good combination of storage without overwhelming my motorcycle with bulk. Large hard panniers are wonderful things but they tend to make the motorcycle cumbersome. I need storage for my waterproofs, my tire pressure gauge, my sunscreen, a couple of extra bungees and a rag or two. I'm going to work, not Patagonia. The other bag gives me room to add stuff along the way, like groceries, and while I'm at the movies i can lock my helmet in the top case.

While the Trumpet is in the lift in the well appointed service area, I sprawl on a leather couch, turn off the TV and peruse the motorcycle magazines piled by the coffee machine. Michael, the parts guy is chatty, and we talk about motorcycles- he actually owns and rides a Triumph Daytona, a whizz-bang crotch rocket with a smaller engine than my "classic" but with almost twice the horsepower (and its a few pounds lighter to boot). On the subject of boots I decide to buy a pair of reinforced motorcycle boots with ankle protection. That's another $145 on my bill, but I know my wife, who doesn't nag, likes me to be responsible, and take care of myself. if she's got peace of mind while I'm riding I'm happy.The motorcycles on display are always worth checking out too. A used T100 ( a heavily chromed edition of my Bonneville), lovely in red and black is still on the floor, on consignment from an owner who is asking $6500- not worth it to me when I got my own for $1200 more. Apparently not worth it to someone else either who bought a new T100 and added slim leather saddlebags and a Triumph windshield as extras. There are several cruisers on the floor too, Rocket Threes, 2300cc's of conspicuous excess, as well as the feet forward Bonneville Americas and Speedmasters, clever variants on the Bonneville twin cylinder engines. The Scrambler is gone, sold presumably despite it's gruesome pea green paint job.

Then its time to go, almost before I'm ready, full of water and motorcycle articles, an imprint of my bottom firmly planted on the leather couch. My Bonneville is becoming my own vision of this classic thoroughbred- bags in place, exhausts firmly muffled and a can of weatherproofing spray in the newly attached saddlebag.They come with a plastic "water resistant" cover in its own pouch, but I'd rather make the fabric as weatherproof as I can because I'm reluctant to add to my woes when it starts raining, by fumbling around with a motorcycle pannier condom. The weather looks threatening as I pull out of the Pure Triumph lot and faced with a 170 mile trip home I'm determined to make the most of it, come what may. I'm on the mainland and I want to ride.
The freeway out of of Fort Lauderdale is a long sweeper of a modern highway, rolling artificial hills surrounded by the developer's dream of endless tract homes, large malls (mauls) inadequate water supplies and the sole attraction of "convenience." It takes twenty miles of 6 lane highway to break free of the mess, and by that time the waterlogged Everglades are lining the roadway. Naples ahead, Miami to the south and Highway 27 crossing the freeway shambles, marked on the horizon only by a long line of power poles. The junction off Interstate 75 shows South Bay to the North and Homestead to the south, a minor paradox explained by the location of South Bay, which is a depressed farming community is on the south shore of Lake Okeechobee.

Highway 27 lives in my memory as a wide sweeping highway with more vertical dips than horizontal curves passing cane fields, orange orchards and small towns loosing their economies but gaining snowbirds all the time. Coastal Florida has priced itself out of many people's range but inland Florida has acres available for development, and affordable too. Highway 27 offers a four lane drive-by for all of it. This far south its path clips the Everglades and I find myself far from the crowded downtown streets of coastal Florida. The clouds are clearing and the sun shines down on grasslands, miles and miles of watery grass.

Krome Avenue breaks off to the right in a sweeping curve and takes off in two lanes towards Homestead. This is farm country, lots of actual Mexican field workers, nurseries, trucks, tractors, pick ups, mud and vegetables. Long straightaways interrupted by traffic lights and cross streets, but the Bonneville is a point and shoot kind of motorcycle, almost all in fifth gear, picking off bored motorists one at a time, sneaking past 18-wheelers at the front of long lines of 30mph traffic. Krome is deadly in a car, its a challenge and very rewarding on a motorcycle.

And then Homestead, tidy, quiet and agricultural, it reminds of nowhere so much as Mexican California, perhaps Watsonville in rural Santa Cruz County. And then there's lunch, a late lunch but worth the wait, the best Mexican in south Florida. And so home, tired, to bed.