I took my lunch break late last night, long after my two colleagues took theirs, and I set off on an island tour. It was a perfect night for it, a nearly full moon, a strong east breeze clearing out the humidity and pushing lumpy white clouds fast overhead. At 43miles per gallon my Bonneville isn't as frugal with a gallon of premium as my Vespa 250 (70mpg), but its still allows me to rack up the miles without worrying about the cost of dead dinosaurs. My Shell credit card gets me a five percent rebate too and that's starting to add up these days:
I was enjoying the night so much I took a couple of back roads to my first stop. Denny's on North Roosevelt is one of the few overnight eateries on the island and at 3:30 in the morning I pretty much had the Formica dining room to myself.
I have been reading The Water is Wide by Pat Conroy, a biography of a year teaching Gullah inhabitants of a 1970s barrier island in South Carolina. It's tough to read a book at work where I'm constantly interrupted by the phone or the radio, plus reading at 2 am tends to put me to sleep, so I prefer to write my blog between radio calls. Two strong cups of coffee and some peace and quiet were entirely refreshing at Denny's. 
I got back on the Bonneville at 3:55 and took off for Stock Island. Florida is a helmet-optional-for-adults-with-health-insurance State, and though I generally ride with a lid I make no apology for the times when I take to my motorcycle without. Last night was one of those occasions. It was quite glorious to hear the engine purr, to feel the reinforced breeze grabbing my hair and forcing my eyes to water slightly behind my glasses. When I'm all togged up with Kevlar and fiberglass and leather I have to force myself to feel the sensation of riding and it takes more self control to slow down and smell the passing saltwater. Glove-less, helmet-less and with my shirt snapping in the breeze I have all the inducement I need to slow down and feel the ride. It takes me back to my feckless youth when rain gear was a garbage bag and cold weather gear was waxed cotton, gross beyond measure where it rubbed the skin. Waxed cotton you say? No really, we wore canvas jackets and pants impregnated with solid kerosene wax to make it waterproof, which also rendered it smelly and and greasy to the touch. 
Nowadays even my panniers have reflective tape sewn into them. I was young and enjoyed riding in the 1970s and in my defence I knew no better. Nowadays I know better but I like to ride not just for the pleasure of the ride but also for the memories. Just being out in the warm night air, unarmored is a powerful memory aid. I grow weary of all the arguing over helmet laws because one side is shrill and the other makes me feel old, so I do my own thing and am prepared to take the consequences. Just as I revel in the pleasures of my memories.
College Road on North Stock Island, Mile Marker 5, is where I like to go when I want to practice taking some curves and pretending for a mile that I'm in the "countryside" and last night didn't disappoint. I played with my sight lines, took the curves with my toe touching ground near the apex as I practiced applying torque in the curve to increase traction and remind myself how to ride in the twisties if ever I find myself back among the mountains. 
After a few runs back and forth between the mangrove hedges I stopped to enjoy the post-eclipse moon at the edge of the lagoon and watched silver clouds scudding across the sky, driven by the winds. Across the water I could see the bright lights of the landfill, known locally as Mount Trashmore, the highest point in the Lower Keys. 
Nearer to me were a few squares of lighted windows in the dark rectangular bulk of the hospital, where I wondered might there be a few inmates staring at the ceiling counting their remaining hours and wishing they had filled their time with more adventure and less certainty. Perhaps a helmetless rider rendered immobile? Don't think I don't think about it!
Back in the city I turned left at the triangle and took off south on what Florida calls Highway A1A, which the city labels as South Roosevelt Boulevard and which I label as my favorite route into town. Since Hurricane Wilma deposited feet of sand across the road and closed it for months Florida has rebuilt the roadway, improved the bike and jogging path and created a smooth black ribbon of four lane highway. To the left as you head inbound you have the Straits of Florida, 90 miles of saltwater to Cuba, and to the right you pass the East Martello Tower:
And then a scattering of hotels, Double Tree, Hyatt, Sheraton famous chains all of them boasting modern amenities and ocean views in familiar architecture of the massive sort. Coconut palms transform the familiarity by shaking their fronds under the yellow street lights and turning the hotels into tropical resorts. I'm alone on the road and the Bonneville's headlight illuminates the sand and crab grass along the bridle path, the track where Key West's elite supposedly exercised their horses in the days before horsepower.
From Smathers Beach its a quick run up White Street, then Virginia to the back of the police station, park the motorcycle (rear wheel towards the curb, out far enough to be visible of course, Irondad) and back up to dispatch, lungs full of fresh sea air brain full of fresh appreciation for the rides possible in even a small place like Key West. All is calm in the room, an attempted suicide is recovering nicely at the hospital, no fights downtown, no burglaries, no lost tourists. Time to sit and ponder and feel the air, hear the motor in my head and plan the ride home in an hour followed by a fall into bed mind still buzzing with the ride. Do car drivers understand the stimulation they are missing?-----
PS Thank you Blogspot for restaring spel chek after only six weeks of waiting. I was destroying too many brain cells trying, and failing, to catch all my own flubs. Oh Great Google! I'm putty in their unseen hands!
