A Cold And Not Quite Frosty Morn

Were you to suppose that sleeping in a van is almost like sleeping in a house you would be quite wrong, but after none months ownership I have decided finally what it is like. It is exactly like finding your lost youth and sleeping in a  van is a private and personal sleepover with your pre-pubescent self. This moment of self awareness came to me last Saturday morning at about 5:45 when I opened the back doors of the van and stepped onto the cold wet grass in bare feet wearing only a pair of shorts. It was 45 degrees, and not precisely balmy. I took this photograph about an hour later when there was some light.

The day promised at least a little sunshine as I watched a few cars passing on Highway 76 from Stuart. We were about 25 miles south of the town of Okeechobee on the shores of the lake. I am required by marital law to sleep in the bed on the side closest the rear doors and furthest from the body of the van wherein is located the toilet compartment. This meant that on waking up unreasonably early the only way I could reach my clothes, including shoes and socks was to slip out of the back and walk outside round to the front. That or wake up the sleeping wife. The choice was obvious even through chattering teeth.

With camera in hand and eager dog wide awake we set off to explore the mowed grasslands around Port Mayaca lock. The night had passed in the sort of deep empty silence you find in wildernesses and yet here we were at a modest roadside rest area. I felt restored by sleep but filled with the anticipation of another day of not having a  clue what comes next. it's the sort of feeling you have to bury under a ton of routine and social obligations and endless parades of paperwork when you are trying to be a responsible adult. Out here all I had to do was stop Rusty getting squashed by hurtling sugar cane trucks and look for photographs. My wet feet were no longer frozen blocks of ice even though my socks, doubling as towels, were a little damp. I was not a creaky 63 year old behaving irresponsibly, I was Lewis and Clark all rolled into one exploring limitless frontiers. A van can do crazy things to you.

There must be a very hard worked employee of the Corps of Engineers or Martin County with a ride on mower who takes really good care of the grassy edges of life around here. The whole place is mowed smooth and with trash cans and impromptu parking areas must make a great fishing hole for those so inclined. 

I saw a big fat trawler anchored on the St Lucie Canal, a  Krogen 42, very sturdy and capable of crossing oceans though rarely employed in such arduous duties when owners are more at home deep inland. I have come to enjoy the ability to explore that the van offers me quite aside from the pleasure I get from being reduced to teenage appreciation of the world around me. It was gone an hour later when we drove off and in the time it would take the $400,000 trawler to reach Stuart my $90,000 van could be close to the Georgia stateline and in Atlanta for dinner, had I wanted. I have no regrets about choosing a land bound retirement plan.

Rusty had a grand time as wandered a massive park-like  open space, a cool morning breeze in the air and no one anywhere in sight. Roadside stops like this one have become abandoned relics when every road become a superhighway and the parking lot still visible gets gradually overgrown. I should note that traveling with a  dog on a boat is hellishly complicated and I really do appreciate the ease of sliding open the side door and simply letting him out. At stops he sits outside and watches the world go by. Easy peasy.

Our explorations complete we returned to the van where hot tea (for Rusty) and a delicious chicken strip (for Me) awaited us along with plans to seek out Layne's favorite sandwich shop in Orlando (Seven Bites) for lunch. Curbside pick up with pre-payment makes for one easy way to explore at least something in the time of pandemic when you are unwilling to sit down in a restaurant. It was a good start to the day that walk with Rusty with the promise of more to come.

The thing about traveling in a van is that unlike a boat you can get right to the heart of places and I like that ease of exploration. Paradoxically what I liked most about traveling by boat was the innate separation of being at anchor away from the land. I like having my own island, a place of quiet, the pleasure of being surrounded by your own stuff, the feeling that all you need is in your home. The van does some of that but it is more practical in terms of running chores and  so forth. We did a great deal of walking when boating which was no bad thing I suppose. 

Either way you get to break out of the routine, to see new things, to live on the edge of other people's cultures and I like it very much. Not everyone does it voluntarily and later in the trip we parked next to a woman and her twelve year old son living in their SUV at  a freeway rest stop. She insisted she was fine and moving into housing in a  couple of weeks but Layne emptied the larder for them and even offered a blanket which they said they didn't need. They tried to refuse some cash we included but my wife hid it among the food packages. Those are the people who suffer through the "van life" conundrum, the involuntary dwellers of vehicles, unplanned, no money, on the forgotten margins. I expect we will see more of them as we go. I particularly dread crossing paths with stray dogs because I have this weird sensitivity to dogs and I dislike their helplessness in a human world.

I listen to the fears of road travelers always worrying about safety as though it were some quality purchased outside their daily lives.  Security has become a commodity you buy on your way to the grocery store, because listening to your inner voice is a skill lost in the fog of civilization. Years ago on our travels my wife and I awarded each other a veto. Anytime one of us gets a bad feeling, a sense of awkwardness about a plan or a place all that has to be said is "veto" and we move on. We neither felt any compunction about stopping at the rest area and our intuition was rewarded with a good night's sleep. Fear is pervasive and I wish  curiosity and joy could take it's place to improve  lives.. 

One aspect of roadside travel that is wearying me is the constant tide of trash everywhere. It may be that I am paying more attention to it but it seems to me it's getting worse. We both talked about what we had seen this trip and the plan now is to carry gloves and pick up tools and strong garbage bags to try to clean these roadside stops.  A duck swam up to me as I stood on a seawall and looked up making me feel guilty I had nothing to offer. How do wild ducks become beggars in this messed up world? On the one hand the anglers dump their bait boxes and toilet paper around the parking lot and on the other they feed the wildlife?

Back in the van, back on the road. Rusty has learned to travel in the big booming box and no longer fears road noises as we roll. He won't sleep in the bed in the back by himself underway but sits up front with my wife and looks out of the side window. At each stop he is always impatient to get out and see the new place where we have arrived. He seems to have the enthusiasm and curiosity required of any member of a well organized voyage of exploration.  

Back up over the bridge, one more useful stopping place logged. More unknowns ahead.

Lake Okeechobee Sunset

My wife had an appointment with her arthritis doctor in Miami on Friday and I was off the weekend following so instead of going home we went vanning. As with anything you have to cut your clothes according to your cloth and because we live in southernmost Florida our road trips inevitably start out by pointing north. In my role as driver/navigator I decided to head up the east shore of Lake Okeechobee. The plan was vague to start with except that I didn't want too tick to the coasts where winter crowds gather  and I wanted to avoid the coastal Freeways, I-95 and I-75 or the Turnpike up the middle. Highway 27 was the choice then. 

To drive enough to see a sunset over the lake you have to drone through Everglades marshlands, sugar cane flatlands, the stark poverty of the south shore of the lake and back into agricultural fields that butt up the levee that keeps the lake surrounded. By the time we had passed through Pahokee an African American town of low net worth, in Palm Beach county as far from Royal Palm Beach as you can imagine, I was forming a definite plan.

Many years ago I sailed from Fort Myers to Stuart up the Caloosahatchee River, across Lake Okeechobee and down the St Lucie canal to the east coast. When I say "sailed" I mean I motored endlessly struggling to stay awake and steer a straight course down narrow waterways. The lake was arelif allowing some actual sailing and self steering always with the ever present need to reach Port Mayaca before dark as there is nowhere to anchor on the totally exposed lake if you don't lock through onto the canal before dark.  I recalled from that trip 30 years ago a park like area overlooking the lake and if we arrived before sunset we get a view. I have driven Highway 98 several times but never paid much attention to stopping here. All that changed on this trip. 

As we drove over the St Lucie Canal on the high bridge you can see in the picture above, I looked down and saw a grassy rest area at the start of the road that leads east to Indiantown and Stuart. Aha I thought to myself, that might be where we spend the night. Meanwhile I took the Promaster on a lumpy road that deteriorated into gravel and then grass where many cars were parked their occupants mingling and sharing Covid while picnicking, playing soccer, fishing and lighting campfires. I figured we might as well socially isolate on the levee road and along it I drove right up to the gate. Turning around was tight but front wheel drive gives the 21 foot van a tight turning radius and with a little backing and forthing I managed to turn without sliding down the slopes on either side.

I wanted to have the sliding door open facing east so we could have dinner overlooking the water and my original idea was to back up the one lane road but I saw how firm the grass was supporting big trucks at the water's edge so I kew we would be fine all the way at the top of the levee. And so it was. Lyne peeled away after five minutes on the 60 degree 20 mile per hour winds but Rusty and I persisted, passing a couple of bicycles, masked and racing the setting sun back to their car. 

It was cold and windy but the sunset was lovely and as darkness fell all we could see was the lights at the lock and the dancing flames of a campfire. The van is well insulated and surprisingly warm on such a cold Florida night, down to 55 degrees and expected to drop to 41.

We had a simple dinner, a frozen lean cuisine and salad which kept the chores to a minimum and watched the sun go down. We have enough battery power we can run appliances and lights and charge electronics without counting the cost. It makes it feel like home inside the camper.

And out there in the distance the grass was getting blown and the chill was creeping up on us. Time to find  a quiet spot to sleep and I knew just where that was.

Indian Rental And A Tornado

The plan was to take up Eaglerider Orlando's offer of a rental made at the AIMExpo motorcycle show last fall, so off the three of us went last weekend to enjoy a relaxing few days away from work, the app and all business related stuff. I have to work Christmas and New Year's so my time off came in between. On Monday morning I picked up this eight hundred pound brute:

I headed south for breakfast at the curiously named Wawa on my way out of town. It turns out Wawa is the Pennsylvania town where the convenience store was founded and where in this case I found not bad food even though I didn't stand in line for the popular hot breakfast attractions. I stood by the Indian Chief Vintage in the parking lot and ate my delayed breakfast in the sun, after scaring off an admirer of the chrome and black beast in the parking lot. He slunk back to his mere car and glanced at me as though with envy. Well he might and I'm sorry if I scared him though why he didn't talk to me I'm not sure. Perhaps I had absorbed the piratical air of one who rides large American cruisers with loud exhausts.

The Indian Chief cuts quite a figure even in the crowded multi-lane traffic of the Orlando suburbs. The factory mufflers are LOUD and bark at the least provocation while the acres of chrome glinted in the sun. The leather saddlebags attracted one motorist's  attention at a traffic light and  a middle aged woman, a horse enthusiast apparently told me in no uncertain terms the saddle bags would benefit from saddle soap. I don't doubt they would but neither they nor the leather seat are my concern. I am a fan of hard lockable saddle bags and  of waterproof vinyl seats. The leather saddle took up the heat of the 90 degree day and reflected it faithfully onto my buttocks. It looked like a hell of a ride, fringes and all when viewed from alongside, from the riding position it was like driving a boat with a tiller:

I have never been much of a fan of the feet forwards riding style of cruiser motorcycles and despite the appearance of comfort by the end of the 300-mile day my shoulders ached from holding the widespread handlebars and my backside was as sore as you might expect from being wedged in one spot on the single seat. The foot controls were quite far forward for my short legs and my trouser legs rode up to my knees in the breeze when I stretched my feet out forward. As much as I liked the looks the Chief was not, to me, as comfortable as my sit-up-and-beg style with the Triumph Bonneville I ride daily.

The Chief is a beautiful bike, rich with clever styling details, acres of luscious paint and lots of chrome. However the mirror stalks were at 1000 miles starting to show slight signs of rust so for an all weather rider the Vintage is an iffy proposition- chrome to clean and leather to soap and none of it benefiting from getting wet! The tires on this model have tubes so getting a flat requires calling a tow to get a puncture repaired.

The 1800cc  engine is air cooled and mechanically noisy but it has hydraulic valves that require no maintenance and the primary drive, unlike Harleys is by gears but to me they sounded straight-cut and there was a fair bit of mechanical whine at lower speeds. The gearbox has six speeds though God knows why. I found myself cruising happily at 75 miles per hour in fourth not noticing I had two gears to spare! I had a very pleasant ride to the north shore of Lake Okeechobee:

I had found a Vietnamese restaurant hidden away in a strip mall near the Lake so after taking a  few pictures I took some time out in the air conditioning to drink some soup. The motorcycle as always made me feel rather inadequate with its rumbling exhaust and vast shiny presence, I felt like a rather inadequate flea on a very flamboyant elephant everywhere I went.

The pho wasn't terrible but it was mostly broth and noodles and less meat and vegetables but it did the job and it wasn't  fried  so it worked for me. This was when the day started to go wrong, just as I was feeling all was well with the world. I wasn't missing gear shifts while riding the beast and I had got no speeding tickets despite testing sixth gear to an easily attained 95 mph. The speedometer checked against my phone GPS was dead accurate up to 60 mph, as fast as I was willing to ride one handed with a GPS on my mind.

A call from my wife in tears revealed the news that our Texas rental home in a Dallas suburb was one of 1600 homes trashed after Christmas by a series of killer tornadoes. Our tenants were  safe which was good but the house was wrecked and so far pending an engineer's report will require demolition.

The house in Rowlett was our plan B if we needed a bolt hole somewhere away from floods and earthquakes- ha who thought of tornadoes in Dallas? We had been turned on to a first rate rental company in that city and the rent had been paying for the house for almost twenty years. Dallas isn't our idea of a first rate living with neither mountains nor ocean but it has a strong economy normally decent weather for people who don't mind heat, and it had seemed  a secure bolt hole or an inexpensive base for retirement travels should we have needed it instead of monthly income. Man proposes, God disposes as the saying goes:

Just this summer we had spent a bundle upgrading tired facilities in the home and now all was wrecked:

My wife insisted I continue the ride as she would feel worse were I to cut it short and return to her hotel room where she had planned a day of leisure. Actually it turned out the La Quinta where we were staying was undergoing renovation and the outdoor pool wasn't heated - no swimming. There was no gym, boo hiss and the room itself was more like a dungeon with purple paint, no carpet and a rather strait jacket  layout, narrow and dark. My wife was making do but Cheyenne was peculiarly restless and unhappy in the room. The weekend break was not quite going to plan and plans were going to be wrecked even more if that were possible.

I decided to set the tornado news aside as there was nothing I could do and so instead I amused myself passing trucks in sixth gear rolling the gas on from 55mph. The motorcycle accelerated without a care in the world and cruised at 75mph in top gear at 2700 rpm. Wide sweeping curves were a delight with no wobbles at all,  and the weight of the bike is down low so when I amused myself by pulling a u-turn it was the easiest thing in the world to lock the bars and flop around in a tight circle without putting my foot down. 

Riding alone ( two suggestions to meet for lunch were rejected, it being the holidays by two moto bloggers) I could stop as I pleased to look around. So I did. It was a delightful day, not a tornado or even a rain cloud in sight.

The oil filter was easily accessible ( I check stuff like that when I think about owning a bike) below the oil cooler, and this one was changed I'm guessing at 512 miles. With belt drive and gear primary drive, changing the five quarts of oil every five thousand miles is about the only maintenance chore. I find that  very attractive combined with the low stress nature of the low revving engine.

You can read elsewhere about the history of Indian founded in 1901 in Springfield Massachusetts, as Polaris has done a masterful job since buying the company in 2011 of building heritage motorcycles in Iowa. The Indian name is proudly displayed all over the motorcycle.

 I was having a good time rolling along Highway 98 north full of Vietnamese food, and enjoying the crazy noisy rumbling engine. You've heard people say that "loud pipes save lives" well because I ride with quiet factory mufflers I have never had proof one way or the other. Riding the Chief Vintage I got proof positive they don't- three different ways. I had the classic turn left to cross my path attempt by one driver, another changed lanes suddenly to exit the multi-lane street across my path and on a country highway the pick up didn't see notice or hear me approaching from behind when he took a sudden turn to the left to exit the road as I was planning  a pass. None of the suicide drivers used signals or mirrors or anything decadent like that. Powerful ABS brakes and an alert brain saved my ass each time. 

I love central Florida, the rolling countryside, more pronounced hills to the north and wide open cowboy spaces to the south with smooth roads, a bit too straight frankly offering miles of peaceful touring through varied countryside. Arcadia is known as the Cowboy Capital of Florida but Okeechobee has its own rodeo ground and fleet of citywide pick up trucks.

Crossing the bridge into Highlands County was a reminder of the hilly nature of the countryside west of Orlando. There are lakes woods and rising and dipping ridges of hills in the area, the highest point in the peninsula is almost 350 feet high near Clermont. Not much by Colorado standards but plenty in the Sunshine State where two days after Christmas I was enjoying low humidity, a light cool breeze and 90 degree temperatures which I found perfect.

Hot enough for the cows to seek refreshment in the puddles. And it was after I took this picture that my motorcycle troubles began. The starter wouldn't start. I checked the side stand, I checked the kill button which I normally never touch, I fiddled with the starting procedure, I looked for the radio activated fob to make sure I still had it. But the bastard wouldn't start. I called the rental  company and as though by magic the call got the thing going. Great thought I...

The Chief is a gas guzzler. Granted I was riding a brand new bike that hit 1,000 miles on my three hundred mile jaunt and I'd like to think the Beast would get better mileage with premium with the addition of a few thousand miles...but in town riding hard I got less than 30 miles to the US gallon. The 5.5 US gallon tank started to look empty in the gauge after a hundred miles though probably I could have gone another thirty without panicking. However not knowing the machine and not wanting to act the rental prat with an empty tank I made sure I got gas promptly every 100 miles and added three gallons each time. Gulp!

 Naturally when I stopped for gas and a phone call to check on my still tearful wife the engine refused to start. To start this bike you keep the fob near the bike ( I carried it in my man purse in the saddlebag) and you press the big black button on the tank. That sets ion motion to fuel injection and the starting procedure. When you are ready to set the machine rumbling you press the starter button on the handlebar. However something seemed to have gone wrong with the security feature as the black button lit up red and the starter didn't start. I kicked the side stand, and when it did start the horn started beeping (LOUDLY) as I tried to ride off, making me look like a thief. Great!

Suddenly it all settled down of its own accord and spared me a second embarrassing call to Eaglerider. Off I rode until I stopped on Highway 27 to answer my phone and check my map on my way to the hallowed Yalala Bakery near Clermont. And that was when Eaglerider promised to send a mechanic out with a spare bike as this non starting had left me stranded again. I walked to Bob Evans for soup and a pee and waited for the mechanic and trailer as the sun hit the horizon.

 I put my riding jacket on the side walk and decided to read my Kindle, thank heavens for the iPhone, and wait in patience for deliverance. Idly I tried to re-start the bastard and wouldn't you know it, it fired up promptly, leading me to think the diagnosis of a dead battery in the electronic fob was not correct. If the battery were dead it should stay dead. Yet here it seemed to work at random.  I called the mechanic and cancelled him, put away my stuff in the saddlebags (including some Bob Evans cookies for my long suffering wife) and set off into the gathering darkness. That was when the bugger died again after giving off several loud horn farts as I rode down Highway 27. I coasted into a turn lane in the dark where the bugger fired right up again and I lurched off homewards on old highway 50, what turned out to be a delightfully twisted wooded road toward Orlando. It would have been great had I not been riding with my heart in my mouth waiting for the horn to start beeping madly before cutting the engine off.

It was a wild ride through Winter Garden and Windermere stopping to check my map on my blessed phone hoping the engine wouldn't cut out and I started to have fun, feeling like I was 20 years old again riding the crazily unreliable used motorcycles of my youth, all failed wiring and uncertain return times. There was no drama, just an hour long ride I'd like to replicate in daylight on a motorcycle I trust... and after a few missed turns I was back in the dungeon with my grateful wife who feared for my life on the stop and go Indian, and my dog  who was finally exhausted, sleeping and still hating the sparsely furnished  hotel room and life. It took Cheyenne a night at home before she would talk to me so I think her traveling and exploring days are over. I got the hint from my elderly Lab.

Eaglerider were great. I got the bike started in the morning and therefore naturally got lost on my way to the shop but when I arrived with a full tank (did not turn the bike off at the pumps) they refunded the money for the rental in full, and gave me a credit for a free rental in the next year. There are roads I want to ride around Orlando, next time I think on a Harley Davidson. I enjoy riding different motorcycles on rentals and had I the time and money I would spend a lot more of both around the country with Eaglerider. 

I took this picture of Cheyenne at home, happy on her bed and eager to forget her Orlando vacation. I don't think she can take the car further north than Ft Lauderdale or Ft Myers anymore and at the age of fifteen she is happy to spend her days pottering around the house sleeping and eating and watching my every move. It's taken me a while to accept that she is happiest being left at home but it seems now I am convinced that for the rest of her life our travels will be circumscribed by her needs.

She has been a good dog and I would do no less for her. I'm just glad she's forgiven me for putting her through a  stupid weekend to indulge my riding habit. Oh not to mention my wife and the ghastly hotel room and the tornado and the calls to the insurance company and FEMA and the mortgage people and the rental company and on and on. What a weekend.

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The Selfish Rider

                     

Why I ride...because I can? Because I want to ?  Because it feels good? 

                     

A quick run to the grocery store seven miles from my house is just another excuse to go for a ride. A top box and a cargo net, a cloth bag and it's easy enough to make a modest load on two wheels. I'd rather ride than drive any day that its not too cold, and that's pretty much never in the Keys. Rain is no problem, because as the Norwegians say (I am told) there is only bad clothing, not bad weather. It takes minimal rain suits to ride through rain in South Florida. Hypothermia is a very low risk factor in the sub-tropics. 

I don't usually wear all the gear, I ride with a helmet and gloves which is more than most around here, but I decline to offer advice or judgement about how others ride or what they ride. I grew up riding motorcycles in a world where protective gear was newspaper in winter to stay warm under a leather jacket and jeans usually ripped over work boots. I feel for people afraid to ride around the block in pants and a shirt just as I feel bad for people who can't leave their homes without a gun in the glove box. Life is pretty good out on the road sometimes...just riding, not worrying.

I have driven all kinds of different vehicles in my life, but I am convinced two wheels is best. There is a dynamic in riding a machine that by its very nature is unstable. It's a machine that requires training to use, practice to use well and thoughtfulness to use safely. Yet it is also a machine that encourages risk, invites the rider to seek the sublime experience of being alone in a world, overpopulated and loud with activity. I travel for the pleasure of travel, for the joy of mastering the medium, for pleasure.

The machine itself is of less moment if it runs well, a scooter, a motorcycle its all the same to me. Big or small I'd rather ride than drive, though I generally prefer medium sized in the world of motorcycles. Driving a car is a matter of adjusting the climate, the seat, the radio (or the Bluetooth for people who are Modern) the cup holders and finally the steering wheel. Cars are mobile homes, not machines for travel or excitement or tools for feeling something. They prevent you from feeling discomfort because God forbid you should feel uncomfortable.

The fact that you will arrive on time and only slightly creased when you drive a car is a given. That you might possibly be one of 40,000 people killed each year on US roads (if you are in the US) seems impossibly unlikely. But were I to undertake the same journey I would be expected to arrive crumpled and exhausted and filthy were I to survive and not join the ranks of the 4,000 riders killed annually on the same US roads. Yes but I would be grinning ear to ear, not frustrated by the hassle of modern car travel on crowded freeways. Which joy is a paradox for those that don't share the pleasure of two wheels.

There is romance associated with motorcycles, frequently a combination of the movies and ridiculously outmoded images of motorcyclists as outlaws, the one image feeding the other. But for most modern riders the ride is simply a way to make some private space in this increasingly crowded world. It is still acceptable when riding to be out of touch. Sure modern technology will keep you on the phone if you so desire with Bluetooth and a helmet microphone but one is not expected to answer the phone while riding. Thank God sez I.

                                                                                               Loading the Auto Train

I don't even like to listen to music while I ride, though that is technically possible of course these days. When I was sailing I used to spend hours sitting on the edge of the boat looking out over the waves while the boat steered itself I'd get hypnotized by the movement of the water under the hulls of my catamaran. On the motorcycle I do the same thing, I write letters that will never get sent, I compose the finest possible essays for my blog, I plan a bright shining future as I ride. I live inside my head in the moment and it's lovely.

But riding is also about the magic of managing traffic, of assessing the road, checking for hazards, planning turns and anticipating traffic patterns and passing zones and traffic signals and slow trucks and finding the best way ahead. It's as active a way to travel as driving is passive. Riders know they are better drivers thanks to the development of the skills required to ride. Riding is an adventure, an exploration, the pursuit of new inner horizons. A motorcycle need not be expensive, it will be useful given the parameters of climate -two wheels in snow is beyond my desire- and it makes the mundane fresh and new and interesting. It is a wonderful gift and I treasure it. It is my daily escape and even today I look forward to the ride home from work as much as I did a decade ago on the same highway. When I drive my car to work my colleagues know something is up.

Difficult to explain the pleasure of selfishness. People ask me what would I do if my wife asked me to stop riding and my answer is I would never marry anyone who imposed such a condition. Riding a motorcycle is that good.

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