The Mercenary

I was in the south of France in the summer of 1978, riding my Morini 350 twin and it was hot and sticky and dry and I was not ready to ride far. With frequent stops and a lot of lane splitting I got stuck in traffic in all sorts of exotic places, St Tropez heads the list of any self respecting tourist in the South of France, but I was not impressed. My bike had clip-on handlebars forcing me to ride in a crouch, while my tank bag kept flopping from side to side so that I had to hold it in place with my forearms which got sweaty from the contact. Thus it was that all I could think about was finding shade and water, trapped in the long line of cars inching to nowhere. Shade and water meant I had to escape to the hills, so I abandoned any pretensions of hanging with the rich and infamous on the beach and I rode for the hills.It was hot work even when I gained elevation and there were still slow poke cars on the roads to prevent me moving smoothly at speed, but I got more of a cooling breeze the higher I went so things improved gradually. Besides, even loaded with luggage the Morini was great fun to ride. Nowadays a 350cc V-twin on tires that seem no wider than beach cruiser bicycles tires would not appear to be much good for riding anywhere out of sight of home, but that Morini took me to North Africa and all over northern Europe over the course of three years that I owned it. Eventually a friend of mine rode it off the road after he nagged me to death asking to ride it and that was the end of that.

I found a campground much like the one pictured above, a bunch of camping trailers mixed in with space for tents and tons of people everywhere on their much anticipated summer vacations. I picked a spot and put up my bright blue two person tent. Inside I lay next to my belonging and everything was suffused in blue but it was not restful. It was hot and airless and bright under the southern sun under a blue plastic flysheet. I stood outside the tent and breathed in fresh,untainted hot summer air.

"Hey! You hot?" the man in the cool shady awning stretched out next to his roulotte waved a piece of delicious looking red fruit. Sure I said, sucked in to his orbit by the shade and his smile. I was young and innocentg and took everything and everyone at face value. We sat and talked while his wife, unseen, clattered dishes in the travel trailer behind us.

We talked about where we were from, me from Italy he from Paris. We talked motorcycles and I told him how bored I was by life down on the farm. "I escaped that," he said, "by joining the Legion." Huh? "I've been everywhere," he said. He talked about the Congo and Algeria, he talked of fishing in the Indian Ocean and driving trucks in jungles and deserts. He saw me looking at his hand. "That was never a problem," he said and I could believe it as I had not noticed his weird lobster claw fingers for the longest time. "I grew up like that," he said looking at the huge deformed pink thumb and the wadded up single finger that grew out of the stump of his hand. "The Legion never minded when they understood I could do anything anyone else did." He spoke in answer to my unspoken question.

His wife, a pretty, slim woman in a summer dress with the good manners of a middle class Frenchwoman came out and invited me to dinner. We ate at the table under the awning by the light of a gas lamp and the conversation continued late into the night. My host was what we call a "contractor" who ran his own company providing services and "personnel" around the world. I was fascinated and a little scared. "He isn't always so kind," his wife said smiling, as he told a story against himself of some close shave in as former French tropical colony. Implicit in her comment was the suggestion of severity if not savagery. he grinned the mirth of the amoral.

Had the Internet existed back then I could have looked up the hereditary condition called ectrodactyly which is caused in hands or feet by some chromosomal alteration. I could have looked him on faceboomk perhaps, under gunmen for hire, governments overthrown on demand... As it was I watched his lobster claw in open fascination and admiration of his ability to ignore daily complexity even when using a deformed hand. He was amused by my fascination at his stories of derring-do and by his dexterity with the hand. "You need to get out of the farm and see the world. Come and work for me." The suggestion shocked me.

He renewed it the next morning. "I'll show you the world," he smiled as he poured me a coffee. I got on my motorcycle and fled after thanking him profusely.

I wonder what might have happened to me had I thrown my customary caution to the wind. Probably nothing much as I never did see myself as a dog of war. On the other hand...who knows what lies within any of us and perhaps I would have made a bloodthirty mercenary with the best of them. How odd are the crossroads we pass, and ignore, in the journey of life.

Pigeon Key

First published October 2007 I haven't been back to the island since, so I figured this might be a good time to re-run these pictures as my Internet outage has left me short of fresh material. I can hardly believe it's been 30 months, and by the way, the bridge as far as I know, is still open to the train and bicycles and pedestrians. Nothing much seems to have changed, on the ground but there was one scandal reported in the newspaper that alleged misappropriation of funds from the non profit that runs the place. So many years have gone by and yet I have never visited Pigeon Key. Until now that is, and I am a better man for today's excursion even though it didn't involve a motorcycle. My wife did suggest taking the Vespa, which is running perfectly but it was a windy day and my wife's arthritis is acting up and blah blah blah...we took the car, which was very comfortable, thanks.Pigeon Key was a way station as Flagler's workmen built the Oversea Railroad. Hundreds of laborers lived on the four and a half acre island while engineers sank concrete caissons to support the railroad over the water. Similar in all respects to the submerged concrete used to build its contemporary, the Panama Canal, through which we sailed in the last months of the American Administration.Pigeon Key sells its history and nowadays it supports itself as a non profit, as well as a place where young people can come and attend environmental camps in the old lodgings.

The day was perfect for it, breezy, sunny and not too warm, not too cold: just right! The ticket office is, naturally parked on rails, with a not too obtrusive 12 kw a/c unit underneath the non ADA compliant steps. Flagler's East Coast Railway and Key West extension is part of the state of mind that still floats through life in the Keys,untrammeled by change, at leats for the time being.

The tour costs non locals $11 and includes a ride out to the island over the old seven mile bridge. The ride reeks of cornball of course but it does get the happy visitor a splendid view of the water, a view that may soon be ended by a massive, unfunded effort to repair the railings on the bridge. Some engineers want to declare it unsafe and plans are in the works for a ferry service while the repairs are done. The estimates are in the millions so we wanted to take the ride before it is ended for who knows how log. Corny but fun!The ride starts with a quick burst on Highway One to the end of the bridge...

Then the little engine bounces its way across the rutted old surface of the 18-foot wide bridge. The center lane is reserved for the tour, the bumps protect the outer lanes for pedestrians and cyclists. October is a great month to be in the keys as so few people visit. We shared the tour with a terse New York couple and noticed a couple of pedestrians and a couple of cyclists taking their free exploration of Flagler's wondrous, 95 year old bridge.

Its common practice for anglers with boats to bob around between the old and new bridges, hoping to harvest a few snappers lurking round the pilings. The hand rails were the old tracks used by the State of Florida when they turned the railroad into an auto road in 1938. Below the bridge lie the few buildings of Pigeon Key, in their park like ambiance.

Thomas the Engine Driver gives us a few concluding remarks in the old mess house, which the cat tries to interrupt by seeking attention. Then we repair to the inevitable 21st century communicator for a presentation that held the attention of the New Yorkers despite the absence of air conditioning.I enjoyed the old paperwork in the museum, including the passes for locals that gave free access to the bridge ($1 toll for tourists) and evocative advertising:

and schedules:

With me secretly looking forward to the day when that high speed ferry hauls me and my motorbike to Havana for a long weekend in the twisties of Cuba!

The wife and I wandered round, admiring those cement supports, sat for a while at the strategically located picnic tables even though we omitted to bring a picnic, and eventually took a walk up the ramp to the bridge, and admired the structure from above:

And so we started to stroll back towards Marathon.

No despair though, Thomas stopped his engine and we got to ride back to civilization, thoroughly content with our little excursion. Its a truism of life in the Keys, so little land is there, that one needs to try to take full advantage of what we do have. This trip was long overdue.

Long Way Down

The face of Africa, as seen through the eyes of Festina, a Zambian woman who raises children orphaned by HIV. If the movie I am reviewing here had been focused on her, with the best will in the world, no one in the West would have seen it. So instead a young Scottish movie star and his side kick get some donated BMW motorcycles (GS1200s of course) and they roll cameras for 15,000 miles across the Dark Continent:
I have little idea what a North American never exposed to the wilds of the African Third World would make of this movie, but interestingly enough the stars themselves have no experience of Africa either and their fear and awe and amazement should translate well. Ewan McGregor is known to audiences around the world as a Star of recent Star Wars movies (though no one recognized him when he played the tourist on the former set in Tunisia!):
McGregor's refusal to take himself seriously gives the film added charm and when we are introduced to his very average family (including a motorcycling Dad) in Scotland it's obvious that no one in his real life is going to let his success on screen go to his head. His sidekick Charley Boorman, son of a movie director, is the goof of the film, an accomplished rider and someone not afraid to say what's on his mind.In the background, McGregor's wife, who in a moment of charged controversy, decides to ride along with the boys on one short leg of their three month trip.
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This is the second movie made by Boorman/McGregor following on from the success of their Long Way Around a documentary of their circumnavigation, which I thought carried more drama and uncertainty as they struggled across Siberia and Mongolia testing themselves and their format. In this film the formula is written, the crew includes survivors of the first film including the extraordinary Swiss rider and cameraman Claudio who does what they do, while recording it silently and beautifully for all to see. This is a professional film made to the highest standards which my paltry pictures do not in any way convey. Whether or not you agree with the premise that a couple of naive goofs loose in Africa on excessively complex motorcycles is worth seeing is another matter.

They admire Roman ruins (in Libya), the pyramids (in Egypt) the Nile (in Sudan) the mountains (in Ethiopia) the wildlife(in East Africa) the skulls (in Rwanda) and the lake (in Malawi) all with due reverence and respect. They inflict themselves on villagers in an effort to understand their lives, they say, and they alternate between roadside cafés and luxury hotels and campgrounds: They cross 32 borders into and out of sixteen countries and if nothing else I hope this film will convince you not to think of the African continent as one country. Of course this is a 9-episode television show with 8 people traveling in two cars and on three motorcycles with a budget of God-knows-how-much, so they have "fixers" in each country to guide them through. Boorman and McGregor ride every mile of the way on fully loaded 800-pound 1200cc motorcycles, carrying their clothes and camping gear with them. But this is not a shoe string operation, not with three cameras, a doctor and well stocked spare parts boxes, all in attendance...
Because this is a motorcycle movie on dreadful roads and because these people are British they enjoy making fun of themselves and the ridiculous challenge of riding come what may, sand, rain, wind and tedium included. They get tired and fractious, they argue and disagree and they make up when it's time to get riding. Some of the riding is appalling in dreadful conditions, and McGregor's wife is shown learning to ride on her short section "with the boys" in Malawi in a most unflattering light.

Eve is Francophone, (French, Quebecois, Belgian, Swiss, who knows?) but she has ze British stiff upper lip and despite numerous falls, all on camera, she plugs away earning the grudging respect of Boorman who becomes odd man out for ten days while the wife intrudes on the boys' adventure:

I rode across West Africa when I was a callow 19-year old and took three months to bumble from Tunis to Yaounde in Cameroon before hepatitis A, laid me low and forced the repatriation of myself and my Yamaha SR500. I spent three weeks in hospital in Terni recovering. It is clear to me, looking back, that the assessment of an experienced German traveler I met along the way, that I wasn't ready for such an adventure, was entirely true, but from the vantage of middle age I know that having made the journey I am better equipped to accept the loss of my youth. A dream deferred is a dream denied and there are too many middle aged, middle class dreamers who teeter between fear and regret because they didn't try. I recall traveling completely alone with a wad of traveler's checks, no GPS, no sat phone, no proper riding gear, no camel back water bottle to combat hydration...These two had all that and more and a ridiculous schedule- if the trip wasn't completed in 85 days the sky would collapse for some, never stated, reason. They had a base team in London following along to update their website and riders along the way, including this Triumph rider in Zambia, fell in to do their bit for celebrity travel:And yet, Boorman and McGregor show us the best of travel: the friendship strained, the expectation of violence that never ever came even close, the great physical beauty of a world that still today remains largely unexplored by most people and feared by even more of us, and they also show us how truly tough it is to ride a motorcycle a long way in trying conditions. This isn't celebrity survivor, this is two 35 year olds getting away from every day crap and pushing themselves, yes self indulgently, but also as a mirror to us in our daily lives.

What dream have you deferred, what fear have you not faced, they ask us, and the answer they themselves provide is that the risk taken will be endlessly rewarding. I can't wait for their next ride, South America it is rumored, and with all their thoughtless sentimentality ("Why?" they keep chirping when faced with evidence of Man's Inhumanity to Man in Rwanda and elsewhere; an easy expression of false empathy when you are enjoying the exceptionally good life of the upper class First World) and self effacing humor (endless mockery of Hollywood, harbinger of their wealth, which is rather fun I confess) they will, I know, put on an excellent entertainment. Now available from Nextflix, and if you have not yet seen Long Way Round, start there. Enjoy the show!

In And Out

It happened not so long ago that a member of the Key West City Commission asked a lobbyist to bring him home a t-shirt from Las Vegas. When questioned about the propriety of the gift the City Commissioner, a man who owns strip joints and hard-drinking bars on Duval Street, defended himself plaintively: "But I like In And Out burgers!"

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Much though I regret it, I have something in common with the city commission's bon vivant in our little town. I like the burgers as well. Very much in fact.We spotted the sign from a distance, shining like the Star over Bethlehem so long ago, this time "In-N-Out" led us across the median strip of a very long, very straight drive across the San Joaquin Valley of central California.

The menu is short at these drive throughs, no chicken tenders or salads or other low cholesterol concoctions:

The staff wear little jockey caps or old fashioned masons-type paper hats and white shirts and they pump freshly peeled potatoes through a slicer and fry them in front of your car. Its all an old time Burger Joint should be, and they are all over the American West, those delicious little meals

I woofed mine down and thoroughly enjoyed fortifying myself for the vegetarian celebrations to come, high in the mountains, distant on the horizon. Our resort destination fried a mean parsnip, its true, but the milk shakes are to die for at an In-N-Out.

For my part, all I brought back from this quick stop in Merced, California, was the memory. I prefer the burgers to the t shirts, and there are generally no questions asked about a simple but satisfying road meal.

Young Lumberjacks Convention

I stood at my window and looked out across the open space that could have been a parade ground, and watched the refugees tramping through the muddy gravel. They were people hell bent on getting away, and taking their possessions with them, no matter how much effort it took to haul the little cart along, filled to overflowing with bags and boxes and packages. They leaned and strained and eyes glued on their feet they tugged like oxen bending to the yoke. They reminded me of pictures I have seen of Polish peasants fleeing the Nazi invaders, caught in black and white prints, fuzzy and faded by time; those pictures marked an epoch. And so did these overloaded guests staying at the Evergreen Lodge, a luxury resort high in the Sierra Nevada Mountains.

I turned back to the gas heater hissing at my elbow, next to the Sirius satellite radio which sat next to my cup of tea. I was reading In A Sunburned Country, and laughing and waiting for the curtain to go up on the new epoch in my wife's family. Her youngest nephew, the last of the small brood, was getting hitched. And I was a guest. An honored guest, for I am the groom's favorite uncle. It is a family joke as I am his only true uncle, and I find my presence at these events is de rigeur. Even at 6,000 feet in late September.

The bride and the groom are of the new generation, both raised to be aware and to live life greenly. He is a park ranger and she studies to be a nurse; meat passeth not their lips, and every burned hydro carbon is an offence against creation. I hope for once that the new generation will be able to pull off the magic trick of converting high ideals into practical reality; something my generation signally failed to do. I wonder how many generations of almost-but-not-quite-accomplished high ideals our over-engineered world can cope with.

The marriage was a robust affair, as it had to be, thanks in large part to a storm that produced light snowfalls, black thunderclouds and cold heavy rain. We cheered the young couple on, and they are so perfectly paired it seems certain to me that they will have little difficulty holding their vows up to the test of time. I witnessed both sets of parents escort their offspring down the aisle, both sets of parents still married, still setting a singular example to the parents-to-come. That's not a sight one sees too often in a world rendered complex by multiple families and tangled relationships. These two are families that appear to mate for life. It is clear from this picture that two happy people are getting married. A celebrant holds the book, the groom's older brother looks on, as the witness-in-chief. It is a scene that is reflected around the world in all human cultures and a marriage is a public event that, like a funeral, has a purpose that is immediately discernible to any human observer. We all get married, in more or less the same way no matter what our language, history or even religion. I enjoy that multinational subtext at weddings. I have seen Europeans marry, Berbers marry, Hindus marry, Africans marry and Americans marry, and its all pretty much the same. I even understood my Jewish wife's traditions at our own marriage...

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The ample fireplace was also the theme of the weekend, in a place where daytime highs grazed 60 degrees and nighttime lows hovered near freezing; temperatures decidedly not suitable for my Florida-thinned blood. The young people who attended the celebration were not one whit deterred. They reveled in their loud plaids, their hairy shirts and even hairier woolen Andean caps, with long flaps over their ears and puffy down jackets insulating them from Nature's fury. Some few of them slept in tents for want of $175/night to sleep with gas heat and satellite radio. We took pity on the Preacher and his own soon-to-be-wife and encouraged them to sleep in our spare bedroom. Our cabin was as large as our modest Florida home. Everything is ample in California, not just the fireplaces.

I looked on and shivered and not just because of the cold. I became more acutely aware of the passing of time as I watched the robust youth busy themselves with all the social activities that these occasions demand. They strode and organized and huddled and planned and laughed and I was glad I was in the second tier, at the back of the marriage party.

Uncle Chuck was not at this wedding, a first since I married into the family. He was killed by a heart attack a good few years ago. In the old days he stood and smiled and sang when called upon at Jewish gatherings, prayed in Hebrew when needed and toasted all who needed a reminder of why families are families. I missed Uncle Chuck this past weekend, I mourned the absence of a generation older than mine and I cannot but help feeling that I was an inadequate substitute, no matter how old the passing of the generational torch made me feel.

Preparing for Flight

Wouldn't you just love to be able to flap your wings and lift off for a new destination. And so we do we middle class, middle world people. We burn tens of thousands of gallons of aircraft grade kerosene in order to stretch our wings and plop ourselves down a few thousand miles away. With all the fuel I could run my 70mpg Vespa, full speed several times around the world. It would be a gruesome, achy way to travel but the fuel would go a long way using my scooter.
I hate flying. Its crap standing around in lines like sheep, taking off our shoes in honor of Richard Reid the mad bomber who pissed on his own bomb, and then spending hours wedged into plastic seats breathing everyone else's germs All the while burning a giant hole in the atmosphere, or looked at more apocalyptically, when we fly we clutter the overburdened atmosphere with more burnt gasoline gas.
But every cloud has a silver lining and my wife has procured for us, by the alchemy of airline mileage credit cards and persistence, two lovely business class seats to Vienna. Comfortable travel it seems even as the plebs in the back of the plane burn kerosene wildly in their narrow plastic-lined torture buckets.
There is some other thing that is vaguely wrong and troubling to me. I'm starting to look forward to this trip. All those fears and niggling worries about being back in the lap of my family, the root of all the trouble in my early life, is melting away, perhaps because I am truly tired of being at work. Perhaps because there is nothing to fear.
So, in a few hours we flap our wings and head east, like eagles soaring into the old world. The home of Vespas, and Etruscans and American tourists in gold pants and tour buses.