Thinning Blood

This is the tedious time of year when newspapers run comic strips promoting the notion that Fall is Good, whereas I live firmly rooted in a community where any season that isn't warm, is bad.

There are some people who live on a planet where cold weather is a good thing and cool crisp days and longer nights are harbingers of better things to come. Not so. Not for me at any rate. I don't miss snow and rain and brown leaves and winter storms that quick freeze your toes and ears and nose. Winter blasts that freeze your breath in your beard are a distant memory and long may they stay that way.

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Living and working in Key West occasionally produces the unexpected benefit of hanging around true blue Conchs. Conchs (pronounced "konks") are people born and raised in Key West and though the definition is not open to interpretation, I would add anyone who graduates Key West High School qualifies for the term. To be a Conch can be as much a bad thing as good, and sometimes those of us who came later to the Conch Republic will say dismissively "he's just a Conch..." as though to say "he knows no better..."

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Conchs actually are a little odd in a world populated by travelers, highways and jets all humming to the tune of constant change. Conchs don't like change much, and they label themselves as locals by their untiring efforts to hold on to the past. Listen to them talk amongst themselves and they spend hours recalling what businesses operated in this or that location, who lived where, and who is related to whom. It is the typical small town sense of place that requires endless grasping at fleeting straws. Particularly fleeting in a tourist trap like Key West where change is rapid and mandatory. Particularly odd as the conchs were the ones who enabled the Great Land Grab in Key West, by selling off their island to the highest bidders, as fast as they could.

One of my colleagues was looking out the window at a dark summer rain cloud and announced: "I want to take a vacation in snow. I've never seen snow." This is not as odd as it sounds. I know several people who have never risked their fragile Conch skins in a blizzard. I know one man who married a woman who had never in her life been off the island chain, but that's another story.

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Anyway, my snow-obsessed friend was pondering what to do about this short coming in his placid life. My other colleague in the room suggested Colorado as a destination suitable for fulfilling the dream.She lured him with exciting pictures of mountains and canyons and thrills. All I could think of as a suggestion, was a quick trip to Hawaii, get to the top of the mountain, fall in a snowdrift and make a snow angel and bugger off pronto to tropical sea level as fast as possible thereafter. My suggestion fell flat but I think its merits will become apparent after he meets Snow for the first time. Especially if he gets stuck in some frigid alpine cabin in a Colorado wasteland.

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Blood thins. It just does, and I guess people have adapted over the centuries to all the different climate ranges there are on the planet. For lots of unfortunates cold weather is a fact of life half the year. We just make our own cold weather by feeling sorry for ourselves, on our small island, when winter nips here at a chilly 65 degrees for a whole week at a time. I got to the keys late in life which is fine by me, but the prospect of never seeing snow again fills me with joy. Hell if I never have to live through another cold damp California winter I will be deliriously happy. Lacking a functioning scooter I need to go for a swim before the water drops below 80...

Poker Run or V Twin Lemmings

It's lemming weekend in Key West:

I find, thanks to the abundance of information on the Internet, that in real life lemmings do not actually throw themselves into the ocean, en masse, off cliffs. However in popular imagination the label "lemming" carries a negative connotation, and like 'em or not, the lemmings have been massing in Key West this weekend. For merchants, who are the backbone of our tired tourist economy, Poker Run is an economic boost at a time of year when visitors are flagging and hurricanes are strengthening. So the residents of the city suffer hundreds, perhaps thousands of motorcycles to come roaring onto the island and make noise, clog streets and allow their riders to strut their lack of imagination.

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In labeling these poseurs as lemmings I know I am denigrating them and I find myself doing that not because they are unworthy tourists, or feeble spenders, but because they aren't motorcyclists worthy of the name. And that's a minefield I have laid out for myself, sure, but "lemming" is a label that just won't get out of my head as I watch them rumble around town in our blinding white sunshine.

They ride large bright expensive machines, almost all of them Harleys, many many of them too impractical to ride to Key West, and the big v-twins come to the Keys on trailers so their owners can rumble down the Overseas Highway at 40 mph free from the cares of road grime, road dirt or road aches. And to my purist "motorcyclist" way of thinking that is pretty feeble.

As the rider of a modest Vespa (pictured here: my wife's even more modest 150), I am not exactly in a position to put myself at the head of a pack of "motorcyclists" but I ride a lot. I fear I ride many more miles than most of the lemmings. I know this because mileage is not something one covers wobbling around on a showroom clean motorcycle, daily riders need to know how to ride, turn, deal with traffic, slow down, stop and start without wobbling stalling and generally riding like a putz, to use a term my Jewish wife would understand. Key West downtown looks like a carnival ride, not a gathering of road-hardened motorcyclists.

Many people who don't ride Harleys despise the machines themselves but don't count me among their number. The Harley Davidsons that come out of the factory are fine machines and I've tried my hand at riding them, and propose to rent them again in the future as they are quite enjoyable and surprisingly fast. However to see them kept and polished as toys instead of a means of getting around, or even as a way of life, is a shame to me. Harleys don't light my inner fire as other machines do ( Vespas, Moto Guzzis, Triumphs for example) but they do the mundane job of transporting people very well and with flair too.

I wish Poker Run (a worthy fund raiser by the way) attracted a real variety of riders, people with motorcycles that are truly interesting, unusual machines ( I saw one classic Triumph all weekend), machines worthy of inspection that would turn Duval Street into an outdoor bike show, not a backdrop for some gruesome Urban Cowboy leatherette backdrop.

I guess watching these weekend warriors dress up in fancy dress and ponce about on the Highway abusing these thoroughbreds and treating them like lap dogs, plain pisses me off. Hell, I need to find something more worthwhile for my ire!

Vespa Blues Part Two

I called the main mechanic in Ft Lauderdale and spoke with Joe at some great length. He's the chief mechanic for all three Vespa stores owned by one man between Palm Beach and Miami. I wanted Vespa Miami to take the scooter to him in the first place, an idea they agreed to but never followed through on. So, back I go on my next day off, Monday morning at O-dark-thirty, with the Vespa strapped back in the trailer... for another go at fixing the wretched thing. I really can't even begin to sell it like it is now. I keep hoping someone really can fix it and allow me to feel good on it once again. This electronic marvel is beyond my abilities to understand and perhaps that in itself is a weakness. Fuel injection, pollution re-breathing equipment, ignition CDI etc etc...marvellous and incomprehensible.

Yesterday Vespa Miami promised me they had ridden the scooter long and hard on surface streets and the freeway, yet it was obvious to me the idle was low and there was a pick up hesitation around both 35 and 60 miles per hour. Plus the dreaded vapor lock in the fuel cap was instantly evident- a loud hiss when the fuel cap was unscrewed. I removed the gasket to allow air in and I disconnected the battery to see if that would re-set the computer. The scooter then ran a lot better. This morning I zoomed in to work, hitting 85 miles per hour ( on the speedo) in the wide open reaches of the Saddlebunch Keys. It was exhilarating, though annoying, because I knew something wasn't quite right.

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As soon as I hit a red light at Stock Island, 20 miles from home, the engine died and there i was in among cars, in the dark with a dead scooter. It looked a bit like this, a picture I took on a previous commute: I'm a cautious man by nature and I had set off a little early for work so I had time in hand to bleed the fuel line and re-start the female dog, and arrive at work perfumed with 93 octane and a really bad attitude. Honestly, it was scary having the engine stop without warning in the middle of traffic and I am not normally a fearful man.

What's worse is that its bike week this week and Key West is crammed with poseurs on shiny Harleys ( and a handful of crotch rockets) all running perfectly, and though my idea of Hell is spending time with riders-with-attitude, I can't help but feel doubly annoyed to be reminded all the time of these people riding happily around town.

Whats more is just that I am plain annoyed. I no longer trust the GTS and am angry that I have to sell what is a great piece of machinery. When it runs, that is. My wife is livid and she doesn't want me risking my life or limbs on a scooter that dies suddenly. She knows I like to ride fast and she knows I am often to be found passing cars and I love the joke of the unexpected-"where did that moped come from?" implicit in my red buzz bomb outrunning complacent cagers, but...I hope to god Joe can tell me something so good and reassuring on Monday that I will be able to sweet talk my wife for"yet another go..." but it looks grim.

Why a Bonneville if the Vespa has to go? Well, its a classic like the Vespa from a classic company. Its relatively small and handy and performs well, by my standards. With almost 40 years in the saddle (since I was 12), I have come to value ease of use, light weight and simplicity in my ride. The Vespa ably covers the first two but substitutes comfort for simplicity, a compromise that suited me when things were running well. I'd like an air cooled, valve accessible ride if this isn't going further on the Vespa. I have considered a BMW of older years,perhaps a 1997 850 or 1100, in the R series, but I like the Triumph's looks and size better. Plus a final drive belt is available after market to replace the horrid chain.

Why the Bonneville over the other models? The America/Speedmaster are cruisers and I dislike sitting with feet thrust forward, its hard on the tail bone and impedes proper control of a speeding motorcycle. The Thruxton? Ooh yes but I'm too old and paunchy for clip ons anymore, though the Thruxton best resembles the MV Agusta and Moto Morini of my youth... The Scrambler? I burned my inner legs too often as a kid on scramblers with high pipes. Plus the Scrambler doesn't carry saddle bags real well either. The Tiger is too tall, as is the gorgeous 750 triple and the other Triumphs are too, dare I say it? modern.

I am trying to put a good face on a bad hand Piaggio and Fate have dealt me, and I keep hoping for the best. beside what do I do with the name of this blog that I chose originally for what was to be an experimenting i was sure i wouldn't enjoy. Key West Bonneville? Bonneville Chronicle? Southernmost Bonneville?How does one change the name of a blog anyway? I need my Vespa...

Vespa Blues

I got the Vespa back after a 6 hour round trip to Miami Beach, and it is still stalling so thats the end of the Vespa experiment. I plan on hauling it up to the main store in Ft Lauderdale on Monday and telling them to fix it so I can sell it in good conscience.
Vespa Miami also charged me $500 for a rear tire and a new drive belt installation, so aside from not fixing my scooter they made sure I'm not going back there again...
Lightly used Triumph Bonneville for sale?

Broadcasting the Blues

Soon to be...on the road again:

My wife goes nuts every morning as she crosses a few miles of Highway One, and every day its along those few short miles where the reach of "Morning Edition" is weakest on her car radio. A few days ago she called me at home and told me to turn on the radio and hold the telephone receiver close enough for her to listen. She teaches in the Juvenile jail in Key West and there was a story on NPR about juvenile justice and recidivism in post-Katrina New Orleans and she didn't want to miss a word.

The stretch of road between Cudjoe Key and Bay Point has always driven my wife crazy because its exactly there that the Big Pine Key translator runs out of steam but the Key West translator doesn't kick in. So it was a red letter day when the Citizen ran a story announcing confirmation of a new public radio station to be set up in Key West. WHWY should be up and running on 91.5 next year, as a satellite station operated by WLRN in Miami, which would promise a strong signal all the way from Marathon to Key West with no religious interference along the way. "I'll have to subscribe," my wife said and I know she will.

Unlike my wife I find myself indifferent to the blandishments of radio news. I worked in the medium for many years and it used to be a big black mark against Key West that public radio was inaudible in the southernmost city. I think it must be evidence of my perverse nature that now its coming to town I don't much care. With municipal elections weeks away the city is in one of its periodic ferments about over development, and I suppose the arrival of public radio could be seen as evidence of gentrification of the city (the presence of expensive Vespa scooters on the streets could be another). Ergo: a bad thing.

On the other hand I have to admit that I enjoyed living in California very much during the years when Key West was a cultural wasteland and little more than a Navy base with a fishing village attached. So when I look in the mirror I have to acknowledge that I am just another agent of change, like all the other bloated plutocrats that come down for the refreshing climate and sparkling (fecal infested) waters.

History helps me avoid total self loathing, though. The library has helpful shelves loaded with books on Florida's past and every time I look through them I turn back time and I see the same stories, the same fears, the same doom and gloom about change and loss and gentrification. Change is inevitable and on rare occasions it is good, and even rarer occasions it can be stopped, but in a transient town like Key West where most residents are escaping something or other, creating the collective will to stop determined, powerful interests can be more demanding of determination than local sybarites can muster. So we get what we fail to resist, for good or ill.

The good news is my Vespa is running again and will be available tomorrow. Dante at Vespa Miami told me they changed the check valve in the evaporative system that helps recycle polluting gasoline fumes. Its a royal pain in the rear but for now, its in place on my scooter and working properly. I just can't wait to get back to commuting on two wheels again. I am like a child waiting for Christmas morning.

Nera Marmora, or the Pursuit of Happiness

Gina Palmucci, 1891-1924. She took the stage name of Nera Marmora, and sang like a nightingale according to contemporary accounts. She was my grandmother.
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The news that Luciano Pavarotti died last week made the rounds, reaching out so far as to impact my sister in Italy whose computer literacy is so low she doesn't really trust e-mails to arrive at their destination. Yet she was moved to send me one about that piece of news. She has never heard an opera sung in person or on a recording, she has no knowledge of the world outside her small village where she has lived for most of her sixty years and she only thought of me when Pavarotti died because she knows I have traveled far and wide to hear those roles my grandmother sang. Unlike Nera Marmora, Luciano Pavarotti sacrificed everything to bring his music, and himself to the masses, even unto those like my sister whose idea of music is nowhere near Cavalleria Rusticana,

even though she has practically lived the story herself...

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My siblings and I grew up with the knowledge that we had a singer in our family but we knew next to nothing of her, just a stage name and some tidbits from her life: that she had sung with Enrico Caruso, a man who rivalled Pavarotti's ability to reach a non-operatic audience. Yet Gina Palmucci, my grandmother, who lived and died in the early part of the twentieth century never made a recording or gave an interview and would have vanished were it not for her niece who made available photos and posters and programs that allowed the city of Terni to create a book marking one of its most talented offspring.

Terni, an industrial city in the pastoral Umbrian region doesn't have many famous antecedents, its Roman roots in the city of Interamna are largely forgotten, and the city was bombed flat by the Americans in World War Two thanks to its steel mills and its Beretta arms factory. Apartment blocks and streets built to a grid, American style, mark the modern city nestled in a region famous for its medieval hill towns. My grandmother's brother Pasquale worked all his life as an accounts clerk in the steel mill, and I see the old man I knew inside the happy youth on the left in this picture, standing next to his already famous sister:

The city was moved to put up a monument to my grandmother where she lived in the city's old section which has been gentrified and rehabbed, as is the way worldwide in the twenty-first century.

My mother, who died when I was a teenager, never ever spoke, as far as I can recall, of her mother, and I believe that was in large part because her father blamed her for his beloved wife's death. Nera Marmora retired from the stage to live the decorous life of a wife and mother in 1923, and she died in childbirth a year later.Her husband, my grandfather, never did recover from the blow of her sudden death and the secret family legend is he never learned to love his only child as a result of that misfortune. Now they are all dead and only we, the generation that remembers none of that drama, remain alive.

I am now older than my mother was when she died, and my own life has slipped into middle age alongside the career of the great Pavarotti whose talents were on display from when I can remember. I saw him sing in assorted theaters around the world and I heard the praise heaped upon his voice, the voice of a man who pumped his talent for all it was worth. He divorced his wife and settled down with his secretary, he ate prodigiously and sang as long as he could. I guess he enjoyed life. And now its done and he is no longer a living legend.Though still a household name even in farmhouses like my sister's where neither a book nor a libretto ever crosses the threshold. Thats a hell of an achievement, no matter what the cost we observed at the Maestro's two-family funeral.

My own sister in her e-mail reminded me of one night at La Scala in Milan, when the performance commemorated in the frontispiece of the program the first night decades before, in the same theater. And there she was, my grandmother, listed for all to see and none to know. I should have known better, because in the book I now own there is a reproduction of the front page of the score of a new performance of an opera by Giacomo Puccini, signed by the composer himself to the distinguished artist, suave voice of Mimi.

In considering my grandmother's career one sees she had the seeds of greatness sown within her. She sang with Caruso and went on tour with him in South America in 1917. She was selected by Arturo Toscanini, a conductor who left his mark on the world at large, to sing in the premiere of the re-opening of La Scala after World War One, she was praised for her beauty and her voice wherever she went. And she gave it all up to get married to a country squire of little account and thence to sink into obscurity. He wasn't a bad man at all, and got a piazza named after him. He also got his own monument put up after the war celebrating his bravery helping partisans and allied fliers escape the clutches of the Nazis. A good man he may have been but not famous. My grandmother's choice to marry him was the sort of choice that in a media obsessed world would get one labeled insane.

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She was just insanely unlucky that her choice led to her premature death and the gradual dismemberment over two generations of the family that was to be descended from her. I suppose a stone plaque to mark the passing of a human life is no bad thing, especially when the life lived has been a perpetual struggle with unhappiness. But when all is said and done, how could I not be drawn, with all this pent up history of family sadness behind me, to the only land where the pursuit of happiness is enshrined in the rules to live by?