The Other Burdines

"Burdines? Theres a Burdines in Marathon?" I've heard that query more than once when I told someone I was going to the second-largest city in the Keys. The name gives the impression that a magnificent clothing emporium has mushroomed in the midst of the economic blandness that characterizes Mile Marker 50 and environs.

No such luck, because this Burdines is a place to buy food, watch the water and contemplate the pleasures of life in the Keys. The last time I was there a table full of elderly tourists next to me was blathering on to the waitress about how they were from "far up North," and even though the conversation was tedious and predictable I did get a fresh appreciation for the 87 degree, breezy, sunny October day.

Burdines is a combination of businesses, operating a fuel dock downstairs on the channel that leads to Boot Key Harbor from the west. Upstairs is the Chiki Tiki Bar, funky, thatched and open to the breeze. They also rent boat slips and a lucky few live on their boats within feet of the burgers and sandwiches served with old fashioned informality (a painted mousetrap to hold your check) and old fashioned real lemonade for thirsty motorcyclists anxious not to get DUI'ed...Usually I like the $9 Green Chile Cheeseburger but the Chicken Florentine looked an interesting burger alternative and I decided to risk it. Its easier to change longstanding habits when lunching in the company of a friend who, unlike my wife, doesn't know I always order the green Chili Burger . The chicken burger looks pale and flaccid, as it consists of ground chicken mashed together with feta cheese and shredded spinach, but it has a surprisingly exotic combination of flavors. It didn't need the ketchup I spread on the white meat in order to add unnecessary flavor- the feta and spinach gave it plenty of zip. Diggy had a fish sandwich, and even though he says he isn't keen on dolphin he woofed it down happily. We shared the big basket of salty spiced fries, made with real potatoes, revealed by their uneven shapes, and the potato skin incorporated into their texture. They go nicely with the patty melt too, a greasy burger if ever I saw one. I may be sticking to the exotic chicken on my next visit.

Aside from the view from Burdines up Boot Key Harbor which lies in the middle of the city of Marathon and is home to hundreds of anchored boats, one gets a view out to the west, towards the Seven Mile bridge and the open waters of the Straits of Florida.

That all should be dessert enough, if beauty were a substitute. However when visiting Burdines with Diggy I felt an obligation to introduce him to another delight that my wife generally forbids me when we stop by.

Burdines calls it a deep fried Key Lime Pie, where they roll a slice of pie in a tortilla and fry the hell out of it. Diggy swooned as he spooned and described it as a key lime pie flavored funnel cake. He still talks about it.

We waddled back to our motorcycles, and puttered up 15th street back to the Overseas Highway. "Been looking for this place ever since you first mentioned it, " Diggy burped contentedly as we waited for a break in traffic. "Hard to find, but now I know."

Paradise found for them as know.

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.

1000 Miles And A Service

The Overseas Highway in the dark is one hell of a ride. The air is warm at 5:45 in the morning, at least 80 degrees, even in mid October, the rainy season is still upon us so stretches of the Highway are wet and glistening from the passage of recent downpours. The air smells of salt sea air and little else as the restaurants are closed, the bars are closed and most worker bees are still snoring before 6 am. Its too early to able to spot the blue flickering screens of morning televisions ( an abominable habit says the former radio newsman in me), marina docks are devoid of people as I rumble by, glancing at the orange dock lights illuminating the boats bobbing alongside the finger piers.

Speeding is tricky when its dark because a set of headlights catching up with you from behind can either indicate someone in a hurry or a deputy anxiously closing the distance to initiate a traffic stop. My tactic when i see a pair of headlights fast approaching in my mirrors is to slow down to the speed limit plus 5 (5mph over the limit garners you only a written warning, the maximum penalty by State Law) and wait and see. Often its just another speeder who flashes by as I dawdle along, but not always. Its the same when I spot a pair of side lights glowing on the Highway's shoulder. Sometimes its just a bridge fisherman organizing his pre-dawn hobby in the trunk of his car. Other times its a Highway Patrol officer operating a laser radar gun. One zap and you're fined.

As the dawn comes up its a reminder of why living in the Keys is so special. Dawn anywhere is a wondrous thing, especially as one grows older with the increased awareness of the finite number of dawns left to to enjoy, but this year's heavy rainy season has produced spectacular light displays at dawn and dusk. The view from the top of the 70-foot Long Key Bridge, called for some reason Channel Five, opens up the full array of pinks and purples and grays hidden in the shifting cloud layers, spreads them across the gunmetal ocean surface and reflects streaks of orange between the cloud layers, like a portraits of the second coming in Renaissance art. The Bonneville, a triumph of modern craftsmanship, purrs along steadily, sweeping through the curves, wide open to 70 mph in the 55mph constriction of the two lane highway. Checking for cream and black FHP cars is prosaic but so necessary, even while god's handiwork is on show, the rising sun an irresistible distraction from the necessary preservation of one's driving privilege.
The drive to Pure Triumph of Fort Lauderdale for the motorcycle's first service is a 165 mile mixture of all the types of roads one can take in the flat lands of South Florida. After the waterborne curves of the Overseas Highway we slip off to the right (keep going straight, really) at Mile Marker 106 and take Card Sound Road, a wooded series of humps, dips and sweeping curves that has a nominal 55mph speed limit. 80 mph is entirely feasible on the smooth (no trucks!) surface of this back road alternative to the construction zone that is the 18 mile stretch of Highway One, the more familiar entrance to the Keys. There's a one dollar toll at the card Sound Bridge where Monroe County meets Dade County, and the toll booth is an excellent deterrent to the mass of tourists who take their lives into their own hands on The Stretch, source of many bad accidents owing to its lack of passing spaces.

After card Sound Road rejoins Highway One at Florida City the Bonneville needs gas, I'm 105 miles from home with 60 to go and I'd rather stop and get gas here than find a pump in downtown Fort Lauderdale. Florida city is a strip mall of junk food and gas stations, a Holiday Inn and some no name brand flea pits and a "Last Chance Saloon"- the last cold beer for 18 miles! Whoo, who can ride the Stretch without one last mainland beer for dutch courage?

From Florida City its the terminus of the Turnpike with four one dollar tolls to exit 55, Downtown Fort Lauderdale. I pause to suit up when I see a thick black rain cloud dumping on the roadway up ahead. By the time I get there swathed in nylon the raincloud has moved off to the Everglades to the west, and only a thick sheen of water lies on the road to assure me the rain wasn't in my imagination. The turnpike is a mass of cars jockeying for position through western Miami, and the Bonneville is starting to loosen up so I'm running 70 to 80mph and I'm starting to feel the need for a windshield. I hope my Parabellum gets here soon, this is tiring. I arrive at the shop at 9:45am, giving me 15 minutes to read the latest edition of Vanity Fair, sitting on the sidewalk, like my youthful alter ego of years ago, traveling by motorbike, scruffy and dusty.

This motorcycle makes me feel young again in so many unexpected ways!

Vignettes II

New mayor, new house prices.

I've never been one to think that the President has that much direct influence over the economy of the country, even though the White House incumbent loves to take credit for a strong economy (and dump on Congress in the event its not). The City of Key West is suffering not a little from anti-tax legislators in Tallahassee who are determined to undermine the fabric of the state by cutting already low taxes even further. The other thing that has changed noticeably is the decline of house prices, thus further reducing the city's income. Both Mayor Macpherson and Challenger Weekly are in a run off for the second round of voting, with Weekly expected to win. What that means for the city isn't the least bit clear as neither candidate has confronted this new state of affairs head on.

What is clear is that plans to create "affordable" housing have come too little too late, as usual. Its now possible to buy a market rate apartment for around a quarter million dollars, roughly equivalent to deed restricted homes planned, but not available for the near future. The housing bubble has burst, formerly high prices have pushed many people out of the keys, and when help was needed none was forthcoming. These days homeowners with large home equity loans are forced to sell for what they can get to satisfy compliant banks who will take what they can get on their crap loans.
Now the city faces a tight budgetary future and we seem likely to find ourselves being led by a man who couldn't govern the city successfully when the coffers were full. Oh dear.

Bye bye my Vespa?

My beautiful vintage red can be seen parked in various locations around town bearing the red F of a For Sale sign. I've had a few calls, people looking for a desperate seller, and that means I get to ride the red bomber a few more times when I take her home for a clean up and a battery charge. I try to hold on to the experience of riding the Vespa because I fear it will fade all too fast after she goes to a new home. It really is a big black couch compared even to the long flat seat on the Bonneville.

Sand to Sunset

What you see here is a barge waiting to offload its cargo on the ritzy development of Sunset Key. In a few weeks snowbirds will be returning to their multi-million dollar homes on the exclusive island just offshore of the city, and they will want to see nice clean sand all around. After all thats what one expects in the tropics, coconuts and sand... so the tug in the photo is hauling sand to Key West from the Bahamas where the resource is abundant. God alone knows how much they spend on this pointless operation, but in the rocky keys where sand doesn't come naturally,its worth remembering we are still part of the USA. And in the USA if there's something you want but don't have, just throw enough money at the "problem" and it will go away, as if by magic.

A fool and his money are soon parted.

Legal Rider.I have been nagging Diggy for some time to get himself organized and finally he did it. It was a sneaky trick on my part, but I lured him out of Key West on a pretext (lunch) and he bit, so to speak. In addition to an al fresco fish sandwich Diggy got dragged by me to the DMV office where, before he knew it he was sitting down to take the motorcycle endorsement test. Not a minute too soon because in 2008 the State of Florida is finally implementing a 4 hour classroom requirement for new motorcyclists. It'll cost $200 but its worthwhile if it helps educate juvenile delinquents to stay intact on a motorcycle. "I was kind of worried about taking it," he confessed later to me. That was all part of my dastardly plan. Being a Conch, Diggy would rather lose a leg than lose face, and his biggest fear about taking the test was being seen to fail.

"Watch," he said, "I'm gonna go in, fail and there'll be someone I know watching me." As a prognosticator Diggy sucks, because he passed and there was no one there to see him do it. Except me, and I think I was only forgiven for ambushing him thanks to the excellent lunch that preceded the testing ambush. His biggest problem was hiding how pleased he was that he passed. He rode home like a man with nothing to hide.

Key West Zoo

It is an irony that my wife teaches in the one room classroom at the Monroe County Juvenile Detention Center, which is a massive structure on stilts parked right above the Monroe County Sheriff's Office's Petting Zoo. Its ironic because her students are not allowed to pet the animals they can almost see from their cells. They might leap the barbed wire, like POWs and run...The downstairs inmates find their time at the jail to be restorative, there is no feeling that to them running might be a good idea. Trustys from the adult jail get the privilege of working at the farm under the supervision of the civilian "farmer" who is charged with looking after the animals. I'm told it is a much prized job and confers status on the orange suited prisoners who get to lift and carry for the farm's inmates. The inmates vary: I've seen horses, a donkey, pigs of all sizes, lots of ducks, friendly inquisitive goats and other more or less barnyard animals. Vets volunteer their time and skill to help restore the battered arrivals.

To the outside world, principally guide book authors, the existence of the farm is something of a surprise. They are shocked the Sheriff of all people runs a petting farm at the jail. However there is a great deal of poverty on the keys in our diverse world down here and it should come as no surprise that humans living on the brink of a very deep financial abyss mistreat their animals. Also Cuban and Haitian migrants, arrivals from some of the poorest places on the planet have very different animal husbandry standards than those of middle class parvenus like yours truly, so it happens from time to time that animals get abused, and even sometimes get saved from that abuse by interfering Sheriff's deputies. Cock fights get broken up, abandoned farm animals are found. Those are the lucky ones and their spirits and bodies are mended in the serene little petting zoo under the juvenile jail.

They in turn introduce fresh young Conchs to the concept of Farm Animals. Children growing up in Key West should know how to fish, but a farm is an alien concept because there is no agriculture anywhere in the Keys. Central Florida is littered with post-and-rail ranchettes raising show horses, and south central Florida is a vast open tract of cow ranching to rival that of the Far West of popular imagination. In Key West the only tractor you will see is the blue machine that cleans the dead seaweed off the public beaches. So children get to learn life lessons at the farm, and very cool it is too. Eccentric perhaps to an outsider, but like so many things in the keys it makes perfect sense that the Sheriff treats abused animals as just another part of the law enforcement equation.

For many reasons Sheriff Rick Roth was the first Republican candidate I ever voted for. Keys politics being the topsy turvey jumble they are, he wasn't the last.

New Lamps For Old

Buy a Vespa and you'll get told all about how Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck rode around Rome on a Vespa half a century ago.

Buy a Modern Classic Triumph and what you'll get is a misty eyed memory of Steve McQueen's escape from the Stalag or a slender youthful Marlon Brando asking whats on the menu to rebel against- a wild one meeting a doe eyed waitress in dusty Hollister, California. (I should point out here that even though Steve McQueen is credited with wanting to leap the barbed wire on his camouflaged Triumph {camouflaged to look "German"}, the stunt was performed by the legendary Bud Ekins who died recently).

The modern Vespa doesn't cut it as a Vespa to the aficionado of the original two stroke, geared putt putts of the Hepburn era. The modern Vespa has no gears, a powerful four stroke engine and no spare wheel. The modern Vespa is designed to survive and flourish in the modern traffic conditions in over crowded modern megalopolis's. You can argue endlessly about the connection to the old Vespas but there is no doubt it is very sophisticated motorcycle that neither Audrey Hepburn, nor the princess she played, would never have dreamed of- nor Gregory Peck for that matter. Nevertheless walk into any Vespa store in the US and there you will find an enormous picture of them on their 40mph 125 cc Vespa of yore. Alongside them you will see an oversize poster of Charlton Heston in a toga Ben Hur-ing it on a Vespa at the lot of Cinecitta, the hub of Italian movie making in the 50s.

Equally, a modern Triumph Bonneville has absolutely bugger all to do with the Triumphs of the 60s. Back then they were the symbols of rebellion, powerful, noisy rugged and rough. They roared their message through barely existent mufflers, their riders wore leathers, boots and white fisherman's socks turned down over the tops of the boots. I used to dress like that when I rode (an Italian bike) in the England of the seventies. We pretended to be rebels and stomped around on reliable modern, mostly Japanese bikes; no one but eccentric nostalgics wanted a Triumph. We, modern rockers, intended to get where we were going when we took trips.The old Bonnevilles looked a million bucks aside from leaking oil, but what was worse was they had crap electrics and vibrated like you wouldn't believe. The vibrations snapped the wiring harnesses and they stopped, or their headlights died- not for nothing their electrics supplier was known as Lucas- Prince of Darkness. Very droll I'm sure but a pain in the ass when you're planning on getting home at night to sleep in your own bed. But there again people , men, who rode Trumphs back then were tough, and yes, quite likely rude. Imagine that. They didn't take shit, they dished it out and their motorcycles reflected their devil-may-care attitudes. These days we tend to care, perhaps a little too much, about not just appearances or electrics but electronics and vibration dampers and 12 volt accessory outlets and all sorts of extraneous crap. Never mind oil leaks.The modern Bonneville is a pansy machine by comparison, it doesn't even come with a proper kickstart! Just like Gregory Peck and Vespas, Steve McQueen would never have recognized the modern Bonnie, a well behaved, reputedly reliable, purring pussy cat. Just the way I have always liked it, as it happens, though even I should have liked a kickstart... For a lot of Triumph freaks the modern Bonneville is a museum piece to be kept as close as possible to the T120 its based on, wire wheels, chain drive and LOUD. It strikes me as odd, because if they really want the genuine Triumph of their hobbled nostalgia they can go and buy one, fully restored, for the same money as a new Bonneville. Instead they buy the modern classic, enjoy the comfort and reliability and bitch at heathens like me who just like to ride, and often, on a modern machine that just looks retro.

I feel privileged to have grown up when I did, because mine is the generation that wallows in nostalgia and creates demand for superb machinery in all fields; the generation that also requires the recreation of the visual cues that set us off to reminiscing; the generation that demands engineering function that is completely up to date. The Bonneville looks 1960 but runs 2007.

The best of all worlds indeed. Steve McQueen be damned!