Enchanted Island

A weekend in Puerto Rico- que rico! It wasn't so flavorful the last time I was there, fully 14 years ago, a stop over on our honey moon (spent sailing the Grenadines- She has put up with a lot). Naturally because I don't do beach vacations we rented a car and I started driving the hell out of the little island as soon as we landed on Saturday at 4am, Atlantic Time at La Mercedita Airport at Ponce ( pro: Pon-say, not "ponse" as English speakers tend to; in British English that would be suggestive). It was pitch black and my wife and I were tired, not nearly as worn out as the third member of our little troop, a colleague half our age and twice as exhausted, who had never been outside the USA. I know Puerto Rico, la colonia, is part of the US, but it isn't in any cultural terms other than shopping and currency. It was a fine place to step outside oneself, even if only for a short weekend.

In the viewing tower in the Caribbean National Forest.

It was a hallucinogenic drive after arrivng so suddenly from the order and banality of urban South Florida to find ourselves darting through villages, under spreading canopies of imposing trees, dodging drunk drivers, getting lost in picturesque towns with Spanish Colonial plazas and helpful islanders who took pity and kept re-directing our Toyota full of gringos, Spanish speaking its true, but unable to decipher the multiplicity of vague roadsigns.

We found a hotel overlooking the Caribbean, facing east down a slope of green to a deep dark sea below, the island of Vieques on the horizon and we fell asleep Saturday morning. We awoke four hours later, to a world neither my wife nor I remembered, 15 years of prosperity have created a new more self confident, Free Associated State, with cleaner streets, better roads and happier people, it seemed. Our young colleague spent the 48 hours struggling to absorb a culture that she had never even come close to encountering, never having been further from Florida than the venerable state of Oklahoma, which though a fine place in many respects is poor preparation indeed for Puerto Rico, the enchanted island.

The whole weekend was a series of wild trips, El Yunque, San Juan the capital, seen at night, la Ruta Panoramica across the mountains and roast suckling pig eaten under the pines of the highlands, in Cayey, where else? A series of wild postcards, plopped into two very full days living, and a sudden undramatic flight back to Fort Lauderdale before dawn Monday morning with reinsertion into our daily, sub tropical lives. From 90 degrees to 70 degrees in two lofty hours. Here's Cabo Rojo at the southwestern tip of the Island at sunset, as mosquitoes descended in hordes to ravage us. Quick! A Medalla Light for him and a Rum Punch for her to revive their bloodless bodies! You don't see cliffs like these in the Florida Keys.

One excellent feature of my eccentric job is long alternating weekends, one of work followed by one of freedom. This trip was an experiment to see if two red eyes connected by unplanned travel might work. It did, and I have tons of stories and pictures for my diary. Que sabroso!

Paved Road Ends

I rode to the paved end of Blimp Road on Cudjoe Key last weekend and arrived to find the ramp occupied by a bronzed man in a Speedo lounging in a recliner next to his pickup and camper, while his retriever was rooting through the mangroves, all tail, tongue, and bright shiny eyes. I stood at the ramp, in the shadow of the Air Force Blimp overhead, and looked out across the frothing waves kicked up by the continuing northeast winds. There was a small sailboat anchored to one side, bobbing on its mooring, no dinghy in sight so presumably it was just parked there for the summer by an absentee owner.

The spirit of exploration has come upon me in a bad way now that the refreshing breezes have blown away the heat and stultifying humidity, so this is the time of year a middle aged man's fancy turns to thoughts of riding. Now is the time to gird one's loins and find quiet places to roam away from the pervasive presence of the early snowbirds. I found the road to El Dorado in the mangroves of Sugarloaf Key, and I was quite surprised to find it too.

Usually the smoothly paved suburban roadways off Highway One end in a big yellow diamond and an impenetrable thicket of thorns, palmettos and mangroves. On this occasion I stumbled across the words enamoured of "dual sport" riders, pavement ends...and even though it didn't end completely it did deteriorate a great deal after I passed the last house. I bounced about a quarter of a mile and found an enormous series of pot holes, deep, filled with clay and water and lined by thorns and shrubs. It was an obstacle I could barely pass on foot, never mind on my motorcycle. I tiptoed through the mud, leaping in a most undignified manner from rock to stone as they showed above the water line. Around the corner the road stretched away to the horizon. I had to get down there, come what may.

I went back there yesterday, this time armed with a pair of garden clippers, what my step father in England used to call secateurs and with them I stood in the sun and clipped, and clipped, and clipped trying to make a pathway round the holes in the road. I'm pretty sure I'd have made it through the puddles directly easily enough on the Bonneville but I really didn't feel like smearing it in gray clay, one month and 2,000 miles into my ownership. So I ended up doing what any good owner would do, I suppose. I put the machine in gear and walked it round the pothole, of course I slipped and put one foot under water and the other into a nice cool puddle of clay. But the motorcycle was past. So far so good.
I had no idea what was to come, and my paranoia meter was ready to go into overdrive, dope fiends growing their crops, Serbian wackos lining the road, a memory of my drive to Pale recorded elsewhere in this diary, or even just pissed off neighbors wondering what this goofball was doing riding a perfectly decent road bike in this lost place.

None of the above transpired, but the road surface did manage to deteriorate turning to gravel and dried mud with the occasional mesa of raised asphalt rising out of the dirt like a toadstool, remnants of the day when this was actually a valued state road.

It was a glorious day, crisp and sunny, with a deep blue sky overhead, marked only by Fat Albert the blimp still protecting us from Cuban smugglers and illegal immigrants and who knows what else.

The white dot in the sky was a reminder, in this place of silence that I was not really alone. Even though I had managed to forget my cell phone at home, and was thus unable to summon assistance if needed. I was a long way away from anywhere because traffic on Highway One was inaudible, and the speedometer was showing almost two miles from the end of the pavement when I saw a couple of large rocks blocking the road up ahead. "Aha," I thought to myself, this is where I get to go where pick ups, whose tracks marked the mud, could not go. As it turned out I couldn't go either but I had been looking forward to arriving at the south shore of Sugarloaf Key, and not having to retrace my own tracks.

Not even my Bonneville could cross the gap created by the absent bridge, and the tide was swirling quite impressively between the cuts that were all that was left of the state road bridge.

This was clearly a place where young people come to do what young people do when they drive out to be alone. And of course the trash fairy had come by to sprinkle his particular brand of fairy dust in the wilderness.I did actually meet a young man bouncing down the road in a big 4x4 pickup. It was his first time because he asked, rather anxiously how much further. I reassured him there was a turn out just a quarter mile ahead. I kept going, wondering how I was going to get around the thorn bushes and big puddles as this time I'd be on the right side of the motorcycle if I walked it past and that is an awkward side to hold the machine up.

As it was I got the secateurs out a second time and clipped back just a few more strands of the abundant thorns and I rode by like the best dual sport riders among us. Well, sort of; at least I made it without toppling into the muck alongside.

Wasn't I the happy explorer, not quite a rival to Hernan De Soto, grinning hugely after finding something approaching the fountain of youth. Oh yes, I felt very young again, proudly licking my wounds inflicted by the unforgiving thorns, and aching damp toes encased in a mixture of mud and wattle inside my old explorers' sneakers. The Triumph purred homewards, at home on the blacktop maintained properly by the State of Florida when it's as important as the Overseas Highway.

I look forward to discovering few more roadway gems forgotten by the overburdened state- long may the Feds waste my money on Fat Albert instead.

Habemus Papam!

The white smoke this morning came in the form of a headline splashed across the top of the Citizen newspaper:

And that means Jimmy Weekly, Democrat, a long time commission member and three time mayor ran a terrible campaign, took lots of money from the wrong people and couldn't get past the fact that in his time he hired and backed the most oily, corrupt city manager that could ever be inflicted on a city. And the voters, 7,117 of the 13,000 eligible to vote in the city (I'm not one of them), declined to forget his abysmal record to avoid inflicting a buffoon on themselves again.

The hulking McPherson was"almost" speechless according to the paper when it was announced he's doubled his lead this time by winning with 56 spare votes. Yet it is well known that the mayor is in a permanent state of speechlessness, he is so inarticulate he'd be better off speaking publicly in pig Latin in Pidgin English. Furthermore his "good friend" the county Mayor came out of the shadows to greet his winning mayoral mate. The county Mayor is an uneducated neo-Fascist with about as much grasp of democratic lawmaking as a toad might have. Plus he supports a goat for county Adminstrator, a man with a record of shadowy dealings in his last job "up North" who has shown he can't administer a sock drawer without causing controversy division and massive budget deficits. What a crowd!

Arrgh! Fidel is right when he mocks our democracy and points out that elections are hopeless when the quality of candidates is so horribly low you'd rather vote for the man in the moon than either of these bozos. Oh well, I have a beard already, perhaps I'd better take up smoking cigars.

On a happier note hurricane season is over, I accidentally dipped a toe in the canal and the water is freezing, which is not surprising as a proper cold front has been basting the keys with north to northeast winds, bringing daytime highs down around 80 under crisp sunny skies and night time lows are below 75, all accompanied by fresh cooling winds. Its utterly delightful.

As long as you forget the politics.

Triumph Bonneville Review

I read something disturbing on the Triumphrat forum, a discussion of an ignition coil pick up that supposedly goes sour periodically, leading to difficult starts, stalling and eventually motor death and a trip to the dealer. Some suffer from it, others don't and those that do claim there is no known permanent cure. I found the discussion depressing, not least because owners of earlier Bonnevilles say the marque is going to seed. The moody authors make various arguments against Triumph's future including the fact that Bonnevilles are assembled in Thailand (engines still built at Hinckley, though), year '08 models are equipped with electronic fuel injection and carry plastic badges glued onto the new larger fuel tanks (built to accommodate the fuel injection pump). I've stopped reading the misery of how Triumphs are deteriorating to keep market share.

Personally I'm glad I'm riding the carburetted, air cooled 865cc Bonneville. I like the old fashioned relative simplicity of the vertical twin, and all too often EFI produces surging where the fuel injection system isn't as smooth as the older, less fuel efficient carburettors, which produce more pollution (marginally) and are thus less able to pass more stringent European "Euro 4" standards. The only issues I've had with the Vespa GTS have to do with the electronic black boxes that have been replaced under warranty. Fewer boxes on the Bonneville make this owner happy.

The Bonneville has turned out to be an excellent motorcycle, as most modern machines are. I like that it looks like a real motorcycle, that it looks the part as well as running superbly. It starts easily, assuming I remember to turn on the fuel and pull out the choke when the engine is cold. It rumbles along comfortably at 40mph in fifth gear and pulls cleanly all the way to the top, which I've tested to 95mph indicated, so far.

In commute mode I have saddlebags for my waterproofs and odds and ends, a top case for my man purse, a helmet lock on the rack, fork gaiters to protect the fork seals and sliders, a Parabellum sport shield, a Loobman to oil the chain, and a loving wife who indulges my pleasure on two wheels.

Nowadays I find my commute on Highway One has speeded up from my days of scootering...I've shaved my ride to Stock Island, 25 miles away, to 25 minutes instead of the usual 30. Passing cars on the highway is much simpler than it was with the Vespa, all I have to do is wait for the dotted yellow lines and then I wind the throttle open, no gear shifting, and I'm past.

The new windshield means I feel no air pressure on me at 70 or 75 mph which is a comfortable cruising speed on the open road. I know now that this size of engine, at 66 hp, is barely stressed running at speeds that put the Vespa 250, at 22hp, at the top end of it's scale, and it makes for a smooth, controlled ride.There is something fulfilling about the Trumpet, with its old fashioned style updated by the easy steering, the sure footed turns, smooth acceleration, absence of vibration, total lack of fuss. Its the Bonneville as it always should have been.

My Mexican Love

Ahh, the open road, the joy of riding for a goal, any goal, in the Lower Keys. I've set myself a challenge tougher perhaps than the search for the Holy Grail, and my results, after years of searching are mixed. Horchata, handmade corn tortillas, puerco, arroz y frijoles, all genuine and available for less than $8- this is definitely not Key West! Ride a little, eat a lot-and its all good stuff!
My one big regret in Key West is the lack of decent Mexican food. Now I know that the term "Mexican Food" covers a multitude of styles and cuisines and that Mexico is about as unified on the food front as any other country as large and diverse. But the fact remains that a decent plate of food typically described as "Mexican" in my former home state of California is simply not available in edible format in Key West. Chico's on Stock Island makes a decent plate of food, not cheap and not Mexican as I know it, odd combinations of ingredients that bear only a passing resemblance to food that I might call "Mexican." Old Town Mexican Cafe off Duval suffers from the same illness, and if my friends demand to eat food from this place I limit myself to a quesadilla which even I can make at home, without screwing up too badly. Theirs tastes okay but not extraordinary.
Salsa Loca also on Duval is much appreciated by locals and tourists but I find their food uninspired and their karaoke style audience participation, and "gift giveaway" lotteries to be puerile and intrusive. They may insist they are offering Mexican food but if they feel the need to say so and if they identify their iced tea as "southern" punters should be smart enough to know what they will be getting in the garishly decorated garden restaurant.

Chango Loco on Bertha Street in an architecturally uninspired building in New Town is a spin off from Salsa Loca, when the owners had a messy public divorce their chef went and started his own place (it was quite the enjoyable scandal for a while). Service is chaotic and the food as uninspired as the building which used to house a famous Cuban location that had grumpy waitresses and huge portions, mention "B's" to any old timer and their eyes will roll and they will start to salivate at the memory. Not anymore.

I've even tried the burrito at Sandy's Cafe at the M&M Laundry on White Street, which turned out bland and watery, almost as bland as the building that houses this one too. How did they do that, reduce rice beans and meat to a flavorless soup? And they are a cheerful group of actual Mexicans serving the slop.
There's more Mexican-ish food at another architectural pile, this time at Mile Marker 24, and it looks better in the sunshine under a bright blue sky.

Coco's Cantina on Cudjoe Key does make some really good Latin dishes, including a few quite excellent Mexican style "specials" from time to time. Coco's is another top rate eatery not actually in Key West at all. The fact that its quite close to my home is just a bonus for me! Coco's, Slice of Paradise and Square Grouper make the Lower Keys entirely edible, actually.

However my hands down favorite Mexican place is run by a Nicaraguan family (Somocistas unfortunately!) 105 miles north of my home, in the town of Homestead and I love to stop there on my way to and from the mainland.

Its off Krome Avenue at 2nd street, near the Police Station and the better known Toro Taco restaurant which I've heard is quite edible. My little hole in the wall has no discernible name, no particular atmosphere other than Central American cheap (fussy sorts should avoid the toilet!) and killer plates of food for less than $6 after their latest round of price hikes.
The clientele is definitely locals, field workers and the like, the juke box plays banda and narco ballads and the waitress is shy and sweet and struggles with her minuscule English. "Coca diet" is the drink of choice but I like to indulge sometimes in a big (styrofoam) cup of horchata, the genuine article, sweet rice milk. Its perfect to wash down a warm plate of puerco en salsa verde, made just like a hungry field hand would approve.

I go there often enough that I think they recognize me and on days when I'm not hungry I'll stop and buy a couple of libras of barbacoa to take home and reheat in the microwave when the hankering for real Mexican overwhelms me. Homemade Mexican, at home! How cool is that?

Parabellum Windshield

I toyed with the idea of not adding a windshield to my "roadster" but even though I have taken to wearing a full face helmet I found the wind drag at speeds over 60 mph to be tiresome, and I want to make a mainland trip or two this winter. I found many extravagant claims, increased mile per gallon principally, on the Parabellum site out of Georgia, and I liked the look of the windshield. The mpg has stayed the same so far, owing to the ease of riding faster.

So I sent them $259 plus $15 shipping and heard nothing back. I then sent them an e-mail and got a quick reply, from an annoyed desk jockey (the boss' wife perhaps?) to the effect that I was an impatient jerk and go screw myself, I'd get it when I got it.

The box showed up and I opened it and found a scribbled set of instructions to the effect that the arms are attached to the handlebar clamp and the lower part is attached to the headlamp: good luck! Well I fiddled and I faddled and cursed the people who designed this kit "specifically" for the Bonneville, and I undid a few more screws than they apparently suggested, and by adding the shield to the mounting brackets, after they were loosely bolted to the motorcycle I got the whole, home made bodge, installed. Oh, and I had to bleed the front brake after the handlebars went upside down and let air into the hydraulics. Grr! (Actually it was no big deal but I think I need more drama). This was one of those fiddly installations that saw me grovelling around on the ground constantly looking for screws and washers that got away from me.

That Parabellum? Very nice it is too. It works beautifully, with excellent wind protection, and the height (20 inches) is perfect, as it puts the top of the shield just below my eyes, so I can look over or through as I need to. It increases engine and wind noise, as I expected, but the weather protection is so good I didn't notice it had started raining the other night until I felt water dripping off my knees into my boots.

Tropical Storm Noel has been sweeping strong winds, up to gale force, across the Keys this week and riding in cross winds has been fine, no wobbling or dragging at all. I think it looks good, for all that its massive. I think I was punished because they only sent me three of four screw covers to complete the installation, and I bear one uncovered screw as a mark of pride. I rebelled against... something, I'm pretty sure... Parabellum's cold indifference to my desire for "instant gratification." Sounds rather sexual in a bad way, I think; no wonder she despises me.

Oh well.