I had Friday off and I took the day to go on a long ride. I have been feeling a little trapped by the unwonted heat of this summer. My wife's shoulder injury has meant we cannot use our little skiff daily, so I pulled the boat from our dock and it has sat, disconsolate, on it's trailer for the summer. I determined I had to go for a ride, so I gave myself an unreasonable goal and decided I would ride there and back and see how I coped. 
The day went well on the whole, I arrived where I wanted to go and I managed to avoid all but the lightest of showers as I crossed the Everglades. In addition to a severe shortage of breezes we have enjoyed a surfeit of showers this long hot summer and I fully expected to be rained upon. As can bee seen from the photo above, I met my Waterloo on Snake Road in the Seminole Indian Reservation. It was to be the highlight of an excellent day. 
I pulled over to enjoy a spectacle I had not yet seen in a thundercloud. It was like a white blaze in a gray head of hair, and there were elements of a rainbow within the splash of white in the rain storm. Of course my attempts to photograph the phenomenon fell far short of what I saw with my own eyes:
The temperature gauge had been hovering above 100 degrees all day (38C) and i was sweating in my helmet and my gloves and my waistband all day. The thunderhead was producing a phenomenon that I was used to, a down draft of cold air that rush across the fields and bent the leaves on the bushes and the scrub palmettos. When out sailing that rush of cold air was my first warning to shorten sail, especially at night when I couldn't see the black anvil in the sky that was producing it. Standing next to my motorcycle I just grinned and sniffed the cold air like a city-dwelling child first exposed to the ozone of fresh salt air. The rain was thick and blotting out landmarks across the fields:
Rain spattered and I turned and fled, thinking perhaps to return to the U Save gas station in the Seminole village where I could buy a coke and sit at a table on the porch and wait for the rain to pass. As it happened I had noticed a corral as I rode and as I thought about it I figured that if i stopped there I could shelter my motorcycle and also probably not have to talk to anyone. I had a thermos of hot tea and a book I have been enjoying (Hitler's Pope, a biography of Pius XII, which is not nearly as dry as it sounds) in my saddlebag and I would take advantage of the pause to do some reading.
It is commonplace these days for riders to load up with music and GPS and blue toothed cell phones that allow one to be distracted by almost as many electrons as the average car driver. I am not one of those, I continue the practice of enjoying my thoughts while I ride. Partly I hope to ride with greater care, partly I enjoy listening to the silence and thinking thoughts as I barrel down the long straight stretches of Florida back country. To thus have to pause and refresh the memory banks with new thoughts is a chance not to be missed.
I could tell this thunder head was special. The edges were blurry, the heart was black and it spread so wide the edges produced rainbows even as it advanced on me. So thick did it look down the road, and so strong were the down drafts, I figured it was prudent to leave my waterproofs in the other saddlebag and take the opportunity to stay dry. I was at least four hours, possibly more from home and I wanted to stay dry as darkness was two hours away and my blood is so thin that riding wet, in the darkness in 80 degree (27C) ambient temperatures could set my teeth to chattering. 
It's not easy to photograph rain I find but I had lots of time to try to perfect the technique. The wind howled, sending raindrops horizontally under the roof. The the thunder clapped so loud my teeth ached and I wondered if the zinc roof would act as a lightning conductor. I retreated to the interior of the corral and hid behind the slats trying to stay dry. And the rain came down.
It bent the leaves of the trees and shook the branches with it's force. The sound was the hissing of a dozen steam locomotives, the very air was damp with rain, even at the center of my shelter. 
There was a viciousness to the rain, it felt like it was pounding the ground into submission. The wind stopped and left the rain to do it's worst and like a guard dog released by it's master the rain hammered and worried and tore in a frenzy, trying to do as much damage as time allowed. How this neighboring roof stood up to the assault I don't know. Them Seminoles know how to build a strong roof, they do.
Well, I thought, I made the correct decision. Tea, anyone? 
It was undignified I know, using the motorbike as a table, but the little folding chair thoughtfully left behind by the stock man (thank you, whoever you are) was the perfect height to allow me to read and drink tea with the minimum of effort. 
And so time passed. I knew that if I had togged up and continued the ride would have been not much fun. Rain of this intensity would have penetrated my plastic clothing at strategic spots and anyone who tells you riding with a soppy crotch and a wet chest is fun are lying. It would have been a challenge, of that there is no doubt, but I met the challenge my way and it went well. Indeed I was reluctant to put the book down. I had got to the bit where the Vatican made no comment on the "Night of the Long Knives" and I was wondering what the author had found on that subject in the Vatican archives. 
The rain was easing up but as long as I could see spray shooting out from under the passing vehicles I decided to stay put. Either that or put my plastic pants on to keep dry and sweaty.
The cars drove by in a steady stream and I didn't envy them their mobility. They had no conscious moment of this storm, just another wet view through the window. For me it had been a calculated risk, a well thought out decision, a maneuver to keep me dry. An hour spent here was an hour that would live on in my memories for a good long while. "Remember when...?" 
As we age our lives speed up because so much of our older lifetime is repetition. Routine creates fog in the memories, the same photographs taken over and over get filed in one place. New pictures merit a special look and a thought or two. That takes time, and the time taken is added to the bank of life well lived.
I do like the perpetual sunshine though, and it got a particular applause from me as the cloud moved off to ravage some other place and left me to pack up and ride out in a world made fresh and clean by the rain. A Seminole police car slowed to look at me lurking in the corral as I was running my eye over the bike making sure everything was as it should be. He didn't stop to talk, perhaps he got a call of something more urgent than a motorcyclist taking refuge from the rain. I thus managed to hide out for the storm and spoke to no one about anything making the moment all mine.
Mine and the Bonneville's of course, for what would Timmy be without the dog?
The day went well on the whole, I arrived where I wanted to go and I managed to avoid all but the lightest of showers as I crossed the Everglades. In addition to a severe shortage of breezes we have enjoyed a surfeit of showers this long hot summer and I fully expected to be rained upon. As can bee seen from the photo above, I met my Waterloo on Snake Road in the Seminole Indian Reservation. It was to be the highlight of an excellent day. 
I pulled over to enjoy a spectacle I had not yet seen in a thundercloud. It was like a white blaze in a gray head of hair, and there were elements of a rainbow within the splash of white in the rain storm. Of course my attempts to photograph the phenomenon fell far short of what I saw with my own eyes:The temperature gauge had been hovering above 100 degrees all day (38C) and i was sweating in my helmet and my gloves and my waistband all day. The thunderhead was producing a phenomenon that I was used to, a down draft of cold air that rush across the fields and bent the leaves on the bushes and the scrub palmettos. When out sailing that rush of cold air was my first warning to shorten sail, especially at night when I couldn't see the black anvil in the sky that was producing it. Standing next to my motorcycle I just grinned and sniffed the cold air like a city-dwelling child first exposed to the ozone of fresh salt air. The rain was thick and blotting out landmarks across the fields:Rain spattered and I turned and fled, thinking perhaps to return to the U Save gas station in the Seminole village where I could buy a coke and sit at a table on the porch and wait for the rain to pass. As it happened I had noticed a corral as I rode and as I thought about it I figured that if i stopped there I could shelter my motorcycle and also probably not have to talk to anyone. I had a thermos of hot tea and a book I have been enjoying (Hitler's Pope, a biography of Pius XII, which is not nearly as dry as it sounds) in my saddlebag and I would take advantage of the pause to do some reading.It is commonplace these days for riders to load up with music and GPS and blue toothed cell phones that allow one to be distracted by almost as many electrons as the average car driver. I am not one of those, I continue the practice of enjoying my thoughts while I ride. Partly I hope to ride with greater care, partly I enjoy listening to the silence and thinking thoughts as I barrel down the long straight stretches of Florida back country. To thus have to pause and refresh the memory banks with new thoughts is a chance not to be missed.
I could tell this thunder head was special. The edges were blurry, the heart was black and it spread so wide the edges produced rainbows even as it advanced on me. So thick did it look down the road, and so strong were the down drafts, I figured it was prudent to leave my waterproofs in the other saddlebag and take the opportunity to stay dry. I was at least four hours, possibly more from home and I wanted to stay dry as darkness was two hours away and my blood is so thin that riding wet, in the darkness in 80 degree (27C) ambient temperatures could set my teeth to chattering. 
It's not easy to photograph rain I find but I had lots of time to try to perfect the technique. The wind howled, sending raindrops horizontally under the roof. The the thunder clapped so loud my teeth ached and I wondered if the zinc roof would act as a lightning conductor. I retreated to the interior of the corral and hid behind the slats trying to stay dry. And the rain came down.
It bent the leaves of the trees and shook the branches with it's force. The sound was the hissing of a dozen steam locomotives, the very air was damp with rain, even at the center of my shelter. 
There was a viciousness to the rain, it felt like it was pounding the ground into submission. The wind stopped and left the rain to do it's worst and like a guard dog released by it's master the rain hammered and worried and tore in a frenzy, trying to do as much damage as time allowed. How this neighboring roof stood up to the assault I don't know. Them Seminoles know how to build a strong roof, they do.
Well, I thought, I made the correct decision. Tea, anyone? 
It was undignified I know, using the motorbike as a table, but the little folding chair thoughtfully left behind by the stock man (thank you, whoever you are) was the perfect height to allow me to read and drink tea with the minimum of effort. 
And so time passed. I knew that if I had togged up and continued the ride would have been not much fun. Rain of this intensity would have penetrated my plastic clothing at strategic spots and anyone who tells you riding with a soppy crotch and a wet chest is fun are lying. It would have been a challenge, of that there is no doubt, but I met the challenge my way and it went well. Indeed I was reluctant to put the book down. I had got to the bit where the Vatican made no comment on the "Night of the Long Knives" and I was wondering what the author had found on that subject in the Vatican archives. 
The rain was easing up but as long as I could see spray shooting out from under the passing vehicles I decided to stay put. Either that or put my plastic pants on to keep dry and sweaty.The cars drove by in a steady stream and I didn't envy them their mobility. They had no conscious moment of this storm, just another wet view through the window. For me it had been a calculated risk, a well thought out decision, a maneuver to keep me dry. An hour spent here was an hour that would live on in my memories for a good long while. "Remember when...?" 
As we age our lives speed up because so much of our older lifetime is repetition. Routine creates fog in the memories, the same photographs taken over and over get filed in one place. New pictures merit a special look and a thought or two. That takes time, and the time taken is added to the bank of life well lived.I do like the perpetual sunshine though, and it got a particular applause from me as the cloud moved off to ravage some other place and left me to pack up and ride out in a world made fresh and clean by the rain. A Seminole police car slowed to look at me lurking in the corral as I was running my eye over the bike making sure everything was as it should be. He didn't stop to talk, perhaps he got a call of something more urgent than a motorcyclist taking refuge from the rain. I thus managed to hide out for the storm and spoke to no one about anything making the moment all mine.
Mine and the Bonneville's of course, for what would Timmy be without the dog? 
These people aren't necessarily daily riders, people who ride to work, ride to the store, ride on vacation. They parade their machines, be they ever so impractical for the pleasure of being seen. That so many of them arrive in the Southernmost City not in trailers is something of a miracle if you ask me. These pictures I took of motorcycles leaving town as I commuted to work Saturday evening, so this lot is representative of the non-trailer crowd on the Overseas Highway. This BMW represents the few hundred non Harleys who attend the gathering which is organized each year at this period in the low tourist season by the Miami Harley dealer. Petersen's Poker run raises tens of thousands of dollars for assorted worthy causes:
You'd think that someone who enjoys riding would look forward to seeing his home town celebrating other riders, but motorcycling like every other lifestyle impediment, is broken down into groups and factions. I'd like nothing more than to stroll Lower Duval and look at a variety of motorcycles ridden into town and put on parade. However there are only so many variations on the cruiser/chopper/bobber themes that can hold my interest. As for leather vests and chaps, well let me draw a veil across the more fetishistic modes of dress of these chrome cowboys. Despite the presence of token babes perched on the back, homo-eroticism oozes from every rumbling twist of the throttle. It's all quite enough to make a bourgeois homebody like me sweat bullets just to be a spectator. I like severely practical motorcycle clothing, thanks.
Me? I sneak off on my wife's Vespa lest anyone should mistake my work horse for a participant in the v twin fest. I'd be the guy in the see through plastic jacket turning up to the bandana party on a submissive little parallel twin by Triumph, a brand rarely seen in Key West. So instead I ride my wife's sober little 150cc scooter and let them keep glancing nervously in their mirrors as the alabaster buzz bomb keeps up with their bombastic roaring, throbbing steeds. 
My colleague Paula worked for most of her adult life waiting Key West's tables and she has the proper perspective on Bike Week. "It means money when there is no money in Key West" is the gist of her argument. True enough but she drives a tatty old conch cruiser by Chevrolet, a full half a mile to work. No one is mistaking her for one of these people:
It was perfect weather for a ride into or out of Key West though I'm sure some would prefer the cooler temperatures of Up North along with the turning of the leaves lining hilly twisting roads. Well then, let them stay away in droves because we have had plenty of motorcyclists all weekend. For those that didn't make it next year's Bike Week will come around soon enough:
I didn't realize until he flashed by that this was some weirdo showing up to a Harley rally on a rather toothsome sport tourer in the Yamaha FJR1300 mold. He didn't seem to mind being stuck with a powerful water cooled engine with shaft drive, excellent weather protection and properly built-in luggage. Poor thing. His sole concession to v-twin mania was riding in a tank top as one does in southernmost heat:
Here we are where we belong, a perfectly upright v-twin negotiating one of the few corners on the Overseas Highway in a perfectly upright posture:
Or the backs of the cars in front. It isn't easy to figure out how to pass when you don't know the road, and even though there are lots of decent places to pass slow pokes it takes more effort than a visitor needs to be putting into the ride. Much better to sit back and enjoy the views. On weekends like these I give myself an extra ten minutes on my 27 mile commute to avoid feeling pressure to pass. 
When caught up in a line of cars I recommend pulling over, the shoulders are ample almost everywhere along the Overseas Highways (not on bridges doofus!) and take a moment to let the long lines of cars pull ahead. Then you get to cruise at your speed with your own private views: 
By now I was on South Roosevelt, cruising into town along Smathers Beach. Officer Betz made a good living catching speeders along here Saturday night. The speed limit is 30 and though it seems a might slow, 45 mph is easily enough to get a ticket worth the price of a night at an expensive hotel.
And if you're in Key West with your squeeze you too can pretend to be Captain America for a while even if you are riding a modest Taiwan Golden Bee scooter and a man the age of your father rolls by on his chromium plated couch:
I have been suppressing a hankering to get another dog from Florida Labrador Rescue, not least because my wife balks at the expense of putting a fence around our home (squashed dog is too awful to contemplate), and then I'd need a hack. I'm not sure I'd like to stick a Velorex on my Bonneville and I toyed for a while with the idea of a Ural. These Russian made machines have had a reputation for zero reliability which has improved since they started using modern motorcycle parts from Europe and Japan. However the Ural (pronounced "ooo-rhal" their owners will insist, not "Urinal" as I have frequently heard them referred to) have two other problems. They can barely reach 65mph which even for a slow person like me is too damned slow, and at the same time if you try to go that fast gas mileage drops from an awful 30 mpg (11 km/liter) to an abysmal 25 mpg according to the Ural forum. All that while you drop parts as you go, and now need to find car spaces to park the machine in congested Key West. Cute, no?
Ah well, that's it for bike week. If I am to give advice (Heaven Forbid!) I would recommend renting from Classic Motorcycle Rentals of Orlando (407-583-6988 delivery to your hotel) at $50 a day for a Bonneville or a Scrambler, and at that price take a week to ride down to Key West along Highway 27 through rolling orange groves, past old town Sebring, around Lake Okeechobee and down to Key West for a couple of days of motorcycle racket, then riding back up the west coast of Florida to enjoy the beaches and the swimming along the way with a final ride through the magnificent forests of west central Florida to Orlando. Or you could just be like everybody else and rent a Harley in Miami and thud-thud your way down the Overseas Highway in a leather vest. Your choice. Sniff.
There are a number of depots, train stops, around town and passengers can take a break and get off at any one of them.
The stops offer lots of different key West related dust catchers including mugs, ash trays and t-shirts of course:
And a place to sit in the shade when you are all shopped out:
This is the other depot on Front Street at the top end of Duval:
The amusement for people trapped in their cars behind these slow moving trains is a little less obvious.
The drivers keep to a speed not much above walking pace, and they spend huge amounts of time pulling away from traffic lights. The deal here is to catch as many red lights as you decently can to be able to take the time to expound on the story telling. 
The Conch Trains cause friction in the city, of that there is no doubt. In winter especially the Citizen's Voice reverberates with complaints from people who live alongside the routes and hear the same portion of the driver's spiel a dozen times a day. Drivers moan all the time about get the streets getting clogged by these dinosaurs ambling along. The trains fight back with their own propaganda:
For my part I just try to avoid them and use one of the many alternative streets paralleling their routes:
Historic Tours of America operates these trains in several other cities all over America: St Augustine, Savannah, San Diego, Boston and the District of Columbia as well as a ferry to the Dry Tortugas and amphibious tours of the nation's capital. The duck tour of the Potomac is an ironic one for someone living in Key West. The city just settled a suit brought by the original duck tour operator who charged the Key West with running him out of town and giving an illegal "tour monopoly" to ed Swift's HTA. Eventually the city settled the suit for eight million dollars, but now there is another tour outfit vying to run trains in Key West. The city is apparently obliged to give the new company a license to operate though it seems the deal is still being worked out. The fact that the new operator is Ed Swift's former son-in-law leads one to speculate that there is more to this than simply business competition. So much drama in such a small town.
The Conch Train is a well established operation with a maintenance facility of Flagler called the Roundhouse:
Of course he does plague the city with his trains and that, for a lot of people is unforgivable and i rather think there is a lot of glee at the expectation that he will now face competition on that front, even though that same competition will put yet more trains on our streets. 
I always recommend a Conch Train tour to guests if they have the least bit of interest in the history of Key West. I wonder if in the future I will be recommending the new outfit as well.
