Wandering Again

I went into town and deliberately avoided people for a happy hour of walking the sidewalks with Cheyenne. Some people go to bars for happy hour, I walk the dog and admire coconuts.I saw this Honda Hurricane moldering on Southard Street where formerly it was parked on White Street. Now it is sitting collecting dust and unable to move. Too bad as I read up on the Hurricane and it turns out it was considered quite the sport bike twenty years ago.This one isn't running and doesn't seem likely to for a while. The CB600F was among the first of the fully faired sports bikes that are all over our streets today.I didn't dare peek to see what was hidden under this hood.This plant I know is a traditional Christmas flower, even though I'd know a thing about botany, and here it was sitting out enjoying some February sun.
I was across the block when I saw this spot of color on Carstens Lane.I was at a party this past weekend where I got cornered by a very aggressive woman who had apparently drink taken, not that I knew it for sure at the time as she was entirely articulate and ferociously determined to make me feel some pain. Which was odd because even though I know her I haven't really conversed with her much over the years. Until last weekend.
It seems my wife and her gay friends were sitting across the table sipping their drinks and running a sweep stake to figure out when I was going to explode all over her and give her a piece of my mind. "Why are you so outspoken?" my nemesis asked, "Because nobody cares what I say," I replied hoping she'd take the hint. I'm kind of stuck with this inability to figure out the right thing to say at moments like these. So in the interests of harmony I said nothing.Then she started nagging on about her religion which is something called Unity, her interpretation being some spiritualistic nonsense about life being nothing but a dream. Which may or may not be the case, though for a lot of people not born into the comfort of the first world with a tight knit family like my tormentor, life frequently takes on the appearance of an endless nightmare. As it was starting to for me, happy camper that I am, as the relentless proselytizing continued. I stuck to my vague and confused approach to the whole thing, being agreeable and reaching for the wine bottle as often as necessary. My wife happily lost her bet (which she never admitted to me so I know it hurt!) and I slipped away to snooze off the effects of the excess calming wine I had felt obliged to suck down to keep my mouth full and thus unable to unleash my feelings about being at a birthday party and getting ambushed by a missionary. This being nice to people is extremely hard work and I am forced to wonder if it's worth it.I find being alone with my dog very relaxing. The world makes sense when seen through Cheyenne's eyes. She never tries to convert me to her beliefs, so much so I have no idea to this day, whether or not she even believes there is a dog.I was snoozing peacefully on the floor of a dark living room when my meditations were interrupted by a low voiced conversation taking place around the table. It ended up as a war story about the 'Nam, shootings, retribution and a lingering sense of guilt. Guilt is without any doubt in my mind, one of the most corrosive emotions in the human repertoire and when confronted by it in another human all you can do is listen. Telling someone not to feel guilty is a total waste of everyone's time. I again said nothing hoping all this excess of emotion would evaporate back into the ether.I was batting a rather low average so far for a birthday party, but before the evening was over I learned that some friends who I had heard were thinking about leaving the Keys were denying the rumor strenuously, so that was good news. By the time we left to go home I felt rather bruised by the evening's conversations.An afternoon roaming Key West with my dog was what the doctor ordered. On my way out of town I watched a person from Up North leaving ashy souvenirs of her passing from the window of her Chevrolet Aveo. I guess the ash was too gross for the interior of her car, much better to dump it on Key West, a city with notoriously broad shoulders.Parents are strange people, ask any teacher to confirm that generalization. My wife got yelled at by two parents this month, parents siding with their offspring who were chafing against the reins of discipline imposed by my wife, who has a strict no cell phone policy at her school. I wonder what happened to the adult bond between parents and teachers that existed when I was a brat. This putative parent tells the youngster to wear a helmet (as required by Florida law) but fails to lead by example.I was thinking how chaotic traffic gets in winter and then I saw this cyclist cross the boulevard with perfect timing flowing with the cars. She made it look easy.

I saw these people enjoying a strenuous winter day on the water between Little Torch and Big Pine Keys.Makes you long for snowdrifts and gray skies and frigid temperatures.As my young Conch (remember the "h" is silent when pronouncing the word Conch) colleague likes to say: "There's nothing to do in Key West." He's right of course and this essay just proves it.

Iron Butt 1500

I just received my papers from the Iron Butt people and they verified my ride at 1536 miles last October in less than 36 hours- which by my clock was barely 20 minutes under the deadline when I rolled into Binghamton, New York, frozen cold and very relieved to have made it.I have to confess I am quite chuffed, not least because I did it by Bonneville rather than some space age nuclear powered armchair like a Goldwing or some such super duper tourer. I actually enjoyed the ride, more and more as time goes by even though it was in fact rather rugged at the time. I started out from home around ten o'clock on the Saturday evening, and it was tough tearing myself away from from my comfortable little house. By dawn I was near the Georgia state line on I-95, and already it was unseasonably cold, or so I thought.Sunday warmed up as I rode through the Carolinas and took a nap at what the association likes to call the Iron Butt motel, a convenient place to stop by the side of the road. I was lucky because Up North the seasons were starting to change but so far, all day Sunday it was sunny and warm, around 80 degrees.
I skirted Columbia, the capital of South Carolina and followed Interstate 77 towards the mountains of North Carolina and Virginia and nightfall. The ride across the Carolinas was perfect if not terribly twisty.
I was having a great time but it was hard for me to actually imagine myself completing this ridiculously long drawn out ride. Compared to my first Iron Butt the basic 1000 mile Saddlesore in 24 hours, this ride was rather more complex. I stopped for gas every 100 miles or so as at steady speeds in excess of 75 on the freeway my mileage dropped from my usual45 miles per gallon more or less to around 40 or even 38 if I pegged it above 80mph. For food I didn't stop to eat a "proper" meal as I wasn't especially hungry and I was rather concerned that a full meal would make me sleepy so I kept to my planned diet of water and sodas and crackers and granola bars that I had in my saddlebags. When night fell on I-81 in the mountains I started to freeze my tropical ass off. Temperatures were below 50 degrees and I was freezing. I stopped to stay in a flea pit of a motel for four hours around 2am about 200 miles from Binghamton. It was a hard ride in the cold but the Triumph ran like a champ and when I wasn't remembering to be freezing cold I enjoyed the winding ride those last miles.I made it before the deadline amazingly enough and signed in at the Sheriff's Department, much to the bemusement of the desk clerk, himself a rider.With the paperwork all done, I found a mailing shop and sent it all off immediately for verification, ate an enormous breakfast in a Greek diner, and with the threat of a heavy storm approaching the next day decided I had to keep riding to get out of the way. I couldn't see hanging around to get rained on in these temperatures at this elevation... So I went for a recreational ride through the Catskill Mountains which was a blast. I took a nap in a field and the afternoon sun was warm and the mountain meadow was the perfect spot to spread my blanket and pass out for twenty minutes. My backside amazingly enough wasn't the least bit sore.I got to see the Hudson River valley, home of the famed Daniel Pinkwater, an author who used to read stories on All Things Considered years ago and who claimed to live in this improbable place. At last I got to ride the Hudson River Valley. It was an odd place, a mixture of horribly impoverished black ghetto towns and perky picket fence white towns joined by a narrow winding road. I called Jack riepe in Pennsylvania and he connected a few highways for me to ride- I use no GPS thank you, and on my way I managed to slip on a puddle of mud in a parking lot at walking speed and the Bonneville fell on me breaking a foot peg and twisting my ankle. I was hobbling by the time I got to Jack's place and he thought it was hilarious that I had run over my own foot. Ha ha.No harm done, we went to the Triumph dealer and bought a turn signal lens and anew foot peg over the counter at Hermy's and spent a couple of excellent days chez Stiffie, his girlfriend, drinking as much of Jack's whisky as I could in the time allowed. Then the rain finally caught up to me as I rode hell for leather for the auto train south of the District of Columbia. I had the bike ready for loading in the pouring rain......and it was an enormous relief to have paid the $250 for dinner and a ride to Orlando where the train delivered up the twenty bikes and dozens of cars the next morning.From the rain and chill of Virginia to the sunshine of Florida and a final seven hour run home in time for dinner with my wife and my Cheyenne. What a great trip and what excellent memories. Now I've got to make some more memories by planning another of these Iron Butts.

Keys Commuting

It's five past five o'clock post meridian, a cow has licked my hair, I got a clean polo shirt off the hangar and my Kevlar lined pants aren't too terribly wrinkled to serve as work dress pants for the night. I am ready to say goodbye to my dog.

She pretends to ignore me as I turn the hall light on and put out her dinner bowl which she won't touch until either my wife gets home or hunger over takes Cheyenne. When I tell her to stay Cheyenne knows not to follow me downstairs but she makes a point of ignoring me as I abandon her for the night.

The Bonneville is always ready to go at the touch of the starter button. I generally run the engine for a minute or two while I put on my mesh jacket helmet and gloves. A squeeze on the Loobman chain oiler and off we go out into the world. It should be around five ten pm when we roll out from under the house.

To have but one road to ride may seem like a limitation but in my experience people are such creatures of habit that when they commute rarely do they take a different route to and from work even when options are available. I used to try to explore the back roads between Santa Cruz and San Jose but found that the time spent away from my dogs was an imposition. So I ended up using Highway 17 most of the time. Here I have no choice.

It's lucky the views are so pleasant. Most of them at any rate.I vary my commute by varying my approach to the ride. Some evenings I take it really slowly, pulling over to let faster vehicles by. Of course when I catch up to other vehicles on nights I am riding faster, they never pull over for me.

I know the passing spots and if I am thinking about passing I know where and when to position myself to take best advantage of the limited passing opportunities. Sometimes people speed up as I pull out but even a 60 horsepower air cooled twin like the Bonneville has plenty of oomph to get past the drivers who drop their phones and start to speed up to avoid being passed. Why it bothers them I couldn't say- I ride my own ride.Passing isn't always worth while even when it's possible. This time of year snowbirds clog the Highway. For some reason they don't have the wit to avoid rush hour so they manage to clog the road quite a lot when traffic is at it's heaviest morning and evening. In summer even heavy traffic bowls along nicely at least close to the limit, but in winter one will find oneself in an endless line of cars chugging along at 30 miles per hour.Sunrise and sunset vary throughout the year of course and summer time will change the dynamic once again in a few short weeks. Currently it gets dark around six thirty in the evening and it gets light around the same time in the morning. This is the typical view across the Saddlebunch Keys looking toward Big Coppitt.I have been commuting along this road for the six years I have owned my house on Ramrod Key and some days I will ride it twice. Yet it rarely tires me, for all that it is largely flat and mostly straight. Perhaps it is because I have a large store of memories of riding more challenging roads, a lifetime of them in fact. Perhaps it is because I appreciate so much not feeling too terribly cold, not hypothermic at any rate, even on the coldest days. Perhaps the wild summer weather and the blistering winter cold fronts help to provide variety. Perhaps it is just because I am content in advanced middle age.The hump in the four lane stretch between Big Coppitt and Stock island is produced by the exit ramp to Boca Chica Naval Air Station which is bury training pilots this time of year (who spend lots of money in the local economy). The road here is peppered with signs reading "Slower Traffic Keep Right." But do they? Do they hell! The slowpokes line up in the left lane and I sweep by in the right. There are a lot of control freaks on the road who like to worry about what everyone else is doing on the road.Traffic starts to build up by Stock Island, which is where I should be by five forty at the latest to get to work by five fifty. Stopping to take pictures buggered up my schedule on this ride so I snatched my backpack from the top case, dropped helmet and gloves in it's place and ran upstairs to the communications center. I like to relieve day shift by five fifty as it's nice to get a few minutes break at the end of a twelve hour shift. they do the same for us when they relieve us in the morning. That's when I gallop downstairs to warm up the Bonneville and get my jacket helmet and gloves on for the 27 mile ride home.The Boulevard (North Roosevelt Boulevard) looks especially quiet this early on a Sunday.The cluster of cars leaving key West will peel off to various destinations along the way. Some go no further than Stock Island, the hot rodders generally pull off at the Navy base and the last few pull off to jobs on Rockland Key's trucking depots or go home on side streets at Big Coppitt, Mile Marker Ten. The tourists trying to make an early flight in Miami and myself remain on the highway through the early morning darkness of the Saddlebunch Keys. The smart tourists follow me at my pace because I know where it's safe to hold the limit and where it isn't but sometimes they hustle on past me risking a hefty fine on a road that really doesn't resemble the high speed highways they are used to at home.
Eventually I pull in under the house hopefully around six thirty five though some mornings I'll stop at the Shell station at the end of my street to fill up with regular gas- at $3:30 a gallon these days. The Bonneville runs about 134 miles before hitting reserve which holds another forty odd miles. By the time I'm around 120 I start to think about filling up. It's a pain to stop on the way to work and I don't always remember to fill up on my lunch breaks and on top of all that the station at the end of my street is among the cheaper gas stations around. Cheyenne comes running downstairs from her station on the lounge chair on the porch upstairs, her paws rumble on the steps as soon as she hears the motorcycle.My commute isn't yet over as we pile into the Fusion for a ride over to her early morning walking spot, the Pool on the northeast shore of Ramrod Key, five minutes from the house.The pool is a cut in the living rock as part of a development that never materialized and as a result there is a deep hole in the ground filled with tidal saltwater. A perfect place to come and swim or walk your dog as many locals do, at a more civilized hour of the day. Cheyenne prefers to walk here when no one else is around and each morning she likes to sniff and see who came by the day before.I read the paper that I picked up in my driveway, she walks. A couple of weeks ago we came here later in the morning on my day off and an inoffensive Lab mix clamped her face in it's jaws and bit down to howls of protest. She got a couple of small cuts over her right eye and the vet put her on antibiotics for a couple of weeks. I tried to reassure the poor owner of the dog but she was mortified. One can hardly blame Cheyenne for preferring solitary walks.The walk takes perhaps forty five minutes and usually there is no one else around. When I start to yawn uncontrollably, or if a cold north wind is blowing we head home to breakfast for Cheyenne and sleep for me.Cheyenne likes this spot but she is a funny girl, a creature of habit. Some mornings I take her for a walk down our street but I get the feeling this is where she likes to come so we ride over most days.Finally she clambers back in the car and if I'm lucky I'll be home in bed before quarter to eight. If I'm really lucky Cheyenne will climb up alongside me and we'll sleep back to back.Winter or summer, rain or shine, every day is good for a ride in the fabulous Florida Keys.