Oh glorious summer, back so soon. 
It's not really summer just yet but we are in the middle of a heavenly streak of perfect weather with daytime highs around 80 and nighttime lows around 70 with a light cool breeze from the southeast. I wait anxiously for summertime to kick in on the morning of March 13th but I can already see the evening hours of daylight stretching out a little. It's about 6;45pm before it gets completely dark and at a stroke it will be almost 8pm when night falls in less than a month. Delicious! The photo above was the start of a late afternoon stroll recently up Angela Street from Margaret. The home on the corner belongs to the late artist Carolyn Fuller whose home is now fenced off.
I grumbled about the fence and got a comment saying people were ripping "souvenirs" from the place. The older I get the less able my fellow humans seem to be at acting polite in public. If I had to live in the city I'd like to have the cemetery for my neighbor. Not only is it pretty to look at but the inmates don't disturb.
Lots of people are afraid of cemeteries and dead people, an attitude I find rather odd. When I worked in town during the daytime I would frequently come into the cemetery, check the headstones which are packed with history and eat a picnic lunch among the dead. It is, I grant you, sentimental but were I dead and buried here I'd enjoy, if I had any sense of being, getting a break in the monotony with a visit from the living. As it is Angela Street runs along side wo with a dog, banned from the cemetery itself, I was limited to looking through the fence. I also noticed this old roadsign, the sign itself removed from the post. That was owing to a recent deicsion to reverse the one way traffic on this section of Angela Street.
I still have trouble remembering the correct order of one way streets in Bahama Village which were all changed a couple of years ago. Imagine how much of a struggle it is for me to remember this unexplained change as well. Traffic now travels inbound, westbound from Frances Street.
It's not really summer just yet but we are in the middle of a heavenly streak of perfect weather with daytime highs around 80 and nighttime lows around 70 with a light cool breeze from the southeast. I wait anxiously for summertime to kick in on the morning of March 13th but I can already see the evening hours of daylight stretching out a little. It's about 6;45pm before it gets completely dark and at a stroke it will be almost 8pm when night falls in less than a month. Delicious! The photo above was the start of a late afternoon stroll recently up Angela Street from Margaret. The home on the corner belongs to the late artist Carolyn Fuller whose home is now fenced off.I grumbled about the fence and got a comment saying people were ripping "souvenirs" from the place. The older I get the less able my fellow humans seem to be at acting polite in public. If I had to live in the city I'd like to have the cemetery for my neighbor. Not only is it pretty to look at but the inmates don't disturb.Lots of people are afraid of cemeteries and dead people, an attitude I find rather odd. When I worked in town during the daytime I would frequently come into the cemetery, check the headstones which are packed with history and eat a picnic lunch among the dead. It is, I grant you, sentimental but were I dead and buried here I'd enjoy, if I had any sense of being, getting a break in the monotony with a visit from the living. As it is Angela Street runs along side wo with a dog, banned from the cemetery itself, I was limited to looking through the fence. I also noticed this old roadsign, the sign itself removed from the post. That was owing to a recent deicsion to reverse the one way traffic on this section of Angela Street.I still have trouble remembering the correct order of one way streets in Bahama Village which were all changed a couple of years ago. Imagine how much of a struggle it is for me to remember this unexplained change as well. Traffic now travels inbound, westbound from Frances Street.
Angela Street is actually a nuisance to walk along as there are no sidewalks and even though the street is quite wide enough for a pedestrian and a car, all too many car drivers have very little idea of how much room their vehicles need. So, in between looking out for vehicles I took a moment here and there to enjoy the architeture and the greenery.
Half way down this block of Angela lies the little side street called Catholic Lane, because of it's proximity to the Catholic section of the cemetery across the fence (in death Key Westers apparently prefer to be sgregated by religion, as though God cares). Catholic Lane merits its own essay, of course and wouldn't you know it, that one is already in the bag: http://conchscooter.blogspot.com/2009/03/catholic-lane.html 
Even though Angela is one way the other way don't be surprised to see cyclists riding the wrong way. And biy, do they get indignant when advised they can get tickets for wrong way on a one way. I always check both ways at intersections in Key West as one way streets are frequently converted to two ways not only by errant cyclists and mopeds but also by confused visitors.
And just to brighten up the scenery I came across a Vespa similar to my wife's ET4.
I never tire of picket fences, cute cottages and green palms.
And I don't even mind meeting other dogs on the street when they are friendly. A friendly owner is a bonus.
I remember living with two dogs at once, crossed leashes and all. I am rather glad Cheyenne prefers to live in a one dog household.
Summer tourists flock to Veteran's Park on the south side of Highway One at the southern end of the Seven Mile Bridge because the waters are shallow and the wading or swimming is easy. This time of year in the wake of a cold front the waters are rather cool for swimming at dawn and Cheyenne and I had the place to ourselves. Three cars came and went in the hour we were there but none of the occupants got out, preferring to sit and admire the view through their windshields.
The tide was out and with a full moon coming up there was a fair bit of normally submerged beach exposed.
As the sun made it's way up the colors changed and I stood there entranced. 
Above, the spoil islands created by Flagler's dredging to build the Seven Mile Bridge. Below the view west past Veteran's Park.
I've always wanted to be twenty feet tall. It was not until I came to the US that I discovered that being 5'6" (168cms) is considered short. It's a useful height to be if one wants to live on a boat.
So, why do they call these red mangroves? Are the roots red enough?
It was a delightful morning.
I hoped he was enjoying the morning as much as I was. This weekend is my long weekend at work, Saturday night through Tuesday morning, so when the sun is at this angle this weekend, I'm asleep.
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 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.
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.
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. 
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 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.