I woke yesterday morning to 67 degrees and a brisk north wind. My wife went to work, I turned over and went back sleep to enjoy the blessings of a day off. However I am imbued to some degree with the Puritan ethic so eventually I did have to get out of bed and go get a long overdue haircut. All of which is to say that by mid morning there I was on Big Pine with proper length hair, weak sunshine and a perfectly functional motorcycle. Which was why a short while later I was to be found on Big Torch Key, chasing curves and minding my own happy business.
Big Torch Key is named for torchwood trees that apparently grow on it in some abundance. Torchwood supposedly is very resinous and burns brightly, however as I wouldn't know a torchwood from a gooseberry I couldn't possibly say if any of the above is true. There are as it happens three Torch Islands, named Goldilocks-style, Little, Middle, and Big and to get to Big you turn north off Highway One around Mile marker 28 and cross Middle for a couple of miles before hitting the causeway that joins it to Big.
There aren't any signs or anything, just a few dilapidated houses and a left turn, and there you are, crossing the waters to Big Torch. There I was wrapped up like a Christmas present fending off the biting cold wind as I took one ninety degree turn after another. That's the beauty of the drive across the Torches, very little traffic, mostly smooth roadway (with some spectacular sinkage in some spots that one needs to be aware of) all held back by a rather modest speed limit:
Of course one could twist one's wrist if one were so inclined and reach a top speed, easily enough of say 85 miles per hour which would be horribly illegal and entirely exhilarating if one were feeling naughty and one happened to have a 900cc motorcycle capable of such speeds especially if one happened not to have "upgraded" the exhausts, like mine which are entirely stock and relatively quiet. But of course sensible motorcyclists pootle along at a proper 35 miles per (5mph over the limit is allowed in Florida on penalty only of a written warning; this is a weird state). The corners here are a bit tricky, not only because they are right angles but because they also enjoy scatterings of pea rock:
Those little white balls look innocuous enough but they play merry hell with a motorcycle tire's grip when the tire runs over them at an angle; it's like riding on marbles and the subsequent heaving and sliding plays hell with a middle aged man's heart rhythms. In between the sharp turns which put my cornering skills to the test (I needed the practice) there were lots of those long straightaways, blasted by the cold north winds:
I am really enjoying the power curve of the Bonneville, lots of pull from slow speeds, a smooth gearbox and light clutch. The riding positions, feet hips and shoulders in a vertical line gives excellent control when taking the corners too. This road is one of my preferred locations to practice u-turns as well because I can see traffic coming from a long way and there aren't many houses around to be bothered by the sounds of my (factory stock) exhausts. There are a few houses along the way:
And the houses are clustered along a canal:
It's not immediately apparent but these homes appear to all have cisterns for water collection though they do have electricity.
There is lots of open space around Big Torch, it is in fact a Big Island by local standards and there's lots of marshland and mangroves under the bright blue sky. This place is off the beaten track:
And here we have, I believe an egret judging by the long curved beak, but as usual I can't be sure. Whatever it was, it was swooping and riding the strong winds aloft:
Close to the end of the road there are a couple of houses and these are entirely off the grid, no electricity poles anywhere near them. This pole is just supporting a box for an osprey nest:
The road ends in a barrier and a bunch of graffiti and a turn around, apparently in the middle of nowhere. In fact the island runs out altogether in a wad of mangroves and mud just beyond the barrier:
This is where I parked the Bonneville, and crawled off the bike. I was cold, truly cold. I was lightly dressed for the short 3-mile hop to the barber's and my ride out into the Torches got me quite chilled. I know it was 70 degrees and sunny but in my defense I was under dressed and my blood is thin. I got busy walking down the trail:
The trail looks like an ancient road, slightly raised above the rest of the dirt and about wide enough for a vehicle. However officious persons have made sure no vehicle will desecrate this piece of land:
It was less than half a mile out into the bushes and I was soon warmed up. The shrubs provided perfect cover from the wind and I could open my jacket and feel almost spring like. There were insects buzzing and the sun was warm on my head. The trail opened up into a sort of clearing:
Which got wide enough that I could see across the scrub to one of the last two houses on the road looking a bit like Rapunzel's hangout:
It's been fairly dry lately and this cold snap was what had inspired me to make the trip out here. I was hoping for low water levels and not too many mosquitoes to allow me to walk deeper into the mangroves than I had previously gone before. I was right on both counts though I met the tidal waters well before I got the shoreline:
The walking was easy along here, the mangrove roots were considerately far apart and the ground between offered sure footing on smooth limestone rocks:
It's too bad there was so much water, because I wanted to do the Lewis and Clark thing and stand on the water's edge and take a picture. I suppose if I were a fussy explorer, or an organized one I'd take along a pair of rubber crocs to do my waterborne footwork but I guess I'm kind of lazy in the wardrobe department. Had it not been so cold I could have gone wading I suppose. Instead I stopped and turned around. Thoroughly warmed up I got on the Bonneville and headed back towards Highway One:
It was just a matter of another eight miles of straights and sharp turns back to the highway. Which showed up in the fullness of time, a line across the horizon and suddenly there was traffic and cars and people and all the other stuff that zips by and misses out on the side streets of the Lower Keys:
The whole trip took an hour out of my day and was an excellent break, snatched between chores.
There are people that delight in thinking Florida is flat which in point of fact is not true at all. Solares Hill, a couple of blocks east of Duval Street is variously reported to be between 14 and 18 feet above sea level. I take the middle ground and call it sixteen feet (about five meters in new money) which is, I think, a good height for a hill to be. For instance if you were planning a fishing trip on your bicycle and came this way, west on Angela Street, you could free wheel a block:
There is another hill in Key West, on Elizabeth Street near Eaton, and it, though unnamed is labeled by the presence of the Hilltop Laundry. But Solares Hill takes pride of place, by virtue of the fact that this is Key West's own Mount Everest, the top, the highest peak of all. You may even see people climbing the hill without the aid of supplemental oxygen. These hardy souls looked like visitors staying at Courtney's Place located on the South Col, just off the Hill itself:
Solares Hill isn't a straight climb. The road dips on its way up from City Hall at the corner of Simonton Street:
What makes this place odd is that in a town notorious for labelling every little non event in its tumultuous history, the highest point gets no marker. Here there is no souvenir stand, seashell vendor or tout with postcards. For the ardent labeller it is a do-it-yourself spot, and in that spirit I label this Key West's tallest house, the home with the front porch highest above the lapping waters of the Straits of Florida, one short mile to the south:
It could as easily be this imposing home across the street:
But I prefer the more modest Conch proportions of the little white house with it's sky blue trim and every time I pass I salute it as Key West's highest foundation. 
It becomes, momentarily, a modest little plaza that is actually an intersection where four roads join. At night the pink house with the drooping cantilevered extension looks quite a bit different, more imposing perhaps and a lurid shade of yellow in my viewfinder:
The lights in the distance mark Angela and Simonton Streets, the bright lights of downtown, but up here on the hill where every breath costs a climber effort, the lay of the land is much more peaceful, by day...
...and by night:
In that last picture I caught the trifecta of Key West wheels; the convertible, the scooter, and the shopping cart, something for everyone. From the intersection one can turn left onto Elizabeth and head towards the Fleming/Southard corridor, or keep going straight, down the hill towards the cemetery:
Or, if turning right one gets to freewheel a little bit back towards Truman Avenue and the main street out of Key West:
Or you could be like me and wander the hill at 4:30 in the morning and find a bunch of little alleyways, evocative and secret that I shall have to come back to check out in the cold light of day. I keep thinking I know this town and then there is a fifty yard strip of cement lined with laundry, sleeping cats and tile decorations that make a liar out of me. How provoking.
My wife is finally able to ride her Vespa after wrist surgery in mid-December and even though I've taken the ET4 for the occasional spin it has essentially been sitting for the past several months. Thus it was I decided the Vespa needed a proper tune up, and I chose Vespa Sarasota because Vespa Miami screwed up the repair of my GTS's fuel injection so badly that my wife no longer trusted them. Luckily I don't mind driving but getting out of bed at midnight cost me a bit. The ET4 was already loaded in the trailer, the Sirius receiver was in the car with a pillow, a blanket and directions to the store:The drive out the Keys was pleasant enough but I wasn't making great progress because I was babying my trailer and sticking to about 60 miles per hour on the cruise control. Then I heard a loud thump and shortly thereafter a rear tire started flapping ominously. I am not fond of those ridiculous doughnuts they offer as a spare tires but they actually make good sense and take up less room in the trunk. I change a car wheel like I was born to it. I kept on pressing on but it was no good, by 4:15 I was knackered and I pulled over into a rest stop.
I was out like a light, stretched out in the passenger seat snoring like a grampus. It was cool outside about 67 degrees and I was snug under my blanket but the alarm went off all too soon. By six I was back behind the wheel hammering out more darkened miles. It was no good, even though the sun started to come up I was still tired out and my imagination was playing tricks on me. Fog was wreathing the highway and I felt like i was floating a ball of cotton wool. I pulled off again and took another nap.When I woke up it was daylight and gray and the freeway was still there looking endless:
I was wishing I was there but the last miles of this 350 mile jaunt were proving to be the longest of all. I got there at dead on ten o'clock when Darren opened up his store:
I parked the car and took another nap while he started disemboweling the Vespa. Then I woke up and found a tire shop which happened to be across the street from IHOP and that solved two issues at once. Then I found a motorcycle shop and bought a new inner tube for my Bonneville. It's quite amazing how much you can accomplish on the mainland. It's like everything is on the shelf. Then I went back to the Vespa shop and...took a nap. By 1pm the ET4 was ready, cables lubricated, changed belt, rollers, air filter, spark plug, oils and a new maintenance free battery. Darren also changed the fuel hose and vacuum hose and changed the front brake fluid and adjusted both brakes. Phew! All for $600. "Take her for a test ride" he said. So I did.
The ET4 was buzzing along merrily, the brakes were perfect and I was remembering the joy of a nicely tuned Vespa. I stopped on the causeway to St Armand's Key and took a picture of Sarasota Bay, all cloudy and summery:
I have vivid memories of sailing the bay on my way somewhere and getting caught by the mother of all thunderstorms. I threw out the anchor and dived into the cabin to wait it out. Southwest Florida has the worst summer storms, but I was riding in glorious sunshine. I zipped through downtown St Armand's Key with all its Romanesque statuary and neat flower beds:
And got to the beach finally:
A mish mash of notice boards signs and prohibitions:
If you need waves crashing on the sand for visual effect or body surfing you'd be better off on Florida's East Coast, but you might be surprised how many miles of deserted beaches you can find between Anclote Key and Naples. Sarasota does have a few waterfront condos but its not that crowded really:
And the condos themselves had a largely old fashioned air to them, smaller than the canyons of the East Coast, perhaps less impersonal:
Spot the Vespa in the crush of beachfront parking? No parking hassles for me.
The hot spots downtown were quite surprising, beautifully landscaped of course but full of pedestrians. people were out and about on their own two feet all over the place. Sarasota may be today what critics fear Key West may become tomorrow:
I think Hemingway would have run a mile had anyone suggested this piece of faux Key West architecture could have constituted a retreat for him. On the other hand he was pretty fed up with tourists in Key West in 1938 so the Southernmost City in the 21st century wouldn't have done much for him either. Looking carefully at these street scenes two thing stick out one is , how clean and tidy it is and...
...how few residentially challenged citizens there are. More accurately there are none. I wonder what they did with them? They do have public transportation and these signs put me in my mind of Seattle's SLUT system as another acronym with attitude:
It was I admit a short tour of a pretty mainland seaside town. I had hours of freeway to get under my belt if I wanted any hope of dinner with my wife. Back across the causeway, with downtown Sarasota laid out before me:
There was some public Art I couldn't figure out downtown. There was a pile of rusty car hulks planted nose down in the ground in a circle, looking a bit like an average parking afternoon in Key West and across the street I saw this giant tooth in a park:
And no one setting up house underneath it, always a surprise. I paid my bill, said goodbye to the smart little Vespa shop with a promise to return,
and back out into the nightmare of mainland traffic:
Ease of shopping yes; but this stuff I don't miss at all. Every time I go North I wonder how it is that people aren't screaming wrecks after being squished up like this. Oh wait a minute they are, aren't they?