They call it Bike Week, but they should probably call it V-Twin Weekend, or Loud Noise Days, or just-in-time-another-boost-for-the-local-economy days, or something like that. Officially it's called Peterson's Poker Run, named for the main sponsor, the Miami dealer for Harley Davidson.
So it's no surprise, and for me terribly boring, that almost all the bikes are Harelys or imitators lining the streets of Key West. Throw in a Gold Wing and a couple of out-of-place BMWs and that's who turns out for Bike Week.
I took these pictures Thursday afternoon, the beginning of the four day "extravaganza" (who coined that silly word?) of loud pipes, drinking and massive police enforcement efforts. Wouldn't you know it I worked overtime Friday night and the rest of the weekend, through Monday was my regular shift so by the time you read these words I will probably have run hundreds of motorcycle tags and hundreds more driver licenses. A few weirdos show up to visit Key West at this time not on Harleys.
But as the weekend progresses the number of motorcycles grows and they eventually close down Lower Duval to accommodate the strutting vests and leather chaps and orange bandannas. Individuality expressed through conformity. 
For me, Bike Week is overwhelming and if I were an extrovert I would be in the bars were I not working, telling tall tales about motorcycle derring-do as a local. Instead I join the residents in wondering why loud pipes are so necessary. My poor old Bonneville has factory pipes which make the engine sound anemic, like a sewing machine, according to proponents of noisy mufflers. 
Just last week I was following two Harleys home one afternoon on Highway One and they were so loud I felt this huge wave of relief wash over me after I passed them and it was me and the Bonneville on the silent open road. How one rides with that constantly blatting roar in the ears I just don't know.
The half of the town that doesn't need the money from the constant parade of festivals this time of year (Beer Fest, Women Fest, Hemingway Fest, Conch Blowing Fest, all leading up to Fantasy Fest) gets kind of pissed off at the teeth jarring roar of unmuffled bikes invading the city. For some visitors these are all the wheels they need:
And for some, bike week means being on vacation and riding a bicycle almost naked. 
This employee has been retrieving rented bikes from some guest house or somewhere like that.
At first glance this guy doesn't seem to have anything to do with Bike Week, sleeping in his kayak on Whitehead Street in front of the Courthouse Deli, across from the Green Parrot Bar. 
But on second glance... 
"Best motorcycle trailer I ever saw!" my wife said on seeing the picture. She harbors the delusion that kayaking is a sport she and I might enjoy. By Saturday night the sidewalk in front of the Parrot will have more Harleys than scooters.
Not everyone rides to Key West, picking up playing cards at the stops along the way between Miami and here. 
Make it a family affair and tow a trailer with Harleys for all the family!
It's not long now until Goombay and Fantasy Fest, the gatherings that mark the end of the summer and the beginning of the anticipation of winter, the big money season in Key West. But for residents of Key West it's all about mufflers. For every "hospitality worker" there is some retiree, government worker or curmudgeon who can only hear the sounds of unmuffled motorbikes blipping their throttles in the narrow streets.
That bike week carries with it a sprinkling of BMWs, Universal Japanese Motorcycles and even the silent giant, the half ton Honda Goldwing, complete with stereo, reverse gear and every electronic gadget found in an expensive car means nothing to people who hear straight exhaust pipes and see red.
Bike Week wants to be a fundraiser for worthy causes, it likes to promote itself on the back of Daytona Bike Week and it's an opportunity for the wild ones to be decorously wild in Old Town Key West.
For those without motorcycles scooter rentals are still available, though the streets of Key West are always available for the inexperienced to run themselves off the road with a 30mph scooter. Bike Week is extravagant motorcycle week, extravagance being on display and it's always the over the top rides that end up on the front page of the paper.
This year's favorite, the ride preferred by the herd of reporters, was a sidecar combination disguised as a mobile missile launcher. I rather preferred the waterproofed, hunkered down Harley riders braving the stormy weather and coming to Key West early, before the sun came out for the weekend: 
Scooters are not bikers, because there is nothing if not hierarchy between riders of two wheeled vehicles. I am a cross dresser when it comes to riding, I don't care if it's my wife's Vespa or my rented BMW when I was vacationing in Italy. 12 horsepower or 170, each is fun in my book. 
These guys were riding the Boulevard companionably then pulled off into the Shell gas station to take cover from the rain. 
The rain got worse as I left town and headed out on the Overseas Highway home. It was one of those days when the sea seems to have invaded the causeways.
By Ramrod Key the rain had tapered off and these good folks had no idea what awaited them down the road.
Hail to thee, blithe spirits, and I wonder if you have any waterproof clothing?
That is perhaps one of the great fortunes of living at low latitudes, that rain need not be a reason to sit, Charley Brown-like at the window watching the droplets crash the party. The rain from the sky was cold but the water in the pool was quite warm. There was no thunder, no lightning so we swam ignoring the rain. My wife is nothing if not determined. 
Cheyenne was at home snoozing away her afternoon no doubt (or playing poker with a group of her friends from around the neighborhood) and we were free for a few hours to be humans being not humans doing.
Normally a fourteen month membership at this place costs $1500, a single month $125, but my wife nailed 14 months for $400 through the US1 Radio auction. "They'll be the only Democrats in the place," a friend remarked darkly to his wife but I think he exaggerates. I am not a clubby type but my wife loves the idea of being able to meet her friends there, which I find amusing. The ratio of Democrat government employee to plutocrat may be changing...
However for some people a little rain is enough to keep them home so while my wife and I were alone for the swim when we went up to the restaurant for happy hour the place was equally quiet.
The Yacht Club is part of a chain of marinas between Tampa Bay and Key West for people with boats who also want a place to meet, possibly use a gym, swim in a pool or rent a waterfront apartment. It's very much, in my opinion pre-2008 when everyone was fueled by credit and economic expansion was the watchword.
The restaurant produces good food at a reasonable price, they have happy hour with inexpensive drinks and the views from the upstairs bar restaurant and terrace are quite pleasant. My wife hopes the unheated pool will stay warm enough on sunny winter afternoons to make it possible to swim during the cold season when our boat comes out of the water. Between November and April visitors are the only people around here who swim in the ocean without a wet suit. 
A two dollar Red Stripe sipped while overlooking the water is pleasant enough but the draw of a dry sauna and a swimming pool makes the beer the payoff for some strenuous afternoon lounging...supposedly. 
A one hundred million dollar buy up of land around Safe Harbor has landed in bankruptcy and the paper was reporting recently that a second ice house has opened to return the island one more step closer to it's former role as a commercial fishing hub. Before that Stock Island housed the cattle (the "stock") that fed Key West next door. One can only imagine the Gulf Oil Spill, currently sunk out of sight, may help shrimpers and the like down here.
I wonder in a gloomy way what the future will bring to Stock Island, formerly at risk of losing it's trailer parks and low income housing and light industry to the unstoppable wave of development that was sweeping up vast tracts of the island. 
This used to be the old Peninsular Marine, a dusty marina and haul out facility for boats. There was a fiberglass shop and a sail loft and the limestone was tinged blue with scraped off bottom paint. The very air tasted sour like a penny on the tongue with all the clouds of metallic paint tainting the atmosphere. Some people lived on their boats permanently out of the water. Slip rent was something around $12 a foot when they closed, and there was a long list to get a place in one of the great bargain marinas. 
My wife still remembers with horror the smeared and malfunctioning toilets at Peninsular when we hauled our boat out and spent a couple of weeks living on Miki G in the middle of the facility. She is a tough woman but that particular memory, hauling toilet paper across the yard, still makes her shudder. I never stop seeing the ghosts of the old marina when I look out at the spiffy new Yacht Club. 
I should be filled with nostalgia I suppose but a two dollar Red Stripe goes a long way to curing me of such retrograde notions. It is however to my eternal regret I did not take more pictures of Peninsular Marina in it's heyday. It was an encampment of working stiffs, of the nearly homeless, of decent folks and not so decent, angry and cheerful like any community. That I can drift from one type of accommodation to another is a source of wonder to me.
Rain blows through in a hurry usually around here and Kathy will show up for happy hour appetizers and the sun will come out and life marches on.
Peninsular is gone Long Live the Yacht Club. 
A toast to progress! My wife is partial to smoked fish dip. 
Among the empty slips there are people going boating or going home. I suspect this place will fill gradually, but for now it is a quiet, relatively undiscovered corner that the gentry have overlooked.
A funny place for me to wash up on a rainy Sunday afternoon, I should whip out my wife's iPhone and talk at length ignoring her sitting right there in front of me. Perhaps I should buy a visor to wear around my hair so I could look like a stockbroker on holiday. Perhaps I should just shut up and sip my beer.
Next happy hour I may try a two dollar Guinness, just to make sure it tastes the same as a regular hour bottle. I know my wife will be dragging me back here before long. Woe is me.
Too bad the reason I found myself in town this past Tuesday was to go visit this building on Alberta at South Streets. After years of hating visits to dentists I met up with one years ago who taught me to overcome that fear. These days a tooth cleaning is no cause for concern. I sat back in the chair and relaxed while they scraped the tartar from my teeth. 
Alberta Street is in the Casa Marina neighborhood, one of the more spiffy areas of Key West supposedly. And there is a fair bit of greenery around here too.
Hurricane Karl has been ravaging the Yucatan to the south of us and is sucking strong east breezes across the islands. 
I rather envied this guest on what I hope is a relaxed vacation.
