The Selfish Rider

                     

Why I ride...because I can? Because I want to ?  Because it feels good? 

                     

A quick run to the grocery store seven miles from my house is just another excuse to go for a ride. A top box and a cargo net, a cloth bag and it's easy enough to make a modest load on two wheels. I'd rather ride than drive any day that its not too cold, and that's pretty much never in the Keys. Rain is no problem, because as the Norwegians say (I am told) there is only bad clothing, not bad weather. It takes minimal rain suits to ride through rain in South Florida. Hypothermia is a very low risk factor in the sub-tropics. 

I don't usually wear all the gear, I ride with a helmet and gloves which is more than most around here, but I decline to offer advice or judgement about how others ride or what they ride. I grew up riding motorcycles in a world where protective gear was newspaper in winter to stay warm under a leather jacket and jeans usually ripped over work boots. I feel for people afraid to ride around the block in pants and a shirt just as I feel bad for people who can't leave their homes without a gun in the glove box. Life is pretty good out on the road sometimes...just riding, not worrying.

I have driven all kinds of different vehicles in my life, but I am convinced two wheels is best. There is a dynamic in riding a machine that by its very nature is unstable. It's a machine that requires training to use, practice to use well and thoughtfulness to use safely. Yet it is also a machine that encourages risk, invites the rider to seek the sublime experience of being alone in a world, overpopulated and loud with activity. I travel for the pleasure of travel, for the joy of mastering the medium, for pleasure.

The machine itself is of less moment if it runs well, a scooter, a motorcycle its all the same to me. Big or small I'd rather ride than drive, though I generally prefer medium sized in the world of motorcycles. Driving a car is a matter of adjusting the climate, the seat, the radio (or the Bluetooth for people who are Modern) the cup holders and finally the steering wheel. Cars are mobile homes, not machines for travel or excitement or tools for feeling something. They prevent you from feeling discomfort because God forbid you should feel uncomfortable.

The fact that you will arrive on time and only slightly creased when you drive a car is a given. That you might possibly be one of 40,000 people killed each year on US roads (if you are in the US) seems impossibly unlikely. But were I to undertake the same journey I would be expected to arrive crumpled and exhausted and filthy were I to survive and not join the ranks of the 4,000 riders killed annually on the same US roads. Yes but I would be grinning ear to ear, not frustrated by the hassle of modern car travel on crowded freeways. Which joy is a paradox for those that don't share the pleasure of two wheels.

There is romance associated with motorcycles, frequently a combination of the movies and ridiculously outmoded images of motorcyclists as outlaws, the one image feeding the other. But for most modern riders the ride is simply a way to make some private space in this increasingly crowded world. It is still acceptable when riding to be out of touch. Sure modern technology will keep you on the phone if you so desire with Bluetooth and a helmet microphone but one is not expected to answer the phone while riding. Thank God sez I.

                                                                                               Loading the Auto Train

I don't even like to listen to music while I ride, though that is technically possible of course these days. When I was sailing I used to spend hours sitting on the edge of the boat looking out over the waves while the boat steered itself I'd get hypnotized by the movement of the water under the hulls of my catamaran. On the motorcycle I do the same thing, I write letters that will never get sent, I compose the finest possible essays for my blog, I plan a bright shining future as I ride. I live inside my head in the moment and it's lovely.

But riding is also about the magic of managing traffic, of assessing the road, checking for hazards, planning turns and anticipating traffic patterns and passing zones and traffic signals and slow trucks and finding the best way ahead. It's as active a way to travel as driving is passive. Riders know they are better drivers thanks to the development of the skills required to ride. Riding is an adventure, an exploration, the pursuit of new inner horizons. A motorcycle need not be expensive, it will be useful given the parameters of climate -two wheels in snow is beyond my desire- and it makes the mundane fresh and new and interesting. It is a wonderful gift and I treasure it. It is my daily escape and even today I look forward to the ride home from work as much as I did a decade ago on the same highway. When I drive my car to work my colleagues know something is up.

Difficult to explain the pleasure of selfishness. People ask me what would I do if my wife asked me to stop riding and my answer is I would never marry anyone who imposed such a condition. Riding a motorcycle is that good.

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The Zen Of Motorcycling

I am quite fond of Motorcycle.com one of the first and in my opinion among the best of motorcycle magazines purely online. I've read it since it's inception and I even paid a subscription in its early years until that model of profit-making faded away. It seemed worth a few dollars to get access to their store of reviews and riding related stuff. From time to time they veer off into less factual writing, not often enough in my opinion, but when they do they sometimes write some really insightful pieces about riding. This essay struck a chord. Set in California where lane splitting is legal when done properly, the writer evoked very nicely the sensations and irritations of riding.

My Bonneville in Key West

By Kevin Duke October 27, 2015 18

I recently did something on a motorcycle that I hadn’t done in a preposterously long time. I rode with no intended purpose, traveling nowhere in particular.

A motojournalist’s brain is always working while riding: Is the XYZ750 better than the XYZ700 it replaces and the new Yamizuka 750? Is this helmet shape a medium-oval or a long-oval? Do my coworkers think I’m a dick? How many button pushes does it take to reset this farking tripmeter?!!!

I had almost forgotten how soothing it is just gliding through the air on a motorcycle, simply enjoying this elemental yet oddly profound feeling that got us all hooked on the moto experience in the first place. There are incredible feelings that only motorcyclists get as they pass through their environments with no roof or doors that mute sensory stimuli. Switching off my mind from wheelbases, MSRPs and market penetration returned my brain to a place it hadn’t been in months – maybe years.

Because I had no destination in mind, I wasn’t in a hurry, as is my typical situation. The air gliding past my body gave me a fairly precise idea of my speed, so I wasn’t bothering to check the speedo to see how many mph I was exceeding the limit, as is often the case. More than a few cars went past me, which almost always is not the case when I ride. I was just enjoying the ride at a comfortable pace.

My sensory perceptions seemed tuned higher than normal. As I cruised through the atmosphere, I could feel the air swirl around my body, almost to the point that I could imagine seeing it slide past me. Vibration I felt from the engine wasn’t judged by an analytical mind as good or bad, but rather as a basic connection to a machine that was living and breathing beneath me. Even my sense of smell heightened, my nose able to detect rich carburetion from the Corvette several cars ahead of me.

When I’m behind the bars of a motorcycle, calm and relaxed are feelings atypical for me, especially when in traffic. Yet there they were, beaming back at me in quiet pacification. It was like I was snuggled up to something warm and cozy, dropping my blood pressure as if a bottle of lisinopril was fused with an orgasm’s afterglow.

I was luxuriating in the calm feeling for several miles, wondering why more of my rides couldn’t be like this. Then the driver of the car in front of me needlessly applied her brakes as we approached a green light, spurring me to evade the makeup-checking zombie. My brain reverted back to its default mode and made me speed up to the upper percentile of traffic speed. I began to slide my way into holes in traffic, actively searching for the most efficient route ahead. No longer was I savoring a peaceful easy feeling. My mind was calm and serene minutes prior, but my brain was now simultaneously processing dozens of inputs – clutch bite, shift points, car drivers, upcoming signal lights, mirrors – while trying to stay ahead of traffic.

It was disappointing to realize my mindset had all-too-swiftly drifted from its peaceful lull into its frenetic alter ego. Perhaps it would be impossible for me to feel relaxed while riding a motorcycle. However, I was able to make another mental shift and return to deeper breathing and less stress, which made me feel a bit chuffed to be able to modify my way of thinking so consciously. Master of my own domain, so to speak.

Not long after, some yob in his Audi A4 ran through the tail end of a yellow light and into the pathway of my green light. In my seemingly enlightened state, I quickly granted forgiveness and remained calm. Then, as I rolled up alongside, he began drifting into my lane. I glanced over and noticed the stupid eyes in his stupid head were looking down at his stupid phone – perhaps the most dangerous development of the 21st century – and the red mist dripped over my stupid eyes.

No longer calm, and no longer enlightened, I reverted back to my default programming, getting on the gas and keeping ahead of as much traffic as possible. Gaps in traffic that minutes earlier seemed small were now open gates with invitations. Car velocities that previously seemed fast became minimum speeds. I was filtering through stopped traffic, then jamming on the throttle as I bolted away off the line. If there was a traffic contest, I was definitely winning!

I was doing so well, in fact, that I drew the attention of a fellow rider who was trying to keep up with me as I scythed through traffic. His bike wasn’t as narrow as the Ducati Monster I was riding, but the Honda ST1300 he was riding had a magical way of parting traffic. Mostly because of the red and blue lights flashing as he closed the gap to me.

After having a discussion about the best ways for a motorcycle to ride within traffic, I was issued a citation for traveling 60 mph in a 45-mph zone. The motor officer was actually quite pleasant, all things considered, and he left me with advice to ride a little more conservatively.

I’m trying, dude!

Repetition is the mother of learning, the father of action, which makes it the architect of accomplishment.

—Zig Ziglar

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DuPont Lane

First published January 7th 2010 I was put in mind of DuPont Lane recently when I had a Trainee in dispatch who had never heard of the lane and thus had no idea who it was named after. And now it's 2015 and I haven't been back to take pictures so here we are.

DuPont Lane

Key West managed somehow to elect a black Sheriff in 1889 and his name was Charles Fletcher Dupont, the son of freed slaves. He has a lane named for him east of Duval off Petronia Street.

DuPont wasn't the first black Sheriff of Monroe County, that was James A Roberts who was appointed in 1877 and the first lawman killed in the line of duty in the county was also black as it happens, a Sheriff's deputy called Frank Adams was shot to death while trying to effect an arrest in the city in 1902. You'll hear his name come up at the head of the mercifully short roll of officers who have died every time there is a memorial service in their memory.
The entrance to this very short lane is marked by this rather startlingly imposing wrought iron fence. The lane itself is short, but half a block long though unusually for these kinds of streets in Key West it has an ample turn around at the dead end. It is lined with plush mansions:

And at the dead end it makes a sharp turn into this tunnel like walkway.
The fence is so high that I felt like I was in a cave looking out at the sky:
And seeing hurricane shutters still up, blocking out the sparkling winter sun:

These are my favorite Key West colors, white and green and sky blue:

A carpenter was busy improving some already magnificent home, his workshop was outdoors though his concession to the season was a sweat shirt:

"Good fences make good neighbors" is an ironic quotation frequently attributed to the poet Robert Frost (whom the hospitality industry make great play of as a winter visitor to Key West) and on DuPont Lane they do certainly make the little street rather more blank and uninteresting than others of it's type.This example of over sized, protective picket fence was staffed by two extremely yappy little dogs who stuck their obnoxious snouts between the pickets and dared Cheyenne to approach. She ignored them, reminding me once again that the prejudice against silent, easy going big dogs, and in favor of noisy small brats is arbitrary and misplaced.
This picture I took looking east along Petronia toward Simonton, a much more varied neighborhood street than DuPont.
And this night picture of DuPont I used in my post New Year's Eve essay contrasting the peace and quiet of the lane to the trashed nature of Duval street the morning after.
There is a very complete article with photos at this website if you want to see and learn more about Charles DuPont:
http://thenewtimesholler.com/ARCHIVE/chaldupont.html

415 Grinnell Street

I've heard it said of other towns that it's impossible to figure how there can be empty lots where real estate is so outrageously expensive but this hole in Old Town is soon to be filled.

This is a pretty neighborhood block wedged between the Key West Bight (known to tourists as the historic seaport or some such) and Eaton Street, lined with trees not yet massacred by the city tree commission.

The other houses on the street are pretty enough. I mean to say they are not noticeably prettier than other streets in this part of town, but they are what you would expect to see if you were strolling Old Town seeking out pristine Key West beauty. 

And now we face the fly in the ointment. According to the Keep Old Town Old (KOTO) page on Facebook the fine folks at the Historic Architecture Review Commission think this carbuncle fits in perfectly with the rest of the block. How did they reach this unfortunate conclusion? Beats  me.

Soon this odd collection of fences and gates will disappear and  be replaced by the ticky tacky box shown above on the right. 

 There is a death wish in this town for anything beautiful, or restrained or worthy. Perhaps I exaggerate but on my gad days I wonder how Key West has survived this long.

The vandals are definitely at the gates and the new city commissioners look as disconnected as the people they replaced.

Still Waters of Stock Island

After the hurly burly of a couple of nights dispatching Fantasy Fest I figured I'd earned a quiet midnight walk if not on, at least near, water. So I went to Stock Island.

It was silent as even Hogfish was starting to shut down and the further I walked the quieter it got on the waterfront.

It's less than a hundred yards long this little lane but it is lovely. It's neat and tidy yet not at all sterile. There are woodshops and artists studios, floating homes and sailing boats that look too tangled with the land to sail again.

The still waters of the harbor reflect the lights ashore of the marinas, the old power station, the commercial fish docks that typify this island, the light industrial heart powering genteel Key West next door.

The Sea Shepherd Conservation Society has a boat docked in bright colors across the way.

I love the shadows cast by the few lights left burning among the trees. Somebody once asked if I am afraid walking alone at night and I have to say I rarely feel fear on these kinds of walks in cities but in the Keys I never feel any fear at all on the streets. I have never felt threatened in Key West. Perhaps I am lucky or oblivious or I myself am threatening but I walk where I want when I want without a care.

Because I know something about sailing I was amused to see this innovative piece of sailing hardware in use as a docking device. Carbospars AeroRigs are designed to allow sailboats to deal with less rigging to sail more easily:

...not to be used at a dock as a guide rail. I think this is quite slick stuck on a dock post:

To give you an idea of the still waters in the harbor this immensely complicated rig on a commercial fishing boat reflected in the water:

One guy passed me on the dock and perhaps he was struggling with his loophole level as he stared straight head and said not a word as he stepped carefully down the wooden Boardwalk.

Safe Harbor to me represents the good old days of mythical memory, the period called "in the day" that phrase I find so annoying. Nicer than in the day and yet not too nice. Perfect.

 

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