Street Bikes

I have confirmed something that I already knew and I am pondering how to act on this knowledge. The fact that walking is the best possible way  to spot things worth photographing has been known to me for some time, which was always good news as I love to walk.  Yes yes, I know God has a wicked sense of humor taking away my ability to go for a stroll, but suddenly my electric mobility scooter may have opened a new window of photographic opportunity for me. Let me explain.

The picture above I took from the car window as my wife fought the walker and tried to pull it from the trunk. I could do nothing but sit and play with my camera. So I did. My wife is a saint, steadfast by my side through all this mess of rehab. Meanwhile for the photo below I was also in the passenger seat taking the picture on the fly. As tempted as I was to touch it up, straighten the horizon and edit out the corner of the car  and so forth, the picture nicely illustrates why Key West has the highest rate of bicycle fatalities in the state. The rider has a perfectly adequate sidewalk to ride but chooses, quite legally, to ride in traffic among cell phones operators and sleepers behind the wheel. Like they say, you've got to die if you want to go to heaven. 

In the picture below we have another spandex enthusiast in traffic though here he has no choice, hence the danger of cycling in what is otherwise an eminently ride-able city. Key West is small and flat and supremely picturesque so bicycles should be perfect. I prefer to walk because I see more and am separated from the traffic flow. 

Then you take a 35 mph  golf cart loaded with avid telephonists from some place Up North and cars start to get antsy. Unlike a slimline bicycle these slow moving horrors are much harder to pass and local drivers who spot the tell tale flat roof start to look for passing zones. Mix in a few bicycles and traffic gets weird sometimes in Key West. 

Some people love to ride Highway One which strikes me as a form of torture, no shade for a hundred and ten miles, partial bike paths, distracted drivers, scenery, that varies between wildly lovely ocean views best enjoyed while standing or poorly planned urban deserts for mile after mile and best ignored. Then there are implacable head winds of course to make the spandex sticky with your effort. But look at them pedaling like they are having fun. And some people give me grief for wanting to get back on a motorcycle when I'm healed.

Then there are those who take up pedaling as a lifestyle, and they are tolerated as odd as their appearance may be. If I recall correctly this dude was pedaling around town before Irma struck and he seems to have survived with all his stuff. 

 I posted this picture below to no great acclaim on Instagram labeled as low cost waterfront living. Once again illustrating my original point. Life flashes by when you're in a car. On foot you get to really look around and I miss that terribly. Bicycles aren't much better because they still put you in the traffic flow and if you want to live, as I hope I have amply illustrated, they aren't much use as a photography platform. Walking is this photographer's best form of locomotion. It's not the speed, its the ability  to stop and ponder as required that makes walking so blissful. 

However let me say this: the mobility scooter I have been riding has turned into a quite good platform to see the things and note the angles and observe the spaces I miss when traveling more conventionally. It moves at a fast walk but it puts me close to the edge of the sidewalk, in a position that forces me to look. I am getting quite fond of my mobility scooter. I smile a lot more than the bicyclists I encounter when I'm riding it.

I have indeed been smiling a lot lately and I'm not sure why. Maybe its the Percocet but I prefer to think it's the daily realization I am here and getting better. My legs are stronger though not yet able to support me properly. The days are warm and sunny and I am not alone in having a reason to be standing around grinning; check them out, those happy people! 

Face it, recovering in Key West in winter is as close to ideal as I can make it. Too bad I can’t walk because I really do miss standing around pondering a picture I’d like to compose. I’m finding it difficult to find the pictures I know are out there. A shot here and there doesn’t make up for considered walks, a happy dog and a camera in hand.  I’m embarrassed to push myself out to be seen complaining in public but dammit I’m annoyed at myself. 

I realised the electric scooter was possibly the answer to my impatience when I first rolled along the sidewalk of South Roosevelt Boulevard and I could peer over the sea wall into the mangroves. I’d never seen these before, the landing craft of the people living on the boats anchored in the channel between Key West and Stock Island. 

Yes, I thought to myself, I can’t ride a bicycle or drive a car much less walk distances on my own two feet. But I can travel around town, out of the traffic and in my own world. A place where I see things and take pictures because it pleases me. I’m not there yet but I will make time to roll out by myself and do a photographic expedition, not on foot as I’d like but as close as I can get for now. 

Life in the slow lane, stopping to look and see and think. At my speed. Still a privileged position in this overly hasty world of ours. 

I’ll let the cyclists and the motorists race on by while I work to get my land legs back! 

The Salt Mine

The  day I have  long since been waiting for to arrive has come and by the time you read this gone. Back at work for a mere four hours, a red letter day in my return to normal living. Not totally normal by a long shot, slippers instead of shoes on my swollen feet, but I did arrive at work three miles from my apartment under my own steam. The infamous electric mobility scooter.

Leaving home on the far east side of Key West at ten minutes before five the sun was starting to set, indeed I turned the scooter's lights on before arriving at the police station an hour later after a rather pleasant commute at four miles an hour along the North Roosevelt waterfront.

The day started as a blank sheet- no physical therapy, no doctors no shopping even for my wife who left early for work and took Rusty with her so he would have a more interesting day among people as he continues to recover from his torn tendon. I was alone. With wheels. As one person on my scooter forum said I was like a teenager alone with the keys to the car.  did my leg exercises and took off to time the length of my commute.

I have to confess that riding the sidewalk in the middle of the day was harder work for me in the sun and heat and as we wait for a cold front to arrive the air gets particularly humid and thick. To my surprise or because of the forgoing there was hardly any traffic on the broad smooth sidewalk. My commute was a blast! Salt Run Creek, near Overseas Market:

I enjoyed the ride in and work came back to me as I sat in a wheelchair at my desk and logged back into the 911 system.  I took the fire rescue position and started answering administrative and 911 calls. It was in my own words(!) like riding a bicycle; most of it came back.

And then the inevitable ride home in the dark along the waterfront, an hour to decompress before I get home to a hot shower and a well earned rest. This is quite an interesting way to work my way back into regular daily living. All thanks to this funky thing:

What a strange turn my life has taken. And this is just the start of the return to normal. 

The Scooting Life

Scooters in the US are a subset of the motorcycling life. And motorcyclists for the most part ignore or dislike scooters which are viewed as underpowered emasculated and not ridden by real men. I grew up riding in Italy where Vespas and motorcycles each play a role and the riders of one may also be riders of the other.  Because I am a contrarian I have taken to riding scooters in my old age. Also because arthritis in my left wrist makes using a clutch painful and modern scooters like cars tend to be automatics and the left hand is mostly idle. At my age I have nothing to prove but I take pleasure riding a small engined scooter too far and too often thus shocking passers by. Like my August trip to Niagara Falls in 32 hours on my Suzuki 200.

Wytheville, Virginia, August 19th, dawn. 

It was fun though no one believes me! Next year I plan a repeat trip perhaps to Alexandria Bay. My friend Val knows why, because she grew up there plus it’s 1500 miles from Key West and I’ve never been. All this by way of explanation. I’ve now downgraded even lower to a - wait for it!- mobility scooter. Sounds  like old man stuff indeed! 

Notice the walker hanging off the back to give me complete mobility and independence! I am a happy camper. Thank you Therese for gifting me a month’s rent. My friends are extraordinary.  This isn’t a substitute for exercise but with a top speed of a leisurely jog and a range of twelve to sixteen miles I am set. It has lights turn signals and an indoor horn. It is comfortable and it sets me free. Thank you Island Mobility on Stock Island. Craig was a pleasure to deal with. 

This machine is slick. It fits in my apartment better than my manual wheelchair. It rides bumps and lumps just fine, it fits on sidewalks and takes me into the aisles of Publix with the greatest of ease and no fuss. 

It’s easy to use, just turn it on and press F for forward and ...R for reverse! It’s the black bar visible in the photo above. It doesn’t beep in reverse (thank heavens)  and comes with a mirror. It’s exactly what I need until I get my driving privileges back. 

Work is three miles from home along North Roosevelt on a waterfront sidewalk ideal for the purpose. I know this isn’t sexy but it has changed my life. For some a leather jacket a Harley and a handgun are signs of masculinity. For me it’s having fun with what I’ve got and my first instinct was to be an explorer with a whole new perspective of my town. I am blessed with curiosity and a desire to experiment and this is just another way to do that. 

This is going to be a blast. I’m half pedestrian half electric cyborg. 

I’ve also got permission from my scooter buddies on Adventure Rider (advrider.com) to participate in scooter tag which is not normally allowed for mobility scooters... remember I was talking about how segmented riders tend to be? Well I have permission to participate owing to my extraordinary circumstances. 

Pretty cool huh? I have great friends all over the place. I may have weak legs but I’m a happy lucky man. Oh and Rusty got his stitches out from the visiting vet, Dr Edie. 

No strenuous walks till mid January when his tendon should have healed. Excellent news. We’re doing well, both of us. And my wife is managing. I did some shopping for her. And got it home in one piece. 

Getting there, but by bit. I always said I’d get whole again. And I will. Doubters are banished! 

Water Scenes

In my journeys as a passenger around the Keys and Key West I amuse myself by sitting with my big camera in my lap. I have found the Panasonic LUMIX FZ300 ideal for me. It’s not a single lense reflex but I don’t print my pictures or sell them. I store them in the cloud, I post them, mostly here obviously as well as Instagram and occasionally on Facebook so a lack of professional grade pixelation doesn’t bother me. Especially when my bridge camera offers huge telephoto possibilities and myriad focus and filter features and even remote control from my phone. Add to that dust and rain protection and easy WiFi photo transfer to my phone and this used $350 camera is a bargain for me. And so here are some pictures taken from the passenger seat on the fly.

Bob And Lu

I put my foot down. Pick me up before lunch, we’re eating out not bringing in. That decision opened up a whole new set of possibilities for lunch. Well said Robert mulling our choices...The elevator was  closed for  maintenance so Robert carried my walker as I took the stairs one careful step at a time. I confess I panicked for a moment thinking we might have to eat in after all, not a crisis but I did want to get out into the cool winter sunshine.

It’s not a great picture but this is the spot we chose for lunch: Bobalu’s in Big Coppitt alongside Highway One. It’s a diner that’s been around forever and even though we used to eat there I haven’t been back in... forever. They do the usual, fish and pizza but also home cooking but my wife makes a mean meatloaf so you don’t go out to get one. Thus we kind of never went back. Silly really. They make pizza and my wife doesn’t. 

The interior decor has the usual funky island collection of stuff that says The Keys to visitors. Unlike a lot of places Bobalu’s doesn’t look like the dust catchers catch a lot of dust. There is an air of sanitary cleanliness to the place, as though someone polishes the many ornaments. 

Robert was in the mood for pizza and he’s a much more fussy eater than me so I let him do the ordering. We met in 1991 which we calculated was almost 28 years ago when we were each sailing the Bahamas. We met at Hall’s Pond Cay in the Exumas when Robert organized a gathering at what was the abandoned clubhouse on the island. He unloaded a mound of stuff from his 27 foot sailboat, a deep fryer an electronic keyboard, chairs, cooking tools rather like Mole in the Wind in the Willows going on a picnic. I learned early on Robert is a collector where I am always ready to clear out the surplus in my life. 

It was one of those magical moments in life when all the parts come together and in Robert I found a man whose life I admired. He’s a gentle soul, kind and thoughtful with a reserved sense of humor and an unrelenting commitment to the environment. His energy in the service of the coral reef exhausts me. 

And he knows his pizza. This fourteen inch disc tasted excellent, better I dare say than the picture might suggest. It was not greasy and the crust was firm and crisp as advertised. We ate four slices each in a bow to the flavor of the food, our gluttony and the extended conversation. 

In his life in the Keys Robert has worked as a commercial fisherman, managed a garage, run charter sailboats, worked for the Marine Sanctuary and is now retired with his still working wife on Cudjoe Key, ironically not far from me. He was in a nostalgic mood and we talked about the intersections of our past, including our adventures on the water and now his struggle to streamline his life in preparation for this final chapter, retirement. It was an excellent lunch. I asked my generous friend for a favor. 

He took me food shopping. I had a list from my wife and  I am always anxious to ease her workload so he drove me to Publix to complete this chore. I made the acquaintance of the electric shopping cart they provide. 

Simple enough to use I pivoted into it from my walkerwhich the  manager took for safe keeping at the customer service desk. Publix employees were brilliantly helpful and thoughtful. We went shopping. It was as usual a different experience gliding through the store. I checked items and Robert trotted off to collect them. Some things I was looking for needed help from people who were standing and could reach them but everyone was kind. I met another guy in an electric cart and challenged him to a race.  He perked up. Just because we are handicapped doesn’t mean we can’t have fun. 

Shopping was a pleasure even though the cart made the maddening beeping as it went into reverse, though it is a sensible safety feature as I had trouble seeing over my shoulder. I am getting used to being out in public at wheelchair height but it was a busy day so there were lots of willing customers ready to help me reach for stuff. 

Thanks to Robert I had another useful learning experience on the slow road back to being able to walk.

Don Quixote And The Fire Alarm

Layne got home late from work as must happen when your job is educating adults. They have jobs and at least a few classes need to accommodate students with adult schedules. I sat in my wheelchair and recounted the day’s doings, lunch with Nick, a few stories I had heard, physical therapy and that sort of thing.  How was your day dear? asked the homebound man in the wheelchair. Rusty chewed his chew and waited, like me for dinner. 

It happened that garlic toast was on the menu to use up a baguette in danger of hardening beyond use. Well, it did that all right. In the pirouettes between pasta, water, oven and salad something went awry. Suddenly a voice screeched:”FIRE! FIRE! FIRE!” at the top of her tinny lungs. The garlic bread! Layne pulled the oven door open thus allowing one more copious gust of black smoke to issue forth like the dying grunt of the Titanic’s submerging boilers. The smoke, as though possessed of diabolical intelligence snaked across the white ceiling and wreathed itself round the screeching whistling smoke alarm. In vain I told the freaked out voice there was no “FIRE!” as she kept bellowing at the top of her lungs from the little white box. I rolled to the balcony and pulled the sliding doors open. Layne propped the front door open allowing cubic yards of freezing night air to sweep through the apartment like a cleansing breath of sanity. No dice. “FIRE!” The bitch in the box kept screeching.

You’d think living in a collection of rabbit hutches nearby residents might appear at our place, concerned for their safety or that of their property. With the door wide open and the cold north wind howling through our apartment you’d think someone would have noticed the stentorian bellowing of that single deadly word “FIRE!” over and over again accompanied by a piercing whistle announcing the imminent doom of all within hearing. Not one person appeared. That left my wife and her cripple in his wheelchair to handle the emergency. Great. Layne got a kitchen stool and took the box off the ceiling. I got the broom and waved it around over my head in circles not sure if I was trying to smother the deadly box in smoke-free air or expressing the inner Quixotic helplessness of the handicapped in an emergency. I wheeled back and forth riding my broken backed Rosinante waving my lance at the offending voice still screaming “FIRE!” at the top of her artificial lung. Layne couldn’t detach the box from the wires that powered it and I couldn’t articulate to her how to do it. Between us we deserved to be burned to a crisp for sheer incompetence and ineffectual bleating in the face of that voice which now sounded more like a command than a warning. “FIRE!”

With the back up battery removed I got to the fuse box almost set too high for a cripple to reach. I flipped switches, slowly at first but in an increasing frenzy. Finally she shut up. “F—-“ and as I slumped on my Rosinante I supplied the requisite Anglo-Saxon expletive to complete the phrase.

Dinner was a subdued affair. Rusty had restreated to the bed, easily able to resist joining in the fun and chaos at the front door. Layne and I ate pasta with untoasted bread glancing at each other as though we were the guilty survivors of some secret yet deeply immoral disaster. I announced I had better call my colleagues at work. Chelsea answered. Umm I said, have you got a call yet from a fire alarm company? No she said. Well I said if you do you can disregard. Oh she said clearly begging for details. I could hear the Fire Captain’s call so often over the radio announcing with a tired tone to his voice “Outdoor grill, Key West.”  I, answering the fire radio as “Key West” would grin as I acknowledged and made the appropriate notation in the fire call. “Ten Four Engine Nine. Ten Nineteen.” I pictured the homeowners prostrate with embarrassment as the firefighters clumped away from the source of the smoke. False alarm secure. “Okay” Chelsea said and I could hear them all laughing. “Burnt garlic bread, copy. We’ll handle it if they call for your address. We can spare Layne the embarrassment,”  and I thought to myself Don Quixote would be totally immune to embarrassment. I am not even up to his standards. So instead I poured myself a jigger of Ron Zacapa and called it a night.