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A Plate
of Alligator, a Glass of Beer and Daytona Beach
I
The mercury lamps cast an other-worldly
glow down on the truck and trailer. Shadows
ran back from the vehicles, pools of jet on the
snow which crackled and squeaked as I
walked across the yard. Ten PM on a friday
night is one hell of a time to start a long road
trip. That is what I was thinking.
Our breath trailed large clouds of vapor as we
gave all the tie-downs one last tug, then went
into the house for a cup of coffee and to say our
goodbyes.
Christmas day 1992 was when the plan had
been formed. Dan, Chris and I had finished
our Christmas dinner and were standing about in
the kitchen barefoot, getting in the way of
the women-folk and discussing how far in the
future riding season was. I canÕt remember
which one of we three desperados came up with the
scheme of heading south, way south, to Daytona,
but as I walked back from the truck and
trailer to the house for that coffee, I didn't
know whether to thank him or do him bodily harm.
I had been up since six o'clock that morning
and had had a tumultuous day. Two weeks
before the intended departure date I had found
another job and was taking Bike Week as my
vacation before starting the new job. This
day was my last day on the old job and, as
such, was a bit trying. I was tired. As
we sat in the kitchen, I thought to myself that I
would get some sleep in the truck before taking
my turn at the wheel. When we got up from
the table, Dan pulled me aside and told me that
Chris had hurt his back at work two days before
and was taking some powerful muscle relaxers.
On no account was he going to let Chris drive.
Well, that was that, it would be Dan and I,
non-stop, from Amsterdam, New York to Daytona
Beach, Florida. With a tail wind, we
figured on twenty four hours.
The truck we were using was a Chevy Silverado
1500 with the stretch cab and extended bed.
In the best of conditions we aren't talking a
tight turning radius here, folks. Up in the
bed were Dan's Softail and Chris' Lowrider.
Behind the truck was a two-bike trailer with my
Ninja, swaddled in a very tight and heavily
strapped bike cover. I hoped my bike would
make it in one piece, all by itself way back
there, so vulnerable.
I got in the back seat, in among the blankets
and duffel bags, ostensibly to sleep. The
excitement level was high and physically tangible
as we turned out of the driveway, on our way at
last. It seemed incredible to me. I
couldn't believe we were actually going to
Daytona. Daytona, the Mecca of
Motorcycling.
If half the stories I had heard were true,
this was going to be something beyond the
ordinary, that's for sure -- the first race
of the Superbike season, Motocross, the vintage
bike auctions, the swap-meet, and Main Street --
MAIN STREET!
We took the New York State Thruway south from
Schenectady, passing through the Catskill and
Mid-Hudson regions. A little over two hours into
the trip, we turned south-west on Route 17 and
headed into New Jersey on an intercept course
with I-95. I was beginning to wish for
sleep. I was too tired to stay awake and
too hyper to close my eyes. Snow still
blanketed the sides of the road as we sped
through the night. At one point, we saw the
Manhattan Skyline to our left. I was surprised
that the lights of the World Trade Center were
all lit. A terrorist bomb had done severe
damage there earlier that day.
We passed the turn-offs for the tunnels to
Manhattan and the ramps leading to the
Meadowlands Sports Complex. From here on
we were passing my southernmost cruising
boundaries. I got a good idea of how an
ancient seafarer crossing into the blank area on
the map emblazoned with the words 'There Be
Dragons' might have felt. A rest area in
South Jersey was our first coffee stop. It
was about three in the morning. Coming in
from the cold darkness into the brightly
lit Food Court lent an air of surrealism to the
mood. Here we were in the middle of the
night, in the middle of nowhere, with a squadron
of pimply high-schoolers peddling coffee, donuts
and prefabricated burgers in a fake brick, neon
and chromium monstrosity by the wayside. I
guess it was fatigue, but it sure seemed weird!
There was a machine there in which I pressed a
penny into a valentine. My wife still
carries that penny in her purse. It was at
this point in the trip that we saw the first of
the many other trucks pulling trailers of bikes.
I realized that we really were going to
Daytona. Here were other folks doing it
too! The sheer anticipatory excitement did
more for me than all the caffeine on the planet
could have
At about four, Dan pulled over and we switched
seats. He was feeling the strain, and I was
more familiar with the roads around Washington
D.C. Chris stayed awake with me. Snow
was falling lightly as we crossed from Maryland
into D.C. After paying a toll, I stopped
just to give our load a quick check. As I
was tugging tie-downs, another truck loaded with
bikes swung onto the shoulder in front of us.
"You guys OK? Need a hand or anything?"
I thanked them telling them we were just taking
preventative maintenance steps. This
was the first of many positive things that were
to happen on this trip. A few miles
down the road, the same truck was stopped at the
side of the road. Someone was putting gas
from a jerry can into a another truck which had
apparently run dry, our Samaritans had stopped
for some other bikers. I came home with a
much more positive feeling about the future of
motorcycling and a deeper respect for the people
involved.
As we drove around and through, over and under
D.C., Chris and I both began to take notice of a
white Mustang which kept zipping past us every
few minutes. Our mirth increased each time
it flew by. We were joking to
ourselves that the driver was probably a drug
courier stopping just off the various exit
ramps to do business then rushing to his next
appointment. Just before we crossed into
Virginia proper, we saw the white Mustang pinned
in a ring of search lights, surrounded by police
cars. He must have been up to something
pretty major. Either that or those Virginia
boys take a very dim view of speeders.
"Severe Winter Storm Warnings in
Virginia." Not the kind of statement
you want to here on the radio. The sun was
beginning to turn the eastern skies gray while
a spattering of fat snowflakes melted on
the windshield. Wipers were barely
required. Dan was awake again and behind
the wheel. I had barely done three hours.
Dan can sleep anywhere fork even the shortest
amounts of time and awake refreshed. I
guess that comes with working third shift for the
better part of twenty years. Anyway, we
kept waiting for this severe winter storm to
materialize and impede our progress. By
eight thirty we were about a third of the way
through Virginia.
Dan had told us that Virginia always seemed to
last for most of the trip when you drive to
Florida -- and it did. The snow covered the
roadside but the pavement was merely wet. The air
outside felt warmer than it had in Jersey.
We stopped at a McDonald's somewhere about midway
through the state. The girl behind the
counter was amazed that we had come so far in the
blizzard! We were amazed at what they call
a blizzard in those parts. Nothing ever
really came of it, and our travel time was not
affected.
It's amazing how everyone can eat at the same
time, but the inevitable results are never
similarly synchronized. The trip
through the southernmost portion of Virginia will
always be remembered as The Quest for a Clean
Restroom.
You can tell when you've reached the
Virginia/North Carolina border. Those South
of the Border 'Pedro' signs start making
their presence felt. For those who have
never traveled I-95, South of the Border was at
one time a diner/truck-stop. The owners
must have figured that as long as they had people
stopping to eat, they could probably sell them
other things as well. Now there are
fireworks stands, a leather store, a Mexican fast
food cafeteria, gas station, car wash and
probably a dozen other small enterprises. They
all do business under the title 'South of the
Border' as this entreprenurial hodgepodge lies
just south of the North Carolina/South Carolina
border. Just about as soon as you get from
Virginia into North Carolina, you begin to see a
large billboard 'Only 275 more miles to South of
the Border'. A few miles later there
is a slightly more elaborate billboard with
something like "Pedro Sez, You have to stop
at South of the Border" or some other
nonsense of that sort. These signs must
have cost and continue to cost 'Pedro' a small
fortune. They cover both Carolinas so you get
them coming and going. They get more and
more elaborate with moving parts and disco
lights until you get to South of the Border.
At this point, you're so damn curious you just
have to stop
We were really starting to move now. Traffic
on 95 doesnÕt usually travel at much below
seventy-five, we stepped out upwards of eighty at
times. We reached South of the Border at
about eleven. I realized I'd been up
over twenty four hours. The boys decided to
have foot long hot dogs with chile. After
the Quest in Virginia, I didn't think this was
all that spiffy an idea. I had a plain
burger. My bike had not wanted to start
when it was on the trailer in Amsterdam. After
checking the tie-downs for the thousandth time, I
got under the cover, stuck the key in and tried
to start her. I figured now that it was
fifty degrees, she might at least crank.
No dice. We resisted the urge to climb the
tower topped by a big sombrero and
instead peeked in one or two of the leather shops
and jewelry boutiques. Our cash
supplies intact, we resumed our southern journey.
I drove through much of South Carolina,
stopping only when the tooth picks holding my
eyes open were in serious need of a break. About
mid-afternoon we stopped at a fast-food place in
Georgia.
I think it was a Bob's Big Boy. The
waitress took one look at us and said
"YaÕll must be headed for Daytona. How
many days you been on the road?"
Yeah, I guess we looked that bad. She was
kind enough to supply us with large cups of ice
water as well as coffee. People can be
great.
I don't know what it is about Savannah, but
you can definitely of smell it before you get
there. They must have some kind of large
chemical industry close to I-95. This is a
shame because I've been through Georgia, it's a
beautiful state. Until we passed
Savannah, it was windows up, AC on.
After what felt like an eternity in the truck,
we saw the sign we'd anticipated for the
past few hours. ÒWelcome to Florida.Ó We
were still over 100 miles from Jacksonville,
which is ninety some-odd miles from Daytona
Beach, yet another 85 miles to Melbourne, where
we were staying with Dan's in-laws Tom and Betty.
We saw the sun set as we passed through the city
of Jacksonville. I couldnÕt get over how
metropolitan it looked. Born and
raised in New York City, I have the attitude that
everything outside Manhattan is quaint and rural.
Large office buildings and urban sprawl in a
tropical paradise, now that was something to see!
From here on the trip became physically
painful for me. IÕm not much good past
thirty six hours and my limited was approaching.
My spirits lifted for a few miles when we passed
the Daytona Beach exit ramp. We had made
it. I felt as if we were traveling
through a long, straight black tunnel punctuated
by half-reconstructed overpasses whose
bone-jarring unevenness threatened to throw my
bike from the trailer. At long last the
Melbourne exit sign came into view. Now for
some food and a night's sleep!
We traveled through a maze of local streets
that Dan was attempting to navigate from memories
of a vacation years before. After
driving through miles of quiet residential
streets, we crossed some railroad tracks and
found ourselves in a development of one story
stone houses with little fat palm trees out front
and carports at the side. We pulled
up in front of a particularly well kept
house. ÒHere we areÓ Dan said.
When he shut off the motor, it signaled that a
great obstacle had been overcome. The sheer
relief of knowing the trip was over gave us a
second wind.
The warm, soft breeze that played among the
palm fronds made me smile thinking of the changes
in climate weÕd experienced. We had begun
our journey wrapped in parkas and wearing
thinsulate lined pants. The heat in the
truck had been blasting. Eight hours in, we
had cast off all the layers down to tee shirts
but had kept the heat going. Soon the
heat was off. Then the windows opened. By
the time we hit Jacksonville, the windows were
back up and the AC on. Winter had been left
behind and motorcycle season had just officially
opened!
The truck was left fully loaded as we headed
into Tom and Betty's house. TheyÕd waited
diner for us. Here it was almost nine
thirty. That is the kind of people they
are. We stuffed ourselves with delicious
lasagna and got the road noise out of our ears.
We three bikers were going to camp on the sun
porch. The cots were quickly removed from
the bed of the pickup where they had been
carefully packed between the Harleys. With
the personal gear removed from the truck, it was
time to decant the bikes. We unhitched the
trailer and pushed it, bike and all, up onto the
lawn. From here I would be on my own while
Chris and Dan got their rides back onto terra
firma.
When I had my bike on the pavement, I once
again turned the key and hit the button. Not
even a click. I was about to beg for a jump
when I noticed the kill switch pushed to the
'STOP' position! No wonder she wouldn't
start. Needless to say, the machine was
sitting on her centerstand idling merrily within
the next few moments. Meanwhile, Chris and
Dan had managed to get their bikes down from the
truck. Both those guys have, shall I say,
somewhat less than politically acceptable exhaust
systems? The peace of the night was
shattered by the sound of two of Milwaukee's
finest singing through open pipes. I, less
bucket, screamed up to the corner and back.
Not to be out-done, Dan prepared to go once
around the block. He went tearing up
to the corner, pulled a quick U-turn and coasted
back, engine off, to where we were standing.
ÒJust as I was getting up to the corner, I saw a
lot of reflective stripes through the bushes over
there. I'm sure it's the law.Ó Chris
and I walked up to the corner and saw what Dan
saw, one of Melbourne's boys in blue in his RMP.
Someone had obviously called due to the racket
and he was sitting there just waiting for an
infraction to occur. The bikes went into
the back yard for the night. The
sleeping bag never felt quite as good as it did
to me when I crawled into it a few minutes later.
II
In the night I drifted close to consciousness
disturbed by a strange rhythmic sound
something like pffft - pffft - pffft - pffft.
It lulled me back to sleep.
I awoke at seven thirty that next morning.
Dan was gone, Chris snored across from me.
I could hear Dan's voice from somewhere in the
house. I was sore from head to toe and did
not want to get up. ÒHarry, there's
coffee in here."Yeah, bro, I'm on my
way." I promptly rolled over and
dozed off. When I awoke, Chris was nowhere
to be seen. I dragged myself in through the
sliding doors to the kitchen. Tom offered
us eggs and bacon but our policy for this week
was for us to be as little inconvenience as
possible.
Dan and Chris informed me that during the
night the sprinkler system had come on. The
system is automatic. Every other day the
sprinklers run from three in the morning till
about five. Now this wouldn't have been so
bad, our bikes were dirty from the trip down
anyway but it seems that, in this part of Florida
at least, the water has a high concentration of
sulfur. Dan christened it "Fart
Water", our bikes had been baptized.
My fairing saved me from total 'Fart Water'
inundation. The Harleys fared worse,
especially Dan's as it was parked right
over a sprinkler head. A good toweling set
me to rights. The boys decided they'd need
the pressure hose at the local wash-it-yourself
car wash. Even though I was still feeling
stiff and kind of out of it, the ride to the car
wash was terrific. I hadnÕt been on my
bike since a very cold and brief outing during
the previous November. Here it was March
first and I was out riding! Dan and Chris
seemed to be having just as good a time,
regardless of the aroma emanating from their
rides.
The sign at the car wash 'We Use Only Well
Water' should have clued us all in, but in an
instant the two Harleys received a second massive
dose of 'Fart Water'. You can imagine
the reaction the boys had. We dragged
our tails back to Tom and Betty's place where we
were met with much mirth. The two Harleys
were duly cleaned with potable water from
the house. After we had returned home from
Florida, I discovered signs of very recent
corrosion on many aluminum fittings on my bike.
I attribute this to the first-night inundation.
Finally we mounted up for the eighty mile
jaunt up to Daytona Beach. We swung out
onto I-95 once again, but this time pointed
north. The sunlight was bright enough
to make me glad I'd packed my smoked face shield.
I-95 is arrow-straight through Melbourne up to
Daytona. We passed the exits for Cocoa
Beach and Cape Canaveral and the junction with
the route to Orlando. From I-95 you can
just barely make out the large Vehicle Assembly
building out on the Cape.'
Dan was road captain, Chris and I were
staggered in the same lane behind. Now Dan
is famous for his on-board hijinx used to relieve
long, straight road boredom. Therefore when
Dan started weaving the back end of his bike and
making all sorts of interesting hand motions, we
figured he was having some fun with us, although
we couldn't quite interpret his intentions.
His right turn flashers came on and he pulled off
the exit ramp for New Smyrna Beach. We
stopped at the side of the ramp, Dan's
rear tire flapping on the rim. Finally
Chris and I understood the shimmying and
gyrations we'd witnessed!
Fortunately there is a combination gas
station/truck stop/convenience store at the very
end of the exit ramp we found ourselves on.
Dan limped his bike into the parking lot. I
thought maybe a can of puncture sealant and
inflator might get us rolling again. I
trotted on into the convenience store and quickly
tracked down the necessary purchase. Between
the swing arm, brake, assorted do-dads and jim
cracks there was basically no room to put the
nozzle from the can squarely on the valve. We
wound up dumping a good quantity of sticky white
foam on Dan's rear wheel and the parking lot.
Chris and Dan formulated a plan. They'd
both ride back down to Melbourne on Chris'
Lowrider while I babysat the now VERY Softail.
No one wanted to ride back to Melbourne on the
back of my bike -- too uncomfortable. They'd
then come back up with the truck, Chris' bike in
the back. We'd then load up the Softail and
proceed up to Daytona where someone would
be bound to be selling tires for Harleys (so we
thought) even though it was Sunday.
After about an hour of sitting in the parking
lot, I decided a cold one might be appropriate,
especially since it would be at least a few more
hours before I'd actually be riding again. I
sat propped up against my bike, soaking up
sun and warmth, sucking down a brew. Now
that's living! I didn't care that I was
sitting in a parking lot. A large
self-propelled crane with at least ten wheels
rolled in and stopped. The gentleman
driving it was in a hurry -- he was over the
limit for driving time for the day. He had
come down from Pittsburgh non-stop! He had
time though, to make some positive comments
about both bikes and say he wished he were
scooting to Daytona.
Before I knew it, the boys returned, switched
the bikes around and we were back on the
pilgrimage. At long last the magic moment
arrived. We followed the signs marked
'Daytona Beaches' and found ourselves motoring
along Atlantic Avenue, a wide street paralleling
the ocean lined with hotels and motels. The
parking lots all were overflowing with bikes.
Bikes of all shapes, sizes and denomination.
Crowds of people, mostly motorcyclists, walked
between the machines, stopping to look at a
cruiser or a race-replica. It was obvious
that everyone was there with unity of purpose --
to celebrate Spring, motorcycles and riding, and
to party!
After passing more than a mile of hotels and
thousands of bikes, we came to an intersection
jammed with bikes, cars, bikes, trucks, bikes and
pedestrians. I thought this must be where
the action was and I was right. Turning
left here would put us on the eastern end of Main
Street. Dan wanted desperately to find a
tire for his bike but didn't think we'd have much
luck in The Boot Hill Saloon or the Easyriders
Outlet store or a tattoo parlor. We motored
straight past Main Street and pulled
off into a vacant lot where we could sort
ourselves out. The Swap Meet seemed the
only likely venue for tires. Unfortunately,
we knew not where it was located
Every once in a while I get a bright idea.
I saddled up and dashed over to the next motel.
In the office was a stack of little black
booklets entitled "Biker's Pocket Guide to
Daytona Bike Week '93". Just what the
doctor ordered. It contained a schedule of
events, as well as a somewhat informative map.
Well, the Swap Meet was listed as occurring at
the Volusia County Fairgrounds. A quick
perusal of the map revealed an arrow pointing
west past the Speedway indicating the fairgrounds
were over past the page margin somewhere. Armed
with this information, we headed back towards
Main Street to head west and out of town.
The first thing you notice when sitting in
Bike Week traffic on Main Street is the
incredible sound of thousands of open-piped and
track-cannistered bikes all revving in close
proximity between the storefronts. I
wonder how the glass survives. You can feel
the sound. It rattles your fillings,
loosens your colon, whatever euphemism you care
to use. As hackneyed as these euphemisms
may be, they make sense here. We sat at and
crawled up to one light for just a few seconds
less than ten minutes, I know because I kept
track. I could not believe all the
factories in the world had possibly turned
out this many motorcycles -- and that was just
the Harleys! When you sit in that jam
and know there are still thousands of bikes
trying to get onto Main Street, all the bikes at
the surrounding festivities, and all the
rest of the bikers in the United States that
didn't come to Daytona, it's almost impossible to
believe that we aren't the biggest sociopolitical
group in the nation!
Dan was fine in his air conditioned haven.
My temp. gauge climbed almost into the red, the
little electric fans fought valiantly keeping
things as cool as could be hoped for. Chris,
sitting there blipping his throttle -- I could
almost see the pistons swelling in his Hawg.
He changed his oil the next morning!
We finally broke free of the traffic as we
left the city limits heading down 92 towards the
Speedway. Chris and I both tore ahead to
get some air moving across our engines. Dan
caught up at the next light. When we got to
that spot on Route 92 that corresponded with the
arrow in the margin in our booklet, (we didn't
see any creases in the pavement though) we pulled
into a gas station for directions. The
attendant there informed Dan that the fairgrounds
were just a little bit past the Speedway. Actually
the turn-off for Route 4 is just past the
Speedway. From there it's a few miles to
Route 44 and at that point you're close to the
fairground. The attendant was from out of
town I guess.
The sun was low in the sky when we finally
pulled into the near-deserted Volusia County
Fairgrounds. The red dust of the unpaved
road swirled around my fairing as we came to a
halt by the barricades. If we had
read the schedule, we would have known that the
swap meet opened the following thursday! With
no tire and the sun rapidly sinking into the
west, the only course of action was to grab
dinner and head back down to Melbourne.
As the sun dipped below the line of the
horizon, the temperature, which had been in the
mid to upper sixties, began to fall. On
Route 44, just east of Pub 44, a famous biker's
watering hole, we had spotted a upper-crusty type
seafood restaurant. We were itching to go
to Pub 44, having heard many tales but figured
we'd have the rest of the week for that.
The three of us figured after a long day with no
real meals, it was time to feed ourselves. Chris
and I parked our rides under a huge palm tree,
Dan backed the truck's tailboard up against a
retaining wall.
We enjoyed a sumptuous dinner washed down with
a round of cold beers and felt quite relaxed and
ready for bed as we walked out into the parking
lot for our ninety mile ride back to Melbourne.
I was wearing full racing leathers with a tee
shirt underneath. The venting which had
been barely adequate on warm days now admitted
large quantities of the forty degree night air.
I was one unhappy camper. Chris was
none too happy with the current conditions
either. Dan took a look at the truck and
sort of wistfully said "Geez, I wish I
didn't have to be driving the truck, I miss
riding." Chris, always ready to help a
bro, offered Dan his ride. Not to be
outdone in the magnanimity competition, I suggested
that I'd load my bike in the pickup and keep
Chris company. What a bunch of guys!
Chris' bike was almost out of gas, so
Dan stopped before we got on I-95 to tank up.
I was driving the truck and figured Dan would
catch us soon enough even if I jumped on 95
and didn't wait for him to gas up. Traffic
was moving in the seventy-five to eighty range
and we were keeping up. Some guy with his
lady riding pillion passed us like we were
standing still. They were both clothed for
the beach -- tee shirts and those loose cotton
pants -- rather than the arctic, so I understood
their haste. At one point, Chris and I
heard a baritone roar approaching from behind us.
We both looked left as Dan passed us on Chris'
bike. "I never knew the thing was so
damn loud!" "Chris, take it from
he who rides behind you all day long, it
is." We heard Dan long after his
taillight dwindled down to nothing in the
distance.
We stopped at the convenience store and gas
station on Route 1 in Melbourne and picked up a
twelve-pack for later. We headed on back to
Tom and Betty's place, got my bike down off the
truck and devised a plan for the next day.
III
Monday morning dawned warm and inviting.
My sleeping bag was even more warm and inviting,
though I woke more refreshed than I had the day
before. We pounded down some coffee and
decided to cruise up A-1-A to a Kawasaki dealer.
Dan had called earlier while I slept and found
that they did indeed have a tire that would fit
his rear wheel nicely and would install it for a
very decent price. Dan swore us to secrecy
that we'Õd never tell a soul he had his Harley
fitted with a tire from a Kaw dealer! At
the dealership, Dan sat on a ZX-11 and decided
that with Buck horn bars, it might not be that
uncomfortable. He liked the idea of 175
miles-per-hour as well. The new Bridgestone
in place, we began our trek up to Daytona.
It was great having all three of us on bikes
again. The trip was uneventful all the way
up to just before a bar called "Squeeze
In". I was enthralled by all the
tropical greenery, bikes and all the other
tourist things to gawk at and , of course, wasn't
paying any attention to where I was going. At
sixty I finally turned my head forward only
to see Dan stopped about three bike-lengths ahead
of me with both feet firmly on the ground at a
red light. I grabbed a very big handful of
front brake. My front wheel began to
chatter so I let loose a bit and stomped the rear
brake,. This was before I passed the
Motorcycle Safety Foundation Experienced
RiderCourse, you must understand. I did a
beautiful two-wheel slide right past Dan and
through the intersection. Thank goodness
for delayed green lights in Florida. None
of the vast sea of cross-traffic had begun to
move as I did my slide. I put my kickstand
down and sat there for a minute shaking. The
riders coming from the other direction gave me a
round of applause and a lame "yeah"
cheer. I got off and bowed. Boy did I
feel like a loser!
We stopped about a mile up the road at a
custom shop where we all bought tee shirts.
Half the fun of going to rallies and tours is
gathering tee shirts, pins and patches! I
was particularly flattered when someone wandering
among the beautiful chromed and customized
Harleys parked out front stopped and checked out
my Ninja for a few minutes. "Does it
really go that fast?" "The
speedo's a little optimistic", I answered.
"But, pretty close." "Hey,
your ride's really cool." It's nice to
meet open minded souls. Just a few
hundred yards past the custom shop is the
'Squeeze In'. More of an open-air bazaar
than just a bar, one parks on the grass and
saunters onto the property where beer is sold,
vendors hawk leather goods, jewelry and tee
shirts. Bands play during the evenings.
There is a central building among the tents that
is more of a bar proper. A large sign over
the door warns that Colors and attitudes will not
be allowed through. Attitudes shouldn't be
allowed anywhere but I don't like it when clubs
are put down or made outcasts. I can
understand the paranoia though, as future events
would highlight. We had a good time at
Squeeze In, but as Daytona was still a few miles
up the road and we were riding, didn't
party at the beer tent.
Just outside Daytona Easyriders Magazine had
set up their rodeo grounds. We noticed this
as we passed by and had to pull a quick u-turn to
further investigate. None of the
festivities had started although quite a few of
the pull-trykes were getting a feel for the dirt.
Directly in front of the main building, a chrome
framed chopper sat soaking up the Florida sun and
the appreciative stares of many a bystander.
Its owner was fiddling with the rear brake lamp
actuator switch. Being above average in the
mechanical inclination department, we went over
to see if we could be of any assistance. We
were amazed to notice, upon a less chrome dazzled
inspection that the bike had left the factory as
a Honda 750-4. The gent messing with the
electrics was from Maine. He'd had his bike
trucked down and had flown down himself just the
day before. He was just about controlling
his laughter over everyone making a fuss over his
Jap chopper! The switch had corroded beyond
hope or help. As its pedigree was unknown,
he decided to just try a NAPA store to see if
they'd have anything to fit. As he pulled
away, I thought to myself that his was one of the
nicer rides I'd seen down here though even its
owner had problems dealing with its oriental
roots. It didn't sound bad either through
straight pipes.
About mid-afternoon found us once again
crossing over into Daytona. Chris found
parking on Main Street (!) but Dan and I had to
pay a couple of bucks to stick our machines in a
small lot at the western end of the street, down
by the water of the Halifax river. One of
our missions was to get tee shirts from the Boot
Hill Saloon.
The sidewalks were packed with people. Imagine
Christmas Eve at the Mall combined with Memorial
Day at the beach, except, of course, with more
people, and you can get a very sketchy idea of
the wall-to-wall humanity. The curbs were
lined with bikes parked tighter than I'd want to
risk mine. Can you imagine the magnitude
of the domino effect? One bike goes over a
mile up the street just as youÕre parking.
You stand on line for a tee shirt, grab a beer.
Just as you make it back to the curb a tidal wave
of chrome washes over your pride and joy.
Dan and I made our way up to the Boot Hill
Saloon. People stood packed like sardines
from the bar right back to the front door-frame.
Dan has about four inches and forty pounds on me.
He made it inside. I just couldn't shoe
horn my way. I walked to the curb. I
spotted Chris on line to the little shop
adjoining the saloon. It's their outlet
shop! After about twenty minutes,
Chris disappeared into the shop. Dan
reemerged from the bar. "Hey, I got to
the bar, ordered us both beers, turned around and
couldn't find you. So I finished the beers,
bought a shirt, and here I am!"
We continued up Main Street past the Trailer
where you could have your bike photographed onto
an Easyriders Magazine cover. We saw
the purple Arlen Ness convertible bike parked
there. I couldn't get over how really low
and long it is. As we paused outside
another of the many bars supplying beer to the
troops, one fellow staggered up to me with
a broad grin on his face and a beer in his hand.
I was adorned with my black AGV racing
leathers and black and white Bieffe competition
boots. He continued to sway and chuckle.
Finally noticing the bemused expression on my
face, he pointed to me "Darth
Vader." He laughed and turned back to
the bar.
We crossed the street and headed towards the
RevTech Dynamometer where someone's bike was
singing sweet music to the late afternoon. I
wish a company would make even half as much
performance parts and appearance goodies for my
bike as they do for Harleys. I guess that's
one of the beauties of owning a
Harley --there is a solid heritage of
evolutionary product line behind the
machine rather than a continuously changing range
of models.
On the way back down Main Street we walked
into a store that was selling the usual pins,
patches, leather goods and general motorcycling
odds and ends. As we browsed, we didn't
noticed the small crowd of men accumulating
behind us.
In the Albany/Schenectady/Troy area there are
swap meets held during the winter months at
various armories. At these gatherings, the
Hell's Angels will usually have a booth selling
shirts for their defense fund. We usually
buy one of the "Support the Third Street
Crew" shirts while at the swap meets. Dan
had one on under his jacket as we strolled the
streets of Daytona Beach. As the day was
warm, he had removed his jacket. Little did
we know when we entered this particular store
that it operated under the auspices of The
Outlaws.
As we were preparing to leave, a very
tall and powerfully built man stepped between Dan
and the exit. He must have stood six foot
four or five. He looked down on Dan who is
six-two. "Come over here", he
said 'I want to have a word with you."
Not seeing any viable alternatives, Dan complied.
I followed. "Hey, I wasn't talking to
you, leave us alone." I took about ten
steps back until his attention was directed
towards Dan. I looked around for Chris and
kept a weather eye on Dan. The man was
talking quietly but intently. Finally
I heard Dan say "we aren't looking for any
trouble." Chris had arrived and was
watching from about the same distance I was.
I was closer to the door, he was further back
inside the place. Before any
At the time I did not know of The Outlaws and
the ongoing feud between them and the Hell's
Angels. I later learned we were quite lucky
to escape unscathed. Now I understood why
some of the local bars had a "No
Colors" policy. It's a shame that all
of us within the motorcycling world can't present
a more united front to the world-at-large and
together fight the legislation and attitudes that
would take away our freedoms. I
am a dreamer, but I'd like to see a perfectly
unified American motorcycling lobby. Not
one per centers, not wannabes, not citizens, just
Americans with motorcycles.
A quick stop at the impressive Easyriders
Retail Outlet ended our day's activities. The
sun had set so we had one last beer, walked it
off, and put the spectacle of Main Street behind
us.
We stopped at a McDonald's outside of Daytona
and grabbed a quick couple of Quarter Pounders.
Once again the temperature was dropping fast.
I had packed two sweatshirts in my tailbag which
I now managed to get underneath my leathers.
We zipped up and headed back down Route 1.
About an hour or so into the ride, I began to
really feel the cold. My knees were
knocking against the gas tank. Just as my
endurance was nearing its end, Dan signaled and
pulled into a Seven-Eleven. The thermometer
on the bank across the street read forty two
degrees.
Whenever we pull up to a store where there's
only one clerk, it's late and we're dressed in
black leather, I try to be as unintimidating as
possible. I imagine how the counter person
must feel when a crowd of what he or she might
perceive as ruffians waltz through the door. Chris
and I waited outside while Dan got us three
coffees.
As we stood there warming our hands on the
cups, a Titusville Police motorcycle pulled into
the lot. The bike was a KZ1000 Kawasaki with all
the sirens, lights and police gear you
could possibly fit on it. It was the
ultimate cop dresser. The officer aboard was a
young guy and just as cold and uncomfortable as
we were. Having no real desire to get back
to his patrol, and being that we all had common
interests, we hung out for a good forty-five
minutes talking.
Among the things we discussed: the
vulnerability of a motorcycle-mounted police
officer, how great it must be to get paid to
ride, and, my favorite, police duty during Bike
Week. Throughout our entire trip I
saw lots of people doing things that, if I had
been a cop, would have warranted at least a
warning. Only once did I see any police
intervention with the bikers. I mentioned
this apparent lenience to this motor cop. His
reply as that the bikers only wanted to hang out,
check out the bikes, the girls, drink too much
beer and have a good time. The college kids
on Spring Break, now that's when the trouble
happens! They throw sofas from tenth floor
balconies, break store windows, get into a world
of trouble. Bikers spend money with very
little of the spent money going into repairs to
businesses. The college kids create
unwanted overhead for these businesses. I
had to admit I saw his point, I had yet to see a
motorcyclist busting up the place.
The clock on the bank blinked eleven
forty-five and we still had a way to travel.
We reluctantly said goodbye to our new bro and
continued our cold ride. We still had most
of a twelve pack waiting at home as well!
IV
Tuesday morning. When I awoke, I
momentarily had that sick feeling that the
vacation was slipping by a bit faster than I
would care it to. I broke out of the
routine of sleeping past Dan's call for coffee
and amazed him by rolling into the kitchen
without the second call or the need for any vague
threats. Chris' bike was running a bit rich
and had kept fouling her plugs during the junket
yesterday. Dan, our official Harley
technician for this trip, started adjusting the
carb. As he squatted beside Chris' ride, a
quick glance under his own bike revealed a
leaking primary cover gasket. You must
remember, Harleys don't leak oil, they simply
mark their spot. Dan's had pretty much
relieved itself completely.
There is a Harley dealer just north of
Melbourne on Route 1. They were sure to
have the gasket. Our plan just about
formulated itself. We would take today as
an R & R day, get the bikes in order, and
scoot down to Sebastian Inlet for a relaxing
afternoon of fishing, shell hunting, whatever.
After twenty three hours of travel and two days
running around Daytona, we needed a break.
June 1992, Chris tangled with a car turning
right from the left lane. Injuries
resulting: his leg was broken and he developed
quite respectable blisters walking through the
Lake George Americade on crutches. His bike
had required the usual new handlebars, mirror,
brake lever brake pedal -- you know the drill.
What he hadn't noticed was a damaged muffler
bracket that chose just this moment to go west.
We found a welder in Melbourne who lightened
Chris by fifteen dollars for two minutes of
welding. Who said you couldn't get taken
outside the big city? Onwards to the Harley
dealer!
Dan's gasket was duly procured along with the
obligatory tee shirts, he changed it at the side
of the road. I have many pictures of Dan
working on the two Harleys on this trip. Before
you get the impression that these machines are
unreliable, wear and tear and crash damage isn't
exactly the bike's fault. The lower mileage
model of the two is also a veteran of over thirty
thousand miles. I wonder how well my little
screamer will be doing when it's aged that far?
Taking A-1-A south from Melbourne led us over
a very high and windy causeway spanning the
Indian River at Indiatlantic. The road
turns right and continues arrow-straight down to
Sebastian. One travels past posh beachfront
condos and villas and through some beautiful dune
country. I can only imagine what this area,
only inches above sea-level must look like during
a hurricane! We crossed the causeway over
Sebastian Inlet and found ourselves at the main
gate of the recreational area.
A sign at the gate-house read "Welcome
Bikers, Entrance Free to Motorcycles during Bike
Week". Almost everywhere we went, the
Red Carpet had been rolled out for the
motorcyclists. Even four-wheeled
motorists seemed to be bike-aware. I
could get used to this really quickly!
Dan went off to fish. Chris wanted to
hunt for shells. I wanted to swim. I
had brought my bathing suit and went to change.
When I rejoined Chris by the water, I was amazed
by the quantity of large Pelicans perched inches
from the fishermen. It seems the fishermen
give scraps from their bait fish to the pelicans.
The birds even sleep on the sand next to the
footpaths. I got into the water briefly.
It was way too cold to spend any real time
swimming. I was just as glad too, as
it seems the fishermen were chumming for shark in
the inlet. We spent quite a while dodging
the spray among the rocks of the jetty peering in
cracks for interesting shells. Sure they're
all beat to hell but some have been eroded by the
sand and water into interesting sculpture.
Under the causeway, there is a walkway. Due
to the fact that the inlet is navigable, the
walkway doesn't extend all the way from shore to
shore. There is a break of about twenty
five yards or so in the middle. The waters
whistle through the pilings of the causeway and I
understand that only the biggest-engined boats
can proceed against the tide. I stood there
for quite a while marveling at the variety and
quantity of fish being hauled in with long broom
handle-like poles and line with simple bobbers
and hooks.
The afternoon was coming to a close, so we
decided to beat the dropping thermometer back to
Melbourne. It was decided that we would
stay local for the evening as well.
The three of us are quite the connoisseurs of
fine foods. On this particular trip we
decided to satisfy this vice (gluttony) as often
as we could. I wonÕt bore anyone by
listing the menus of our huge breakfasts and
lunches. Most of the dinners were superb,
but today would prove to be a culinary stand-out.
After cleaning up, we headed back out to Route
1 and soon found a very promising clam and oyster
eatery. We ordered raw oysters, steamer
clams and alligator. Yes, alligator.
We'd never had it and didn't know if we'd ever
have the opportunity again! The oysters and
clams arrived at the table first, along with the
omnipresent pitcher of beer, all three delicious.
This only served to heighten our anticipation for
the gator. Finally it appeared looking for
all the world like a chunk of fine-grained stew
beef only lighter in color. It was
prepared in a marinated and spiced style. The
actual meat itself was quite tasty, nothing like
chicken. You know how everything tastes
like chicken -- rabbit, frog's legs, squirrel,
Drano, what-have-you. We were feeling full,
contented and very satisfied by this repast as we
headed back south on Route 1
Suddenly Chris signaled a left turn and pulled
into the parking lot of a small bar. Through
the large front windows he had seen a virtually
empty bar and a vacant pool table. If there
is one thing in the world Chris loves almost as
much as his bike, it's a game of pool. If
thereÕs one thing in the world that Dan and I
love almost as much as our bikes is a
virtually empty bar!
The bartender, who happened to be the owner as
well, was a transplanted New Yorker -- from
Yonkers, actually. I had lived for seven
years in Yonkers, so felt at home with his tales
of the old neighborhood. The few patrons in
the place didn't seem to mind us and we were as
quiet and well behaved as could be wanted. The
bartender even stood us a round of beers. As
we were leaving, he called us over. "Hey
guys, I personally don't mind your type around
here, but don't come in on mondays. The
girl who tends bar that night won't serve
bikers." First, I couldn't
exactly figure out what 'our type' was. Dan was
dressed in his jeans, boots and leather vest so I
guess he might have looked intimidating by the
old Hollywood stereotype. Chris was wearing
jeans, a sweatshirt and sneakers. Don't see
the problem there, do you? I was wearing my
track refugee leathers. Surely crotch
rocket pilots aren't frightening to the general
public. WhatÕs our type? Motorcyclists,
period. Not bikers, not rebels, not
outlaws. If we'd all clambered out of a
station wagon in the parking lot, I guess 'our
type' would have been alright. I might have
looked a little weird in racing leathers getting
out of a station wagon -- I know THAT sight would
have scared me! We left politely, but
insulted none the less.
We got back to Tom and Betty's feeling like a
beer. Dan didn't want to go, didn't want
Chris to go by himself, and knew I wanted to put
the bike down for the night. Therefore he
dangled a big carrot. "Hey Harry, why
don't you take my bike and go with Chris to get
beer?" I hadn't ridden a Harley since
1975 when I almost bought a 350 Sprint. I
couldn't get used to the gears and brake being
reversed during my short test ride, so the bike
was passed over. (I don't think even owning
a 350 Sprint would qualify as ever having ridden
a Harley!) After I broke my back in an
accident in 1989, I gave up all hope of owning a
heavy motorcycle -- didn't think I'd have the
strength.
Hell, this was Bike Week, the gods would have
to smile upon me. As I swung the bike up
off the kickstand, I had a revelation.
I hadn't put two and two together. Harleys
carry their weight low. The low center of
gravity makes the whole machine feel much lighter
than it really is. This Softail felt
lighter than my Kaw! The bike
started and almost immediately stalled. This
puppy demands a blip on the throttle once in a
while to keep the plugs from loading up. I
pulled the clutch and tried to stab her into
gear. My boot firmly stamped the ground.
Hey, the pegs and pedals are way out front, not
back somewhere under my bum. I didn't have
a chest full of gas tank with both hands on the
bars either.
We pulled away from the house and on towards
the railroad tracks and Route 1. I got a
big kick out of watching the fun house mirror
effect of the world going by in all the chrome on
the dashboard, clocks and headlamp. Basically,
I felt like the bad-ass king of the world. I
now know why people are so nuts about their
Hawgs. The bottomless quantities of low end
power, WOW! I didn't have to do a tap dance
on the gear shift to handily leave all four wheel
traffic back a few hundred yards at will. My
bike will take his ultimately in a speed and
acceleration contest, but his bike's power is all
down low, where you need it for street riding.
The seat, now thatÕs a story in itself. Soft,
wide and grippy on the bum. No thin, hard
foam perch here.
At first I thought I'd like the turn signal
buttons, left on the left bar, right on the right
bar, hold them to signal, let them go to cease.
Most of the time I forgot to hold them. I
wound up not being fond of them.
We got back to the house without incident and
spent the evening cleaning our bikes and quietly
bench racing in the yard.
I awoke once again to the sound of muted
conversation in the kitchen and the wonderful
smell of coffee wafting out through the sliding
doors. I crawled in and had a cup. Squinting
out the window as I looked up through the steam
of my coffee, I heard Tom telling Dan that the
weather channel was warning of massive
thunderstorms and high winds for the evening.
It was being recommended that we stick close to
the old ranch for the afternoon and evening
hours.
I won't bother describing the adventures of
the day, Chris and I headed down to Sebastian
Inlet again, stopping on the way back for some
bottles of Jack Daniels Green Label to bring home
as souvenirs. All us crazy northerners do
this. The Green is the harsher, less aged
and cheaper stuff. You can't get it up
north though, so it has become a Yankee
legend, to be discussed late in the evening with
JD aficionados in hushed and reverent voices.
We decided to treat
Tom to dinner as Betty was out for the evening.
He wanted pizza so out we went. Chris
discovered he could carry the pizza boxes wedged
between his belly and the twin gas cap[1]ûs on
his tank. The things we'll do for pizza!
Chris took my bike around the block a few
times in the early evening commenting that it
felt like the world's biggest and most powerful
moped. He delighted in a redline almost
seven thousand RPM past his. Standing six
five, I could understand his being perplexed by
the riding position. I don't think he could
get an under-the-paint tuck if his life depended
upon it.
After we had retired for the evening, the
predicted storm arrived. Our bikes had been
sheltered in the carport since the first night
fiasco with the sprinkler system so we didn't
mind the hailstones too much. The wind and
rain were amazing. I never fully
comprehended the meaning of the word 'torrential'
until now. This just about embodied the
meaning. We heard the next day how poorly
people had fared at the campgrounds in and around
the fairgrounds and Daytona. I was very
glad we and our bikes had had a roof over our
heads.
Tomorrow would entail another run to Daytona
and out to the fairgrounds for the swap meet.
I pulled the covers around me, sucked in a
lungful of the cool night air, listened briefly
to the ferocity of the storm and drifted off to
sleep.
VI
The day dawned hot and humid. We saddled
up after coffee and headed up Route 1 where we
breakfasted at a Perkins. Suffice it to
say, we had a huge breakfast as we fully intended
not to eat until dinner time. As we left
the restaurant, Chris spied a nail sticking from
between the tread blocks of his rear tire. We
were in better shape than with DanÕs flat as
Chris has mag wheels, and therefore tubeless
tires. A gas station up the road had a plug
in the tire before I could make the left turn in
against traffic. We took off and did a
little sight seeing and mucking about on the
beach near Patrick AFB. By the time we got
back on the road, a sign for all the oysters you
could eat and twenty five cent drafts in
Titusville signaled a stop for an early lunch.
The restaurant stands a bit back from the
road. It looks like a Cuban gangster's
villa from the 1930's. You know the type of
construction, pink stucco, red tile roof, wrought
iron, lots of potted palms, etc. Inside,
the place looked as if it had been renovated and
serviced last when Eisenhower was president.
So did the waitress. The place was
apparently where all the businessmen in
Titusville go for lunch though, so we didn't fear
for the cuisine. The food turned out to be
excellent as well as inexpensive. When you
consider how many tee shirts, patches, pins and
beers we had purchased, this was welcome.
We made a loop down Main Street, just to say
we did it, and headed out towards the swap meet
at the Volusia County Fairgrounds. The line
of bikes to get into the fairgrounds was truly
impressive. Actually the line was merely to
park, the lines for the admission tickets were
even longer. We pulled into some parking
spots amidst huge clouds of red dust and roaring
machines. I always feel particularly like a
roving vagabond when I arrive at a gathering like
this. The taste of the dust, the smell of
hot machinery, the way my boots crunch on the
gravel -- these factors all add up to feeling
like I was born, have lived and will die on the
road. No address, no phones, no
responsibilities. I love it. I also
get a rush from being among so many people who
obviously are feeling the same things. Ticket
sellers walked down the dirt roads leading to the
entrance gates selling tickets in order to
alleviate some of the crush at the booths by the
gates.
We purchased our tickets in this manner and
entered the fairgrounds. No sooner had I
entered the grounds when I saw a Henderson four
cylinder sitting parked in a booth. I must
explain that my uncle who died in the First World
War and father, also deceased, had owned just
such a bike. I have never even seen one in
the flesh. I recognized it instantly from
photographs and have to admit that the sight
brought tears to my eyes. I had listened
fascinated by stories of this a machine and the
adventures revolving around it as I grew
up. These tales had kindled the road-lust
and bike-lust in me. I wondered if this
example contained salvage parts or if it might
even have been Their Bike. I would
have given anything to have had my picture taken
on this machine, but didn't dare presume to even
ask the owner. The machine had a current
New York State plate on it. It's lucky
owner said he'd had it out on the Thruway up to
seventy-five. Those four cylinder
Hendersons were the Superbikes of their day.
We picked up the obligatory tee shirts and
pins, browsed through the switchblades and brass
knuckles department. Chris even got a
deal on a ceramic casting of a human skull.
I sometimes think we like and contribute to
the 'Bad Boy' mystique. I know it,
actually.
A band performed
Southern Rock classics over by the beer
trucks and restrooms lending a down-home
atmosphere to the afternoon. I spotted the
rusted frame and cases (block?) of an Ariel
Square Four. I learned that the owner
wanted nine hundred bucks for it! No sale.
What surprised me was the quantity of very, very
clean XLCR's there were for sale -- and
inexpensively offered. Not one was over
forty five hundred. I lust for one of these
cafe racers. I would just about sell my
soul for one. Don't have the bucks though
and some would say the soul either.
We wandered and sweated and figured weÕd
leave the indoor vendors until the sun went down.
Much to our chagrin, sunset was when the
powers-that-be closed the meet! We scooted
back down Route 44 until we arrived at Gilly's
Pub 44. The Pub is located directly across
the road from a very large shopping mall. The
police were directing motorcycle traffic into the
mall lot to park. Pub 44 is much like
Squeeze In, only much, much larger. They
have fields surrounding the main bar building
devoted to beer tents, vendor tents, stages for
bands and many acres for parking. It was
testament to the numbers in attendance that the
police were directing bikes into the mall to
park.
After crossing the street, a risky move
considering the sheer quantity of vehicular
traffic, we entered the main bar building and
bought, you guessed it, tee shirts. We then
wedged ourselves out the double doors into the
crowd. The lead singer of the band on stage
addressed the crowd. "How many of you
out there are under thirty five?" he yelled.
When no one answered, he added "That proves
it bros, us bikers are a dying breed."
I bought a Pub 44 - New Smyrna Beach helmet decal
which I wear with pride. We had a beer and
left
We headed back into Daytona again. This
time we planned on heading up to The Iron Horse
Saloon. From what I understand, this is
probably the most famous biker bar in all of
Florida. When we got there, there were
thousands of Harleys parked along the side of the
road. Once again, this was one of those
open air bars. I figured IÕd just park
outside and walk back. A bro with a
flashlight directed traffic out front and, as I
approached, he flagged me on in through the large
wooden front gates. Here I was in Harley
heaven on my rice burning Jap crotch rocket.
Talk about feeling like I would become the guest
of honor at a Bike Bash! I parked close to
the wooden drum where old Indians defied
death in a stunt show. There was a large
wood fire burning. When I shut off my
engine I could hear the pop of the fire and
whoops of revelry in the distance. I took a
deep breath full of the smell of wood smoke and
beer. Above me, the stars stood out from
the inky void. Across the compound a band
began to play the blues.
No one looked twice at me or my bike. I
started to loosen up a bit. I realized I
was carrying MY prejudices around with me as
badly as the bartender back in Melbourne. I
had a beer, relaxed and bought a you-know-what.
The band that was on stage finished their set.
I wish we had gotten there earlier, they sounded
really good, real tight.
We finished out our evening there and headed
out before we had had more to drink than we
should to ride. To be perfectly honest,
this entire vacation had been spent riding and
having beers, something I do not recommend and
usually would never do. We were extremely
fortunate not to get into trouble. I
attribute this to the fact that we paced
ourselves, one beer with at least an hour of
walking around before the next or a ride, and
accepted it graciously when one or both of the
others cut us off from the bar for the duration.
We were never close to intoxication but I know
any drinking is a hindrance to good judgment.
We shouldn't have done it. You shouldn't do
it, enough said.
We were getting used to the cold nights at
this point and headed back down to Melbourne
after getting lost in a seedy neighborhood
outside Daytona Beach with hardly a shiver among
the three of us for either reason.
VII
Friday morning. I couldn't believe the
week was almost behind us already. Chris
and I had plans to go out to Orlando. My
fiance's maid of honor lives in Tampa. We
had planned to meet half way between Daytona and
Tampa. This roughly worked out to be
Orlando. The direct line for us is Route
192. This road connects Melbourne
from Route 1 to Kissimmee and St. Cloud, lines
with nothing but Mangrove swamps and alligator
wrestling tourist traps. There is one
solitary town in the middle of 192. This is
Holopaw, all one gas station and liquor store of
it. Route 441 connects with 192 at Holopaw.
192 is arrow- straight two-lane blacktop.
People drive during the daylight hours with their
lights on because the heat mirages coming up off
the road surface are big enough to obscure an
eighteen wheeler. At one point, as I was
tearing along at well over the ton, I passed a
large rig coming from the other direction. The
wind blast pushed me almost off the shoulder into
the mangroves.
We were to meet at the Holiday Inn on Route 4
in Orlando. There are quite a few Holiday
Inns along this stretch of road, it took us a
while to locate the correct one. We raced
from one to the next looking vainly for the lady
but finally found the right spot four Holiday
Inns down the list.
After a brief lunch with Marty, the maid of
honor (her name is actually Martha) she
took us to Church Street Station. This is a
large complex built at the old railroad station
in Orlando. It is now a maze of theme bars
and stores. There is Rosy O'Grady's, a
"Gay Nineties" type bar. A huge
western saloon, Buffalo Bill's I believe it's
called, occupies the opposite side of the street.
Sweeney Todd's is an English pub with the taps
flowing with Bass Ale, Killians Red, Guiness
Stout and the like. Phineas Phogg's was our
favorite, the waitresses wear fish net stockings,
g-strings and tux jackets.
After what seemed to be much too short a time,
we had to leave Orlando and Marty to rendezvous
with Dan for dinner. We rode like the wind
back across 192, only stopping once to rid
ourselves of excess accumulated moisture.
As I stood in a swamp off the side of the road, I
hoped my racing boots were also snake bite proof!
We arrived too late to dine with Daniel,
however he had found a very passable Mexican
place where the fajitas were fantastic and didn't
mind taking us there and having seconds (what a
guy!) We got there and were promptly
escorted to a table way back by the kitchen door
where precious few of the other patrons might see
us. This place catered to the 'Yuppy'
contingency. They couldn't hide our bikes
parked right out front though! The food was
good and there was lots of it, so I guess I
shouldnÕt really complain.
This was our last night in Florida. I
was starting my new job on monday and so could
not stick around for the Superbike races as much
as I would have loved to. We headed back to
Tom and Betty's where we partied into the night
and got our gear sorted and partially packed.
All told, we had all cruised a bit over twelve
hundred miles on our bikes during our stay in
Florida. We had witnessed police lenience
that would have been unheard of at home. We
had seen every conceivable motorcycle from a
Henderson to vintage Ducatis to swarms of
perfectly preserved six cylinder CBX's to every
year, style and trim-level of Harley and Indian.
We even bit an alligator! All of us now
sported tans. Duffel bags of tee shirts
filled the sun porch. We even had enough
money to eat and get gas (for the truck) on the
trip home.
Saturday morning finally came and we loaded up
the truck. I had devised a new method of
arranging the tie downs on the trailer. Suffice
it to say, I almost tossed the bike in Maryland.
Chris and Dan laugh about the new 'Harry Method'
to this day. We left Melbourne at ten in
the morning and began passing the scenes of our
adventures during the week. At New Smyrna
beach we stopped at the gas station where Dan had
had the flat to buy some sixes of Harley beer to
distribute among our buddies back home. We
all fell silent as we passed the Daytona exit.
Ormond Beach, home of the Iron Horse Saloon came
and went with a honk of the horn in its honor.
We passed Jacksonville and prepared to leave
Florida and sunshine and riding season behind.
At our dinner stop in South Carolina I had pecan
waffles, a favorite with me since a vacation in
New Orleans. We must have listened to every
country station on the East Coast on the way
down. Now we reversed the playing order.
Much of the traffic on the road consisted of
trucks loaded with bikes, even a number of old
school buses converted for Daytona use. Lots
of folks honked and waved. We all
entertained ourselves by checking out the bikes
on the other trailers.
It was once again snowing lightly in Virginia
and up into southern Jersey, we saw a truck
and trailer flipped in the median. Help was
already on the scene so we proceeded. As we
passed New York City, the sun was just rising.
The dawn rays were sifted by tall buildings
dwarfed by the distance out there across
the Hudson river and the Jersey marshland.
On a bright winter morning, a salt
encrusted truck and trailer rolled to a stop on
the snow next to a barn. The three
exhausted occupants dragged themselves back
across the snow and into the house for some
coffee.
Harry
G. Pellegrin
READ THE PRESS
RELEASE! Harry Pellegrin performs weddings and gallery openings in the Capital Area!
is Published by Bedside Books, an imprint of
American Book Publishing.
ISBN
1-58982-074-6
LOW ENDCopyright
2003-2007 Harry G. Pellegrin
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God We Trust
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