Still Ridin' Still Writin' - Update for the readers

I've continuously expressed my gratitude to all of the readers out there that followed this journey and have supported the adventure through words of encouragement and advice. I'm not going to stop now. Thank you again.

It seems that Betty is stuck in Florida, her story never rolling out of the sunshine state. The blog has come to a crawl, but rest assured, the writing has continued. In an effort to turn this crazy idea into a book, I've backed off of the blog for a while(a sedentary, cubed existence in corporate America hasn't exactly lent itself to cooking up inspiration either).

Since the last post, a lifetime dream has been realized and I was allowed the great opportunity to have a feature article published in Ride Maine - a biker pub out of, you guessed it - Maine. The people there were great to work with and while on the trek, I actually read last year's book cover-to-cover many times over.

Soul smiling, I'm both saddened and excited to say that while I attempt to chase a dream and turn this crazy idea into a lifestyle and actually earn a living from these wonky words, the blog will continue to be fairly inactive.

I will try to keep you updated on the successes and failures as I attempt to become a paid writer and see if this thing turns a corner.

If you're just burning for more tales from the road, and there are many, (a battle with a black bear, a tough-as-nails NYC cop breaking some rules, hang-gliding in a thunderstorm, soaking up beauty in Savannah just to name a few) please write me at

dan@ridetheedge2010.com

(full site coming soon)

I'd love to hear from you.

With the utmost sincerity,
Dan

Florida: Key West 4.2 - 4.9

Route: Key West, around Key West, Duval Street, Key West

“When life gives you limes, make margaritas.” – Jimmy Buffet

Key West is the isle of sunsets, lovers, gypsies, margaritas and debauchery. While many of you may be expecting more from this post, let me just say that while writing this blog, readership and response are as immediate as a trip to the bathroom after eating at McDonalds. And while this chapter of the voyage would leave mouths agape and yearning for the more water-cooler-worthy side of this tale, I shall save most of it for another medium in order to avoid the instant shit that would follow, spare some feelings and tease your curiosity, of course. Riding down another avenue will allow that buffer of time-past that will inevitably ease the repercussions that could potentially follow. Intrigued? Well good. Besides, what fun would it be if I unveiled all the really good stories now? Those involved…consider your reputation intact. For the time being.

After slapping the “ride the edge” dollar bill up with all the other Washingtons that get lost in the crowd of staple-gun victims on the walls of the No-Name Pub, an iguana tickles the air with its tongue on the side of the road and the slow trickle continues down to Key West. All the daylight hours are mine for the taking, until the time a guest will arrive to share company for a couple of days. Betty drips down Highway 1 to Fleming Street on Key West, where it promptly ends at mile marker zero and street signs band together, forming a worthy adversary, to test my navigational skills. Just a bit away is the southernmost point in the lower 48, the famous Key West buoy. The island is small, but Key West still takes the form of a familiar enemy, the city, and of course, directional confusion consumes me as forcefully as the elation of having finally hit one of the “most” points of this journey. After a few twists, turns and happy coincidence, I’m unwittingly spit out right next to the buoy…and a line has already formed down the block where tourists eagerly shuffle their feet 24 inches at a time to immortalize their vacation in the lens of a camera, with an iconic tribute. Bikers don’t wait in lines… do they? Well, this one doesn’t. Not today. Betty stealth fully purrs into the fire-lane and poses with the vixen-like styles of a pin-up queen. The tourists, once so eager to fill their frames with their own faces, turn and start snapping shots of the Harley, sunlight bouncing and blinding off her like solar flares. The moment with Betty and the buoy is captured and I try to mount up and ride out before the local law enforcement start enforcing. Luckily, a gentleman and his son offer to take a rare shot of the bike and I in the same frame next to a national landmark. What can I say? I’m a tourist too, eager to fill my frame with my own face (but the helmet stays on in case I have to make a speedy getaway).

Sun rains down in sheets of heat and sweat that cook the contents of my leather and helmet with the authority of a blast-furnace, leaving temptation wide open to strip the skins from mine and reveal the white that lays within, offering a cool relief from stifling safety. Safety wins, as it always does and will and the familiar curiosity surrounding all the caution of a solo journey is explored, as it will be continuously on the road. How much would I err on the side of caution? How much more adventure would there be, had there been a partner in chrome on this trip? The opportunity is taken to check into a hotel and rid all the road uniforms of their soil and stink, while taking the same opportunity to do the same to myself as I watch discomfort and fatigue slip down the drain, floating on layers of grime. The scene is not glamorous and neither am I, the dryer buzzes with the annoyance of a high-school basketball scoreboard and a restricted wardrobe is rejuvenated with a scorched freshness that has been unknown for quite some time.

Names have been changed to protect the guilty. When Charlie arrives, the Holiday Inn pool-side bar has me sipping on an island drink (even though a trip to the store has already been made and the room fridge is stocked) and having a lovely chat with the bartender. After a buzz worthy of a few hours strapped into Key West, I go to the room for the anticipated rendezvous. Once Charlie settles in and unpacks, we head on over to the Conch Club for some conchtails, excuse me, cocktails. The Holiday Inn is at the north end of the island and without a rental car and the inevitable consumption of island spirits, Betty rests peacefully under the canopy of the front lobby, while we walk to all of our tropic libation destinations. The night beautiful, stars twinkle like ice in a tumbler, but it is a typical night at a bar, as most are and there is generally nothing specific, unique or surprising about an evening such as this and tonight offers no exception. Venues may change as vastly and quickly as the price of the same cocktails do in each, but the course of an evening and the outcome of which seldom equate a memorable experience that could ever be discerned from the myriad of other bars one will visit in a lifetime. It’s fun nonetheless.

The next day, Mallory Square beckons, boasting of its famed sunset festival and the chest puffery of the cheaply printed flyers is warranted as street performers produce feats amazing enough to rival the beauty of the sunset. Ringmasters worldwide would drool at the thought of being able to introduce this small band of painted, neo-punk Houdini disciples, eating fire, escaping from chains and straight-jackets while performing contortionist moves that would make a nun blush. Conch fritters are a must and so are margaritas as we tour the square and settle into a Cuban restaurant for dinner. Spinning, whirling and tripping the light fantastic, an older couple makes light work of a samba and thrills the crowd with their beauty and grace. He’s dressed in gray slacks and a black shirt, complimenting the silver top, formed by the passing of years. She’s dressed in a paisley skirt and a red blouse that radiates throughout her perfectly styled white locks. Their faces read of a relaxed concentration while their shoes click and slide effortlessly across the brick and their bodies sway in unified rhythm that make couples sixty years their junior envious. They know each other. They know each other’s moves and smooth is too coarse a word to describe them. They move as one, as if doing so for a lifetime, which I’m assured they have. Wrapped in a cloak of pristine and fundamental beauty, longing and wonderment glaze my eyeballs, which are wide-open.

The red neon of Sloppy Joe’s is undeniable and a visit to Hemingway’s old haunt before visiting his home is as obligatory as slapping a read onto at least one of his works after you visit. The joint is packed with tourists and cigarettes, all lit up and smoking while the band on stage fires up some cover songs that set the crowd ablaze. Charlie chats up the bartender a bit and a warmer version of me takes to the floor and strikes up a chat with anyone that looks like a biker or looks like they may be interesting to talk with. A few random scatterings of conversation are found, but nothing noteworthy comes of this adventure, save for the fact that some very nice people are met with smiles and handshakes, once again proving that the masses are open and friendly, not the scary monsters we’re often lead to believe they are. There is no stranger danger at Sloppy Joes. Explanations unknown, it feels good to wrap up in a buzz blanket and have that numbness make an appearance. The same numbness that used to pay Papa frequent visits on those old stools and floorboards.
A friend of Will’s, I’m told, works at a bar called either Fogarty’s or the Flying Monkey. Apparently both of these are correct and are actually one venue. For the sake of Peace, Love and Flying Monkeys, that is the name that it shall be known. Jamie is working the bar when we get there and the fountain of generosity that strangers have been spewing on this journey is continued with an invitation to her barbeque the next day. Unfortunately, while I accept the invitation, it will later be passed upon when the time comes. Sound like there’s a story there? Yup. But not right now. After a quick rum drink and a conversation with two gay brothers (these two were awesome) who profess to have the “luckiest mom in the world,” a blues band lures our paths to wander into the Green Parrot to help close down the night. The lead singer is a strong woman, whose facial contortions and quivers grind her axe into the throaty, gravely riffs that define what blues is. The set is finished, the band starts to pack up and the tip bucket is passed. Not wanting the music or the night to end, I present a generous offer to continue or at least close out with Sweet Home Chicago. Cliché? Yes. Homesick? Yes. The answer is an expletive laden “no,” which is taken with a smile and the sould of the evening and the night is done.

Another night of wandering…Hog's Breath Saloon, cheeseburgers at Cheeseburgers in Paradise (Jimmy Buffet’s restaurant), complimented by margaritas and some other flavors of Duval Street, this next day and night is a rather dull one with nothing other than a very angry cab ride to splash colors on an otherwise monochrome night. This cabbie is a kind, thoughtful and intelligent man, who hates Russians with a violent ferocity that makes the grudge of Montresor look like a trite bout of sibling rivalry.

Charlie’s company was well received but it’s time for that great sky bus to return my companion to another place and leave me alone on this not-so-deserted island and for that, an impish smile works its way back across my mug. I’m back on my own time, in my own world, with my own thoughts and responsibilities. It is how this trip is meant to be, selfish, and that is perfectly acceptable. Some essentials are picked up at the local grocer and Betty, with a sweaty, leather cowboy on her back, rumbles on The 1 to Boyd’s Campground. Military jets, full in the throes of jaw dropping daily maneuvers, provide a jet exhaust path that the metal horse hikes to a nice campsite on the water’s edge, under the shade of a palm. Enjoying the air show, the breeze, sun and general bliss that comes with staying on an island and the pure glee of not knowing what’s next, a call is made to a cohort and fellow Harley enthusiast that I had the extreme pleasure and fortune of making the acquaintance of during the prerequisite motorcycle safety class back in Chicago. Tim has been a good friend and great proponent of this adventure and words pass from mobile-to-mobile with easy comfort and I hang up with a smile on my face and an eagerness to catch-up with him in San Francisco. A most incredible individual, he has lifetime experiences that rival great men of our time and times past, yet he remains humble, unassuming and never pretentious. The dark-half of these traits could easily be rationalized, given the life he has devoured, and accepted without hesitation by those with lesser experience. I have nothing but admiration for a man that has seen what most dream of, but still will listen with the attention of a young, naïve student, when another talks of a topic of interest.

Motivation finally steals its way in, coupled with the threat of inevitable darkness and camp is finally starting to look like a habitable place after wallowing in a few hours of unregrettable sloth. The tent is going up with a stubbornness unseen thus far and is only matched by the stubbornness that lay within me. When a battle of this magnitude occurs, there can be only one outcome. A victor and the other. The victory is made clear when the tent pole snaps, splinters, leaving a rumpled heap of nylon on a bed of gravel. The loser is left with no shelter and thoughts of, simply, “oh shit, you are one stubborn asshole, my friend” and a few minutes of contemplation surrounding his own dumb-assedry. The moment is quickly lighted by the realization that within the duffle that holds all, duct tape shall be found. The splintered pole is wrapped with the silver, miracle, fix-all band-aid and I jump in the tent, strip down naked and let the breeze take me to a gentle island slumber. To the victor go the spoils.

Eyes, popped open by the early morning training maneuvers of military jets circling the island, take a few minutes to adjust to the new day’s light. The jets are a nice change of pace from the alarm clock of my previous life, always buzzing maniacally, seemingly more worried about me waking up and getting to work on time, than I was. It is, however, slightly emasculating to have these jets flying overhead, with missiles and jet wash visible to the nekkid eye, yet unable to identify exactly what type of jet it is. Men are supposed to inherently know these things the same way we should know how to kill and eat an animal, hotwire a car or pick a lock. A quick ride down to and a couple of laps around the Duval Street area offers up some motorcycle parking on one of the side streets. Given that most of the island hasn’t fully recovered from the home invading, perverted voyeur known as the sandman, parking is ample and I change into shorts, flops and grab frozen key lime pie, dipped in chocolate for the day’s breakfast. It is tough, isn’t it

There is an effect of gazing upon Ernest Hemingway’s writing studio, specifically his typewriter, which I have not yet felt in my lifetime. Previously unknown, this feeling burrows itself deeply into my gut with what I can only imagine as the power of 100 fluttering grammar school crushes all felt at once. I don’t know what exactly the feeling is. I don’t know why I have it. And I certainly wouldn’t know what I would do with it if Hemingway liked me back. Tourists walk through the house, snapping photo after photo, as tourists are programmed to do, but the blank gazes upon their red washed, twice-baked faces convey a message that it’s just another place to see and check off some bucket list and that is their depth. The six-toed felines that sloth about the grounds pay no attention to the myriad of five-toed bipeds milling about. Like a marriage with long forgotten love and sex that is tolerated as an act of supposed-to-be, they put up with random hands petting their coats with enough disdain and repulsion to be noticeable in their eyes, if one was to look, but not enough to tell them no. Maybe it’s the fact that he was only there for 9 years. Maybe it’s the fact that it was during his most prolific writing period. Maybe it’s just one lover of the drink speaking to another through the haze of time. Whatever the reason, Hemingway’s house has spoken to me in a way that nothing else on this trip has or could. ?

Roosters crow with confidence around Key West, strutting, posturing and bellowing like much of the men in the bars around the island. As contemplations of these “free range” chickens occur, a dude approaches proffering a nice, green bag of sweet, stinky weed. Politely, a refusal is made, as much fun as it may be, however, please remember, I am still alone on this journey-that-has-a-purpose and am consistently crossing state lines, wearing a look that screams convict. We’ll let this one fall in the overly-cautious bucket and a woulda-coulda-shoulda.

As I leave Key West, a wash of melancholy coats over me like a matte, gray primer, washing drab onto my psyche. Knowing more cheerful layers will be painted upon me, one after another that will get so heavy my frame can’t bear the weight, bringing a happiness that is based on a layer of the sadness of exiting a place that is an eternal smile. The days pass, not slowly or quickly, but in that way that days are meant to, full of meaning, worth and time. They pass with a smile, no matter what the conditions, for I am free. Rain, heat, humidity, winds, dust devils can all toe the rubicon. I dare them to cross it. If they do, they shall undoubtedly fail. I will not back down. There is not one single day that I do not want to ride. No matter how long and excruciating the prior day’s ride. No matter how aching muscles scream in agony. No matter how downtrodden, how wet, how hot, how cold, how treacherous conditions may be…I was born to ride and each new day is attacked with an amnesia of any sorrow that may have befallen me the day before. The road is my elixir. There have been no sorrows here in the Keys, but I am as sure as Betty is Black, that there will be many to come. Bring it on.

“The bike may break me. The road may take me. I will forever be alive knowing that I followed the road paved by my heart.”

Soundtrack to Ride The Edge; Disc Two:

The much anticipated follow-up to the RTE DiscI Soundtrack:

1. Where is my Mind? – The Pixies
2. It Coulda Been Me – Social Distortion
3. Lunatic Fringe – Red Rider
4. Road to Nowhere – Talking Heads
5. Into the Great Wide Open – Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers
6. Wide Open Space – Mansun
7. No Excuses – Alice in Chains
8. Unforgiven – Metallica
9. Black Betty – Lynyrd Skynyrd
10. Reach for the Sky – Social Distortion
11. Crazy Bitch – Buckcherry
12. Wiggle Stick – Reverend Horton Heat
13. More Human than Human – White Zombie
14. Livin’ on the Edge – Aerosmith
15. Mountain Song – Janes Addiction
16. Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds – The Beatles
17. Hold On – John Lennon
18. Route 66 – Depeche Mode
19. Mama I'm Comin' Home - Ozzy Osbourne
20. Home Sweet Home – Motley Crue
21. Wild Boys – Duran Duran

7.21.10 - The Final Monthly Ride the Edge Update:

“Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts.” – Winston Churchill

The journey is completed and yet just begun as I come back to a formerly known and familiar world that is now as alien as the regions that have just been explored. A few quick FINAL updates are below, followed by some final thoughts and thank yous. The blog will continue being updated with experiences and tales from the road. Realizing that I’ve left you all in the Florida Keys, your wheels will continue to roll down the road as you’re brought on the full extent of the journey, so please stay tuned.

Final days on the road: 153

Total miles traveled: 23,263

Total miles around U.S. perimeter: 17,744 (estimated by my route)

Pairs of Sunglasses: 5 – it must have been the magic number

States: 36 plus D.C. and Canada

Time Zones Traversed: 5; triple up on the American 4 (Eastern only doubled)

Current Location: Home

Books Read: Genome by Matt Ridley; Black Mass by Dick Lehr and Gerard O'Neil; Travels with Charley by John Steinbeck (Thank you Crystal); A New Earth by Eckhart Tolle (Thank you John) and I finished up at home with A Moveable Feast by Ernest Hemingway

The “MOST” places visited: 4 corners of U.S. plus:
• Southernmost point in U.S. – Key West, FL
• Easternmost point in U.S. – Quoddy Head, ME
• Northernmost point in U.S. – Northwest Angle, MN
• Westernmost point in U.S. – Cape Alava, WA

For just over 5 months and 23,000 miles, I was retired at the age of 33. Riding into the first few months of my 34th birthday, America was my home, my office, my passion and my inspiration. It’s difficult to write through bubbles of choking emotion, now that the journey has delivered me safely home to a world left behind and a world of possibility in front of me. I have been free of all constraints and 90 degree prisons. There were no boxed-in apartments, no safety of the caged automobile, no cube to work from, no cornered television to drain my essence. The road was pure passion, wild and free. Life roared through time that remained stagnant. Distance was measured in miles, not minutes while a free soul bellowed triumphantly and tauntingly through oncoming gales.

America has proven to be more beautiful than ever expected, and this trip, as extensive as it was, merely an appetizer to the bountiful feast that is this country called home. These travels have not sated my wanderlust, but fueled it with a raging desire to explore all that has not been seen. I have battled a bear and ducked moose, dodged antelope, hiked with a coyote and fished with a bald eagle. Mother Nature has threatened to end my existence as swiftly as the Mother F@ckers that vomit their poisonous habits onto our roadways. I have feared for my life and basked in the splendor of which it is. Mountains, plains, oceans, volcanoes, islands and rivers have all been a playground and gauntlet at the same time. I have been frozen and baked, exposed to 80 degree temperature shifts on and off the bike that left me layered in ice and caked in salt. This journey has waged a war against fear and indecision while providing peace with inner demons that threatened to possess. The road has provided me with miracles and tragedy, life and death, elation and depression. When once trying to explain my emotions and the volatility of them, not merely day to day, but sometimes hour to hour, a friend told me with raw certainty: “Of course you are. You’re living a full life. Condensed.” It was perhaps the most brilliant reasoning that ever dripped into my ears. There were times when I wanted to give up, throw in the towel and call it a day in fits and screams of rage and fury. But the road, the beckoning miles of asphalt and concrete, kept singing its siren song, leading me further and further down the black and yellow rabbit hole. The trick was to know the tune. To be aware of that allure and see the rocks, steering out of the way at the last minute before crashing into them. Play the sirens’ game and grift the grifter. This trip is one in a lifetime. Not because the adventures are over. Oh no. I have a taste now and restless blood runs thick in these veins. The trip is once in a lifetime because it will never be matched in route, reason or emotion. I could follow the same highways and byways and the outcome will be completely different, even for me. If another soul should attempt the feat, their experience will be different than mine based on their motivations. This journey, my friends, is one in a million. It will never be replicated exactly and for that knowledge, my shit eating grin will never leave my lips.

Some little known facts about the trip:
• Superstition wins. Every time.
• I sang the song (or some variation of) Black Betty every single day I rode her
• Mornings hit on the most brilliant inspiration, but it was also while I was riding
• A good waitress can make your entire day, at breakfast. Consequently, a bitch can completely wreck it
• Most mornings on the bike I talked to myself in just about every accent known to the world. Favorite? Trying to say “grainery” very fast, in Scottish. Most often uttered: "that's great kid, now don't get cocky."
• A song could get stuck in my head for weeks at a time
• Dangerous situations would cause me to scream with absolute glee. Common sense kept me out of most of those
• I watched videos of Pete in my tent just about every night
• Blogging from the road became very stressful
• At a certain point, quite quickly, fear is replaced by a curiosity of outcome
• People CAN be trusted
• There may be a lot of shit talkers among us, but all bikers respect each other
• There is nothing better than the metallic taste of bourbon, clicking on a laptop with the walls of your house flapping around you
• The bond of travelers disappears once summer vacations start
• There is no reason that anyone on this earth cannot achieve their dreams.
• There really is only do or do not. There is no try.

Much appreciation goes out to many people along the trip. Here is my best attempt to capture all the generosity that swerved into my lanes over the past 5 months.

Cast and Crew (In order of appearance)

• My Family. All of you, for without your support and encouragement this trip would NEVER have been possible. I love you all and am forever grateful that you continue to entertain the crazy ways of your son, brother, grandson, nephew and cousin
• Ride Chicago – Chicago, IL - School for motorcycle safety and licensing
• Uke’s Harley-Davidson – Racine, WI. Geno, thanks for getting me on the big bikes
• Suburban Harley-Davidson – Thiensville, WI. Dick and crew – you’re better than eHarmony. In fact, you did so well with the bike, I may just have you pick out my next girlfriend
• Digitas Chicago – for recognizing the importance of an employee’s need to try something a little crazy and having their back the entire time
• Milwaukee Harley-Davidson – Milwaukee, WI – for making Betty’s trip to the west coast a little more comfortable and her home-coming an experience in luxury
• Haul Bikes Motorcycle Shipping – Milwaukee, WI – for getting Betty to L.A. in one piece
• Tim – for selflessly allowing my truck to dominate his garage space while I was gone
• Glendale Harley-Davidson – Glendale, CA – you picked her up, cleaned her up, stored her for free and had an unbelievable staff
• Dylan, Will, Juliette and Jean Patrick -your hospitality and generosity know no limits. Thank you for being Ethan’s friends and now mine. This goes out to the entire L.A. crew that are simply too many to list, but my hope is that you know who you are and that you always have a warm bed in Chicago
• Adam (and Will again) -for putting together one KICK ASS commemorative intro video
• Rustie and Chris – thank you for kicking off the trip with such culture and beauty. San Diego will always have a place in my heart, as will the old man playing saxophone under a street lamp
• Dan, Hilary and Bowie – we go way back and will continue to go way into the future
• Yoonil – follow your dreams cowboy and don’t ever be discouraged
• Joeta’s Leather – Mesa, AZ – your bovine suit of armor kept me safe from all dangers
• Bob and Luann – a long overdue visit and was glad to get to know you better as an adult
• Dave and Roni – cut from similar cloths, I look forward to seeing you soon
• Goe Harley-Davidson – Angleton, TX. You guys helped a traveler, rocked out the service and Dallas, thank you for the intro to REAL Texas BBQ and driving my ass 30 minutes out of your way. TRUE customer service
• Doreen and Gene – as always, your love and hospitality keeps me going
• Cathy, Thomas and Kirstyn – the flowers are bloomin’ in Texas. Love you guys
• Ben and Angie – rain check on that crawfish boil? Bourbon Street wouldn’t have been the same
• Mel and Jane – thank you for everything, it was great to see you…and again…and yet again 
• Nick and Janelle – new friends for life that took a chance on a goofy looking biker
• Rachel, Abby, Morgan and Selena – your van, with its non-flapping walls was heaven, you four are amazing...fantastic even?
• Radar – keep living the life that is envied by all
• Nimrods – for the much needed boys weekend in Miami. Enough said.
• Mary Anne, Greg, Tony and Kelly – great to get some one-on-one with ya’ll
• The town of Taintsville – for existing
• Becky and Kelly – Savannah wouldn’t have been the same
• Myrtle Beach Harley-Davidson – Myrtle Beach, South Carolina – Black Betty appreciated the spa treatment and you people just kick ass
• Zac, Jake and Josh – good, ole fashioned’ country fun, USMC style. Semper Fi, gentlemen
• The Royalty of Assateague Island
• Christine and Trevor – strangers to acquaintances to friends, thank you for opening your home
• Atlantic County Harley Davidson – Absecon, New Jersey – unexpected, in and out, you take care of your own
• Dave – for helping to make my birthday painful and completely unforgettable
• Tasha and Ahren (and Nando) – Brooklyn style, baby! For letting me be a last-minute guest and being phenomenal tour guides
• Mandy – always
• The NYPD Officer at Lady Liberty – you and I know why. I salute you.
• Tim and Caitlyn – your hospitality kept me full, your coffee kept me awake and your soap kept me clean (when I used it)
• Angela – for guiding me around John Harvard’s polished foot with an outlook that will never tarnish
• Wolverine H-D and A.B.C. H-D – esp Dan in service - Betty needed a new pair a shoes and you found her glass slippers
• Hodag Honda – my lid fell apart and you fixed my brain-case for free – keep on rockin’
• All you campers that gave me that little taste of home for a much needed boost in motivation as well as exhaustion
• Wausau Harley-Davidson – Rothschild, WI – hometown service, hometown attitude
• Jacyn and Brian – for humoring the guest that wouldn’t leave and caring just as much for Betty as I do. You two knock life around in style
• Devil Mountain Harley-Davidson – Pittsburg, CA – you guys had the BEST service out of all the shops that I called home. ALL dealerships visited were exceptional. You were just that much better
• The Nelson Sisters – Cali style
• Big Bear Cabin Crew – Will, Marie, Carl, Carolyn, Paul, Joe, Sarah, Tammy and Pablo – for inviting me to share your holiday with you and for your incredible strengths in courage, humanity, caring and maturity in the face of tragedy. Lucy will be missed
• Tim – for your newly formed friendship, constant encouragement and everlasting humility. Retire already and enjoy that Dyna!
• The men and women of our armed forces and those that protect our borders, for doing what you do every day to make dreams like this possible. And for showing me real machine guns and educating me on the finer points of specific situations.
• All of you supporting and commenting on the blog, offering words of encouragement, advice and warning
• My fellow brethren, bikers and travelers from all corners of the globe. You offered me places to see. You offered me places to eat. You offered me soft beds, warm campfires and even warmer spirits. You came from Switzerland, Deer Isle, Phoenix, Illinois, Wisconsin, Germany, Napa, Canada, Mexico, Alaska to form one world, the road. Most importantly, I thank you for your trust, companionship and having the balls to do what you do
• Every man or woman that gears-up onto a Harley Davidson and any biker that keeps pushing and stretching their borders
• The BEST friends a guy could have. You know who you are. You talked to me on the trip, kept me sane in the darkest, loneliest hours, made me laugh on Facebook and kept me human when a feral side threatened. You are the ones I continue to talk with and text, the ones that share experiences, movies, dinners and beverages. If not for you. This could have not been done.
• Pete – for not holding a grudge and your unconditional, furry, drooling love

With words that can never express, I thank Ethan Willoughby and F. Roger Rutter for showing me how real men live life and providing the truest forms of inspiration ever to be felt and learned from. You rode on my shoulders and kept me far from peril. It is known fact that I came through unscathed because of your presence and protection.

"The bike didn't break me. The road didn't take me. I will forever be alive knowing that I followed the road paved by my heart."

Florida: The Keys 3.27 – 4.5

Route: 41E to 997S (Krome Ave) to 1S

“You can’t lay on the beach and drink rum all day if you don’t start in the morning.” – Bathroom Wall

Florida’s Everglades, as beautiful as they are, are surprisingly small when cruising through. For some reason there was this grandiose idea in my head that the area consumed by the wetlands was vastly greater than Russia. Being left on an island in the middle of Gator land is still not a desirable situation no matter what the size, although one is able to drive through the Glades pretty quickly. The views, the life and the energy that flows within their swampy waters are can flood a soul and pours riders out into an easy glide down to mile marker 107.

Wanting to soak up the Keys as much as possible and slowly, deliciously drip down the gulf to a puddle of bliss at Key West, the first day’s ride is parked at King’s Campground in Key Largo. It’s a decent campground, but it’s primarily for RV-ers and the sites for the tents are compacted upon one another like smoked oysters in a tin. Tent areas resembling kitty litter boxes come with blue and yellow picnic tables that offer a place to rest if one is the size of an Ewok, but the price is right and hell, I’m in the Keys. Even though the sites are on top of each other, a break is caught as there are only two occupied and the guests are able to spread out enough to allow a little more privacy. While resting my chin on my knees at one of the mini-tables, a couple comes scouting for a site to spend the night. Craving age appropriate human interaction, small talk is made and a quick rapport is developed with the semi-spring breakers. Down from Daytona, Nick and his fiancée, Janelle, are about to spend a few days relaxing in the Keys.

Responsibilities for the preamble of the night fall upon the shoulders of the sun and in true form, the panoramic sunset does not disappoint as it tickles the masts of sailboats and washes their bows in radiant beauty. Accepting Nick and Janelle’s invitation to join them for drinks, after the sunset’s opening act, we walk down the road to The Big Chill, in search of a grouper sandwich and some ice cold brews. This not-so-easy rider is ready for some nightlife and the company of really cool people and that is exactly what I get. The beer is cold; the grouper sandwich is delicious and to top it off, is served by a waiter that resembles a 23 year old Norm MacDonald who is definitely living on “island time.” A couple more bars hit and then the night ends with a cap at the camp site. The night is more fun than a troupe of dancing poodles and deciding that all energy has been spent for one day, I retire to the tent with a light head.

During the previous night’s festivities, Nick and Janelle graciously extended the invitation to join them on a snorkeling excursion, which was eagerly accepted. Having such a great time with the two of them, the decision is made to extend the stay here an additional night. Sleeping was difficult as the polyester, 20 degree down bag and heat reflecting sleeping pad are not made for such tropic climate. Managing to squeak out a mere 4 hours, the day starts slowly and recovery comes in the form of sunshine, swimsuits and a leisurely pace, which trumped a waking headache with force. Lounging around, campers have coolers and grills filled with and sizzling up bacon and eggs which brings on a heavy drool as the standard instant oatmeal and coffee is consumed. Seeing these treasure troves of culinary excellence brings on a rush of temporary envy and I envision opening a cooler full of delicacies is like opening Marcellus Wallace’s briefcase.

Post morning consumption, we head out to Pennekamp state park to hit up a snorkel tour and after the reservations and gear is secured, the boat is boarded with just a few minutes to spare. Given it’s the end of March, the water is still a bit chilly and while about half of the tour group dons wetsuits, there is a Dutch family that just won’t have it. They are so eager to prove their proclivity of cold water, it seems, that one older gentleman takes it to the next level and caresses the group’s eyes with a contrast of his ghostly white and beluga-like form strapped not-so-securely into a straining, black Speedo. Resembling an upright walrus, the unfortunate soul casts only the appearance of the cold water conditioned mammal and is in and out of the gulf rather quickly. Just because one looks like a water mammal doesn’t mean one can act like a water mammal. Barracudas and conchs line the sea floor with other bright, colorful fish and sea life. Choppy seas lose their power while we snorkel on the sheltered side of the reef, time flies quickly, the trip is a success and we head back to the camp to do what those in the Keys do best. Relax.

Later that evening, after dinner and a small campfire, we imbibe, talk, get to know one another a bit better and raise the same curiosities regarding a myriad of people going into the woods with nets, buckets, never to emerge again. Curiosity gets the better of us, and upon inquiry of one of these woodland creatures, come to find out that the moon is full, the time is right and they are heading to the channel to catch fresh shrimp. Upon further inquiry, one of the shrimpers explains that it’s really quite easy to catch them. One shines a flashlight into the waters below and when two glowing amber eyes pop out on the surface, simply dip in the net and place the caught shrimp in your catch bucket. This is awesome; all three of us are excited to get on this shrimping wagon, only there are two problems. Neither a bucket nor a net are in our immediate future. Or so we think. After a half-assed attempt to make a net out of a grocery bag and stick, we borrow one from a neighboring camper. It’s just past midnight now, and we head to the channel to get our share of edible booty. After about an hour of shrimping and unsuccessful night fishing, we take our haul of 2 dozen back to the camp, throw them in some foil with butter and garlic salt and lay the sea treasures on the grill. THE best shrimp I have ever eaten. It was a little disconcerting, putting them on the grill and watching the foil dance like a tin of jiffy-pop, but well worth the disturbing scene.

Nick and Janelle certainly made my introduction to the Keys memorable. Some of the most giving, sharing and hospitable people that will be met on this excursion, I know that we’ll keep in touch long after the trip is over and am glad to have made new friends. But for now, I must leave and continue trickling down the Keys.

A great, lifelong friend from back home gets wind that I’m in the Keys and sets me up with some friendly faces for a day or two. Chris’ fiancée Rachel is on a girl’s week down in the Keys, and having just finished up the more luxurious part of their trip in Key West, will be camping at Fiesta Key and have passed on an invite to join them for a bit. On the way to meet the ladies, a quick stop is made at the well-known Islamorada Fish Company for some fish tacos. The restaurant itself is incredible with seating on the dock and a lagoon in between the bar and the seating, complete with swimming critters to occupy one’s attention while the food is being prepared. It’s a good thing too, because on this rainy day (which provides some nice shelter while the storm plays out), the service is extraordinarily slow and the tacos are sub-par. At first a bit of agitation sets in, but quickly the realization of island time is gained, muscles relax and the chair embraces the full weight of my back. A smile sets in.

Winds gust with the ferocity that only those from the ocean can and clouds continue to threaten angrily while Betty growls down the 1 to lay a little rubber during the afternoon and explore this part of the Keys in anticipation of the Cougar Van’s arrival at the campsite. Rachel, AbbyJo, Morgan and Selena welcome me with open arms as we take shelter behind the Volkswagen van that blocks the wind so that conversation can be had. Conversation isn’t the bubble-gum type of talk that usually accompanies relative strangers, but dives into deeper realms of substance and life appreciation and it’s satisfyingly exhausting and makes the time pass quickly. The sun goes down and the ladies retire to their quarters and set me up in the back of the van and it’s a relief to be sleeping in a space that doesn’t have moveable walls.

Farm fresh eggs and home brewed coffee sizzle, pop and boil the morning into lazy day by the pool, complete with fruity, newly concocted rum drinks with fresh coconut milk and strawberries. A few hours of this repeated activity, the morning turns into afternoon and the ladies extend an invitation to stay another night. Torn between not wanting to interrupt their vacation and the coconut buzz swimming in my head, with no clear agenda I agree without too much arm twisting and the day slowly bakes on. The couple camping next to their group is of Russian origin, but now lives just outside of Chicago and are extremely amiable. Seeing us up on the deck of the pool, they come up to talk and we invite them to a lounge chair and fruity rum drink of their own. Many factors could have led to the events that were to come, but I am going to chalk it up to plain old frenzied excitement of meeting new friends and looking forward to good times. Paul is talking with the group, near the edge of the pool, standing at my four o’clock. Peripheral vision screams out a red alert as he dives into the shallow water and I whir around to, I don’t know… shout, grab his waist band, watch in horror. Tragedy splashes into the water and Paul’s legs stick perpendicular out of the 4 foot water, seemingly forever. Stunned, we all look to the pool to see what is going to happen next. He flips himself upright and there is an instant of relief, until shoulders shrugged in pain, a face dominating wince and gash on the top of his head tell another story. Everyone plays a role, without verbal direction and we whirl into action. Within minutes, we have him pool side, paramedics are called and we give him a quick once over. Can you wiggle your toes? Yes. Where does it hurt? Between my shoulders. What is your name? Paul. What day is it? We're on vacation, I’m not sure.

Luckily, a firefighter/paramedic is on holiday with his family, but has just gone out on a jet-ski. His wife waves him in with a telepathy that only a husband and wife can have and immediately our good-willed responsibilities are taken over by a professional until the local authorities arrive. Paul is put into a collar, loaded into an ambulance and taken to the local medical facility while Morgan and Abby jump in the van with Paul’s fiancée, Marina, whose broken English and lack of drivers license would leave her stranded on an island of worry. X-rays reveal a broken neck and warrants a first-class ticket on a med-flight copter to the hospital in Miami, which later will be a second trip to a specialist in Chicago. If not for the calm and rational responses of the girls, this crisis would have ended up terribly; as undoubtedly, Paul would have simply gone back to the tent to lie down, where greater tragedy could have been waiting for the most unexpected time to strike. They turned the outcome of this horrible even into the best possible and I applaud them.


That night, these four incredible women continue to teach lessons of the more important aspects of life; agriculture, sustainability and furthering personal education while preparing a dinner of home-grown parsnips, carrots, ginger, potatoes and other tasty treats. They bring this over to the campground’s resident entertainer, Radar, who will be grilling up some venison and burgers to top off a feast of Queens and Kings. Radar may just have about the biggest heart out of anyone that I have met in my life. His life is simple, complete, content and exactly the way he wants it to be. The site where he lives is an island paradise, complete with tiki bar, fire pit, karaoke tent and camper trailer all led to via a pier post and nautical rope lined walkway through a yard proudly flying the stars and stripes. A former Army soldier, Radar’s life is lived the way he wants it and is, as far as I’m concerned, the most successful man in the world, for finding his true self and his true way of being. Everyone stops by Radar’s landing zone for the after-dark party and with good reason. It’s good times and great people in true island style.

The next day, word comes from Marina regarding Paul’s move to Chicago and Morgan and Abby make the 3 hour drive to Miami to pick her up from the hospital, but their selfless acts do not stop here. Not only do they drive up and back, but all four women cut their vacation short to drive Marina and all their gear back to the Chicago area, which is a short stop on the way home and Rachel keeps me updated via text. Remarkable, all of them, and once again fortune has smiled upon me with the friendship of such incredible humans being.

This all happens after my departure from the grounds and lunch of Conch burger at the Cracked Conch Café. The pit stop once again proves the small world theory when I meet a friend of a friend from Glen Ellyn, IL. Eaves dropping in on their lunch, the name Chicago floats over to my ears. Inquiry is made and after some conversation and the fortuitous discovery of a mutual friend, I am invited to stay the night in the family’s condo. It’s amazing, the small world theory, but if eaves had not been dropped and had no conversation been initiated these cosmic links would have not been made. The experience proves that when traveling, either solo or in company, keep your ears and eyes open to all possibilities because you never know what good fortune or good advice may find you.

Nearly a month and a half on the road now and thoughts turn towards home, family, work and the thoughts of what life will be like upon returning to Chicago. More of a curiosity than a longing, these wonderings swim inside my head and I contemplate if it’s too early in the excursion for this. The value of humanity, kindness, patience and tolerance grows infinitely stronger the longer that the road holds me. Increasing cooperation, as I bear witness to the way travelers work selflessly together, with a smile and offer assistance to those in need, even if not asked for. The way travelers interact and help each other is a powerful lesson and is often preached in corporate America, but seldom practiced. This is just one of the many examples that I hope to incorporate in my way of life and will stick for future use, not just be left in the miles behind me.

Known for being a world of its own, bathed in rich history, sunsets, margaritas and whom I call the “most interesting man alive,” Ernest Hemingway, Key West calls and it’s time to answer. A sign points to the Key deer sanctuary and having never seen one of these mini-stags, an immediate right is taken through No Name Key. Winding though with no real direction, fortune smiles and the street turns into another sign, this one saying “You’ve Found It.” The No-Name Pub. A recommendation that had been forgotten, it’s a nice break in the day to stop for a grouper sandwich. The pub is dark, dingy and delicious. The walls furry with hanging dollar bills decades old that resemble a fuzzy piñata. Patrons of past visits inscribe their names, witty sayings and pledge allegiances to favorite sports teams on these singles, then staple them to any spot in the pub they can. I, of course, can not resist a bit of shameless self-promotion, so the inscribing of Ride the Edge occurs and this Washington is stapled directly above the first barstool on the left, in front of the entrance. This is the type of place that one could hang out all day and throw a lot back in and the experience is sweetened when I look to the left and see the “Harley Davidson Parking Only” sing. The sandwich was excellent, but they are known for their pizza and another visit in the future is a must.

As I ride the highways and byways of America, frequently, other bikers are passed; Hondas, BMWs, Victory, you name it. I look at these bikes with minimal interest and vague curiosity. There is so much Harley Davidson pride pumping through these lines that no other bike is worth a head turn. As the 1 rolls down to Key West, something is unsettling and it takes a few miles to determine what it is. Bikers are everywhere in Florida, yet for some reason, this state yields the least amount of biker waves yet. Throwing out the two fingers, low-five or HD “V”, reciprocation is few and far between. My only guess for this seeming lack of cordiality is that it is indeed a vacation spot and perhaps most bikers are renting, unfamiliar with the bikes they ride, therefore uncomfortable taking their hands off of the bars. This, of course, is just a hypothesis.

Key West is next. A world all its own and a separate spirit from the rest of the island chain, it’s deserving of it’s own post. To come…

“The bike may break me. The road may take me. I’ll forever be alive knowing that I followed the road paved by my heart.”

The Edge is DONE, man! 6.30.10; 2:57pm

"Tip the world over on its side and everything loose will land in Los Angeles." - Frank Lloyd Wright

A sign reading “Santa Monica” etched into the overpass of the Pacific Coast Highway brings a welcome sense of pride that threatens to pop the seams of all that leather. The helmet starts to fog up and immediately emotions are put into check until the intersection where it all started is found and a safe spot on the side of the road brings me in. Can’t start blubbering now, I won’t be able to see where I’m going. It’s hard to choke back the tornadic emotions that swirl together like a frog in a blender. Relief, excitement, pride, contentment, elation are a few that can be named, but there are those that rear their heads from the 9th circle of emotions that scream as loud as the others. It’s a mixed can o’ nuts and as the course is set to make way for Ocean and Broadway, the completely thinkable happens. I get lost. Christ. Really? Of course, I’m in a city.

After a 10 minute detour, the spot where it all began is found, the kickstand is set down and Betty purrs into silence. The perimeter of the United States is complete. An estimated 17,774 miles exploring all the nooks, crannies and crags of our nation’s outermost borders and coastlines. Here are the stats usually saved for the monthly updates:

Days on the road: 132

Miles traveled: 19,734

Pairs of Sunglasses: 5 (still holding, fingers crossed)

States: 32 plus D.C. and Canada

Time Zones Traversed: 5 (plus a double up on the American 4)

Current Location: Studio City, CA

The “MOST” places visited: 4 corners of U.S. plus:
• Southernmost point in U.S. – Keywest, FL
• Easternmost point in U.S. – Quoddy Head, ME
• Northernmost point in U.S. – Northwest Angle, MN
• Westernmost point in U.S. – Cape Alava, WA

It AIN’T over yet! There is still a formidable chunk of American highway to traverse before getting back to all the creatures and comforts of home. Route 66 does not stand in the way, but glows like a runway that will guide me and the Harley Davidson V-Rod Muscle home. For now, this is a small victory that I shall relish with a ginormous shit eating grin.

"The bike may break me. The road may take me. I'll forever be alive knowing that I followed the road paved by my heart."

Florida Panhandle to the Glades 3.21 – 3.27

Route: 292 to 297 back to 292 to 98E to 399 (along islands) to 98E to 19 to 361 (at Perry) to 351 to 357N to 19/98 to Port Charlotte. 776 to 41 to 867 to 869 (Ft. Myers Beach); 901 to 41 to 94 (at Monroe Station) back to 41 through the Glades.

“I see my path, but I don't know where it leads. Not knowing where I'm going is what inspires me to travel it.” –Rosalia de Castro

The previous night’s violent squall bullies its way east, giving the coast and its travelers swirlies and noogies with gleeful vigor. It is apparent that the fierce winds have slapped the Easter-egg-colored, stilted houses that line the beach fronts with a ferocity that would make Hallmark cry. The hope is that the storm is far enough ahead that I can’t catch it and worries of the milk money tucked safely away in my socks are unfounded. The day is cast is a medium shade of depression-gray and the road brings a struggle against the wind, which, after a few hours, evokes a deep-gut rumbling of hunger. Eyes are peeled for one of the plywood-built, hand painted seafood shacks that live up to the old cliché, “don’t judge a book by its cover.” Unfortunately today, like so many things in life that aren’t around when you need them, the shacks have taken to hiding, most likely still quaking in their dens from last night’s festivities, and a growling stomach is heard over the bark of Betty’s engine.

Skimming along the bottom of Florida’s panhandle leads to Panama City Beach and a flood of nostalgia washes over when I stop at the condo that was once shared with Ethan during our ‘guys’ week. A debacle of a trip in every sense of the word, Ethan, 2 other Dans and I spent a week here for an old guys spring break getting in every amount of trouble that we knew to be possible. Ethan had arrived with hair that would make Saigon Kick jealous and left looking like a made-over Chris Cornell. Eating and drinking too much and sleeping too little, the trip was everything that 4 over-worked guys needed to cut loose. Bar hopping, deep sea fishing and all the debauchery that goes along with Spring Break was enjoyed to the fullest and somehow, the rat that was cut off the back of Ethan’s head (ponytail) was, to us, the most ingenious joke we could think of and ended up in each or our beds at some point throughout the vacation or in the microwave or under the toilet seat or in a duffle bag. Ethan had a wide-eyed and frenzied expression of a 5 year old on Xmas eve plastered to his face for the entire week and that trip is remembered in detail (not all that will be mentioned here), with memories that cause me to laugh out loud and hang my head in embarrassment all in one motion. A devilish smirk commandeers lips inside the Shoei helmet and the ride continues out of the city that holds our secrets.

Apalachicola is laid out like a seaside picnic for two. The town is amazingly quaint and made for lovers young and old. Should I be fortunate enough to find myself in that situation, a trip will be made back to this seaside village to spend a long weekend exploring the secrets that it holds. Running through the town, highway 98 is one of Harley Davidson’s featured rides called out in the HD road atlas and proves to be worth the yellow and orange highlighting. There is only road on this stretch, no guardrail to cages the rider and it feels as the ocean can be scooped up in the palm of your hand. A biker and motorcycle caress the curves of the road as one, skipping along the water like a stone and it’s hard to tell where the dividing line between earth and heaven is drawn. The smell of salt and pine envelop the helmet, released from the shoreline being warmed by a setting sun. This part of the ride is effortless and euphoria takes over as the trees and ocean steer Betty and I into increasingly lengthening shadows. Inspiration is freshly renewed and receives a new spark after being smoldered by the storm. Long shadows, once cast upon the road have evaporated into the darkness and only the headlight illuminates the curving byway. It’s time for a motel. Pulled over to check the map, the nearest city on this route is much too far for a comfortable travel, but fate has other ideas. A few miles down the road, in Wakulla, a motel pops up out of nowhere and a room is available. It’s a palace, complete with courtyard, fountain and remarkably clean rooms and new amenities. If exhaustion wasn’t holding the ace today, astonishment would have trumped the situation.

Morning brings an unusual awakening filled with a heightened tolerance and acceptance of all things and situations. To say this is a new feeling would be to mislead you, as this is in my true nature, but it has been shamefully hibernating for longer than I care to admit. There are many reasons to take a journey like this, but one is to get back to who I used to be. To shake the greasy hands of a mechanic without hesitation. To hold a conversation with a toothless and dingy man without checking a watch with shifting eyes or itching to be in another place. To be with real people, the hard-working people of our country that believe in honesty, friendship, loyalty and would give you the shirt off their backs, even if they only had one to give. Clouded by the haze that breeds between starched-white shirts and the oily blue denim that often separates people, I have embarrassingly kept the latter out of my field of vision, even though I am a product of both worlds. The filter of dirt that has been keeping my corporate self out of touch with the people that represent the backbone of truth is removed. Abruptly. The feeling is clear, uplifting and a lightness consumes me. It’s going to be a good day. Hell, they’ll all be good days.

Biscuits and gravy are devoured at the continental breakfast and the table to the right is speaking in unfamiliar tongue. I tilt my head, like a bird on the ground listening for worms, and powers of deduction lead to the conclusion that they’re German. Wearing leather cuts, further detective skills lead to their ownership of the four Harleys parked in the front overhang. No English is heard and I’m disappointed that we can’t chat bikes over coffee, so the tedious chore of gearing up the Muscle is attended to. Bags are zipped and straps are cinched as one of the men from the group comes out for a cigarette and begins to chat. I’m ecstatic! Chatting about bikes, I find out that his group is a riding club from outside of Munich and that they are on a 3-week tour from Orlando to Los Angeles. Normally they ride Goldwings, which again, my Holmes-like powers of deduction lead me to the translation on the back of his cut. “Schwaben Winger” = “Gold Wing.” I’m a genius. For this trip, they’ve decided on Harleys and are in love with a true American icon. It’s time to get on the road, an eagerness to see the Spanish hanging moss, which has been effectively decimated on most of the Louisiana coast, drives me to kick it into gear and get cruising.

A drizzle sets upon the roads, changing the asphalt from light to dark gray, much like armpit sweat spots on the hyper-color shirts of the early 90s, and it’s not enough to deter today’s trip to the Grandparents. Wanting to stay true to the intent of the trip (as close to the coast as I can get), the map is broken out and illustrates a varied labyrinth of logging roads that will eventually spew me out onto the main highway. Back roads are already filled with lumber trucks rolling down the byways, bursting at the seams with the daily limit for their catch. The logging roads are frustratingly slow, unmarked and not well maintained (Captain Obvious says “duh”). Getting turned around for nearly two hours, I find that maps are excruciatingly similar to birth control. Only about 99.99% effective and for the casual “traveler,” work out just dandy, with no information slipping through to put any hitch in one’s giddyup. However, when participating more heavily in either event, should the ball land on that .01% red, the practioner is most properly F’ed. Given that lack of internal direction that has befriended me over the course of a lifetime, for the moment, I am precisely that.

Twists, turns, and a few more turnarounds with multiple expletives passing through clenched lips and dirt turns to gravel, which transforms to asphalt and the main highway snakes into GPS territory, delivering me to my Grandparent’s doorstep in the late evening. They have some friends over and we all chat about bikes, the area, the trip and head to dinner, which I swallow whole, like an agitated Bantha. The night is topped off with ample servings of conversation and cocktails, both of which I will never turn a cheek to.

A delicious breakfast spread lures me out from under the sheets and Grandpa, Jane and I spend a more energetic morning catching up and getting to know each other a little bit better. Breakfast morphs into lunch, then a tour of the area begins. The Port Charlotte Harley Davidson dealer shop begs to be checked out and when we go in, the immediate perception is that it is not as friendly as others that have played a part on this trip. Perception is confirmed when we leave the idle shop after about 20 minutes and nobody has approached with a friendly “hello” or “can I help you?” It is an unfortunate turn for the shops that have been so amicable whenever visited but the HD reputations still holds strong. Dealers are all independent of one another, so the experience is not held against the others and it’s chalked up to an off day. The next few days are spent on the reddish-brown, brackish waters of Port Charlotte fishing, seeing the beaches, taking a cruise on the boat, eating, imbibing and just…relaxing. Using the always tempting shrimp for bait, an alligator fish is lightly lipped and as it comes to the surface slowly, flashes a toothy snarl out of a plank of a snout. Not too inclined to have to dig a hook out from all those daggers, the line is let slack and the snare is shaken from the gruesome mouth of this prehistoric looking beast.

A shift in my vulnerability is becoming apparent as it is now nearly 6 weeks on the road. It is an uncomfortable change and quicker than expected, but welcome. This journey has become a fine sandpaper, smoothing an abrasive nature that had been growing increasingly coarser in daily life. Constantly transitioning emotions from loneliness to overwhelming attention, from seeing not a familiar soul on the road to being surrounded by people and living merely to survive to riding out a weekend in everyday luxury has brought on a change in view, making friends that would have before been overlooked as I walk down the street and living an extremely minimal life has awoken a sense of understanding and emotions that have lain dormant for far too long.

Grandpa and Jane treat me extremely well as the visit goes on, but good weather and an itch to get on the road beckons me to lay down some rubber. The visit with them, and all my Grandparents, have provided inspiration and energy, for they have not even yet begun to slow down and their ways of life are truly remarkable. The day before, all gear had gotten another coating of waterproofing, after the storm in Alabama and it’s packed, the stinging, chemical smell digs into my nostrils. As the wind from the road siphons the pungent odor out from the helmet, the open road calls as do the gators and snakes of the Everglades.

The gulf coast is filled with tourist traps, constant population and the virus of traffic that accompanies both. It is also filled with nooks, crannies, twists, turns and 25 mph zones that split through the middle of the islands that edge the state on the west. Going is slow, and while tempers and frustrations used to be quick to rise, a new outlook provides much needed patience and understanding that this, along with all situations that will present themselves, is all part of the journey. Hwy 41 finally appears and just when that hard-wired sense of entitlement and instant gratification starts to hiss, sputter and pop into gear, Mother Nature starts to weep and humbles me with its helpful, rainy reminder. Raining only for a few hours, the skies finally subside and I pull over to take off the rain gear. As the suit packs up into the saddle bag, I look across the highway and notice a porn shop. I also notice a sheriff’s cruiser parked right outside with driver’s seat empty and chortle a bit.

The Everglades announce itself abruptly and now that the rain gear is packed, the sunny skies start to cloud and drizzle a bit, but not enough to be bothersome. Signs for Big Cypress boardwalk tempt me to pull over and I eagerly accept at the chance to walk through the swamps with hopes of seeing a gator. The boardwalk is just a hair over a half mile walk, an easy stroll amongst towering cypress and pines, with flora that evokes mouth-opening gazes. Hot and muggy after the Florida showers, the trail pays off with the booty that was hoped for. An alligator. The gator sits on a log at the end of the walk, only a couple feet long and covered in vegetation. It doesn’t move as it basks in the sun, and it appears to not even be breathing. Could it be a prop for the benefit of the tourists that decide to make the trek? I’ll never know.


Next stop on the tour through the Glades is Everglade City, south of the highway, to indulge in a lunch of fresh stone crab. Starting to roll in that direction, it’s the first time that the route has led me away from a storm and I stay dry for a little while longer. City Seafood Café & Market looks like a fitting place to stop for lunch and an order of stone crab claws and potato salad is ordered and the upstairs balcony that overlooks the marina offers a great place to sit and enjoy. The city seems empty, save for a few straggling cars and the restaurant mirrors the streets. I don’t have to eat lunch alone, however. There is a manatee that offers up his company and continues to hang around the pier, often coming up for air and snorting out a mist of sea water through his nostrils announcing his repeated appearances. Storms have caught up like a persistent process server and blow through during lunch and it is nice to be sitting under a roof, rather than being on the bike.

Two short hours in the Glades and the thirst for fauna is sated quickly. Alligators and iguanas line the roads, some absolutely massive, as well as a snapping turtle the size of a truck tire that moves quickly enough to make me think twice about meeting one up close and personal. Panther warning signs line the road and even though it would be quite an experience to see one, I’m not that geeked to do so. Weaving through the wildlife and making tracks down the highway, it begins to get time to think about setting up camp, so I stop at an exotic, safari, animal farm and campground. Perfect place to set up a tent amongst swamp buggies and animals that would dine on me, if they could.

I check into the campground and ask the host if there is anywhere that might be dry, or at least a little drier than the rest of the sites. He obliges and with a quick bark on the walkie-talkie, promises that a guide will cut the path to dry land and a place to set Betty’s kickstand down for the night. An absolutely thunderous man appears on a 4-wheeler that seems to scream under the weight. Spilling over the sides, he takes me to a knoll next to the pond and points out a dry place. Before I can express appreciation, he says:

“Can park your bike there, there’s asphalt under that grass and she’ll only sink in about ½ inch before she hits the rock. And if the gator comes up, give it a whap with a stick and it’ll go back into the water.”

Thinking that he saw the Wisco plates and is just messing with a Yankee, I say:

“Sure, when the gator comes up, I’ll give ‘er a little poke.”

“No boy, you whap him good, don’t give him a chance to get too close.”

“Okay, thanks for the tip, I’ll be sure to do that. Have a good night.”


Joke is on me. After setting up camp about 10-15 feet from the water’s edge, I decide to take a walk around the pond and take some pictures. It appears that all other residents are indeed just that, or at a minimum, semi-permanent. There is a group of hunter/fishers that have trailers whose tires have sunk so far into the earth because they haven’t moved in quite some time and appear to have no plans to do so in the near future. The other group is of hard-core swamp buggies with tires, some as tall as I am and open cockpits that sit 15 feet above the ground. They look like a lot of fun. Further down the path is indeed a gator. Crap. He wasn’t messing with me. A little one at around 6 feet, it’s decided he poses no real threat as he silently glides through the water, a stealthy killer. Besides, camp is set and what else am I going to do? I go to sleep. The glades come alive at night, exploding into a cacophony or symphony of sounds depending on one’s mood and level of exhaustion. It’s a beautiful symphony of life with the bass lines of bull-frogs, the fluttering chirps of insects and the trumpeting squawks of baby gators. The performing swamp orchestra is beautiful for the first 2 hours, and then it just gets old. Sleep? Not happening like this. A few snorts of Woodford Reserve later and I’m nuzzling my pillow like a puppy.

Morning arrives more silently than the path traveled to actually get to it and there is one goal in mind. Airboat. Exiting the park, a stop to see the exotic animals of this roadside attraction is a must and the overpriced ticket is worth every cent. To teach a lesson not to do this again. Cages made of Plexiglas, chicken wired and wood line a garage-like area and hold pythons, an anaconda, some snapping turtles and other reptiles, amphibians and birds. An experience to be had once, it’s over quickly and the highlight is being able to hold a fairly substantially sized anaconda, whose wrath is nothing compared to the blood-thirsty Skunk Ape.

Take some asphalt. Add two tires. Spin repeatedly. A recipe for a great breakfast. The west gets further away with every second rolling by and the animals know that something is up. Water birds, great and white, fly parallel to the HD Muscle, providing an escort across Hwy 41. Gators clap their powerful jaws in applause as over-sized turtles and under-sized deer crane their necks over guardrails to see what all the fuss is about. Freedom. Pure freedom.

Some advice was given, by who has escaped, but concerning the airboats it is simple. Don’t take the first airboat tour that you seen on either side of the Glades. This advice is heeded and I end up at a Miccosukee-run tour. It’s a smaller boat, which is a plus and the price is reasonable for an hour. Talking with the guide, he says that they also use revenue generated from the tours to fund their animal sanctuary and rehab facilities. This is definitely a business that I can support, all there is to do know is wait for other passengers. We need at least 2 to make it worth their while and a few people show up and an intimate tour for 5 blows out into the glades to skim across the grass and get the wind in our hair. The guide is excellent, the tour is completely educational as well as a Glade ripping good time and I learn that Tiki is actually pronounced “Chee kee.” Huh – all these years pronouncing it incorrectly. The tour over, and saddle underneath, it’s a quick cruise down the way to snarf down some gator bites and the Keys are only a turn away.

"The bike may break me. The road may take me. I'll forever be alive knowing that I followed the road paved by my heart."