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."
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