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.”
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