| |
"The Real Florida" was my first published article,
written in 1998. It was the second piece I wrote about motorcycle travel, and the first I wrote intending to try and sell. I picked a
magazine named Motorcycle Tour and Cruiser which matched both the style
of motorcycle I rode, and story content. I sent them a copy and got a
phone call a few days later from the editor asking if they could publish the
piece. An exiting phone call for me! This is an "unedited" version.
It was published in the magazine's August 1999 issue. In reading it again, I
realize how much Florida has changed, even in the few years since it was
written.
The Real Florida
By Philip Buonpastore
September, 1998
I have never been one to plan vacations. Rather than setting an itinerary, I
usually have a general destination and loose idea of what I want to do, and
avoid specifics except when necessary. While daily life is usually about
schedules and deadlines, I like my vacation time more “off the cuff”. So, having
decided to make this year's vacation a motorcycle ride to Florida, I made no
definite plans other than to stay the Memorial Day weekend in the town of Destin
on the Gulf of Mexico, and to visit family and friends in Ft. Myers the
following weekend. I had an open week, and could ride wherever I wanted and do
whatever I liked.
Since returning to motorcycle riding after a near 20-year hiatus, I have really
come to enjoy vacation travel on a bike. The attitude when "touring" on a
motorcycle is entirely different from traveling by automobile, where interstate
highways and reaching an objective are the usual mode and mindset. On the bike I
avoid the interstates whenever possible - they are usually straight, boring, and
crowded with traffic. On a bike, the backcountry highway or two-lane country
road is almost always the preferred route, which means slower speeds, more
stops, less of an agenda, and more enjoyment in the travel itself, rat her than
in simply passing miles and arriving at a destination.
The motorcycle I ride is a 1997 Suzuki Intruder 1400. After returning
to riding, my first
motorcycle purchase was also an Intruder – the 800cc model
– and I really liked the bike. Good looking, reliable, inexpensive to purchase
and maintain, with a comfortable riding position and seat of under 29 inches,
the Intruder is an excellent choice for a 5’6” tall person of southern
Italian heritage such as myself. I appreciate the feeling of two feet planted
firmly on the ground at a stoplight, and there aren’t that many motorcycles that
afford me that luxury. While the 800 is a great bike, its light weight and
smaller size made it susceptible to buffeting from crosswinds and truck
turbulence, making touring a bit more of an effort. With that in mind I had purchased the VS1400, and its larger size and weight made this
less of a problem. With 2500 miles on the odometer, I was well used to the
new bike and ready for the ten-day riding trip to the Sunshine State.
The trip began on Friday,
May 22 when I left my apartment in an Atlanta suburb at about 12 noon. I had
planned to get an earlier start, but as is typical of well-laid plans, some last
minute delays arose, pushing back my departure time, which meant I would be traveling in the hottest
part of the day. With the El Nino influenced weather of late spring, this meant
ninety-degree temperatures and high humidity, although thankfully, no rain was
forecast for the weekend in the Florida Panhandle area.
I had reservations
in a condo in Destin with friends and family on Friday night, which meant
getting to the Panhandle by the fastest route possible. I-85 south out of
Atlanta to Montgomery Alabama, then State Road 331 south across the Alabama
border into Florida was the most direct route southwest. As this was the
Memorial Day weekend, I expected heavier than normal traffic, but leaving at 12
noon meant that I would be avoiding “rush hour” through any metropolitan areas,
so this was one advantage of my late departure time. If all worked out as
planned, I would be off of I-85 by 3 PM, and that would be the last of my
interstate highway riding for the next few days.
My timing being about right, by mid-afternoon I was winding my way through the
southern part of Montgomery, Alabama following signs to 331 south. Two stops for
bottled water and gas and to check the map had been my only stops thus far, and I
had picked up an hour by entering the Central Time zone. I was looking forward
to getting on 331 and heading south toward the cooler sea breezes off the
Florida gulf. It was hot - uncomfortably so. I was used to it, having lived in
the southeastern US most of my life, but this is not what I call optimum riding
weather. If you are from cooler climbs and considering a motorcycle trip south
in the summer, take heed – drink lots of water and wear a ventilated helmet
and safety clothing. The heat and humidity will wear you down prematurely, and
after six hours of riding time you will want to call it a day. Plan to ride in
the morning and early evening hours and spend midday on the beach. You’ll get a
lot more out of the trip.
331 in Alabama is a
typical two-lane rural state road - a due north-south highway with the
occasional sweeping curve and stretches in need of repaving. Old farm houses,
deserted gas stations and abandoned shacks dot the road, contributing to the
highway’s scenic quali ty. It is also a favorite north-south truck route, so
forward momentum can be slowed by truck and auto traffic and an occasional
passing maneuver. Roads like this, however, still beat interstate highway travel
anytime. While it was hot, trees overhanging the road provide welcome shade from
the afternoon heat, and the abandoned buildings on the side of the road offer
interesting backdrops for photographs of the bike.
By 5:30 that afternoon, I
was crossing the Choctawhatchee Bay, closing in on Santa Rosa Beach. It was a
pleasant surprise that traffic was relatively light. This was Memorial Day
weekend, for most the official start of the summer vacation season, and usually
one of the most traveled weekends of the year. I expected ‘stop and go’ but I
must have timed it just right to beat the rush. A right turn on Hwy 98 heading
west was the last leg of my first day’s ride, and by 6:30 PM I was knocking on
the door of the condominium in Destin, greeting family and friends already
there.
On Saturday morning I opted
to do a little exploring. I headed east on Hwy 98 and about twenty miles down
the highway I saw a road on the right with a sign reading 'Beaches', and took
it. It was a long ‘u-shaped’ road leading into an area known as Seaside,
a thriving little town with trendy restaurants and pastel blue and pink beach
houses that probably sell for a small fortune. In and around this area are state
protected sand-dune parks, salt water marshes and bird sanctuaries, all
contributing to an atmosphere that is probably much like Florida was before
development.
I stopped at various places
along the road to shoot photographs, and once in town I picked out one of the trendy
little restaurants and had a (trendy) meal of “breakfast pizza” - pizza crust
covered with scrambled eggs and sausage - with a cup of miscellaneous melon and
a "gourmet coffee" which cost me around $8.00. Even in this little coastal town
a ‘trendy little restaurant’ means overpricing and a “wait staff” that speaks in
that reverent ‘white-glove-establishment’ tone usually reserved for four-star
dining (“In addition to our breakfast pizza may we recommend our melon cup with
kiwi fruit and cantaloupe garnished with parsley…”) Jeez, it’s just scrambled
eggs and coffee, you know? Okay, it is vacation, so I chalked up the overpricing and
affected attitude as being part of the “experience”.
Overdressed for beach weather
in denim and riding boots, I moved outside into ocean breezes and to get a seat at a table with a
direct line of sight to my motorcycle. The bike has leather saddlebags which
carry my photo equipment on the back, and I like to keep an eye on things
whenever possible. Generally speaking, people don’t bother the bike, but there
are always those whose larcenous instincts can ruin a vacation. Better to be
safe than sorry. While I am eating, a delivery truck backs into the sandy area
where the motorcycle is parked at what seems like 15 miles per hour and slams on
his brakes, literally coming to within a few feet of the back tire. A cloud of
dust kicked up by the truck's tires settles slowly on the bike. I am of course
none too happy about this, and when I get up to investigate, a wiry
overly-animated sunburnt man of about 5’4” tall has jumped out the driver’s seat
and run to the back door of the truck. He opens the door with a full-armed
swing, slamming it against the back of the truck, and once again barely missing
the bike. With an annoyed attitude, I ask if he would like me to move the
bike. He has that ruddy red leathery Florida complexion that is owed to too many
years of cigarettes and beer on too many hot days and is totally oblivious to my
irritation. I get the feeling that he is not exactly “all there”, so while he
went about his business telling me that the bike is “just fine where it is”, I
rolled the bike to another parking spot ten feet away. I finished my breakfast and rode a
circuitous route that got me back to the condo at about 2 PM.
For the rest of the
weekend, the bike remained parked, covered and locked. The days on the beach and
nights in the clubs - along with the occasional imbibing that goes with it -
meant that transportation was best left to designated drivers and four wheels, so
I enjoyed the weekend riding with family and friends as a passenger in a
rented car. Memorial Day weekend in Destin is what you would expect it to be –
lots of sun, bikinis, seafood restaurants, great ba nds in little nightclubs
where you party until the AM hours, then start all over again the next day. On Monday
I will take up the ride again, but until then, I make
the most of the weekend.
Monday morning arrives
and 11AM is checkout time at the condominium, but I am packed and ready to go by
ten. The planned route was to follow Hwy. 98 along the coast until it began to go south, then head across the state toward the east coast,
stopping when either I
have had enough riding, find a nice hotel, or both.
Hwy 98 along the gulf
coast of Florida is one of the nicest rides that the state has to offer. It
runs some 300 miles from Pensacola to due south of Tallahassee, and most of the
road winds along the coast and within sight of the Gulf of Mexico. Other than
Panama City, populated areas consist of mostly smaller ‘blink-and-you-miss-them’
towns with light traffic. As the highway follows the coastline, it has its share
of easy curves that keeps the ride interesting, and the picturesque small towns and stretches of undeveloped area make
for excellent sightseeing as you ride. I found myself stopping or wanting to stop
often to take photographs, and this eats up time. Taking pictures from a car is
an uncomplicated procedure, requiring only a place to pull off the road and leap
from the car at an opportune moment. On a packed motorcycle, however, it is a
little more difficult. I have to find paved shoulder or parking lot to park the
bike, dismount, open the saddlebag, take the shot, put the camera back in and
close the bag, remount, restart and ride. As such, any stop for photographs
takes between 5 and 15 minutes. Still, as a long time photographer, I can’t
resist the opportunity to stop when the road and the view allows, s o this
extends my travel time considerably.
…But the scenery… lots of
undeveloped coast with water coming almost to the road’s edge, seagulls perched
on a skiff tied to a short pier on the water. Small local harbors with
thirty-year old
fishing boats and fishermen working in the rigging. Old seaside houses on stilts
along the shore. A photographer’s dream. At Oak Grove - a town I would not have
known existed except for a small roadside sign - I detour off of 98 to take a
coastal road, State Road 30, which leads through marshland and along the water’s
edge to 30E. This road takes you to St. Joseph Peninsula State Park, an
undeveloped strip of land with few amenities, save for public restrooms and
showers for park patrons. The camping areas are set up for tents and small RVs,
and the whole park is unspoiled white sand dunes, beach, and turquoise water. If
I were camping, this is the place I would stay the night. It is really
beautiful. The receipt from the park entrance reads The Real Florida.
That’s the beauty of
traveling by motorcycle. Before moving to Atlanta, I lived in Florida for 15
years and probably would have never known this was here to see if I hadn’t
purchased a bike. Every time I traveled to Florida, it was always on an
Interstate highway to get to a location by the fastest means possible, with the
enjoyment of the miles between a rare consideration. If I had been in the car, I would
have probably been on I-something to somewhere, and missed this area entirely. On the
bike, all sorts of new experiences just seem to present themselves to you. I
shot some photographs of the park, exchanged a few words with people
who passed me on the wooden boardwalk out to the beach - who we are, where we’re
from, etc. - then rode out of the park, back to State Road 30 and Hwy 98.
At a stop for gas at a
little convenience store west of Apalachicola, I noticed a lovely young
woman talking through the open door to a much older man at the counter. As she
turned to leave, she looked at me and smiled, and I smiled back and said hello. I
got some bottled water, and while paying for my gas, I remarked about the lovely
lady, asking if it was his daughter. His squinty-eyed reply is “She’s my wife”,
and the conversation dies that very moment. I smiled, said thank you, and moved
quickly. I guess that’s how they do it down here, and I made a point not to ask
too many questions while traveling in the more “rural” areas of Florida for the
rest of the trip.
I continued east on Hwy 98
and once south of Tallahassee, the road began to move away from the coast. I had
planned to ride down the east coast over the next few days, as on a previous
trip in 1996, I had ridden US1 and A1A north of Daytona at night and didn’t see
the area in daylight. I remembered thinking that it would be a nice ride, so
this was my next destination of the week. At the town of Perry, I pick up ALT 27
going east toward Gainesville. The scenery had now changed considerably from the
coastal areas. Straight stretches of road with the occasional marsh areas were
the order now, with traffic still very light. Although not a well-traveled route,
the low traffic volume is still a surprise to me. This being a holiday weekend I
expected heavier traffic along with the occasional DUI suspect, and it is a
welcome relief that I have encountered neither thus far.
The weather forecast was
for continued clear skies, and although better then riding in the rain, it
remained
hot. Even though I was moving at 65 mph, without the cooling breezes from the
gulf the air is warm and does not offer much in the way of cooling a body. It
wears you down a bit. Anticipating the heat, I had left my leathers at home and
brought a denim jacket, but it was too hot to wear even that, so I settled for a
long-sleeve heavy cotton shirt as protective clothing. Yeah, not much protection
I know, but wearing a denim jacket in the Florida summer is a sure bet on heat
stroke, so you make
concessions.
The stopping for gas,
drinks, and photographs has turned it into an nine-hour riding day, and around
8 PM I arrived in Gainesville in search of a hotel room. I picked out decent
looking lodging that has a pizza-and-beer joint right across the street, and
checked in. It had been long day, and after a cool shower, a couple of slices of
pizza and an equal number of beers, I called it a night.
Tuesday morning I
continued east toward the coast. I had planned the early part of the week
as riding days, with the idea of heading south along US1 and A1A, then to
meander west back across the state toward Ft Myers around
mid-week. I have family there, and they didn’t even know I was coming
(surprise!)
As the Intruder has no
gas gauge, so I use the trip odometer as an indicator of when I should fill the
tank – usually around 120 miles, and it was now showing about 100 miles. At Hwy 17 near Palatke, I
found a station and filled up, then picked up SR207 heading toward St. Augustine. The
riding in this area is a bit uninspiring, I guess you’d say. It is mostly
flat, straight stretches of two-lane highway with the occasional country store
or abandoned shack to break up the monotony. In the afternoon, high clouds blocked
the strongest rays of the sun, which cooled temperatures, and traffic was
nonexistent, making for a co mfortable, easy ride.
At St. Augustine, I found traffic and tourists. Well, it had to happen
sooner or later - this is prime vacation country after all. I pulled off into a
bank parking lot to take some quick photographs of Flagler College (a beautiful
building) and then continued east toward the coast. I had considered visiting
some of the local historical sites, as there are many here – most notably
Castillo de San Marcos, the Spanish fort built in the late 1600s - but there's a
bit of a mob scene there, so I settled for a few photographs then moved on. Within
30 minutes I had made my way out to A1A heading south toward Daytona.
Although there are
exceptions, when I am in the “traveling mode” I usually don’t make many stops
for sight seeing. On a "cruiser" style of motorcycle, everything you take with
you – clothes, camera, traveler’s checks, etc. – is strapped to the bike and
subject to weather… and of course, theft. This usually makes enjoying long stops
away from the motorcycle difficult, so I usually wait until I have checked into
a hotel for a few days and belongings safely locked in the room before doing
“leisure time” activities. More than that, protective clothing usually means you
are a little “overdressed” for walking around in the summer heat. Denim Jeans,
boots, and a long-sleeve shirt can be more than a little uncomfortable, and
riding in the wind is the best solution to that problem. Common sense stuff. You
miss a few things sometimes, but the ride’s the thing, and that's what I came
here to do.
A1A between St.
Augustine and Daytona is a nice ride. It is of course, straight and flat, but
serene. South of Daytona, much of the waterside real estate is bough t up and
filled with hotels, condos, beachside bars and restaurants, but up here large
stretches of waterfront are still undeveloped, with just sea oats and elevated
bridges over open spans of blue water and white sand. There’s something about
the colors that seem to quiet you inside. I make a quick stop to buy another
roll of film and walk out on an overpass to photograph an inlet to the Intracoastal Waterway, where less then a dozen people occupy a huge expanse of
beach.
A little north of Ormond
Beach, I stop at a beachside bar and grill for lunch. In front of the place an
older “beach type” has a four-post stand covered with canvas and a sign that
says Valet Parking in front. This strikes me as odd, as there are only a handful
of cars parked on the sand and certainly no need for someone
to jockey parking places on a Tuesday afternoon. My guess is that he is a “beach
entrepreneur” of sorts, maybe he’s worked out a deal with the owner, where a
less ambitious type can sit on the beach all day and have a beer or two, collect
a buck from each patron and make enough to pay rent. An envious lifestyle to
some, I guess. He directs me to where to park the bike, helpfully gets a flat
rock to place the kickstand on, and I say thanks and go inside. I’m glad there’s
someone watching things while I eat - no need to worry about the bike.
The waitress comes and I consider having a beer
with lunch, but reject that idea in favor of Sprite
and water – better choices for a hot day in general, and riding in particular.
Out in the back of the bar is a long expanse of deserted beach, which is as expected on a mid-week afternoon. Once again, I see
some opportunities
for good photographs – an unoccupied beach umbrella and chair at the water’s
edge, sailboats on the ocean, etc. I stand out on the back patio, camera in
hand, while I wait for lunch.
Outside again, I got the
valet to take a photo of me in front of the bike. I stuffed a few bucks in his tip
jar and off I went. Around Daytona it clouded up and A1A became a mess of traffic,
so in an effort to avoid the area I rode west away from the coast. At US1 I
decide to turn south again and after a few miles I see a sign that says ‘To
A1A’. I take it back out to the coast, only to ride for about 5 miles further
south before seeing a another sign saying “Road Ends”. It seems that A1A here
dead-ends at an upscale residential community at Ponce Inlet. I should have
consulted the map, I know, but if there’s a sign anywhere on this stretch
indicating that the road ends, I never saw it. It’s nice of the Florida DOT to
let you know that you’re going to run out of road five miles out of your way.
It was hot. I had been
riding about 6 hours, and the heat, the traffic, and the unexpected detour
had worn me down. The west coast of Florida is nice riding, but around Daytona
the east coast is really a mess, in this man’s humble opinion. I decided to ride
I-95 to avoid the entire area and make up the time of my unexpected detour.
Earlier I had thought about making it down to West Palm Beach to look up some
old friends there, but it had been a long day, and I needed to stop soon. At
Titusville I headed west on
SR50 toward Orlando, to get a room there for the night.
In Orlando I treated myself
to a very nice room at the Radison Hotel across from Universal Studios, showered, changed
clothes, and enjoyed a good meal. Revived now, I consider the
possibility for some evening’s entertainment. I asked a hotel clerk about Universal
Studios, but at a cost of 40 bucks admission and only the remainder of the
evening to explore it, I opted to skip that in favor of The Hard Rock Café,
within the same park complex. About 9 PM I rode over, only to see a
line of people about 100 feet long waiting to get in. I don’t think so. Looks
like I will have to settle for a cocktail in the hotel bar and maybe a decent
movie on HBO.
On Wednesday morning the
view to the west is overcast and gray. Orlando is still clear, but I know to
ride west means riding through rain, so I consult the map. To avoid the
inclement weather I would ride south through the middle of the state and make my way
west later in the day. It looks like the best route is I-4 west to 27 south,
then to 60 west to 17 south which will take me to Punta Gorda. It’s a race to
beat the rain, and for awhile I think I am going to lose, as I see the
occasional spattering of water on the windshield, but once on 17, the rain
clouds are gone.
Okay, so lets see central
Florida. Well, that’s why I avoid itineraries, especially on motorcycle trips -
you have to be prepared to improvise. Although I had avoided the rain, I have
also missed the blue waters of the gulf. Mid-state Florida below I-4 is very
rural, wide open and flat, with great expanses of farmland, savannas, and the
occasional small town. I wouldn’t call it boring - any trip like this is an
adventure - but I think that the state roads above Orlando are nicer rides. More
trees, hills, curves and scenery.
At last, 17 ended at Hwy
41 in Punta Gorda. The clouds gone, the sky blue and the sunshine
intense. It's a great looking little town, very clean with a lot of
Spanish style architecture – doorways crowned with arches, storefronts with
wrought iron gates and railings, and many buildings painted a coral or
light blue color. It is refreshing to the eye. I rode down Hwy 41 south to take
it all in, with the idea of getting a room on Ft. Myers Beach to visit with
family and explore the area for the rest of the week.
I spent the largest
portion of my childhood on the southeastern coast of Florida, in northern Dade
County, in the late sixties and early seventies. At that time, it was a decent
place for a kid to grow up. There was the ocean, of course, but there were also
inland fresh water lakes and canals in the area where I went swimming or boating
with friends. Also, there were large wooded areas of undeveloped land –
specifically where Joe Robbie Stadium is now located – where an abandoned car or
old shack would be the source of hours of entertainment for young imaginations.
It was called "The Ponderosa" when I was a kid. For the North Miami area, those days are gone. The real estate is now, for all
practical purposes, completely developed and the lakes and waterways have been
bought up and crowded with subdivisions that exclude all but the residents who
live there. Some of the Miami beaches now have a more “unseemly” feel, with many
areas given to topless sunbathing and the like. While possibly of interest to
some adults, this is certainly not an area for families or children. Since
moving to Atlanta, visits to this area have found the people increasingly
unfriendly and sullen, the crime rate higher, with the typical traffic
congestion of sprawling urban areas that surround big cities. Now, when I visit
the east coast, I don't often venture south of West Palm Beach.
The west coast,
however, reminds me of what Florida was like when I was a kid. The towns
are smaller and more peaceful, without traffic problems, the intense rush, or
the 'big city' attitude. There are still large areas of undeveloped land where a
moderate income can buy a decent sized piece of property and house at a
reasonable price. The beaches are clean and not crowded, and unlike the other
side of the state, devoid of high rise hotels and condominiums covering every
possible inch of waterfront. I hope I am wrong, but it is my guess that in
another 10 years it will no longer be this way. I imagine that both developers
and local governments view southeast Florida as played out, and are salivating
over this area, seeing it as the next Florida “resort” gold mine, complete with
an ever-expanding tax base.
Arriving in the Ft.
Myers area, I rode out to Sanibel Island, to see if there is a reasonably priced
room available anywhere in the area. Out here, it is perfect Florida living,
with stilt houses, low-key hotels and great restaurants, most with a perfect
view of the Gulf of Mexico. This is probably some of the highest priced real
estate in the entire state, but since the summer months are the “off season” in
Florida, I thought I might find something at a reasonable price. No such luck.
The going rate here is around 150 dollars a night, and at that price was a bit of a
‘budget buster’, so I headed back toward Ft. Myers Beach where I got a room at a
“resort” hotel for 79 dollars a night.
Everything on the beach here is a "resort hotel", but in this case the
"description" didn’t stand much scrutiny. The room is decent enough, but the two
sliding glass doors leading to a patio both have broken locks, and the shower
head dribbles water. Hmmmm… hardly what I’d call up to ‘resort’ standards. I called the
front desk to send up maintenance. A man comes in and struggles with the locks
for awhile, and goes back down to get a replacement for one. While he is gone, I
use his tools and repair the other. If I was on the second floor, I would
have felt a lot less comfortable about room security, but with the repaired
locks and being one floor up from from the ground, I figured it was okay. I
chose a hotel within walking distance from the area shops restaurants and clubs,
so that riding the bike for meals, entertainment, or running errands would be an option rather than a
necessity.
It was by now late Wednesday
afternoon. I was planning to start my return trip on Saturday morning, so I had
until then to relax do a little exploring of the area. I had been riding since
morning, and for the rest of the day I park and cover the bike. After some phone
calls to family and friends scattered throughout the lower half of the state
informing them of my arrival, I make plans with those who can make it to come
and “hang on the beach” with me for the day. As it works out, visits will be
spread out over the rest of the week. Later this evening, one brother and his
family will come out to have dinner with me at a local restaurant, so I have
some time to unpack, shower and unwind for a few hours.
As has been the case all
week, there were not a lot of vacationers in the area. I really expected larger
crowds and packed hotels, especially here. My later conversations with people
working at the local restaurants and clubs confirm that it has indeed been a
“slow year” for the area. For me this is both good and bad, as although the
lighter traffic volume makes for safer motorcycle travel, the lack of crowds
tends to take some of the fun out of t he nightlife scene.
Due to some good timing
and a few circuitous routes when necessary, I have to this point been able to
avoid any rain this week. I have my rain suit of course, but even when covered
and protected, riding in the rain is never enjoyable and I consider myself lucky
so far. Until my return trip begin s I have planned mainly to just take it easy
and enjoy the beach, and maybe take some rides in the local area. On Thursday,
intermittent light rain puts a “damper” on any riding plans, so I walk the beach
and enjoy family company.
Friday morning it is
clear with strong sunshine. A girl friend from my high school days has come to
visit, and we plan to ride out on Sanibel Island for the day. Both of us grew up
in South Florida, but until this week, neither of us had ever seen the area.
She has no helmet, so I
figure I will call a motorcycle shop and rent one for the day. A quick check in
the yellow pages finds no motorcycle shops in the local area, but there is a
place that rents scooters on the beach. I give them a call and when I ask about
renting a helmet, the woman who answers says that they don’t have helmets to
rent, but that I can borrow hers for the day… Amazing. I know that would never
happen on the east coast. She tells me her name, and to just ask for her when I
get there. I ride over to the shop and she just smiles and hands me the helmet.
No ID, nothing to sign, just “Here, have a great day…”
And we do. Sanibel Island is
really something. It is flat as a pancake and only inches above sea level. The
small island is full of native palm trees and tropical plants, and any
structures built seem designed to blend in as unobtrusively as possible with the
surrounding scenery. Trees overhang the minimal two-lane road that snakes
through Sanibel and it’s neighbor Captiva Island, and we wind through the curves
at a leisurely pace, taking it all in. Here there are no high rises,
condominiums, or any of the beach over-development typically found on the east
coast. It is a credit to the local government that zoning laws have prohibited
that here. Houses on stilts face the Gulf of Mexico, and small local grocery
stores and restaurants set back off the road and surrounded by trees and native
plants give the entire area an unspoiled 'Real Florida' feel.
We stop at a local “brew
pub” for a beer - made on the premises, of course - and later at a small
coral-colored grocery store to buy a couple of Florida lottery tickets (well…
someone has to win). As we rode, music from my high school days played on the
Sony Walkman through headphones I wear under my helmet. She wears a set too. It
is a near perfect day.
As the late afternoon
approaches, the sky turns an ominous gray, signaling the onset of the daily
mid-day thundershower. We headed back to the hotel and thankfully miss a
downpour by a few minutes. Later that evening, we came back to Sanibel in her
car with another brother in tow (yes, I have a large family) to have dinner in
an Italian style seafood restaurant. For obvious reasons, if not an outright
seafood restaurant, every dining establishment on the island offers a
combination of something with seafood. I had Mahi-Mahi and a side of pasta, and
the food was very good.
Saturday morning comes
quickly, and I pack and load the bike. I ride over to meet the brothers and their
families and my high school lady friend for breakfast at a local Cracker Barrel restaurant
before beginning the trip north. The weather is once again beautiful, but this
is Florida, and that can change in a few miles or minutes. The Weather Channel
showed a storm front around the Tampa area, so I expected to be riding through
rain at some point during the day. I enjoy the company and a light meal (heavy meals on hot days
are a bad riding combination), we said our goodbyes, and I was off.
Within fifty miles a
light rain starts. I continued to ride for a short while hoping it would quit, but eventually stopped under an overpass to put on my rainsuit. Now, a peculiar cycle
starts. As this is Florida, thunderstorms can start and stop in a matter of
minutes, and it seems every time I put on the rainsuit, it stops raining, and I
get hot and stop again to take it off. When I do, it rains again. I end up stopping
more than I wanted, finally deciding to leave the rainsuit on and just deal
with it. It becomes a moot point, however, as by the time I approach Tampa, the
rain has come to stay.
I had not planned to ride
through to Atlanta in one day, and know I will stop somewhere for the night. I
had planned my return route around riding conditions (pretty bad at that point) and
would ride until I got tired. The steady rain makes riding the coast and
sight-seeing an unappealing option, so I remained on I-75. I have a friend living in Tampa, and while making a stop for gas in the area, I
call but reach only an answering machine. I keep riding. North of Tampa, in
Brooksville, I stop again to try to call relatives who live there, but once
again no answer. Okay, so keep pushing north.
The rain didn't let up,
and by Gainesville, I had had enough. I had reached the midway point in the return
trip, and this was as good a place as any to stop. After the day's ride, all I wanted
was a hot
shower, a change of clothes and good meal, in that order. While having dinner in
the hotel's restaurant, I
see a sign in the lobby advertising live music in the lounge. The live music
turns out to be two marginally talented (in one man's opinion) acoustic guitar
players with a repertoire that consists of the same tired songs that I hear just
about every other marginal acoustic guitar duo playing. After half their set
I opt to call it a night.
I wake up early Sunday
morning, about 5:30 AM, and as long as I am up, figure I may as well make good
use of the time and get and early start. I checked out by 6:30,
and the sun had already been up a little over half-hour. A light fog had settled on the
road, but I figured – and accurately – that it would burn off as the sun rose.
There were sections of I-75 where visibility was limited to a few hundred
yards, but nothing dangerous to ride in.
Even with the fog, I could
see it would be a clear day. A high pressure system had moved in, and there was no
significant cloud cover from horizon to horizon. I picked an exit to get gas, and
hit McDonalds for breakfast and a large coffee. Since I had to be back in
Atlanta for work on Monday, and had about six hours of ride time if I stuck
to the highway, I decide to make it a straight shot back on I-75 to get home in
time to “unwind” before the start of the workweek. It was beautiful weather - a bit hot
at midday, of course - but with the good conditions and 70
mph speed limit I was home by 3 PM.
All in all, the trip was a pretty good one. The weather was mostly cooperative, with no mechanical
mishaps or even a hint of any evasive action necessary to avoid an errant
motorist, but I think there are a few things I’ll do differently next time:
I’ll plan on covering less ground. I think I would have enjoyed the trip more if
I would have ridden only the west coast and made more stops. On this trip, I
covered right at 2000 miles in 10 days, with most of that riding from Friday to Wednesday,
then on the return trip to Atlanta. While not overly taxing, if I had limited the trip to Destin and the
west coast, I would have covered less ground had more time to relax and to absorb
the flavor of the area.
I would have done this in a cooler part of the year. In December 1996, I did a
five-day tour of central Florida and the temperatures were in the sixties and
seventies, and cooler temperatures (but not cold) are a bit easier to deal
with than hotter.
Pack a little less. As usual, I try to plan for every contingency and emergency
situation, and although the bike was not overly weighted or difficult to handle,
I need to learn to have a more Spartan-like mindset when packing. I think I
could have gotten away with thirty percent less clothing than I brought. Bring
less and wear stuff more.
But I’ll tell you this, I will do this more often. When traveling by motorcycle
on backcountry roads and highways, you get so much more out of it than traveling
interstate highways by automobile. There is really no comparison between the two
experiences. I have been back to Florida many times since moving to Atlanta, and
although I grew up in the state, on this trip I think I have finally gotten
around to seeing some of The Real Florida.
© copyright 1998 - Philip A. Buonpastore |
