No Plans to Mile Zero, Day 3

Of Luggage, Panthers, and Relatives

Sun, Apr 15, 2012

Copyright (c) 2012, Jim Beachy

My BlackBerry has a “bedside” mode that turns off messaging notifications while displaying a digital nighttime clock.  At night, I set it into the charging cradle and use it as my bedside clock while traveling as well as at home.  The alarm I’ve been using starts out with a soothing rhythmic keyboard pad, out of which slowly emerges a more strident alarm that eventually morphs into a raucous BRAPPP!! BRAPPP!! BRAPPP!! that would strike terror into the heart of the most stalwart sleeper.

Said alarm has been sounding every morning at 6:00 AM but after my late-night walk on Duval Street last night, I’d decided to turn off the alarm and sleep in this morning.  So what’s this BRAPPP!! BRAPPP!! BRAPPP!! at 6:00 AM?  Apparently I’ve forgotten to turn it off!  I scramble out of bed and across the room to shut the thing off.  I fall back into a light and fitful half-sleep, dreaming of having left my luggage somewhere but only discovering it several days and thousands of miles later with no idea where I’d last seen it.

 Eventually, frustrated with trying to remember where I’d left my luggage, I get up and find my entire luggage intact, present, and accounted for.  I pack up - very carefully!  Today I’m wearing my favorite T-shirt:  “Temporarily out of service.”  Kitty gave it to me some years ago and it’s getting a little worn and faded with use but it’s still my favorite.

I walk to the next-door restaurant for breakfast and learn that it doesn’t open for an hour today, when a breakfast buffet is served.  Meanwhile, I’d wanted to get a few photos of the bike at several locations, an activity much more suited to Key West Sunday-morning sleepiness than Saturday-night Duval Street craziness.  So I decide to skip breakfast and get some shots before striking out for the day.  I’ll catch breakfast later.  I ride to the actual US Route 1 Mile Marker 0, shoot a few pictures, and then it’s off to the marker for the Southernmost Point in the US.  There’s very little traffic and I have no problem parking the bike in the street to get a few shots, except the Southernmost Point is already overrun with people posing for pictures, so I can’t get a shot where the lettering is actually visible behind the bike.

At a little before 10:00 AM I’m departing Key West without a real plan for the day.  I know I need to be home three days from now but a plan for the intervening ride hasn’t been formed.  Yesterday’s flag-tattering wind has departed to other climes and the morning is calm and pleasant for a T-shirt and jacket ride.  While the beautiful green and turquoise Gulf waters pass leisurely by on either side, I contemplate some riding options.  My niece and husband, whose son’s birthday party was the original impetus for getting the time off for this trip, live in Tampa.  My old friend Grumpy, who’s not grumpy at all, and his wife Happy, live in the lake country of central Florida.  Either or both of these might be candidates for a brief stop.

Solo Guy doesn’t actually need a plan to enjoy the day, so he rides from Key West without a plan except heading generally homeward, which is, generally speaking, northward. 

Solo Guy eats when he is hungry; so on Vaca Key, I stop for a fast-food breakfast break.  When I return to the bike, I’m startled to see a moderate puddle of water directly under the front of the engine.  What?!!  I test it with the tip of my forefinger, rub finger and thumb together, give it a sniff, and then a little taste.  It’s just water.  No antifreeze, no oil, just water.  It’s apparently someone’s idea of a little practical joke:  The water appeared to have been carefully poured to avoid splashing and to look like something that would have drained from the engine.  Oh, clever prankster, how you fill my heart with joy!

On my ride to and from Key West, I’ve observed many interpretations of motorcycle riding.  Some ride in flip-flops, shorts, and tank tops without helmets.  Some pay the price:  The guy who checked me into the Eden House observed my jacket, jeans, and boots, and gave a wry smile and a definite limp as he showed me his surgically-repaired foot, the casualty of a low-speed motorcycle accident while wearing flip-flops.  Some ride in full leather suits, colorful and protected regardless of the temperature, and full-face helmets.  Others, like myself, have minimum standards such as a helmet (mine has always been a full-face model), jeans, and boots, with varying degrees of acceptance for upper-body protection.  I normally wear a leather jacket if it’s not too hot, at least a long-sleeved shirt; but I never feel as content as when in my black leather jacket.

In one of the towns on the Keys, I come to an easy stop at a red light and study an advertisement for a radiology clinic.  “Broken foot?” the blue sign asks in giant white letters.  “Come in now – Walk-ins Welcome!”  Think about it.

Sometimes Solo Guy listens to music of whatever type he can find, or that suits his fancy of the moment.  On this trip, save for one radio weather report and the occasional CB conversation with a trucker, Solo Guy has enjoyed many hours of solitude and silence in the still-air cocoon of the Gold Wing’s fairing.  Silence – hours and hours of it - helps to sort out the voices in his head and clarifies the ones that really matter.  Only on the Wing and the Long Road would Solo Guy be content with such prolonged periods of silence.  Silence is golden.  But today he wants some music in his headset.

I find a gem of a radio station, 102.7 FM, call sign “Pirate Radio,” that accompanies me for the entire ride through the Keys and beyond.  It’s a kind of “acoustic Indie” station, playing off-track deep acoustic cuts that I’ve never heard before, and never knew existed.  There are acoustic cuts of classic tunes from the Rolling Stones, Aerosmith, Stealer’s Wheel, even from contemporary artists like Kelly Clarkson.  The funky, laid-back acoustic rhythms fit my mood as I begin to envision what the rest of my remaining three days should look like.

At my noon-time fuel stop in Key Largo, I spontaneously decide to ride the Tamiami Trail (State Route 41) westward along the northern edge of the Everglades, hard along the ruler-straight Tamiami Canal, and through the Great National Cypress Preserve.  It will be my fourth trip along this road and will put me along the Gulf Coast of Florida and in position to see my niece or Grumpy.  Mostly, though, I have to admit that the primary reason for this choice is to see my favorite road sign:  “Panther Crossing.”  Solo Guy revels in small pleasures.

In Homestead I catch Rt. 997 and ride northward through Florida’s plant nursery.  The slow-speed highway is lined with coconut palms, large fields of brightly colored flowers, palm trees for export to more northern climates, and date palms filled with large, luscious black clusters that to my untrained eye appear nearly ready for harvest.  It almost makes up for the slow, one-lane traffic.

The Miami suburbs are about 15 miles away and loom dangerously close on the GPS screen as I turn west at the junction and am pleasantly surprised to find that the Tamiami Trail through the Everglades and the Cypress Preserve has been radically upgraded since my last trip here.  Then, it was bumpy and the speed limit as I recall was 50; now, except for construction during the eastern-most 10 miles or so, it is wide, smooth, plumbline-straight, and with a speed limit of 60.  I enjoy the miles of swamplands and sawgrass that eventually give way to cypress trees draped with Spanish moss.  At any moment I expect to see an alligator (“Cuidado - cocodrillo!” the Spanish-speaking attendant at Eden House had warned this morning) sliding out of the canal – I know they’re in there, I’ve seen them, but see none today and I don’t stop at the visitor’s center.

The “Panther Crossing” signs are still there to amuse me, and after riding for nearly four hours and 201 miles, a good bit of it at 45 m.p.h. or less, I’m ready for a break at my fuel stop near Punta Gorda.  It’s been the hottest day so far, with a temperature of about 85F.

I decide I’ll stop to see my niece in Tampa, and I call my friend Grumpy, to whom I’d sent a warning email, to tell him I won’t be able to stop there this trip – my arrival would be much too late for a self-professed “8:30 bedtime” retiree!  “It’s hard being retired,” he says.  “You never get a day off.”

I have only an address for Beth in my contact list, but I locate the address in my GPS and let it generate a route.  It takes me over the famous Sky Bridge, a breathtakingly beautiful bridge whose highway appears to end in mid-air at the top of the bridge.  It seems that a 200-foot plunge into the bay is in the immediate future for Solo Guy!  American Jill leads me right to Beth’s house, and after spending an hour visiting with the family, I’m on my way northward by about 6:30 PM.

A hundred yards after I scan the street and pull out, I see a flash of blue from behind a parked van and realize someone is backing a dark blue Honda Accord out of their driveway at a high rate of speed!  I’m not traveling fast, probably 20 m.p.h., but because of the van neither of us is able to see the other until the last millisecond.  I push the left handlebar sharply forward to countersteer the big bike to the left, and the dark blue bumper flashes by my right-side saddlebag with what looks like inches to spare but is probably several feet as the driver sees me just in time and jams on the brakes.  I continue to ride slowly up the street and swivel my head for a brief look back.  The driver is immobile, frozen motionless, and as I turn the corner at the next intersection, the car has not moved an inch.  It was a near thing.  Another reminder for constant vigilance – not all dangers lurk among big intersections or 70-m.p.h. freeways.

Solo Guy decides to ride until darkness, hunger, and the need for fuel coincide.  This happens sometime around 9:00 PM near Ocala, Florida, and I find a hotel with restaurants nearby.  It’s been another day of a little over 500 miles, much of it at slow street speeds.

I clean and cover the Wing, and after walking to a restaurant and finding a nice rack of ribs, I’m ready for a good night’s sleep.  I set the alarm for 6:30 AM.

GPS Statistics:

Overall speed 44.3 mph; Moving speed 56.8 mph
Overall time 11:26; Moving time 8:54
Distance 506 miles

GPS Track, Day 3