Ribbon of Highway - Route 1 - Leg 4 2012

Leg 4

Florida

February 2-6, 2012

Thursday, February 2

Back to Boca in February – what a trial! This will be a short leg because so many things are going on that I have to wedge it in so that the BMW will be staged in Ponte Vedra for Leg 5 in March to NOLA. I had originally planned to cut across the peninsula to Sarasota (lovely town - lots of art, beaches, beautiful harbor, great restaurants, Armand Circle and beaches), but that’s 230 miles across and even more up he Gulf Coast and then back across up to Jacksonville, pretty hard riding for an old geezer like me, so I may forego circumnavigating the circumference of the peninsula and just take a leisurely wander up to St. Augustine. It is actually quite liberating to not know exactly where you are going or where you are going to stay. It is a microcosm of what this ride is supposed to be all about. Our lives are too organized, too scheduled out, every detail planned with appointments and reservations. Very efficient but limiting. Spontaneity is all about what is not scheduled. I’m looking forward to not knowing exactly what I’m going to do or where the next few days, just seeing what happens.

Aided and abetted by extremely mild winter weather,

Occupy Wall St.

is still with us. I think it’s a toss up whether we are all more sick of them or the Republican primary debates. I wish the presidential hopefuls would quit taking pot shots at each other and focus on what they intend to do to fix this mess the country is in. O’Bummer isn’t any better, telling us of his latest fairytale about how he is going to fix the housing crisis (again) with a new bail-put program for underwater homeowners. Same old same old, more money form Uncle Sam will make everything better.  Instead of sound bites and debates about open marriage, I wish candidates would give us some real information so we can decide who will be the better leader and which plan we like best – isn’t that what voters are supposed to do?

At least meatier topics are in the news now. The Keystone Pipeline has become a political football, O’Bama catering to the environmentalists who claim that this pipeline running through Kansas and Nebraska will be a disaster (have you ever seen a map of all the pipelines that already criss-cross this country? I have a natural gas pipeline that runs 200 yards form my house!). But I don’t think that’s really the issue. This oil comes from Canadian oil sands. It’s a new source of petroleum. We have huge reserves in oil sands and oil shale that we have not exploited. The environmentalists don’t want to go down the oath of extracting oil form the oil sands or the oil shale. Cutting off that source of carbon based fuel is more important to them than energy independence from the sheiks (they would rather pursue ghettos of mirrors in our deserts and forest of windmills across our mountains, seas and plains), and anything that would bring down the price of gasoline pushes us further form that Holy Grail. Thousands of jobs in the middle of a depression (ooh, dast I say it?)? Sorry guys, green energy is more important than your paycheck. This impasse is symptomatic of what is wrong with our country today: we are roughly split down the middle and can’t agree on much of anything. Rather than finding solutions, politicians on both sides take positions. It doesn’t matter which side of this debate you are on, we have the resources, intelligence and capability to resolve it, but we don’t. There is nothing wrong with this country that isn’t the fault of and could not be cured by 545 people in Washington. That is why our “representatives” have such crappy approval ratings.

Hey, some good news I bet you weren’t aware of! A little known trigger provision in our laws since 1990 automatically cut off the U.S. funding of UNESCO (22% of UNESCO’s budget) when UNESCO voted 107-14 to approve full membership for Palestine! I wonder why we haven’t heard more of this? I also wonder if somebody found a back door way to make up the difference to UNESCO?

Will the Euro collapse and send the world into depression? Will Israel attack Iran to destroy its nuclear weapon capability – a threat that has been both well known and credible for well over a decade and which nobody, not Clinton, not Bush, not O’Bummer, had the foresight, balls and fortitude to address? Will Iran retaliate with a bio-terrorist attack in the US? More importantly, will the Patriots or the Giants win the Superbowl Sunday? And most immediately, where will I sleep tonight?

I stay in the casita of some friends in Boca. They are so generous. They give me my own little house next to their pool. They kept my bike in the garage for a month and a half, picked me up at the airport, even went out to Starbucks at 6 a.m. this morning to get me a Grande and heated up some black cherry pie for breakfast, while I was on a conference call to China. I am so grateful to have friends like this all over the country – really, all over the world. I don’t know how I would pull off this serial Odyssey without warm hearted people like them!

Friday February 3

Got a late start today. Combination of weather, raining a little in the morning, and suddenly a lot of work that needed tending to. Never fails, does it? I spend 80% of my days rattling around an empty office with nobody contacting me about anything, and then day I try to slip away suddenly the roof falls in. I finally get on the road a little after lunch, take the Camino Real to

Ocean Boulevard

, and after a quick stop at the Boca beach, head North to Palm Beach. The rain has been pretty much blown out to sea by a “cold’ front coming through, so its partly sunny and in the 70’s – perfect riding weather.

Today I drove 36 miles up the coast and except for a few hundred yards at Briny Breezes in Gulf Stream, I’ll bet I didn’t pass one residence that cost less than $250,000 – and those were the less expensive condos. (You know you are among the condos without looking past the sidewalks, as they are full of people in their 70’s and 80’s out for their exercise walks. No walking in the malls here, no sir – but the strides are the same!). For the houses, my guess is you start at $500,000 and add zeros.

It just blows me away how much wealth there is in this country, and Palm Beach is the land of he wealthiest. Along this stretch, you start in the out-of-reach neighborhoods, full of Italianate mansions with sweeping staircases, balconies, 30 foot glass windows, and even turrets, many with porticos to drive into bricked courtyards around huge fountains, all screaming “look at me! I’ve made it! I’m rich, aren’t you impressed?” then you ease into the really-rich neighborhoods, where there are so many gated entrances to the grounds that they have to be labeled “Exit Only” and “Service,”  sprinkled among ocean front golf courses all marked “PRIVATE.” Of course, everything is impeccably manicured by dozens of Hispanics all wearing the same blue uniform shirts. Its probably illegal to drive a dirty car in these communities. But then you get into the unimaginably-wealthy neighborhoods where it’s all about concealing the palaces behind the walls. This is the land of the Kennedys, the Flaglers, and the Lauders. You can’t see in, by design. High walls, and smartly trimmed hedges as high as 20 feet, and when there is an entrance, there is likely an ornate landscape feature that you have to drive around. I saw 2 Rolls Royces,  a Bentley, a Bugatti and a Ferrari all inside of 30 minutes. Kind of put my struggle ever whether to spend a few thousand dollars to put some new hard wood floors in our living room into perspective…and reminded me of why I left New England so many years ago. The haves have so much that even when you make it to the one percenters you can still barely see the foothills behind which starts the climb of Alps of to the truly wealthy. At my boarding school a very nice guy across the hall, below average student but very nice guy, got 40 acres and the house of his choice in Litchfield County, Connecticut as his high school graduation present. High school. I got $100. And a week later, I spent that on my first New Haven Railroad monthly commuter ticket into New York for my summer job, while he was on the Grand Tour of Europe. Hey, you can’t blame him for being born into wealth, but I could sure blame myself if I stuck around to rub my nose in it. Besides, we all swim in the same ocean and soak up the same sun, he doesn’t drink any better Scotch than I do, and the girls I dated were better looking and much more fun!

So I’m glad I made that drive, it was beautiful in its own way, but I won’t be hurrying back. And tonight I’m sleeping in a nice little bed and breakfast right across the street from the beach, managed by a very cute gay couple. What could be better than that?

And so to prove the point to myself, for dinner I had a Hendricks martini and stone crab while overlooking the surf. It doesn’t  get any better than that! J

Saturday, February 4

I doubt any of the gazillionaires in Palm Beach woke up to a “continental”
breakfast of toast-your-own bagel, jam and cream cheese in little plastic tubs, a selection of Yoplait, and coffee and orange juice in paper cups. Reality over a cup of java.

Leaving the breathtaking coast line of Palm Beach, I headed West on 98/441 into a different kind of Florida. It did not take long for the mansions to end, and after a brief ride through the-big-mall-area-in every-US-suburb, it gives way to public housing projects. I pass a big and busy Paintball field. Whenever you see paintball businesses, you know you are on land that nobody wants!

A big road sign says West Palm Beach County, Gateway to the Glades. Pretty soon I am doing 75 in the middle of vast sugar cane fields, stretching to the horizon in all directions as far as the eye can see. This is not mid-west farm land. No houses, no gas stations, no trees, no barns, no villages, no country stores at cross roads, no nothing except drainage canals and sugarcane fields and big tractors. I’ve read of this, but the reality is startling. Where are the glades? This is a modern day corporate plantation, one vast agro-engineering project. Whenever you see workers, incongruously they are wearing orange hard hats, OSHA gone stupid again. The black guys are in the ditches and on the tractors, the white guys are in the pick up trucks. The soil is some of the blackest, richest I have ever seen.

Touring by motorcycles is a lot like riding horses for long distances. Its difficult to have a conversation, people ask me what do you do? You are mostly alone with your thoughts while very much in your environment, breathing sweet flower smells when you cross a slough or the distinctive smell of cane burning with an intensity you can’t have in a car, feeling the rain drops if it starts to sprinkle, buffeted by gusts of wind, and of course no “climate controlled” temperature. It is not an activity to escape from yourself. For hours at a time, you think about where you are going, where you have been, what you have done, what’s going on around you, what you wish to do. You have time to turn things over and look from different perspectives, and to work out a lot of thorny problems. You may ride your motorcycle away from something or to some excitement, but in between you learn a lot about yourself. If you are afraid of introspection, don’t ride!

Finally a building. A big sign says

Sugar House Road

, and steam is rising from the huge corrugated steel sugar mill. And large institutional building at a crossroad, which turn out to be state buildings. One says medical center but the look like prison compounds. There are large shed that look like field equipment repair facilities, and then a small neighborhood of single story concrete houses painted pink. I turn North on 441 toward Lake Okeechobee. I’ve always wanted to see this huge lake, sitting in the middle of the amps of Florida surrounded by the Everglades.

I am soon disappointed. I pull into Pahokee, according to the map on the shores of Lake Okeechobee. The first thing I see is a group of idle young black men clustered around a dusty building that says Discount Liquor. (I wonder, have you ever seen a liquor store that says Expensive Liquor?). A sign proudly says Pahokee is the home of Ricky Jackson, Hall of Famer – sorry, don’t recognize him. A strapping young black man with chiseled shoulders is walking along the shoulder of the road, and the first thing that springs to mind is “field hand.” Run down trailer homes are interspersed with Pahokee Housing Authority concrete public housing and old tumbledown wooden shotgun houses on stilts. Pickups out number cars 6 to 1. Old black women in dumpy non-descript dresses push old grocery carts down the sidewalks accompanied by young teenage girls in skin tight shorts, the past walking next to the future and it all looks the same. I also see a mixed couple, black man and white woman, proof that despite the poverty this is still the equal opportunity New South. Downtown, more groups of black men drinking beer and from sacks in empty lots next to empty buildings, only these guys are old. It’s easy to tell the white part of town, but it isn’t Palm Beach, either. The nicest building in Pahokee is the sheriff’s office. If you’ve come to Pahokee, you’ve pretty much come to the end of the line.

Palm Beach, Pahokee. The contrast is too stark. It’s wrong. If I had to live in Pahokee, I’d be a Democrat, too.

I drive along

Lake Okeechobee Road

, and

Lake Shore Drive

, and don’t see the lake. In fact, I drive on 441/98 all the way to Okeechobee and never see the lake except once. The lake is behind a fifty mile long, fifty foot high dike, with limited access allowed every ten or 20 miles. On the West side of the road, dike. On the East side of the road, a small strip of what I imagine used to be the landscape, with an occasional home on stilts that has seen better days, with those drained farm fields stretching behind them. The only place I see the lake is on top of a big overpass crossing a flood control channel, where you can see over the dike to a gigantic bathtub of water. Everything about it says “impoundment.” Thank you, Army Corps of Engineers. The lake is like the Great Lakes in that it is so big you can’t see the other side. No islands, no primitive waters blending into channels though marshes and hammocks choked with fronds and palm trees and everglades at an ill defined shoreline. Just a bath tub with a dusty rocky rim. The “

Lake Okeechobee Scenic Route

” is a bad joke.

Even more pathetic is the rim of water that surrounds the dike at its base. There is maybe 200 yards between Route 441 and the dike, and in this stretch a channel maybe 50 feet wide, with boat lunches at every access point to the dike. The first time I saw a For Sale, Waterfront sign, I laughed out loud. Then I saw enough of them to realize they were serious! Houses back up to it, and pretty soon I am in RV Park Heaven. What’s even more surprising, the crummy little parks are full! Why? What’s here worth a vacation? The bass fishing must be very good. I suppose if the only comparison is Pahokee, this could pass as Palm Beach. And right in the midst of all this, I pass a sign that says “Polo Event Today”, and gates that direct in spectators with another for trailers to some polo field off behind some trees far from the highway. I’m clearly missing something. Go figure.

I cut North at Okeechobee. It’s the first real town I have been through since West Palm Beach, unless you count Pahokee. Chain stores, gas stations, a Holiday Inn, and family restaurants with all you can eat buffets for $8. Lots of Indians, which isn’t surprising as there is a reservation just to the West. From Okeechobee North, the landscape changes. This is horse and cattle country, real eastern cowboy country. I pass one ranch that advertises “Cattle, Citrus and Catfish.” Ranch after ranch with flat spreading pastures dotted with Angus and Herefords, and the local high school mascot is the Brahman. I would think I was in Kansas except for the palm trees. The ride becomes quite beautiful, with those palm trees gradually giving way to live oaks draped in Spanish Moss, and then more and more of the Southern Pines. I have an up close and personal encounter with a big and gorgeous bald eagle that flies up not ten feet next to me when I disturb its feast on some road kill. Close up look at its big hooked yellow beak, white head and black and white wings and body, simply awesome! Later I pass an intersection that seems to be in the middle of nowhere, but there’s a pickup parked there with two little girls sitting behind tables, while two men in cowboy hats, probably their fathers lean against the pick up truck and chew the fat. The back of the pick up is full of boxes, and a big hand lettered sign says “Girl Scout Cookies.” I should have taken a picture!

Where 441 heads West to Tampa, I cut back over to the Coast, and winding up SR 490 and SR520 to I90. Very pretty. A few miles on the Interstate to Titusville, then over to the Martin Island Wildlife Refuge North of Cape Canaveral. This is worth the detour. Finally a barrier island that is not all high rises and fast food joints. The road is a pretty  park way though what I imagine what the Florida Coast would be like in the wild. It compensates a little for the

Lake Okeechobee Scenic Route

, although it is a little disconcerting to see all the Waterfowl Hunter Access signs in a wildlife refuge....

I accidentally explore new Smyrna Beach until I figure out you can’t get to Daytona Beach from there without a boat! There is a little thing called Rose Bay and Spruce Creek in between. So with an interesting little detour, I again across the intra-coastal on the Silver Beach Bride to “The Most Famous Beach in the World”, Daytona Beach. I’ve been by it many times, but never stayed here, so I say what the h and go right to the heart of it, Main Street, the Pier and the civic auditorium and get a room at The Hilton, with a room on the 9^th floor overlooking the beach. You can open the doors and listen to the surf, and the Slingshot is right outside my window. Two people sit in a cage and are slung about 150 feet straight up into the air between two steel towers, and then free-fall back toward earth, head over heels, bouncing up again and over on two big bungee cords amidst lots of screaming and laughing. Very cool.

The beach lives upThe beach lives up to its hype. Great rolling breakers, wide smooth hard packed sand. I wander up and down it with some Gentleman Jack on ice in a paper cup, and am quite content to take it all in while getting bleary. Several groups of Chinese (!) tourists laughing and making one legged poses in the water for their friends to take photographs the way only the Chinese do, one girl sitting down in the waves fully clothed. Why don’t they just wear bathing suits like everybody else? The hotel is overrun with girls volleyball teams who must be in town for some kind of tournament, so of course there is a shortage of beach towels and the hot tubs are choked rim-to-rim with 15 year olds. But it’s all fun. Maybe I’ll come back during bike week some year, totally different crowd and totally different kind of fun! Dinner of spiced boiled shrimp and fried fish at a local institution called the Ocean Deck – wonderful! - and then to bed early after a great day’s ride!

Sign of the Day? Has to be a toss up. “West Palm Beach County, Gateway to the Glades”, “

Lake Okeechobee Scenic Route

”, or “Waterfront Property For Sale.” Sad.

Sunday, February 5, 2012

On a whim, left Daytona Beach to the tunes of Celtic music, bagpipes and fiddles, driving North to Ormond Beach and then East on 40. I debated whether to go up the coast on AIA, which is a pretty ride, but been there, done that so I decided on the inland route.

I come to a stoplight by a small cemetery with an old archway that reads Pilgrims Rest. Right by the road is an old tomb with FATHER in big block letters, and a small Confederate battle flag. I notice three or four rounded brick tombs rising from the dirt a little further back, also with the Confederate battle flags, and then I quickly survey the rest of the cemetery. I can see several more graves with the memorial flags. This must have been an astoundingly high percentage of the able-bodied white male population of Ormond Beach back in 1865. Still being remembered.

After the now-familiar Florida pattern of expensive waterfront, decaying but renovating old city on the mainland side of the intracoastal, followed by subdivisions and large shopping centers, the I-95 corridor, and then newer subdivisions on the far side, 40 quickly gives way to piney woods and horse farms. This is real horse country, with ranchettes, equestrian centers, and cross roads named Pinto, Appaloosa and Rodeo. The ranches phase out, and I am soon riding through a pine forest. The temperature is in the low seventies and the aroma of pine needles is strong. HOG radio 95.7 is blasting Bon Jovi, Rock and Roll Fantasy, Bad Company, Bob Seeger and the Silver Bullet Band, A Long Way, Detroit Wheels, Santana, the Grateful Dead.  Couldn’t resist, gotta swerve the bike back and forth a little bit while listening to the music, head bobbing to the beat! Life is good.

Lots of other bikers are out this early Sunday morning. Most of them are older guys, some of the more hippie types sporting big white beards. Maybe its because the motorcycle romance of the freedom of the open road created by Marlon Brando, Steve McQueen and Captain America in Easy Rider has not translated to the post 60’s generations. Maybe it’s because only the older guys have the money to buy these big road bikes and the free time to get out on the road. There are more and more women riders, too, and fewer and fewer look butchy. That’s great for them, but I’d much rather have my “lady” behind me, thighs on each side of mine where I can reach out and stroke them and squeeze a knee, or lean back and feel her chest pressed against me, maybe even get a back scratch or a neck rub. J That’s two-up riding!

I am now clearly in English Florida. Rivers named Halifax and St. John’s, lakes named George. Pulling into Barberville, I have to stop and take a photo of an old house converted into a store that features the largest collection of cast bronze garden statuary that I have ever seen, anywhere. Elephants, moose, Indians, children in donkey carts, acres of the stuff. How does a store like that make it in Barberville?

And past Barberville, a warning sign – bear crossing. Cool!

I pass up turning North on Route 17 that cuts between Lake George and Crescent Lake in favor of Route 19. hey are both marked as Florida Scenic Highways, but 19 seems to skirt up the West shore of Lake George. I’m hoping to catch views of the water turn.

NOT. Never even a glimpse of the lake from the highway! But I do turn into a public recreation area at Silver Springs. What jewel! Hardly anybody there. I had heard often a bout canoeing to beautiful cold freshwater springs that bubble up in the Florida forests, but I have never done that or seen one. This was fantastic. Much larger than I expected, you could see the billows of freshwater rippling the surface as the water continuously rises through four feet of crystal clear water. The photographs do not do the colors of the water justice. You can see the fish like they are in aquarium, and you can wade right in and swim with them. Some kind of merganser or duck suddenly surfaced. What a great place to spend and afternoon picnic with friends.

While there, I meet some fellow bikers from Canada, a couple from New Brunswick to be exact. They have hauled their big Honda down in a toy hauler, then they ride around in big looping runs. He is jealous of the BMW, says he love his Honda but always wanted a Beemer. We swap stories about where we have been and where we are going. They are doing something very similar to me, traveling the United States before they get too old and decrepit to no longer be able to do it. They spend 2 months at a time, then drive their truck and trailer back up to winter. Last year they did Texas, this year Florida. They gave me some tips about good and not so interesting places to ride in Nova Scotia, and were terribly enthusiastic about the ride around the Gaspe Peninsula in Quebec, felt it was even better than the Cabot Trail around Cape Breton Highlands at the top of Nova Scotia. I resolved to add it to my itinerary. Nice people. We wished each other well and went our separate ways.

Despite never seeing Lake George, Route 19 is a very pretty drive. I pass a fair grounds advertising bull riding and barrel racing, Saturday night, Shoot, I just missed it – that I would have gone to!  Definitely big ranch and cowboy country.

I cut back over to the coast and St. Augustine at Palatka. As I enter the oldest town in the United States, I pass the Showboat carwash. This is real Americana. Nowhere else but the lazy car-crazy culture of American do you have a car wash made to like a floating palace! Think about it, to wash you car all you need is a bucket of soapy water, a rag or sponge and a garden hose. Doing it in the driveway at home on a hot Sunday afternoon is fun! Instead, we pay $5 to drive some mechanical monster that does a lousy job but in twice the time – and this mechanical monster is made to look like a Mississippi Riverboat sternwheeler. I recall having seen a Whale of a Wash someplace where  you could pretend to be Jonah as you drove your car into a gigantic whale. Drive-ins that look like hamburgers. Heck, the Oscar Mayer Weinermobile. This is America! I resolve right then and there to begin taking photos of all these icons of the fading American car culture. Drive-ins and car washes! My motorcycle odyssey now has a new mission!

I stay at the Bay Front Hilton, right on the Mantanzas River across the street from the Lions Bridge. This is one of my favorite Hiltons anywhere. Its architecture blends right in with the old buildings on either side but inside of course it’s all the up to date modern amenities. The last time I stayed here Coachmen, ironically also on a Super Bowl weekend – ancient history, now!

I walk a block to the Acapulco Mexican restaurant right across the street from the old Spanish Fort where Geronimo was imprisoned. I get a table outside on the second floor balcony overlooking the fort and the bay. Acapulco has the best freshly made guacamole anywhere. That and a couple of beers are lunch. What next to do in this city? Stroll the streets and poke around curio shops and art galleries? Done the Ripley’s Believe it or Not Museum and even the Alligator Farm with the albino alligator! Know the neighborhoods and the campus of Flagler College, I found something I had yet to do – Villa Zorayda. Greta choice. A wealthy aristocrat from Boston with decided to build his summer home in St. Augustine in the early 1900’s, and he constructed a 1/10 scale replica of the Moorish Alhambra Palace in Granada Spain. It was the structure of that architectural style built in St. Augustine and it led to the building of Casa Monica and all the luxury hotels and building in the same style, giving the city the character that it has today. Villa Zorayda is really fascinating. It has been a private home, a private club, a speakeasy, a casino and now, a museum filled with priceless antiquities, including the Scared Cat Rug – 2,400 years old, 4 feet long and woven entirely of Egyptian cat fur from the Nile. A several hundred year old 3-D carving of Columbus. All kinds of weird and wonderful stuff, and the house is cool all by itself!

Cajun dinner of gumbo, blackened red fish, red beans and rice listening to live acoustic guitar at Harry’s, then watch a little of the Giants beating the Patriots.

Sign of the Day, on a church outside of Ormond Beach:  “A dusty Bible leads to a dirty life.” Well, there you have it.

Monday February 6

Over breakfast, I read an article in the Wall Street Journal, “No Need to Panic about Global Warming.” I’ve read a lot of books about global warming in the last few years. I believe in climate change -  hey, we had woolly mammoths before wine grapes were grown in England and Greenland wasn’t called green because it was covered with ice - I am just very skeptical that we as humans have a lot of causative effect, i.e., blame. I am suspicious of the science behind “carbon footprints.” Sounds like a modern day Bogeyman to me, a justification to force people to do things they otherwise would not do. And then here is this article, signed by 16 scientists of really impressive pedigrees saying “Enough!, we will no longer be intimidated into silence – the world is NOT flat!” A Nobel Prize winning physicist, apparently a supporter of O’Bama in the last election, recently resigned from the American Physical Society “because I cannot live with the [APS] policy statement: The evidence is incontrovertible: Global warming is occurring…We must reduce emissions of greenhouse gases beginning now.” The article cites the “inconvenient facts” that there has been no global warming for the last decade and much smaller than computer model predicted warming over the last 22 years. They go on to detail scientists who have been treated as heretics and viciously attacked for the heresy of questioning global warming dogma. Interesting. Sounds like the history of another religion… Oh, well, it’s been in the mid to high 70’s and great riding weather in North Florida in February. Who am I to complain? God grant me the wisdom not to worry about things I can do nothing about…

Just a skip up the road this morning to Ponte Vedra on AIA, across the bridge to Vilano Beach and then up the coast through Guana River State Park. As many times as I have done this ride, I always look forward to doing it again – it is one my favorite stretches of roads anywhere in the U.S. of A.

550 miles. Short and sweet. I park the bike again in a friend’s garage, and after coffee and pleasantries, head for the airport.

Ribbon of Highway - Route 1 - Leg Three 2011

Leg 3

Florida – Atlantic Coast

December 16, 2011

Jacksonville to Key West is ballyhooed as the ultimate

Florida Road

trip, down the entire Atlantic Coast. I have done most of it before, but by car. This time by bike, more fun but much harder on el katukkus, and I will make it all the way to Key West and then have to come back up to Boca Raton to store the Beemer for the next leg. My plan is to get a head start by staying the first night 45 miles down the road in St. Augustine, and leaving from there in the early morning.

St. Augustine the oldest city in the United States and a true jewel of a place, one of my absolute favorites, full of myth and history, art galleries, museums, quaint streets, boutique hotels and buildings, an old fort, the Bridge of Lions over the harbor, fabulous restaurants, fun bars, Flagler College, and adjacent to beautiful beaches, wild marshes, great fishing and often overrun by tourists.

So much for planning. I get into Jacksonville late and stay with friends in Ponte Vedra, which is a beautiful town in itself and of course very hospitable of my friends, as well as great fun. Gregg and I stay up past midnight finishing off a bottle of wine and solving the problems of the world – but this does put me a little behind the 8 ball starting out later the next morning from further North! Oh well, what are friends for?

Late or not, it feels great to be on the road and back in the saddle again, and one of my favorite drives is down AIA from Ponte Vedra to St Augustine. I must have driven this stretch close to a hundred times, and I never tire of it. The weather cooperates, too. The sun breaks out for a while to highlight the textures of the landscape – sand and plants and shadows on the road in great relief - and then the sun clouds over, not quite raining but keeping the temperatures in the low 70’s, pleasant riding weather.  At the southern end of Ponte Veda, the 2 blacktop is draped in live oaks, huge fan palms and other big trees flanking the shoulders on both sides partially hiding enormous beach front and marsh front homes of the wealthy. These abruptly give way to almost 20 miles of unspoiled natural landscape of the Guana River State Park, a ridge of sand dunes and vegetation separating the road from the Atlantic surf on the east, and the slow moving waters of the river marsh on the west. There are several places where you can park and walk over the dunes to the beach, and even on the hottest days in July I have never been unable to find a stretch of sand all to myself. If kayaking among alligators and egrets is more to your fancy, just go to the other side and use the river. Eventually, this gives way to miles and miles of beach front cottages and condominium complexes, ending at Vilano Beach, which used to be an isolated beach bum-hippie sort of place at the very end of the peninsula, with bonfires on the beach and the constant aroma of cannabis – until they put in the bridge arching high across the river to St. Augustine. Vilano still isn’t exactly tony, but modest cottages are rapidly being replaced with large and pretentious villas and condominium complexes.

Riding the bridge  provides a panoramic view of the marshes, the Tolomato and Mantanzas Rivers conjoining in St. Augustine’s harbor, to the spires of the old city itself. But it’s already late morning and I am behind schedule, so the pleasures of the old town will have wait for the return trip. I turn off AIA, foregoing  forego its leisurely route south of St. Augustine that still recalls “Old Florida” in favor of speed on I95.

This stretch of I95 is nothing but pine trees after more pine trees. I eat up highway at 80 mph with little traffic all the way to Daytona, when the traffic gradually begins to get heavier. There is supposed to be a marvelous beach at the Merritt Island National Wild Life refuge just North of Titusville, but to time today. It can be exciting to pass a ten wheeler at 80 mph and get hit by a blast of crosswind that almost takes you into the next lane… so I happily leave the interstate at Cocoa Beach, and resume an oceanfront drive down A1A.

First, though, I have to suffer 8 miles of hot pavement on a 4 lane, through all the strip malls, chain restaurants and traffic lights of Cocoa and Merritt Island before I can actually get to Cocoa Beach. And from the time the highway turns South until you hit Patrick Air Force Base, its still wall-to wall motels, bars, surf shops, ticky-tacky souvenir shops, condominiums and those omnipresent freaking traffic lights. I am now in the land of lying signs. Sea Side? No way, Jose, the sea is across the street. Ocean View? Not – well, maybe you might get a glimpse of the ocean across the street between the multi-story condos if you stand on the roof. All I can say is thank God for state parks and military bases, as otherwise there wouldn’t be a square inch of undeveloped ocean front property left in the State of Florida!

Between Melbourne and Fort Pierce, the ride does get really beautiful. Ticky-tack is replaced by beautiful homes and gated communities. Riding along the Sebastian Inlet is gorgeous. Bougainvillea begins to make its colorful appearance around Vero Beach. Altogether, the stretch from Cocoa Beach to Ft. Pierce curiously reminds me of Grand Cayman along 7 Mile Beach, but on steroids and 50 miles long. The ocean side in both places is populated with condo complexes, big hotels and expensive personal homes, sprinkled with an occasional public park, and across the street are all the shops, restaurants and everyday town life with a big dose of tourist. The Atlantic water is colder than in the Cayman, but there is better surf on the Florida coast, it’s a heck of a lot closer, and you don’t have to wait forever to get through antiquated customs procedures or sit on uncomfortable chairs for hours to take a long flight crammed in coach to Miami. And Florida is a lot less expensive!

The end of the day brings an unexpected treat. Turning off of Route 1 on Orange Avenue in Fort Pierce, there are a few blocks of lovely shops and open air restaurants until you turn South on Indian River Drive – and as tired as I am, all the way to Jensen Beach I enjoy riding along the shore of the Indian River on a gently curving quiet 2 lane road that really is old Florida. Jensen Beach itself is a cool little cross road, with Crawdaddy’s, a New Orleans style Cajun restaurant/bar with live music, and Mulligan’s seafood where I have a dozen huge, tasty local oysters on the half shell washed down with cold beer. There are many other eatery options as well as several art galleries. I stay in a delightful B&B called the Inn at

Tilton Place

. Its unprepossessing exterior is fitting for a building that was originally built in 1902 to house workers for the fish packing plant that was across the street. But inside everything is first class, from the firm foam mattress beds, fresh sheets and complimentary organic wines to buckets of hot water and a delicious three course breakfast with plenty of hot coffee.  The house has been in the same family for generations, and is now run as a B&B by the great granddaughter of the fishery founder, Katie, who is not just friendly and helpful, but elegant in her mannerisms and stunningly beautiful as well!

The sign of the day has to be “Jensen Beach.” In the land of lying signs, this takes the cake. There isn’t one. No beach. Just the river front. You have to go to another town and take a causeway to get to the barrier islands where there reportedly is a beach. I learned tat the town was originally named Eden, but decades ago they change the name to Jensen Beach to attract tourists. Marketing. Always the same!

316 miles. A long, hard and great day. I’m tired, but happy. I pre-dosed with a couple of preventive ibuprofen in the morning to stave off elbow and neck pain, and it pretty much worked!

Funky. I like Jensen No-Beach.

December 17, 2011

After a breakfast of fresh home made blueberry scones, fruit cup and an omelet, I cut back over to I-95. I have another long day ahead. Riding weather is good, but it keeps threatening rain. That keeps things pleasantly cool, but riding o a motorcycle at speed in traffic as raindrops lift the oil off the pavement and make it slippery is not ideal. I get sprinkled every now and then, but pretty much race ahead of the rain front. The pine trees thin out and give way to farms and marshes. Traffic gets heavier the closer I get to West Palm, and after that its all urban landscape and heavier and heavier traffic all the way to Miami. The closer I get to Miami, the crazier the drivers get. Doesn’t make any difference what the sped limit is or how fast you  are driving, there are some people who genetically just seem to have to go 10-20 mph faster, weaving in and out of traffic to do it. And motorcycles are easy to cut in front of because we can’t occupy the whole lane. No problem, I just am extra alert in my driving and try to stay out of tight spots, and resist the urge to flip the bird several times – which is not real wise to do anyway, having to take one hand off the handle bars to do it. But this kind of riding wears you out.

As I reach Miami, the billboards are in Spanish, mostly advertising various kinds of alcohol. At last one in English: “YOUR WIFE IS HOT. Better fix the AC.” Past Miami on US1, I think it would be nice to stop for lunch in Coconut Grove. I think I know when I passed through Coconut Grove, but there weren’t any signs to tell me I was there, and the next thing I know the neighborhood is looking a little beaten up. This is definitely not Coconut Grove. I pass Columbian, Peruvian and even Haitian restaurants (imagine,  paying to eat Haitian cuisine…) I see a Cuban bar/restaurant just too late to turn in, and suddenly all restaurants get very scarce. I even drive off the main road at a likely intersection, going several blocks in each direction, and find nothing. However, there is definitely no surfeit of tattoo parlors or gentlemen’s clubs (anywhere in Miami)! Finally, I pull into a Pollo Tropical, sort of a Caribbean McDonald’s – but very, very good! Pollo Tropical is well know down here, but hasn’t reached up North yet. When it does, it will be a hit. Grilled chicken in the Caribbean style, with various kinds of salsa, rice and beans, tostones and sweet plantains. I had mango iced tea. Hmm, hmm good!

Right after lunch I hit Naranja, full of fruit and vegetable warehouses. I pass a field full of field workers, hand picking whatever it is – I don’t recognize it. Lots of colorful bandannas. No white people. Things haven’t changed that much.

Finally I reach Homestead, and the turn off to the Keys. When I hit the four lane across the marshland lined with blue colored concrete barriers, the Everglades on my right and no traffic lights, ignoring the posted speed limit along with everybody else, I can’t help myself – I lift both arms to the sky and hoot in exultation!

The Keys are much bigger than I expected. Longer, more populated. Everything you need is in the Keys. Of course, when you think about it, why not? Otherwise you would have to drive 30 or 40miles to Homestead to get anything. And people have been dropping out in the Keys for decades before air conditioning. Key Largo goes on forever, and I learn that Isla Morada is not one but several islands under one community. I stop at the Island grill, Home of the Original Tuna Nachos, to celebrate with a cold beer while looking out over the ocean. The place is full of Asian and European tourists. Chinese predominate. Crabby waitress when I don’t order any food. That’s ok, nothing can suppress my mood. Lousy tip, take that, bitch! Right next door is Hawg Heaven – looks like a great place to get into a fist fight in the parking lot on a Saturday night!

Back on the road, the ride to Key West is everything I hoped it would be. Sun is shining, riding high above the water in a piered highway, blustery wind makes me pay attention to the road rather than the islands on the horizon. I stop at Bog Pine Key to buy some sipping bourbon before I hit Key West – plan ahead! I use my newly acquired Lynchburg Tennessee knowledge and indulge myself in a fifth of Gentleman Jack. While I am perusing the shelves, I espy bottles of alcohol infused whipped cream, complete with a Ready-Whip type top that sprays it out when you turn it upside down and press it to the side. Why didn’t I think of this, I wouldn’t be working any more. Oh, yeah, I’m not working. Oh, well. Hmm, I wonder what they use this for in Key West? Hee hee hee. Regardless, I’ve gotta try this, so I buy some mocha flavored whipped booze to go with my bourbon. J

Key West is a much larger town than I expected. The entire island is built up, shore to shore. First you come in past the mall and Home Depot, motels and traffic, much like any other town USA. After a while you get to Old Town, which is much like it has been for a 100 years or more. My B&B is on

White Street

, which is where Old Town officially begins.

White Street

runs from old warehouses at the NW end to the Aids Memorial at the SE end. Well, maybe some things have changed in the last 100 years. The Palms Hotel is several blocks from most things, and while it’s clean, modest and ok, I can’t recommend it. I picked it because it was in Old Town (barely, as I found out), advertised “private parking” (which turns out to be a spot on the street with a sign on it, not exactly the safe place where I had hoped to park my bike), and a “full breakfast” (that only qualifies because they set out a bowl of hardboiled eggs along with the donuts and pastries bought from the local grocery store – plus some cut up melon that is not quite ripe). The manager’s response to asking for recommendations for a place to eat is to hand me a pre-printed advertising brochure that features menus of various restaurants, “stay away from Duval Street” and tell me to walk down Simonton Street to the Bight (and it turn out Simonton Street doesn’t go to the bight, Elizabeth Street does). The pool is “heated” but only to 85◦ which is a little chilly even for Key West in December. I guess you get what you pay for. My recommendation is to pay a little more and stay someplace else!

Nonetheless, after another 300 mile day, the first thing I do is hop in the pool and splash around while drinking a few tumblers of G-Jack. It’s all good, right?

That night I wander past the above ground cemetery, and down

Simonton Avenue

past hotels and houses bejeweled in Christmas lights, and across

Front Street

to the beach. Pretty pitiful excuse for a beach but there are some gorgeous places to stay right on the water where you can bask in the famous Key West sunsets.

There’s music coming from the second floor deck of the Rum Barrel, but its early yet so I turn up Front Street and walk along the water. That’s where it started getting pretty crazy. Lots of young Chinese tourists posing for photos mixed with old white folks walking slowly and acting confused, and a skinny black guy in heels, a white sheath dress and fur mantle prancing among them all. I run into hundreds of Santa Clauses, at least it seemed like hundreds, all sporting tasseled Santa hats and red velvet, drinking cocktails spilling out of the Conch Republic. It turns out it is an annual Santa Claus pub crawl and of course everybody has to have the appropriate attire! There was good music and lots of laughing, so I had dinner there. Good seafood even if the place was a little like a production line and pretty touristy. Then wandered into the square and stopped a while to listen to a group of kids playing Christmas carols on violins before heading around the harbor to the Schooner Bar. Good band playing blues, Old Home Chicago and Play that Funky Music White Boy while three or fours girls dance, one dark haired woman about thirty is really cute, really shapely and really good at throwing her hip up one side in a sexy off beat sort of way that is quite pleasant to watch – so why not have a beer and watch and listen? Mixed crows of old and young, easy going place. Pretty soon the skinny black girl-wannabe shows up and starts dancing with the rest of the girls. He’s clearly drunk or high and his white costume is beginning to look soiled, but nobody minds. He’s weird but having fun and bothering nobody. After a while, I wander back to The Palms and call it a night.

S.O.D. – “Free H.I.V Tests.” Everywhere, Miami to Key West, on billboards, seat backs at bus stops along US1, probably on the buses, too!

December 18, 2011

Morning. Listening to Dolly Parton sing Walking in a Winter Wonderland over the radio while sitting under the ceiling fan drinking my third cuppa Joe is pleasingly disconcerting. Welcome to the Conch Republic where pleasing disconcert is what its all about, right? This is be-a-tourist day in Key West, but my calves ache with that tired but somehow comforting warm, almost sexually arousing hurt caused by two 300+ mile days of riding and wandering hard pavement all around the harbor late last night. I have a vague ache in my phony hip, too. A couple of ibuprofen has become my morning routine to control the ache in my left elbow (arthritis?) caused gripping the handlebars for 8 hours, so why not on my day off? They should help dull that ache and make me ready for the day. Just add pain killers to the apothecary I already consume every morning to try to control my cholesterol. Age. Now I’m consuming the vast quantities of pills my parents used to have to organize in their daily pill boxes. Consuming vast quantities of pills on a daily basis is the surest sign that you have crossed the Rubicon. Growing old ain’t for sissies. Anyway, there’s no rush. let the pills take effect, touring can wait a while. I have only two things on my agenda. The obligatory visit to the southernmost point in the United States, and visiting Hemingway’s house. Hemingway, the mans’s man of Paris in the twenties, safaris, Mt. Kilimanjaro, Michigan fly fishing, Old Man and the Sea and serial polygamy, a powerful writer who wrote 70% of his work while living 11 years in Key West, including some of what is regarded as his very best, such as Farewell to Arms. He became an icon of the left as a journalist covering the Spanish Civil War in sympathy to the communists against the royalists and fascistas, and a favorite focus of J. Edgar for living in Cuba just before the Castro takeover.

So I enjoy the rare luxury of lingering over strong coffee while reading the local tattler. What’s news?  Having destroyed a black man as a potential Republican candidate for high office, the headlines no longer proclaim daily allegations of new extra-marital peccadilloes of Herman Cain. Cain presented a double barreled problem for left-wing mythology. It’s bad enough that he is an articulate conservative Republican. But worse, as a poor black child from the rural south who rose to be the CEO of a major corporation and become a serious candidate for President of the United States, a modern day Horatio Alger, the impact he could have on the claims of the “99 percenters” of injustice and lack of opportunity in America are incalculable. Worse still, what’s left of racism if the Republicans nominate a black man for President? Following on the heels of the election of a black Democrat, that would be proof positive that blacks are no longer disenfranchised, challenging both the primary justification for the Democratic Party monopoly on the black vote and the need for race-based social programs. The Democrats can’t win a national election if the black vote is split. The lefties couldn’t let Cain’s candidacy survive.

At least the farce of the Occupy Wall Street theatrics has faded to page 8. We are still treated to inane quotes from this unhappy bunch who, having finally been evicted from the public parks and squares from Oakland to New York as an embarrassment to the left that spawned them, are now trying to blockade the harbor docks in Los Angeles and scaling the fences in lower Manhattan to occupy an empty lot owned by Trinity Church: “We’re just trying to say that this country has gone in the wrong direction, and we need spaces we can control and we can decide our future in, and that’s what this is about.” Really, that’s their message? What drivel. If you need space in which to decide your future, try the public library. Its heated, free, open to the public and has public computers and bathrooms. They will even let you have a meeting room. Oh, yeah, let’s not neglect to mention that most of them were built with money donated by Andrew Carnegie. How embarrassing!

The paper relates that the Occupiers and the Greenies have now formed a political alliance called the Slow Food-Slow Money revolution. I kid you not. They had their “national conference” last year in – three guesses where – Vermont! What a surprise!

“Are you upset about corporate greed and a financial system that rewards big banks with bailouts {other than communism which rewarded only brutal ideologues, has there ever been a financial system which did not reward big banks?}, excessive bonuses and no consequences for bad behavior {let’s ignore Bernie Madoff for the moment, his prison term and son’s suicide may be a little to inconvenient for the ideology…} – while the other 99 per cent of us watch our real wages, home values and 401-Ks plummet?...The antithesis of Wall Street’s “fast money” derivative schemes, the “Slow Money” movement promotes “nurture capital:” investment in sustainable businesses that improve people’s lives {apparently businesses like Whirlpool that freed women from the patriarchal prison of the laundry and Walmart which is fundamentally based on providing the lowest price to the oppressed consumer, do not improve people’s lives…} and build communities through restoration of local food systems and local economies. The strategy is simple. We need to take a little of our money and start investing near where we live, in things that we understand, with food being the most important place to start… Half the [conference] attendees were folks {Obama’s favorite word, to show these arrogant products of privilege and Ivy League education are really just one of us hard working “folks”} who wanted to invest in sustainable food enterprises{Greedy capitalists – oops, I’m being redundant - who actually have money to invest, would naturally prefer to invest in unsustainable enterprises…}  such as raw kale chips {Yum! Now there’s winner. How about spinach syrup?} with the understanding that that their investment would not be making a killing of unsustainable profits {what the hell are unsustainable profits?} but rather, restoring the soil and preserving local food systems while making a modest “patient capital” return.”

Thus sayeth the Birkenstock prophets. I’m sure you are anxious to be first to invest your IRA in a patient modest capital return. Honest to Pete, nobody could make crap like this up. It’s a simple fact: the greenies hate big business capitalism. Occupy Wall Street is open and blatant that their objective is to destroy capitalism and fully embrace socialism. Listen to them. They are not hiding it. Take them at their word! In the same breath, they beg the “community” to help support these wonderful neighborhood business enterprises. They have graduated from an “all profit is evil” mentality to 21^st century proselytizing that slow rates of socially acceptable profits are good {as determined by whom?}. This is a new version of the moralistic argument has been going on for hundreds of years, that the Catholic Church used to vilify the evil of Jewish money lenders who made profits, that ugly word, by lending money to their betters. The ghost of Karl Marx lurks near. Capital is evil, only labor is good. Rather than free market capitalism, they lionize “state capitalism,” enterprises owned and run not by private individuals but instead sanctioned and directed by the government as stewards for the masses, the 99%. The zenith of bureaucratic capitalism is the People’s Republic of China, where government infusions of cash combined with restrictive regulations determine the winners and losers, and make it possible to build huge new cities almost overnight. It’s on a much larger scale but it’s eerily similar to our new regulations mandating we buy those mercury laden curly cue light bulbs by outlawing the competition in the name of sacred environmentalism.

What do they hate? The economic system in which ownership of land and natural resources, the production, distribution and exchange of goods, and the operation of the system itself, are effected by private enterprise and private control under competitive conditions. That is what capitalism is. Individuals own and control these things, not the state.

They want to replace this with socialism, which is social organization based on collective  or governmental ownership, and democratic  management of the essential means of production and distribution of goods and services. Collectivism, Fabianism, Marxism, Bolshevism and communism are all variants of socialism. The one thing they all have in common is state control. Those dirty greedy capitalists, the ones that own and run things, must be controlled! This is the antithetical to the very foundation of this country, “the government that governs least governs best.”

So the union of the Greenies and the Occupiers makes perfect sense. Their shared objective of increasing government direction of the economy in the name of saving the planet moves us imperceptibly but steadily further and further, light bulb by light bulb, away from individual ownership and free enterprise and closer and closer to fascism. Yes, fascism: state controlled private enterprise that is actually an expression of socialism. Its ironic that it’s the very system that the communals purport to abhor and brand as the right wing devil incarnate is where they lead us: centralized national policies, regimentation of industry, commerce and finance, censorship and suppression of opposition. Beginning to look familiar?

The larger irony is that we all, left and right, pretty much share the same concerns. We all want better, more widely available and less expensive health care. Most of us have concerns over huge corporations, even as many of don’t trust the huge state, either. Huge corporations are a reflection of the failure of the brake on capitalism, competition. And yet who were the first to stop the normal operation of a capitalistic system, by claiming big corporations were too big to allow to fail? Crazy, isn’t it? Most of us agree that the disparity between the very poor and the ultra-rich has gotten way too large, the argument is about how to narrow that gap. Taxing the rich into oblivion is a simplistic answer that will not work. History has shown us that again and again. But then our educational systems don’t teach much history anymore, do they? Not since history became irrelevant in the 60’s. Most of us don’t debate climate change, just the cause. Who doesn’t want a clean environment?  The all knowing modern day Delphic Oracle, The Poll, tells us that 75% of us feel that our country has gone in the wrong direction. When you remove the one percenters, the mentally incompetent, the illiterate, the illegal aliens (what a great phrase! Are they green with antennae coming out of their heads?), the crazies that inhabit San Francisco, the ubiquitous druggies and the 15% per cent that never have an opinion about anything, that’s pretty much everybody. There is a great sense of disaffection and fear, not just in the US but in the whole world, as more and more things that determine the course of our lives seem to be controlled by forces far away over which we have little understanding and less control.

But hasn’t it always been such? Have not people everywhere always felt that others who have more are not deserving of what they have, as that means those of us who have less are less worthy – which is the essence of class envy and class warfare? Isn’t xenophobia at the every essence of provincialism and tribalism? Its very powerful stuff that appeals to our very human nature, the fodder for demagogues like Adolph Hitler and Hugo Chavez – especially because so often it is demonstrably true that so many of the haves are not deserving of what they have as they did nothing to earn it and their behavior toward those that do not is so often despicable. I believe it was Balzac who wrote, “Behind every fortune is crime.” Of course that’s not literally true, but it is true all too often. “Thou shalt not covet” is the most underrated of the Ten Commandments because it is so, so difficult to abide by. “Thou shalt not kill”, “thou shalt honor thy father and mother,” those are down right no-brainers by comparison. But don’t covet my neighbor’s Corvette? That’s tough. And as an instrument of social control by the haves over the have nots, that commandment is so, so useful! Unparalleled, in fact! Two sides of the same coin.

Strong, independent individual free enterprise is one of the only antidotes to an all powerful government, whether the label is monarchy, totalitarianism or socialism. By definition, free enterprise and private wealth are not controlled by the state. They are a counterweight to the state. Adverse power is the only counterweight to power. Without it, there is only unbridled power. That doesn’t make powerful capitalists better than government, just necessary to preserve personal freedom. It amazes me how so many people put their blind trust in government rather than business, after all the accumulated eons of evidence that absolute power corrupts absolutely. Is starving under an dictator better than starving under an industrial robber baron?  The lefties place their faith in the ballot box of a democracy in the face of uncounted numbers of subverted democracies and a pattern of accumulating more and more power over our daily lives and a performance in Washington and in state houses that is despicable.  Today, more people actually approve of Lindsay Lohan than Congress, by a large margin! But if a democracy functions as intended, as opposed to the Democratic Republic of, say, Korea, at least every now and again we can throw the bums out. There is no such option for we-of-the- great-unwashed with General Motors or Exxon, that is a privilege reserved only for the few shareholders who have enough capital to actually have clout. Arguably General Motors and Exxon affect as many people as any State. And for that reason, the great dialectic struggle playing out right in front of us between big business and big government in a basically peaceful manner (so far) is a very positive thing for all of us.

But this is all too heavy for a sunny Sunday morning on a day that will reach 80 degrees in the Florida Keys. Fundamentally, I really don’t like either “side” much and I can do less about it, so I drain my coffee cup and set out on my personal pilgrimage to Ernest Hemingway’s house, I walk past the cemetery straight to The House. Foldoing chaiors and fresh flowers at above ground tombs show that it is still very much in use by the living.

The House is very, very cool. I spend hours there, wandering slowly through every room and in the gardens. By the time he lived here, he was on his second (or third?) wife, and already famous and wealthy. They tell us when he lived in Cuba he was very lonely and unhappy. I get the vibe that he was already unhappy in Key West, after he left his first wife, apparently after she lost the manuscript to his first book and a disastrous ménage a trois – intriguing, I have to learn more about that!

Hemingway’s office is not a tiny garret. It’s bright and airy, on the second floor overlooking the swimming pool. It’s a shrine. People wait patiently on the stairs for their chance to get in the door, and then photograph everything. What’s really interesting is that so many of the worshippers are Europeans and Chinese, all coming to pay homage to the literary genius. It’s a testament that Hemingway was a powerful international literary giant. Three Chinese girls are dancing in the garden with gaily colored silk scarves, posing for photos with their friends. Go figure. There are signs saying pet the cats but don’t pick them up. Right. I see several people cuddling Hemingway six-toed cats on their laps for photos. In the bookstore I realize how much of Hemingway’s works I haven’t read!

From there I walk to the Southernmost Point in the US and ask some of the tourist to take my picture.

 In the daylight, Key West seems tamer, more genteel than I expected. Gentrified. Overrun with tourists, many of which are families. The houses remind me of a cross between St. Augustine and Harbor Island with a dash of NOLA. Very pretty.

Duval Street

is a ghost of its reputation. I stop in several souvenir ships looking for an apron with a dirty saying to give as a Christmas gift. No luck, anywhere. Incredible. The tee shirt shops are all family friendly. There’s even a Denny’s on the corner. Walk lights at the intersections. That’s all fine, just not what I expected. I confess I did not go to the clothing optional bar on

Duval Street

in the early a.m. on Saturday night, but nonetheless, much of the advertised wildness seems under wraps.

Fish and chips at the Southernmost On the Beach Café at South Beach? Top notch. Grouper. Fauna great to watch as well! J Not much if a beach, but maybe the best in Key West.

That afternoon I did manage to find the dowdy side of town, down by Ft. Zachary State park. Skip it. Matter of fact, skip everything past

Thomas Street

.

That night, well, even though it was Sunday I managed to have fun…You think I’m telling you everything about this trip?

S. O. D. –

Runner up – “Showers $1. To watch, $2”

Winner, hand printed: “ Way too Many Iguanas. Hungry? They say they taste like chicken. Yum!”

Yeah, let’s have some with my new favorite snack, raw kale chips. Double yummy!

December 19, 2011

After my “complete” breakfast, I pack up and take a quick ride through the town before heading out. Even though Key West was disappointing in some ways, I really like it. I’d come back. Maybe I will some day. I’ll stay closer to

Front Street

and try some of the interesting little restaurants at that end of town -  Pepe’s, Sole Café, Mangia Mangia all looked good!

As I turn onto

Whitehead Street

, I’m startled to see a huge cruise ship looming over the marina. It’s a shock juxtaposed against the quaint 19^th century architecture of the town. There’s the answer to the taming of Key West: dollars from the cruise ships. That is a different crowd with tons of money to spend. I continue down big buildings and the Truman White House on

Whitehead Street

which somehow I missed in all my perambulations. There is still lot’s I have not experienced here. Maybe I should come back during Fantasy fest in October? I’m stopped at  alight when a little scooter buzzes up beside me, and an older white haired guy (I guess he probably wasn’t that much older than me?) asks, “First time in Key West?”. He nods at my Indiana license plate.

“Yeah,” I tell him. “Pretty cool.”

“Follow me down to my place, I’ll get you a cup of coffee and a map. Orient you to the place.”

“Thanks, but I’m on my way out.”

“Oh, too bad. Say, That’s a really nice bike. What model is it?”

“K1200LT. It like it. I’m touring the country on it.”

“I’m jealous. I rode a BMW all over Europe fro 6 months, 10 years ago.”

“Yeah? Where’d you go?”

“Started in Brussels and ended up in Morocco 6 months later.”

“Wow. Morocco, huh?”

“Yeah. BMW’s  are really great bikes.”

Then the light changed. His scooter went right, my BMW went straight down

Whitehead Street

. I rode by the Casa Marina, the Grande Dame old resort on Key West, and then took

Flagler Avenue

out of town, through the neighborhoods where the real locals live.

The sun was shining and traffic is much lighter heading out. I stopped for a while at Bahia Honda to spend some time on the beach, reportedly the nicest beach in the Keys. It was nice. There were a few people there even on a December morning when the water was a little chilly. 

Grabbed lunch at Juice Paradise on Isla Morada, or was it Key Largo? I don’t remember, but it’s a little Cuban hole-in-the wall on the South side of the road, great juice and sandwiches! Look for it, worth the stop – and be hungry, the sandwiches are huge!

Then to the Everglades. Crazy, no signs on how to get there form Homestead! I guess you’re supposed to know! I pull over to check the map and leave my sunglasses – damn! Oh, well. This is a good time to visit the Everglades, as birds make their migration and the dry season begins so that critters begin to cluster around the water holes. The Everglades are awesome, they seem to spread forever in all directions, so large that its hard to understand how they could be threatened. But they are. Agriculture extends right up to the boundaries of the park. I don’t see any panthers, but I take a walk at Royal Palm and se alligators basking and swimming, anhingas drying their wings and diving for fish, numerous ducks, egrets and other birds I can’t identify, turtles, and herds of Chinese tourists, all up close an personal. One time I hear a loud guttural rumble coming from the reeds – could that be a panther? More likely an alligator. Either way, it would be spooky at night, chilling even in day time if I weren’t on a platformed walk! I would like to drive all the way in to Flamingo to see the nesting “roseate spoonbills,” but I’ve run out of time.

I head up SR 997 past farms and nurseries through downtown Homestead (very nice) to SR94 and head East on

Kendall Drive

through miles of upscale neighborhoods all the way into Miami. I avoid “Florida’s Turnpike” because all the signs say no cash but they take Sun Oasis – what about the rest of us? Seems to be a subtle message for non-Floridians to stay off Florida’s Turnpike because you won’t be able to pay the toll and you will be prosecuted (pictures of your license plate) if you do not. Back on the roulette wheel of a choked 4-lane 836 as night descends over the city. I’m glad I’m late. The nightscape of the brightly lit high-rises of downtown Miami is beautiful but nothing compared to the panorama when you burst through that wall of buildings onto the MacArthur Causeway. The bay is draped in a necklace of sparkling jewels from those same high rises, the floating hotel cruise ships at the docks, and the lights of Miami Beach ahead, all reflected off the water and echoed by stars in the ceiling. It’s breathtaking.

I stay at a very nice B&B a few blocks off of

Ocean Avenue

, SoBeYou. They are nice enough to leave the keys in a mailbox after hours, and let me park in the driveway to keep my bike off the street – and a real complete breakfast in the morning. South beach is, well, South Beach. I walk past 6 or 7 outdoor restaurants on the avenue with essentially identical menus, all being hawked by lovely Cuban girls and find The News Café.  Very, very good churasca, and terrific ceviche. Try it!

Hey, I’m in South Beach, and even if its Monday night I’ve got to nigh club it, right? I head for the Clevelander, a well known out door bar on the Avenue. People are drifting in and the music is good. Three or four mojitos later, not much has changed, including the temperature of the chilly breeze blowing off the ocean. The advertised live music has still not started, 45 minutes past time, and there are only a few people dancing. Four girls are dancing together, 3 Chinese and one who looks like a local. The Chinese girls’ efforts at dancing are pretty pathetic, they make white folks look like they have rhythm, but the local is pretty good except that her favorite move is jumping up and down to the beat with her hands high over her head. Nice body and hair bounce but pretty junior high. It doesn’t look like much is going to happen here until much later if at all and its not getting any warmer, so I call it a night. I resist the urge to sample one of the gentlemen’s clubs advertised on very other bus and taxicab, and wander back to my B&B through a maze of tattoo parlors, all open and some doing business after midnight on a Monday night

December 20, 2011

Rise late for a super easy day: Miami to Ft Lauderdale. Up

Ocean Avenue

among Mercedes and Lexus, and eventually A1A though Bal Harbour, Sunny Isles, private homes in Golden Beach, the Trump Tower, to Holly wood, then inland to US1 and into Ft. Lauderdale. Miles and miles of huge estate homes fronting the intra-coastal, high rise condos on the shore. I marvel at how much money there is in Miami, north, south, east, seems to be everywhere. And at how many Chinese tourists there are. In the nineties it was hysteria over Japan Inc, with Japanese tourists snapping pictures with their Nikons and buying Rockefeller Center and Pebble Beach. Now it’s the Chinese, and why not, today they have all of the money that the Arab oil barons don’t have! Jabbering happily, smiling and laughing but the guys in geeky tennis shoes and the girls all dressed in their horrible contrasting bright colors and shapeless skirts. Poor girls have no sense of style. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one in a string bikini! But who cares, every one I see seems to be having a marvelous time! Good for them.

In Ft. Lauderdale, I make a concession to luxury and stay right on the beach at the Marriott – a free room with points! Well, not so free in the final analysis. $25 to park my motorcycle for the night (managed to avoid that little surcharge by driving in and out around the parking bar, hee hee hee!). A couple of drinks and some calamari by the pool and I’m hit for $40, plus tax and tip. The hot tub gets crowded with sub-teens, and then a mom warming up her chilled – and diapered – baby. I hope he/she isn’t warming the spa water… Breakfast isn’t included, and while its plentiful all you can eat and really good, a truly complete breakfast, that’s another $25-30. By the time I’m done, the free room costs as much as a good B&B. Hey, but I’m at the beach, and the high rise room is comfortable with a great view. Toiletries are free, there plenty of fluffy towels and the water is hot! When you got to a B&B, you never know what you will get, here you know exactly what you will get. And the beach? It’s a great beach, broad and clean, plenty of bars and restaurants and with a little more sanity than SoBe. Great place. Who’s to complain?

December 21, 2011

I have another very easy day ahead. Lots of time for coffee and paper. For a change, USA Today makes very interesting reading over breakfast. The lead editorial actually endorsed passage of the Republican sponsored compromise of extending the payroll tax cuts and authorizing the Kansas oil pipeline that has been blocked by Democrats. Yes, USA Today! This is the first time I can remember a USA Today editorial actually favoring a Republican position in the Republican-Democratic standoff. This spells big trouble ahead for Obama. Let’s see, why wouldn’t you want the Keystone pipeline that brings oil from a friend (Canada) rather than sending it to China so we have to buy oil from Hugo or Muhammed? And adds 20,000 jobs in the depths of a recession? That’s a rhetorical question, I hope.

Moving to the sports page, the sanctions against Ohio State football were announced by the NCAA: no bowl game or Big Ten Championship game in 2012, a loss of more football scholarships, and forfeiting  almost $400,00 in last year’s bowl money. As much as Ohio State is my least favorite team (well, maybe Notre Dame?), this is just symptomatic of how television revenues are ruining college athletics. Too much money has corrupted the entire system. No universities or iconic coaches are immune. Exhibit A: Joe Paterno and Penn State in the child molestation cover up scandal. The universities have to find a way to rein in the money beast, and the severity of the penalties against Ohio State seem pretty clearly intended to send a big message.

Further into the sports section, there was an article on the pay of ASSISTANT football coaches at many of the big power schools. The new record is $1.3 million (yes MILLION) for an ASSISTANT – and there was a long list of other assistants making more than $400,000. That’s base pay. You know there are bonuses for getting to bowl games, and more bonuses fro winning them. This is not to mention all the perks that go with being a coach for a mega-university.

As I ride North through Pompano Beach to Boca Raton my mind keeps drifting back to the assistant coach salaries. This is more evidence that one of the truths that has prevailed in American society for years is no longer true. Higher education is no longer the gateway to security, prosperity and success. The depth and pervasiveness of that belief is illustrated by the sanctity of higher education budgets, and the wide resistance against even modest increases in tuition, all the while massive construction projects are authorized for bigger and more modern buildings on campus.  As technical schools have become community “colleges” and junior colleges become “universities’, as universities have added branch campuses, as entire “universities” have gone on-line, and as enrollments have swelled, higher education has become a commodity. The hundreds of thousands of students who graduate each year, and their parents who have scrimped and saved to put them through school so that they will be better prepared for life in America, have not yet figured this out. Today a college degree can’t even guarantee you a job. For the most part, an advanced graduate degree can’t either. Lawyers can’t even get jobs.  The law of supply and demand is inexorable. As more and more “college” graduates hit the streets, the value of that degree correspondingly plummets. Nor does a degree even indicate much about the intelligence or maturity of the holder. Most graduates, including MBAs, have never done anything but go to school, take tests and write papers – for the most part badly. They have never done anything. I have learned from personal experience as a professor that there is no quality control as to what is being taught in the classroom. Most of the professors have never done anything, either. They theorize. Theory is no substitute for experience. Professional schools used to be an exception. Maybe (hopefully) medical, dental and engineering schools still are, but business schools are full of professors who have never run a business, and law schools are full of professors who have never practiced law. It’s crazy. Hundreds of thousands of people are spending huge dollars and years of their lives being taught by people who really don’t know what they are talking about. Higher education has become a scam. It’s an employment and entitlement system for the benefit of the professors and administrators based on the no longer true assumption that higher education will prepare you for life, which the common person interprets as “getting a good job.” When the unprepared graduate cannot find that job, they blame “Wall Street.”

The skyrocketing salaries of assistant coaches in football and basketball coaches at “academic” institutions is part of the same phenomenon. At the same time the college degree is devalued, so does the market devalue those who “do things,” like build, grow and manufacture, the tasks that used to make a real difference in society. This is because we are a society of over abundance. There are more farmers than are needed. The law of supply and demand says they are worth less. We don’t grow and butcher our food anymore, that’s done in factories and then we shop for it pre-packaged at the supermarket – or to really save money, at Walmart. Small family farms need to be subsidized to survive, and small family famers need to get second jobs to keep their heads above water. As their work becomes devalued, the doers can demand less and less for what they do, and it is harder and harder to make it in those sectors of the economy. Size and economies of scale squeeze out the small.

So what area is prospering? Entertainment. The very people that the academes used to ridicule, the “dumb jocks” and the funny kids who couldn’t earn an A if their lives depended on it, now keep the academic institutions afloat. The sports heroes and the people that teach them – not English or mathematics, but how to block and tackle or pick off a runner going to second - the coaches. And of course, the rock stars and tv stars.  In our leisure society, it is the entertainers who are valued. They fill up our abundant spare time, and keep us from being bored. The other successful career path is sales, because they sell the products and the advertising that makes the television revenues work, and pays the entertainers. And who are the salesmen? The fun kids we all used to know, who partied and are fun to be with, rarely the straight-A geek.

Go into plastics? Hell no. Learn to throw a baseball or play the guitar. Or, if the competition is too tough and you’re not good enough to make it on your own, go into government. Government always takes care of itself. Always.

I leave the BMW in a gated community in Boca Raton, that my friend discovers does not allow “the operation of motorcycles!” No exceptions for quiet bikes operated by sober adults. An example of why communal living even in a gated community has little appeal to me; too many rules imposed by your neighbors. I prefer the country, but to each his own, right? My friend being a lawyer, he comes to the gate and we walk it in. If we are pushing it, we are not operating it, right? Unfortunately, as I try to take it over the sidewalk to go through the pedestrian gate, the front wheel unexpectedly hits the curb and wedges between the concrete and the grass. When 800 pounds begins to tip, I don’t try to stop it! I dump the bike in the grass and go ass over tea kettle down the slope! It takes the two of us several attempts to pick it up – but we do get it done. The I push my 800 pound beast several blocks to his house, sweating like a stuck pig. It’s all really pretty funny.  Eventually we successfully hide it in his garage, safely out of site of the neighborhood  regulation Nazis!

876 miles of beautiful riding in 5 days – the first two over 300 each, the last three very leisurely. Only one thing lacking – 2 more days and some wanton women would have been nice! (Is that two things?) J

By the way, that alcohol infused whipping cream is pretty good on your coffee!