Random thoughts

Random thoughts …

  

Worst line that I’ve ever heard in a movie:  “"Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Grandma is still beating off the Indians."

 

 ==

 

I had a senior moment when writing my account of the third day of my Everglades trip and connected the northern end of Rt. 27 with I-95.  Several people wrote in to point out that Rt. 27 actually connects with I-4 up there.  It’s gratifying to see that folks are actually reading the details, even if this olde pharte oftentimes gets the details wrong ;)

 

I’m somewhat dyslexic (maybe just senile at an early age?) and it’s amazing the number of times that I’ve turned east into west, north into south, and one highway into another highway.  And writing a web blog without a proofreader is the writer’s equivalent of doing a high wire act without a net. 

 

As I said, pity my proofreader for my books, who actually does a very good job and who puts up with my wisecracks about my marital status.  Because … drum roll here … despite my jokes about mean ex- spousal units and bad relationships, my proofreader is actually one of those ex- spousal units.  As Paul Harvey would say, now that you know the rest of the story …

 

==

 

Scott Adams, the creator and artist who draws the Dilbert cartoon strip, also does an excellent newsletter that you can subscribe to at http://www.dilbert.com

 

Scott writes that he has developed a disorder that has caused him to not only begin to draw Dilbert with his left hand, but also to switch to some computer aided graphics methods in order to change the scale of his drawings and basically trick his body into thinking that it is doing something other than drawing.

 

I’ve always liked Scott.  For one thing, he is his own critic, but in a pleasant way.  There are too many folks out there that do a creative product that are wrapped up in angst, fear and loathing.  Not Scott.  He manages to muddle through like the rest of us pragmatic folks.

 

Another reason that I appreciate Scott’s work is that he is plugging away despite a handicap that would drive many folks to retirement, if not despair and perhaps round the clock sessions at the local pub.  I really enjoy the Dilbert cartoon strip and it is my selfish hope that Scott keeps us all entertained for many years to come.

 

==

 

After several delays on the delivery of printed copies of my book I’ve had a Come To Jesus discussion with the printer.  They promised me that I’ll have at least enough books by Monday to mail them out to folks that have already ordered and paid for copies.  Monday rolled around, and the books showed up.  That was the good news.  The bad news was that the printer used the wrong file and so these will have to be returned.  As I write this things are heating up pretty quickly, so stay tuned.  And for those of you who have placed orders for my book I appreciate your patience.

 

This whole thing about POD (print on demand) printing and distribution and the business end of publishing is entertaining, to say the least.  Many of us have a book idea or two.  That’s the good news.  Making a viable business case out of printing the sucker is another matter.  I’m very happy to discuss my feelings about the business side of publishing your own book or books with friends and acquaintances – no secrets here as far as I’m concerned and I’m definitely still learning.  As one buddy put it, however, his wife has been on his case for several years about writing a technical book and after he talked to me for 10 minutes he told me that he was going to tell the wife to forget it.  The good news is that, today, it is much easier to get a book into print than in olden days (like maybe 5 years ago).  The bad news is that it is still a helluva lot of hard work, a potentially serious commitment of capital, and the competition is much stiffer these days than a few years ago.

 

Times change, and one has to move with the times.  I’m very excited about my series of travel books but I’m far from being out of the woods on this one.

 

And, if you are in northern Florida and want to meet PirateJohn, it looks like I’ll be doing book signings at the following dates and locations.  If I get books in time:

 

n      April 30th, Riding Into History, World Golf Village north of St. Augustine.  Go to www.RidingIntoHistory.com for more details on the event.

n      May 15th, the Gold Club Custom Bike Show at Wild Bill’s Saloon, 8th and Talleyrand, Jacksonville, FL.

 

Needless to say, ifyou are planning to look up ol’ John then please confirm before driving 500 miles because these plans always have a way of changing.  You know how that works.

 

And, oh yeah.  If you are either a process server or a stalker (and you know who I mean,  Billy, Karen, and your host of other aliases) then disregard the above.  I won’t be there.  Really.

 

==

 

A friend and I were discussing, of all things, funeral plans for when That Time Comes.  She was talking about the music that she wanted to have played at her service and the music that was played at her husband’s funeral.  Well, I had never given any thought to the sort of funeral music that I want to have played, but I was reminded that at my second wedding we snuck in Buffett’s “Why Don’t We Get Drunk And Screw.”  The instrumental version only, of course.  Now that was a major sentimental event.

 

I have left some simple instructions for my services:

 

n      have a decent wake at a rider friendly bar

n      bring my casket in at least 5 minutes after the posted time; that way people can honestly say that I was literally late for my own funeral

n put my cell phone in my pants pocket and have someone secretly call it.  I just want to see if anyone has the guts to reach into the casket and get the phone

n      scatter my ashes at Mallory Square in Key West. That way I can spend eternity in Paradise, and hopefully my ashes will spend as much time as possible getting into as many bikinis as possible

 

 ==

 

A quote that I enjoyed, because I thought that it put being slack into prospective:

 

I have come to the conclusion that my subjective account of my motivation is largely mythical on almost all occasions. I don't know why I do things.

 

     J. B. S. Haldane

 

==

 

"Too much of the world runs on the premise that youdon't need road manners if you're driving a five-ton truck" – Anon

 

The passing of Misty the Wondercat

4-14-2005

 

Misty the Wondercat, RIP

 

Misty the Wondercat passed away last night.  Old age caught up with her, and following several days of weakness she appeared to have a heart attack and was gone in a few minutes. 

 

During her prime years Misty was a fat, fluffy and loveable cat who brought new meanings to the concept of “feline energy conservation.”  Her nickname of the Wondercat was a result of Misty's superfeline efforts to avoid exerting energy whenever possible.

 

The focus of two attempted catnapping plots by various old girlfriends of her servant (after all, no one owns a cat, if anything they own you), Misty came to the Pirate household as a stray kitten and remained in the household throughout the rest of her life.

 

In 1995 Romeo the Cat retired from show business in Key West to become part of the Pirate household.  Upon meeting each other, Romeo and Misty were practically inseparable and would continue to be close friends throughout the rest of Misty’s life.  Misty assumed the role of household CIC (Cat in Charge) upon the passing of the legendary Momma Cat the following year.

 

In her final year of life Misty’s daily routine included a long nap beneath her favorite tree.  Misty was buried beneath that tree this morning, wrapped in her favorite blanket. 

 

Rest in peace, old girl.

 

Day 3 of the Everglades Trip, continued

( continued from the previous blog entry)

 

Continuing northbound I meet the same couple on the Reflex scooter that I saw earlier.  She’s wearing a pink bikini, and while this isn’t my idea of the safest outfit to be wearing whilst motorcycling (‘sides, ol’ John simply wouldn’t look good wearing that little amount of clothing, no matter what, and that’s another reason for him to stay covered from head to toe), I’ve got to say that those folks looked like they were having a helluva lot of fun. 

 

The big metropolis of La Belle and North La Belle (population 2,700) beckon.   My intent is to turn eastbound on Rt. 80 and take a bit of a detour in order to see some more sights.  Predictably I manage to miss my turn in a town that only has a few stoplights.  Stop laughing now.

 

I’m back onto Rt. 80 going east to Clewiston (where I stayed the night before) and I need to refuel.  The pump won’t cooperate and this is the first road that I’ve been on which is actually heavily traveled, so I’m getting to be in less than one of my better moods.  I start riding and notice that I’ve got a bit of an itch on my chest.

 

A few miles later and that itch has moved across my chest and is working it’s way toward my right arm.  Oh boy … there’s a bug inside my riding suit and I hope that it’s not a wasp or a bee.

 

Quickly pulling off the road, which has no shoulder, and onto the marshy grass I finally find a place firm enough to stop.  I pull off my helmet, and then my jacket, and then start to unbutton my shirt.  No doubt motorists coming by are shielding their kids’ eyes from the sight.

 

It’s a potato bug.  Harmless, but irritating.  I encourage him to take off and fly away.

 

Back on the road and I start riding northbound in Rt. 27, at this point retracing the roads where I was at yesterday.  There is a rider friendly bar that I missed down here somewhere and I’m determined to find it.

 

I look and look for the pbar in the tiny little town of Moore Haven.  The town’s only two cop cars are at the local Burger King and the officers are putting handcuffs on some poor schmuck so I ride over and say “Howdy … I hope that I’m not interrupting anything … but I’m looking for a bar ..."

 

The ossifers, bless their hearts, don’t seem to totally think that I’ve lost my mind and they point me in the right direction.  The place they send me to is on a one-way street and under the approaches to the new bridge, so it’s no wonder why I cannot see it.

I cruise over there, have a beer, shoot the breeze with the bartendress and a few regulars, and actually have an interesting conversation with a lady who is on oxygen.  She tells me that she’s pretty sure that her days are numbered, and cigarettes in her misspent youth didn’t do her any favors, but that she wants to spend her last days with her friends and her friends are all at this pub.  Not a bad philosophy, actually.

Back on the road, and I find out later that although this was an interesting place and  well worth visiting, it is not the place that other riders have suggested that I check out.  So there is yet another reason to return to this area in the future.  I have to find that missing bar.

 

From Moore Haven I wander back up Rt. 27.  Rt. 27 is divided highway and gets to be increasingly congested the further north that you go.  For now it’s not too bad.  This is one of the Old Florida tourist routes before the Interstates were built and bypassed much of central Florida.

 

Gatorama is on the right so I turn around and have a look.  Not bad, this is one of maybe a dozen or two dozen gator attractions around the state.  It’s clean if small.  I take a peek out the back to see the park and take a photo through the door.  The ticket clerk, who must be in her 70’s and reminds me of a fighting chicken that has seen too manyrounds, cops an attitude and objects to my taking photos without buying a ticket.  I point out to her that I’m writinga book that will help to promote the place and that, besides, it’s late and I don’t have the time to take a tour.  She doesn’t care, she just wants her 10 bucks.  I just laugh and walk outside and admire the sign out front that proudly proclaims that they have Florida crackers on display.  I ask her about those crackers and she tells me that, yeah, they have a few that work there.  I also notice that the sign that says there are deer on display has been crossed out.  Wonder if the gators got loose or something?

 

Riding on I cannot find the semi-legendary Cypress Knee Museum that is supposed to be nearby.  The word is that it has finally closed after the founder died a few years ago and many of his better cypress knees were stolen in a burglary.  I’d like to confirm the closure, but like many old touristy things in Florida my suspicions are that it’s indeed gone, gone, gone.  The owner used to do the talk shows – the story is that he turned down an appearance on Letterman because he thought that Letterman was too mean – so we are talking some serious American oddity here.

 

The town of Sebring comes up quickly.  Sebring’s primary claim to fame is that the town is home to a legendary 12 hour sports car race.  Sebring’s secondary claim to fame is that the area is a retirement village of the first order. 

 

Ol’John detours a bit to find the race track, and they’ve got traffic to the race track routed through a small subdivision.  No doubt the locals were just thrilled to death to have thousands of autos and hundreds of race car transporters driving down their tiny street the previous weekend when the 12 Hours of Sebring ran. 

 

Sebring International Raceway turns out to be quite a place, and even though the big race was the previous weekend there are still quite a few race car transporters and other signs of an auto race intact.  I ride around a bit, take some photos, and soak in a bit of the atmosphere and history.

 

Leaving the Sebring International Raceway property and heading back into the town of Sebring I am reminded that the legendary racing driver, Bob Wollek, was killed at Sebring in 2001.  Not from an accident on the race track, but rather after being hit while riding his bicycle along Rt. 98.  RIP Bob.  I’ve had a poster of you driving the West Palm Grand Prix winning Porsche 962 (a race that ol’ John was fortunate enough to have seen in person) hanging in my office for years.

 

Rt. 27 is, as I mentioned earlier, one of the old tourist highways of Florida, in many ways forgotten now that the Interstates bring traffic closer to the coasts.  The sunwas going down as I boogied swiftly through the towns of Avon Park, Haines, and Lake Wales.  Retirees have now largely replaced the tourists in these towns.  Riding by the signs for the now-reopened Cypress Gardens reminded meonce again how the attractions of old are fading fast in many parts of Florida.

 

Rt. 27 intersects with I-4 and a short ride into Orlando brought me to a fuel stop.  It was now pretty late, and time to add some layers and get ready to face the chill of a late night on the road.  A call home revealed that there was rain in the Jacksonville area but that it was moving away, and that my prospects for staying dry were pretty good.

 

I had a smoke, drank an energy drink, watched some of the more entertaining locals (it looked like I had managed to find an inner city Orlando oasis of late night partiers and drunks, so that’s always entertaining as long as they don’t drive into you). 

 

Two Orlando fire department ambulances and a fire truck came roaring by, sirens blasting, only to turn around and to return meekly.  What was that all about?

 

Back on the bike, and the further east I got the less congested the traffic is.  And at that point my fatigue from riding had pretty well been equalized by the sheer magnificence of riding at night, with the open skies and the stars above.  Beautiful.

 

Daytona Beach came and went, and then all of the familiar I-95 exits that I know so well passed by: Flagler Beach, Palm Coast, Crescent Beach, St. Augustine …  all tempted me to stop but I knew that I had to keep rolling.

 

Finally my exit (yes, my very own exit; I walk there every so often just to watch I-95 traffic pass underneath and to contemplate the universe so I figure that I own a small part of it, no matter how insignificant) appears.  And I’m home.  The first ride of the season under my belt and I am comfortably tired, and home with some great tales and some good photos.  I’ll sleep well tonight.

 

 

 

Day 3: Into (and out) of the Everglades

3/27/2005

 

Dawn breaks, the bike is still in the parking lot and unmolested (something that I never take for granted and why I always try to park it where it’s visible), and it’s time for me to do something that I seldom do:  get rolling early.  Boots are still wet (they were to remain wet for another full week – it had rained that incredibly hard on Friday) but there’s not much that I could do about ‘em.

 

Got my shower, got packed, and headed out the door looking for breakfast.  Riding down Clewiston’s main drag I see three other BMW riders.  We wave, I ride another block or two, and then see a gentleman outside a restaurant.  He’s got another BMW R1150GS, looks the part of being a serious touring rider, so I head on over in his direction.

 

This gent’s name is Chico and he and I start chatting and we quickly discover that we’ve got quite a bit in common.  He’s curious about my skull and crossbones stickers because he’s coming back from the Pirates of the Conch Republic campout over in Marathon in the Florida Keys and wonders if I’m affiliated with that group.  “Nope” I reply,except that I did once spend a night sleeping on a picnic table during one of their campouts a few years ago.   They are a fun, disorganized group that get together every year after Bike Week and hang out at Knight’s Key Campground in Marathon for a week or two.

 

Chatting with Chico a bit more it transpires that he has been reading some of my stuff that has been posted on some of the BMW bike sites.  On top of that he’s a manager for the BMW Motorcycle Owners of America’s annual get together to be held in Lima, OH this year.  Small world.

 

Chico likes my writing and he’s riding the same model of motorcycle that I’m riding.  Obviously Chico is a man of excellent tastes.

 

Turns out that Chico is in front of Robbie’s Restaurant in Clewiston, and there are perhaps 20 bikes parked in the lot.  The manager of Robbie’s would later apologize to me, explaining that on most Sundays there are usually 50 bikes present.  Robbie’s is a simple, country-style restaurant with hearty portions of basic foods.  And excellent breakfasts.  Obviously there are quite a few folks from over on the coast who are riding the 70 or more miles to Robbie’s in order to have a relaxed weekend breakfast.

 

Chico heads out, I have breakfast, and after breakfast I start shooting the breeze with a bunch of guys on go fast bikes.  These guys are all grayer and older than me, and I discuss tagging along, since we are all riding in the same general direction.

 

That doesn’t last long.

 

Leaving the fuel stop I head down the road and these guys are rolling pretty quickly.  Then I miss a turn.  I ride another half a mile of so, find another road on my GPS that will connect with where I am supposed to be going, and boogie at a respectable speed.

 

And these guys are still gone.  As in “I think they lit up the afterburners.”

 

I get out into the farmland a bit and think that I can see them in the distance.  Bear in mind that this part of the Everglades south of Clewiston is about as flat and open as Kansas, and there are long stretches of flat, narrow farm roads with the occasional 90 degree turn as the road meanders between drainage canals.

 

And these guys have basically ridden out of sight before I even got going.  Wow!

 

To add insult to injury, here I am riding along at maybe 85 mph on a narrow road posted at 45, and I hear a buzz that sounds like a zillion angry bees behind me.  And it’s another go fast bike rider passing me like I’m sitting still.  Sheesh!

 

Now I really feel old.  I think that if BMW ever offers a diesel-fueled variant of the good ol’ GS models I’m going to get one of those.  Just so I can putt-putt-putt along the country roads and not pretend to be able to keep up with anyone.

 

I stop to take a few photos and keep cruising.  The most memorable photo shot was when I ran across several buzzards having brunch at the side of the road and the roadkill of the day turns out to be a 5-6 ft. gator that lost a mating season standoff with a pickup truck.  That’s that Law of Tonnage at work; no matter how big, bad and horny Mr. Gator was he still wasn’t going to win in a battle against an F-350.  I take some photos but nothing that looks like I can use in my next book ‘cause those blasted buzzards wouldn’t pose the way that I wanted them to pose.  Imagine that.

 

As I mentioned, this is farm country and it looks like Kansas gone psychedelic.  Drainage channels crisscross the area.  Someone out here is growing shrimp in ponds, but most of this area appears to be sugar cane production and beef cattle.  I stop to take some photos of cattle on a ranch and, once again, the critters are wary of a crazy old Pirate wearing a bright red reflective jacket and pointing something at them.  Imagine that.

 

Coming into the Big Cypress Seminole Reservation the speed limit drops and then drops again.  I’m not sure what happens when you get a speeding ticket on an Indian reservation and am not anxious to find out, so I crawl along at the posted speed limit, trying to stay awake.

 

No older gents on sport bikes to be seen, by the way.  Those guys were supposed to be heading down here too, and they are long gone.  They certainly weren’t letting any cypress grow between their spokes, so to speak.

 

Big Cypress Reservation doesn’t look as prosperous as the Brighton reservation of yesterday.  Not bad, but not that good either.  The bingo hall here is closed and the old bingo building is dilapidated.  I later learn that this operation was moved to the Hollywood (Florida) reservation, which is much flashier.  This may be, but I’m not sure at the moment, the very same and first high stakes bingo hall that ushered in the entire industry of Indian gambling establishments in the USA.

 

Big Cypress has a motocross race track, the world renowned Ah-Tah-Thi-Ki Museum, an RV park, a private runway (the tribe of 4,500 people owns a corporate jet), the Billy Swamp Safari (maybe it’s a coincidence, but the Chairman of the Seminole Tribe in Florida is a gent by the name of James Billie, and it looks like Indian casinos have been berry, berry good to him from what I’ve read in the media), a rodeo complex, and souvenir shops.  No general stores that I saw although it’s very possible that I missed them, but you would see Clewiston addresses pretty regularly on the reservation and Clewiston  was miles and miles away from where I was standing, so I presume that it’s not out of the question that the locals on the reservation do most of their shopping in Clewiston.  I also didn’t see any gasoline for sale here, and I presume that the closest gasoline station would be 20 or so miles away at the Miccosukee travel plaza off of I-75.  Interesting.  This community is pretty isolated.

 

I poke around a bit but it’s Easter Sunday and, duh … one of the very few holidays when the Ah-Tah-Thi-Ki Museum is closed.  That’s too bad, and I’ll have to run back over here some other day to see the museum.

 

I ride down to the rodeo stadium and stop to take some photos.  While I am there a youngster, of perhaps late grade school age, comes buzzing by on an ATV.  He’s on a dirt track that parallels the small road but I have seen other ATVs buzzing along on the county highway that runs through the reservation.  Unlike the Brighton Reservation, which had signs up warning against operating ATVs on the highways, the ATV seems to be an accepted means of transportation on the Big Cypress Reservation

 

Back on the road and the ride southbound to the Miccosukee Travel Plaza continues to be  on pavement of good quality if a bit narrow, and the road meanders through farm country with a posted limit of 45 mph.  The scrub brush is getting a little taller and the area is less cleared than north of the reservation.  I later hear that there are plans to widen that road beginning … well, basically, any day now...

 

The Miccosukee Travel Plaza is just what it sounds like – your standard not-very-exceptional fuel stop.  Out west or in the Mexican desert it wouldn’t be unusual to have a fuel stop that becomes a landmark in an isolated area, but here, east of the Mississippi River, it is odd to find an area so sparsely populated that a fuel stop becomes a bit of an oasis.

 

This is the modern Indian reservation money maker:  few trinkets,and plenty of 92 octane gasoline.  And compared to some parts of the country, and certainly the  rest of the world, this location isn’t that isolated.  But all of those cars on the side of I-75 that have run out of fuel tell the tale that being perhaps 40-50 miles from the nearest alternative for fuel has caught many people by surprise.

 

I chat a bit with some travelers and other riders.  Most of the motorcyclists out here are from the Greater Miami area and are heading home. 

 

A Miccosukee reservation police ossifer and I strike up a conversation and I take a few photos of his cruiser.  On the way out of the travel plaza parking lot I spy the local police substation and figure that I’d drop in and take a few more photos.  Imagine my surprise when I walk in and there’s no one home.

 

Hmmmm … now being alone in a police station – and uninvited at that – makes me a bit nervous.  So I go back across the street to talk to the officer that I was just shooting the breeze with.  He laughs, and tells me that, yup, they usually leave the station unlocked and that he’s the only one on duty. 

 

I’m thinking that it’s commendable that things are this peaceful around here, but if I recall correctly even Andy and Barney locked the door to the Sheriff’s Office when they left.

 

OK, so we have that cleared up and it’s back to the police substation for some photos of their other patrol vehicles – swamp buggies.  Now that’s something that you don’t see every day.

 

Back on the road and it’s time to head back home.  It’s getting past noon and as much as I’d like to explore further in the Everglades I’ve got obligations on Monday and need to get home.  There’s about 350 miles between where I’m at and my home in Jacksonville and I’ve got more places to check out today so it’s time to boogie.

 

Those gators and killer mosquitoes around Everglades City will just have to wait until another trip.

 

The old R1150GS motorcycle boogies westbound on I-75 through the edge of the densely forested and very beautiful Big Cypress National Preserve to Rt. 29, and then it heads north.  As I pause to take some photos of a sign warning of the Florida panther I realize that not only are there zero services at this exit, but that the really tall fence next to the roadway isn’t designed to keep humans out of the nature preserve but rather to keep the critters from getting to us humans.  Sweet.

 

About this time a couple comes riding by.  At first I think that it’s another set of young kids on a go fast bike.  As I watch I realize that it’s a couple of at least my age, out here in the middle of nothing, riding a Honda Reflex scooter. And here I am, with my crashbar- and GPS- equipped adventure touring motorcycle, worried about whether or not I’m fixing to become puma bait.

 

Folks, it’s starting to get a bit weird in the woods out here.

 

This is a very rural area, with handfuls of people living out here.  As you go back north you start to see more and more residences, but things are still pretty sparse.  The little town of Immokalee is pretty interesting – the Mexican influence is so strong on the southern side of town that I’ve since told several friends who are curious about traveling in Mexico that we should ride down here and hang out; most of the lettering on the buildings here is in Spanish and I’m sure that Spanish language opportunities would abound.

 

Doing some research after I return home I discover that there is actually another Indian casino just a few blocks from where I was riding.  Clearly, I need to return to Immokalee one of these days and check that place out.

 

Continuing north on Rt. 29 the strong Mexican influence continues.  I stop outside a store to buy some drinks and take some photos and it’s locked up.  However, the gentleman next door comes over with the keys and opens up for me.  Nice folks, and not a word of English is spoken.

 

 

   (continued in the next blog entry)