( 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.
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