March 25, 2017

Yesteryear
One year ago today: March 25, 2016, do I have to teach you everything?
Five years ago today: March 25, 2012, a lousy $1,247.00.
Nine years ago today: March 25, 2008, reads like Dragon-ware.
Random years ago today: March 25, 2001, makes no sense.

           I’m safe and sound, but I’ll never make the mistake of taking the Naples route again. That’s the Tamiami trail that crosses Florida from Miami, then heads north through a bizarre series of contortions with no helpful road signs whatsoever. From south of Naples to north of Sarasota, the town councils have been too cheap-ass to build a service road. Thus, the highway they got for free and should have preserved has become a 70-mile strip mall. I put up with it until I saw a sign saying Highway 17 and got the hell out of Millennialville. You know, back to the interior where the roadsides still kind of indicated where the pavement went.

           I’m reminded of Canada, where the roads are given fictitious names. I don’t mind the numbered routes, since you know that requires a map. But it’s these highways with names like “King George”, where the road does not go any such place, or no such place exists. I don’t mean local access roads; the world is full of those. I mean when they name major highways these made-up names. Here is a picture of what you are most realistically going to see if you drive through Naples. The ass-end of the vehicle ahead of you waiting at a red light.

           I left Miami at 9:15AM and it took nearly an hour to get from JZ’s place to the edge of the city. This is on a Saturday. To those who have noticed, the days of early starts are gone. I leave when I feel like it, usually after rush hour. It’s still Miami and the third-world nature of the traffic always ensures it will never go smoothly. I zipped past the bends, the former Monroe Station, and tanked up in Naples. Little did I know that was the easy stretch. I’d half a mind to stop and look around but two hours later            I was still bucking red lights twenty miles north of town.
No, ladies, I did not stop and ask for directions. Gee, I must be beyond stubborn. But nor did I waste time talking to the freeway cult.

Picture of the day.
Golla Konda (India.)
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           I made good time after cutting inland and stopped in Arcadia around 3:00 PM. As luck would have it, the barbershop quartet singer is still working at the one big bar in town. There was some celebration underway but they all tend to look much like a flea market. There was a cribbage tournament underway so I could only collect the guy’s contact information. That’s all the band networking I’ve done this year. That’s the same singer I challenged by putting random tunes on the jukebox and he was able to sing a flawless harmony line, it was like listening to Abba.

           It was an ideal day for motorcycle travel and I confirmed on the Rebel, it costs just $18 in gas to make the trip. Get your atlas, today I drove west across the state from Miami to Naples, then north to Ft. Meyers, Sarasota (where I purchased the batbike in 2012), the Arcadia, Limestone, Ona, Mulberry and home. Total time nearly eight hours, of which around five was driving time. I stopped at the Wal*Mart for a pair of sunglasses, but did not tourist. There really isn’t anything to see in the coastal cities along the gulf side. Mattress outlets and far-flung medical clinics.

           Here’s the traditional pic of the sign to Ona. This side road is some of the greatest motorcycling in the area, though it does add 40 miles to the trip. There are few services but the highlight of the route is you get to go right past the Limestone Country Club. This was the first time I’ve been there during business hours on a weekend. They had a live band of sorts and a following of bikers. Around 35 machines and a few customized hot rods.
           It’s a rural area. You even get the farmer who will pull up behind you in his pickup with one headlight and tailgate for an hour, but he will not pass. To make your day, you will notice his slow reaction time. Say, when you slow for a railway crossing, he doesn’t see your tail lights until he has to panic brake. It’s a nice relaxing drive knowing if anything goes wrong, the prick will flatten you and just say in court he “didn’t mean it”. But, this is Florida, I slow down so much they have to pass.

One-Liner of the Day:
“I don’t know what your problem is
but I’ll bet it’s hard to pronounce.”
           I stopped for a brew at the Limestone, but just the one. Late afternoon is motorcycle prime time. I listened to the band for a bit and continued on. The band was hillbilly, with one guitar, lady singer, and a retired hippie on the thump box. The guitar player was excellent but one of those type who rarely works out in a band because he is over-strumming all the time. It’s a familiar shortcoming of solo guitarists. His strumming is so “crisp” it gets in the way of the song mood. Yes, I’m going to critique this band.

           You see, they had an annoying twitch to their manner. The lady singer, shown here, is no amateur at anything, socially speaking. Yet ever other song was either one they “didn’t know” or hadn’t played “for ages”. Geez, lady, how about you just sing the ones you do know, because, like, most of what you do already sounds pretty much alike. But it was good music, I’m not saying otherwise. While the guitarist was good, there was also a consistency to his style that made some songs difficult, in that he strummed them funny.

           One was the way he played “Sweet Child of Mine”. It gave me an idea for a bass solo version. Other than that, their set list was the standards. Bobby McGee, Sweet Home, HRS, Can’t You See. The band at the Limestone quits at 4:00 PM, so you can tell the highway patrol knows all the side roads in and out of that location. The family that owns the place were but were the same as last time, that is, very suspicious of strangers. They don’t mean to be, but it comes across right away.
           It’s the sort of venue you take some new chick you are dating for quality time. It’s a biker bar, but bikers who have families and wives and kids. My 450 Rebel was the smallest motor on the lot by at least half. I consider those big Honda trikes to be the SUVs of the motorcycle world. I mean, at which point are you no longer riding a bike? What? Some motorcycle riders object to the term “bike”? Well, tell them to go get their own blog. This one is mine.

ADDENDUM
           Arriving home to an empty birdfeeder and a parched yard, I quickly tidied up and fixed a sandwich. The 54 plants barely sprouted in the starter peat. One of my sunflower plants has been knocked over, probably by the kids playing soccer next door again. In all, that’s my March trip out of town and I’m finally saying it is nice to get back home. While the Rebel can’t match the batbike for on-the-road comfort, it is a livelier ride that imparts a pleasant tiredness, so I curled up with my latest novel, “Tess of the d’Ubervilles”. Just past the half-way mark, the plot starts to pull in the same direction.
           The parson’s son, having partially sold his parents on Tess, is quite unaware of her background. While I understand the morality of 1860 is different, there is a very modern theme to what’s going on. The son, with the outright proper name of Angel, is unable to understand why she will not marry him. He doesn’t know about the rape and the kid. But these days, she would marry him considering him the fool and let him find out about things the hard way.

           There are also passages describing the son’s pondering over her religion. That is something I have never discussed with women, though I’ve had a few broach the subject. I figure there are enough problems in a relationship with an older woman that you don’t need to drag Jesus into it, too. Besides, it is too hypocritical to begin with most of the time as far as I am concerned. I said most of the time. One of the most religious-crazy women I’ve ever met had been divorced three times.
           But Tess is dealing with it in a country-girl way. Telling the guy no but without giving a reason. This is having the opposite effect, and now we get the hint of trouble. The parson, in talking about his problem cases, mentions a scoundrel from the fake family of d’Ubervilles. An episode where they almost came to blows. I take it in those days it was more common for the preacher to come pounding on your door to deliver a week-day sermon. If so, that is one practice they quickly cut out.

           So, the situation as it stands is Tess is spurning Angel Clare, whose father unknowingly confronted the rapist. None of them yet know that Alec, the jerk, is the common link. But for now, I think we can all see where this is heading. You just know there’s trouble the way Alec keeps lighting his pipe “automatically”.
           Guess who called to check in on me? The lady from Lake Placid. She still has that garden shed thing for me, the one that fits against a wall on the house. Let’s see, the 31st is a Friday. Let me think.


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