You know a place is bound to be good when the line is a block long before the doors even open. That’s not advertising — that’s testimony. We arrived at Randy’s Cheeseburger in Foley just before opening time, and sure enough that line was stretched out like folks were waiting to board a lifeboat.

We finally got inside and discovered a menu of uncommon simplicity and remarkable confidence. Chicken? Nope. Fish? Nope. BBQ? Nope. Salad? Not even as a joke. Cheeseburgers — that’s it. It reminded me of that old comedy routine: “Cheeseburger, cheeseburger.” If you happen to be a vegetarian, your choices are French fries and onion rings, and you are expected to reflect upon your life decisions while eating them. The drinks come in big cups, but if you want beer or wine, it comes in cans. Wine in a can. Yes sir, the future has arrived and it is aluminum.

Now you might wonder how we ended up in Foley on this noble quest for cheeseburgers. Four Sandies left GTD on a morning that was cloudy, a little chilly, and just blustery enough to make you zip your jacket. Along the way we picked up an old Sandie, Howard W., who has been traveling the country doing the Park Host thing. Good to see Howard again — a man can only wander so long before his friends start telling stories about him.

Traffic was lighter than expected, and whenever you find yourself near Foley with extra time, you naturally end up at Barber’s Marina. Now that place looks like someone took a museum, a junkyard, a history book, and a child’s imagination and shook them all together in the woods.

There’s BamaHenge, a full-size Stonehenge sitting there in Alabama like it took a wrong turn somewhere near London. Then there are full-size dinosaurs hiding in the trees and Chinese warriors standing around like they’re waiting for orders that never came. And of course, the Lady in the Lake, who rises out of the water looking like she knows exactly how all this turns out but isn’t telling. JoeJoe picture tells the Ladies story

Soon enough it was time to eat, which brought us back to that line at Randy’s. We met up with Ken C. there, and he was studying the line like a man calculating whether he had enough supplies for winter. But the line moved fast, and before long we had our burgers.

Now I have heard a lot of claims about food in my lifetime, and most of them were exaggerations told by hungry people. But I will say this — those burgers were every bit as good as advertised. They say there are hundreds of reviews online and every one of them is perfect. I have never seen such a thing before in my life. Usually if something is perfect, somebody on the internet will complain about the parking.

But the reviews were right. That burger was something special. And any burger that puts Conecuh sausage on it is already halfway to heaven before you even take the first bite. I am not saying it was the best burger in the world — because a man should not make statements he might have to defend later — but I will say this: if that burger isn’t proof that the world is still a good place, then I don’t know what would be.

With our stomachs packed so full they had begun to interfere with normal breathing and possibly navigation, we decided to stop at the Foley Train Museum so I could indulge in one of the finest hobbies ever invented by man — watching trains, particularly the small ones that behave themselves.

My fellow riders did not complain about this stop, which speaks very highly of their character. It speaks even more highly when compared to Bobby B., who generally believes any stop that does not involve eating, gasoline, or buying motorcycles, trains are an act of unnecessary delay.

The model train display, however, is first class. You can stand there far longer than you intended, watching tiny trains roll through tiny towns where tiny people appear to have their lives entirely in order. There is something comforting about a world where the trains run on time and nobody is arguing about anything. I always enjoy it, and I always like to leave a donation in the jar, because anything that lets a grown man stand quietly and watch trains without being questioned is worth supporting.

Now being Sandies, we naturally could not simply ride straight home like sensible citizens. . Instead, we discovered that Baldwin County 87 had been repaved. Now this kind of news may not mean much to most people, but to a motorcyclist it is the equivalent of discovering a new gold mine. Roads that were once merely fun had now become magnificent — smooth, rolling curves one after another, the kind of road that makes you believe motorcycles were invented for this exact stretch of pavement and all other roads are just practice. Sam even asked “Can we redo 87 again”. When a Sandie voluntarily rides the same road twice in one day, you know it is something kinda special.

Really, that is how the whole day went — one fine thing after another. A good ride, a strange marina, a perfect cheeseburger, little trains, new pavement, and good friends to share it all with. Days like that are the reason we ride motorcycles in the first place. Not to get somewhere, not even to go fast, but for days when the road is good, the weather behaves, the food is memorable, and the company is better than both.

Now this was how to spend 200 miles on a Saturday.

Those are the days that turn into stories, and the stories are half the reason for living.

Thank You JoeJoe , again the great pictures