A Fall Ride and Rebellion

Today was one of those days that makes a fellow think he might actually know what he’s doing on a motorcycle. That delusion lasted most of the morning.

We knocked out 190 miles on a fine early-fall day, and eight Sandies decided the cooler weather was too good to waste sitting at home pretending to have something productive to do. So off we went.

We wandered through backwoods trails, canopy roads, and eventually made our way to the Highest Point in Florida, which sounds more impressive than it is. Still, it’s the highest point in Florida, and when you live here you take your victories where you can find them.

Randy and Bridget hadn’t been there before, so naturally we decided they needed to see it. That’s how group rides work. Nobody actually asks you if you want to go. We just announce that you’re going somewhere and call it fellowship.

Along the way, a small native revolt broke out. Sandy was at the head of the rebellion and had decided we should have lunch at the Conecuh Sausage store. I explained, in what I believed was a calm and reasonable manner, that it was a considerable distance to go for lunch. This was apparently the wrong thing to say. Before long, the rebellion had gathered steam. Ken was definitely in it, Sandy was obviously in it, and I believe I heard a JoeJoe somewhere in the mob shouting something inflammatory about sausage.

Wisely, we compromised. We stopped at the Country Buffet in Florala. Nothing ends a revolution quicker than a buffet. The rebels were fed, the government remained intact, and civilization was restored PDQ.

Speaking of Florala, they now have a Museum and Welcome Center, which we’ll definitely add to the list for a future ride. Because nothing says motorcycle adventure quite like a bunch of sweaty people in riding gear wandering through a museum pretending they aren’t mostly there for the air conditioning.

The ride home was when Florida reminded us that summer hasn’t quite accepted its eviction notice. That beautiful little taste of fall packed its bags and left us somewhere along the way, and good ol’ Summer came marching back in just to let us know he was still around and apparently still had something to prove.

As we approached Shalimar, the Gates of Hades were not exactly wide open, but somebody had apparently left them cracked. Yes, it was hot. Yes, we sweated. But it wasn’t the full, wringing-wet, mid-summer sweat where you wonder if you should just throw the riding clothes away and buy new ones. This was more of a respectable little river of perspiration. Enough to remind you that Florida is still Florida, but not enough to require a baptism afterward. Still, you can feel it coming.

Fall is sharpening its elbows and getting ready to shove Summer out the door. And speaking of folks returning from adventures, Tommy is back from his and Sandy’s trip to Hawaii. Yep, the dry observations and carefully delivered understatements were back in full regalia. It’s good to have them both home safe and sound.

All in all, it was a fine ride, a good crowd, a little rebellion, a little sweat, some scenery, and 190 miles of proof that there are worse ways to spend a Sunday. Today was a great ride and, I suspect, a harbinger of good rides to come. So dig out that jacket. You’re going to need it soon. Or at least that’s what I’m telling myself.

Come ride with us you will enjoy it.