Breakfast at a Very Historical Restaurant and a Great Ride Too

Breakfast at a Very Historical Restaurant and a Great Ride Too

Well, Margaret, it's me again.

For once, I can't open by fussing about the weather. The Good Lord spread a nice quilt of clouds over us and kept the Florida sun from cooking us like breakfast links. We got downright cocky about it, too.

That confidence lasted right up until we rolled back into Shalimar on the way home.

Somebody must've flung open Heaven's oven door.

Mercy.

I believe all that concrete stores heat the same way Grandma's cast-iron skillet did. By the time we got home you could've fried an egg on the sidewalk, warmed a biscuit beside it, and still had enough heat left over to make gravy.

Eleven Sandies pointed their front wheels toward Crestview and rode 125 miles for breakfast.

Now, some folks think that's excessive.

Those people have obviously never had good biscuits.

Or Conecuh sausage.

Truth is, folks in the South have driven farther for pie.

Our destination was the Tropical Palms on Main Street, a place that's been feeding folks—and probably supplying half the county's gossip—since Harry Truman was wondering if anybody would ever invent television.

If those tables could talk, there'd be enough material for three history books and at least six lawsuits.

I suspect every sheriff, preacher, farmer, politician, and fellow who claimed he was "just going fishing" has occupied one of those booths.

Around there, the truth has always been appreciated.

It just never could compete with a better story.

Legend has it the building started life back in 1947 as a gambling hall before somebody decided folks would lose their money slower buying breakfast.

Seems like a sound business decision.

Years ago, the dining room was dark enough that you had to identify your eggs by Braille. Between cigarette smoke, bacon grease, and decades of Southern cooking, I suspect the walls had enough seasoning to qualify as a side dish.

Today it's bright, welcoming, and friendlier than a porch swing on a Sunday afternoon. The food was outstanding. If it'd been one bite better, somebody would've started a petition to elect the cook governor.

JoeJoe joined us for his first ride since surgery. We took it a little easier so he could get his riding legs back under him.

It's amazing how one familiar face can make a ride feel complete.

Being a Sandie doesn't require passing a written exam.

Matter of fact, if you showed up with an abundance of common sense, we'd probably suggest another riding club.

Our only real requirement is possessing just enough questionable judgment to think riding 125 miles for breakfast sounds perfectly reasonable.

Especially after doing nearly the same thing the day before.

That's where Randy and Bridget shine.

They rode Tim's ride Saturday, slept on it, and somehow woke up thinking, "You know what would improve this weekend? Another 125 miles."

That's not dedication.

That's advanced-level poor decision-making.

We're proud of them.

Sandy is getting downright dangerous behind the wheel of the Screamin' Yellow Zonker. Listening to her on the radio, I honestly believe she's enjoying driving the chase vehicle as much as we're enjoying the motorcycles.

That woman laughs enough to improve fuel mileage.

Now I'll confess something.

I have a weakness.

Some folks can't pass an antique store.

Others collect fishing lures or old tractors.

Me?

I cannot pass a road sign that says:

"Bridge Out – Local Traffic Only."

I know exactly what's behind that sign.

A washed-out bridge.

The same washed-out bridge that's probably been washed out since Jimmy Carter was president.

But every single time, a little voice whispers,

"Well...it might be fixed now."

Next thing you know I'm easing down the road like a possum checking on a chicken coop.

Just looking.

Purely scientific curiosity.

Out of roughly a hundred investigations, I believe I've discovered one repaired bridge.

The other ninety-nine times, the county had gone to the trouble of making an honest sign.

Sure enough, there it was again today.

I actually stopped.

Progress.

I stared down that road for a good long minute before my better judgment finally tackled my curiosity and won.

I made a U-turn.

Sandy, meanwhile, had to turn the Screamin' Yellow Zonker around on a road about as wide as a preacher's necktie.

Watching that looked like somebody trying to square dance with a school bus.

Sandy managed it just fine.

It may have required seventeen points, three prayers, and everybody else holding their breath, but nobody ended up in the ditch.

We call that a successful maneuver.

Tommy was in rare form today.

He was throwing one-liners around like birdseed.

Some landed.

Some probably violated FCC regulations.

Every single one got a laugh.

Then, after breakfast...

It happened.

Somebody released a belch over the radio that ought to be entered into the Olympics.

The handlebars vibrated.

Small woodland creatures probably paused to listen.

Nobody confessed.

Naturally.

The guilty party knows who he is.

We've decided he'll forever be known as The Phantom Belcher of the Blackwater.

There are men who play the violin.

There are men who sing opera.

And then there's The Phantom...

A man capable of rattling windows with nothing but biscuits and coffee.

Every fellow has a talent.

Our resident Law Dog, Tommy, has already reviewed the evidence and claims he's narrowed the suspect list considerably.

Ken C. drove over and joined us for breakfast, although his motorcycle stayed home for a little mechanical counseling.

Motorcycles are like old mules.

Ignore them too long and they'll remind you who's actually in charge.

We're looking forward to seeing both Ken and the bike back with the pack soon.

Tim surprised us by joining today's ride as well. In a couple of weeks he'll head off to another faraway port where the water is prettier, the drinks come with tiny umbrellas, and even the mosquitoes probably speak a different language.

Fair winds, my friend.

The ride home was one of those that reminds you why motorcycles were invented in the first place.

Canopy roads.

Sunlight drifting through giant oaks.

The smell of pine trees.

The occasional whiff of somebody's barbecue making you wonder if you ought to stop for second breakfast. Or lunch or Strawberry shortcake.

By ride's end we'd solved none of the world's problems.

We probably created three new stories that'll get better every time they're told.

That's the way Southern history has always been written.

All in all...

Not a bad way to spend a summer morning.