Can you say H. O. T.?

To my fellow feeling’ like Bacon Sandies, well, it was hot enough out there today to qualify as needing nothing more than a good flip and maybe a little basting.

By the time we rolled into Shalimar, my outside temperature gauge was reading 110°F. Not “feels like” 110. Actual, honest-to-goodness, thermometer-don’t-lie 110 degrees. At that temperature, a man starts wondering whether he oughta be riding a motorcycle or lying underneath it for shade.

Now, to be fair, the ride to breakfast was downright pleasant. The ride to Milton and breakfast at Grover’s 2.0. Yep Grandma 2.0.  Had to try anything named like that. Grover’s was a new place with an old vibe. Oh with designated Motorcycle parking, SCORE! Food was good, people running it better

It was later in the day when things began to deteriorate and we started feeling less like motorcycle riders and more like breakfast meat on a cast-iron skillet. Another fine example of our club demonstrating that good judgment is merely a suggestion.

And speaking of questionable decisions, we managed to put 130 miles on the odometer. Because apparently going home when it gets hotter than Satan’s tool shed would’ve been the sensible thing to do.

We had 15 Sandies out riding today, and we were mighty glad to see Misty Z rejoin us as a New/Old Member. She showed up on a pretty Ryker, too, proving once again that around here, if it has wheels and somebody’s willing to climb aboard, it qualifies.

Today’s group was an absolutely remarkable assortment of motorcycles. Frankly, we looked like Big Al’s Used Motorcycle Sale Lot had broken loose and was headed down the highway.

Two wheels. Three wheels. Big bikes. Little bikes. A little bit of everything rolling along together like some kind of traveling mechanical family reunion.

And that, folks, is exactly why this Club has been around for 46 years.

It ain’t about what you ride. It’s about the fact that you ride. No one particular brand is what brings us together. It’s the people sitting on those machines that matter.

Of course, whether you’re perfectly sane, mildly questionable, or fully certifiable isn’t nearly as important as whether you happen to be on the FBI’s wanted list.

I mean, let’s be honest—around this bunch, the really important question isn’t “What do you ride?”

It’s “Can you make bail?”

I also can’t say enough about how good it was to see Greg L out on the BMW. We don’t get to see Greg nearly often enough, so having him along made the day that much better.

And Mark and Lorna S are back from setting Asia on fire and are apparently taking a little time to cool off before heading out on their next adventure to the South Pacific.

Meanwhile, Randy and Bridget L keep showing back up, which leads me to believe they’ve either become attached to us or simply haven’t figured out how to make bail yet.

Either way, we’re glad to have all of you

And just when you thought we had exhausted the day’s supply of questionable mechanical decisions, Sandy S showed up again doing what Sandy does best—being her own personal version of “Hey, it’s me!”—this time aboard her Yellow Zonker Slingshot.

Meanwhile, Tommy apparently decided to channel the Tappet Brothers, Click and Clack, those legendary NPR fellows who could diagnose an automobile from three counties away and fix practically anything that had an engine. If you remember Click and Clack, congratulations—you’re officially dirt old.

Tommy demonstrated his own version of their mechanical wizardry today.

Sam’s bike wouldn’t start. Tommy walks over, lays his hands on it, mumbles something under his breath, and I could’ve sworn I heard:

“Start… or it’s the scrap heap for you.”

The bike started.

Then Sandy’s ride decided to play the same game. Tommy once again approached, laid hands upon the machine, and began mumbling what sounded suspiciously like an incantation:

“Start… or it’s the toaster pile for you.”

Instantly, it started.

Now, I’m not saying Tommy has developed some kind of mechanical voodoo, but if my motorcycle ever refuses to start, I’m calling Tommy before I call a mechanic. At least Tommy apparently works for free and doesn’t require a diagnostic fee.

JoeJoe showed up today fully equipped with the weather forecast, including temperatures.

Now, you’d think knowing exactly how hot it’s going to be would be useful information.

It isn’t.

Somehow, there’s very little comfort in learning that it’s going to be damn hot instead of simply discovering that it’s plain hot when you walk outside.

Ignorance may not be bliss, but sometimes it’s considerably cooler.

Then there was Ken C, who felt obligated to remind me that Norm Riley Road was still adorned with its charming “Bridge Out” sign.

Now, I’m sure Ken was merely passing along important roadway information like a concerned and responsible citizen.

Except Ken knows me.

Ken knows my weakness for a road marked BRIDGE OUT.

That sign is practically a personal invitation.

I almost succumbed.

I could hear the road calling.

But through tremendous personal strength, maturity, and an amount of restraint I didn’t know I possessed, I fought the urge.

Meanwhile, Ken stood there wearing that innocent little “Who, me?” look.

I know that look, Ken.

You ain’t fool’n’ anybody.

I also want to take a minute to say a genuine thank you to Bobby B.

For the past couple of weeks, Bobby has been getting out to these local poker runs, heat and all. And he’s doing more than just riding—he’s “showing the flag”.

That means Bobby is wearing his Sandy gear, letting folks know we’re still out here, still riding, and still very much a Club.

Bobby talks up the Club to folks he meets, and I’ve even heard tell he’s been chatting up a few single ladies along the way. Now, whether that’s officially part of the Club’s recruiting strategy remains under review.

But regardless of his methods, Bobby is out there representing us.

And that matters.

I’m sure Bobby could use a few more Sandies out there helping him show the flag.

That’s how we’re going to attract new members—not by sitting at home waiting for somebody to discover us by accident.

We need to be out there.

We need to let folks see that we ride two wheels, three wheels, and pretty much anything else that can legally roll down the highway.

We need people to see that this Club isn’t about one particular brand. It’s about riding, friendship, and having a good time with a bunch of folks who probably ought not be trusted with a map.

So if you head out to a poker run or another motorcycle event, wear some Club gear.

Show ’em you’re a member of the Ridingst Club.

You never know who might see you, ask about the Club, and decide they’d like to join a bunch of people who willingly rode 130 miles in 110-degree heat.

That’s either a great recruiting tool or evidence for the prosecution.

Despite the heat—and I mean despite the kind of heat that makes a motorcycle seat feel like it’s been left on the surface of the sun—it was another great day.

There’s just something about riding with friends that makes the discomfort worth it.

Good motorcycles.

Good friends.

Good laughs.

And just enough questionable decision-making to keep things interesting.

That’s what makes this Club special.

46 years and still rolling.

Now, before everybody gets too comfortable, don’t forget:

Next Saturday — The Roadkill Café leave GTD 7:30am

 Roadkill Café open only 10:00 to 12:30 pm

“Voted best Fried Chicken in Baldwin County in 2024” my kinda journey

Be there.

And if it’s hot?

Well, by now you know the drill.