Wet, Wiser and Wrong

Well, it's me, Margaret. Gather 'round, because it's another week and another trip through the Florida dunk tank. We didn't get quite as soaked this time, but saying that is about like claiming the Gulf ain't got any fish or the Pacific Ocean isn't salty.

Had a few new wrinkles on this ride. We Sandies burned up 125 miles just to eat good food and get wet... again. I reckon we've finally found our calling.

Eight Sandies rolled out of Fort Walton with a shiny new toy in the parade. Sandy S. showed up sporting a brand-new-to-her Polaris Slingshot. Lord have mercy, that thing is brighter than a school bus dipped in lemon juice. yellow and ready to flat-out scoot.

Now, if you thought a fancy new ride was finally gonna bring a little peace and quiet to the Sandies, bless your heart. Wrong again, Bison Lips.

Sandy was in full-blown Sandy mode, and the radio network lit up like a Christmas tree. Toss Bobby, Tommy, Sandy, and Sam on the same channel, and common sense packs its bags and heads for another county. I laughed so hard my ribs filed a formal complaint. Most of the time that's a mighty fine thing... but every now and then that bunch wanders clean off into the Twilight Zone.

Then there was Randy and Bridget. After last week's adventure, you'd think they'd have enough good judgment to stay home and mow the yard. Not those two. They climbed right back in, figuring this ride would surely be different.

Bless their hearts.

We pointed the noses north toward Fannin's Restaurant on Highway 81, just outside DeFuniak Springs. As usual, the food didn't disappoint. There was a proper Southern breakfast waiting on us—eggs, bacon, grits, and the mandatory biscuit. Around these parts, breakfast without a biscuit is about like going to church without saying, "Amen."

Bellies full and spirits high, it was time to head for the house.

Somewhere about then Tommy mentioned rain.

I puffed up like an old rooster and declared, "Ain't no rain on the radar."

Now, I hadn't actually looked at the radar all that recently, but confidence has never required facts.

As we rolled north, I could see the clouds getting darker up ahead. They looked a little grumpy, but I was still feeling mighty smug. In fact, I let my mouth write a check my backside was fixing to cash.

"If it rains," I announced over the radio, "I'll buy everybody dinner."

Tommy didn't waste half a heartbeat.

"Where?"

"Anywhere."

"Oh... how about Longhorn?"

"Anywhere."

You could almost hear everybody grinning through their helmets.

Now, on Sandie rides we've got our own weather department. JoeJoe is our resident weather wizard. The man used to do weather for a living, and when Joe talks about clouds, folks listen.

Problem was... JoeJoe wasn't with us.

So Bobby, armed with his fancy weather radar, stepped up to the plate. When Bobby comes on the radio explaining weather, he sounds like he's flying a Delta jet into Atlanta.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we've got a few buildups off the port side..."

He never mentioned rain.

Well, that was all the reassurance I needed. I settled right into my confidence, figuring Longhorn was safe from my wallet.

Then I noticed the clouds had gone from charcoal gray to, "Noah, you might want to start building."

A few sprinkles started tapping on the windshield.

"Well... that ain't rain," I announced defiantly over the network.

About thirty seconds later, those sprinkles got promoted.

Then they got a raise.

Pretty soon it was raining hard enough to make you wonder if somebody upstairs had found the garden hose again. It wasn't quite the biblical soaking we caught last week, but it was more than enough to sting your face and remind me that Mother Nature had just accepted my dinner invitation.

About then, I started wishing I'd kept my big mouth shut.

The Sandies have all the compassion of a pack of coyotes when they smell wounded pride. We were soaked... again... and the radio network came alive. You could almost hear everybody licking their chops as they lined up to collect on my prediction.

I tried to defend myself. Well... I made an attempt anyway.

It's mighty hard to argue your case when you're wetter than a duck in a hurricane and your guarantee just floated downstream.

The wisecracks came from every direction. Around this bunch, throwing barbs isn't just a pastime—it's an Olympic event, and every one of 'em is a gold medal contender.

Truth be told, I laughed until my cheeks hurt. That's what makes these rides so much fun. Sure, we ride for the scenery, the food, and the miles, but it's the people that keep us coming back.

Every ride turns into another chapter in the ever-growing Book of Sandie Legends.

By the time we rolled back into Fort Walton, we'd traveled 125 miles, eaten a breakfast fit for Southern royalty, gotten rained on—again—and given The Sandies enough ammunition to keep me humble for at least another week.

Knowing the Sandies... probably not even that long.

Just another wet fabulous day with The Ridingst Club anywhere.