125 Miles, 9 Sandies, and One Tortoise First, before anybody starts making nasty comments about the heat, let me say this: it was a pleasant ride. A perfectly pleasant ride. For the first 125 miles, anyway. We had nine Sandies rolling along, enjoying the morning, minding our own business and generally behaving like responsible adults who had somehow been allowed to own motorcycles. Then we opened the gates of Hell in Shalimar. You know that blast of heat you get when you open the oven door on Thanksgiving and discover somebody has put a 24-pound turkey in there? That’s about what Shalimar felt like. We left GTD and headed over to Penny’s on North 85. Breakfast was great, and the folks waiting on us were outstanding. Southern hospitality is a wonderful thing. You can feed nine hungry motorcycle riders, keep the coffee coming and still smile at us like you actually want us to come back. After breakfast, we headed out on a loop through the northern part of the county. That’s where I earned my “Enter Heaven” badge. I helped a Gopher Tortoise cross a busy highway. Now, some folks might call that a good deed. Sam may have a slightly different opinion. I saw the tortoise, hit the brakes and stopped suddenly—without giving Sam any warning whatsoever. Apparently, my turn signal was on vacation that day. I almost put Sam into the back of me. But the tortoise made it safely across the road, so I'm pretty sure St. Peter has already made a note beside my name. “Best of intentions. Questionable braking technique.” Misty joined us for the second trip and got good marks from JoeJoe on her riding ability. That’s high praise coming from JoeJoe. He's a tough judge. I’ve seen him evaluate a perfectly good motorcycle rider like they just showed up for a job interview without a résumé. Tommy didn’t have to perform any Motorcycle Voodoo Hocus Pocus today, which was probably a good thing for the rest of us. More importantly, Tommy managed to keep up with his most important piece of equipment—The Infamous Dry Humor Hat. He didn’t lose it anywhere along the way, either. The Tommy wit was still sharp, dry and right on point. Frankly, after 125 miles in this typical heat, I’m not sure how he kept it that sharp. Most of us were getting a little soft around the edges, but Tommy’s humor was still coming out drier than a West Florida dirt road in August. No voodoo. No hocus pocus. Just Tommy being Tommy. And honestly, that's probably plenty of magic for one ride. At one point I made the mistake of mentioning that Randy might not be happy if we got caught in the rain. Randy and Brigitte immediately chimed in: “You can’t get rid of us that easy.” Well, I would never dream of such a thing. Really. Trust me on this. I have witnesses. Ken caught up with us at Penny’s. Ken is one of those fellows who knows the North County like he drew the map himself. After all those years as a Deputy, he knows where everything is, including places I apparently haven't discovered yet. Which is important because I have a tendency to get a little lost. And when I say a little lost, that’s Southern understatement for: “We have no earthly idea where we are.” It’s like saying the Pacific Ocean is a little salty. And when I'm lost, nine Sandies can look exactly alike. That's why we've established one of the great Sandie Riding Rules: If the lead is lost, we all are. We learned that one the hard way. These days, with cellphones, GPS and enough technology to launch a rocket to Mars, you'd think getting lost wouldn't be much of a problem. You'd be wrong. Nine motorcycles scattered across the back roads of North County is still basically Herding Cats—only the cats have helmets and radios. So we stick together. Nobody gets too far ahead, nobody gets left behind, and if the leader takes a wrong turn, well... Congratulations, everybody. We're all going that way. And that, my friends, is how you turn a pleasant 125-mile ride into an adventure involving nine Sandies, a Gopher Tortoise, one near rear-end collision, a little heavenly intervention, and enough heat in Shalimar to cook Thanksgiving dinner. All in all— Just another pleasant ride with good people. Don’t forget next Saturday Road kill café, new leave time GTD 7;30. We are taking a bit of a different route. True Sandie route, hopefully the link works Copy paste link into your web browser Copy paste link into your web browser https://www.google.com/maps/dir/Good+Things+Donuts,+625+Eglin+Pkwy+NE,+Fort+Walton+Beach,+FL+32547/Milton,+Florida/Elsanor,+Alabama+36567/A%26G's+Roadkill+Cafe,+25076+State+Ave,+Elberta,+AL+36530/@30.6155429,-87.5183448,13.25z/data=!4m59!1m2!29m1!1b1!4m55!1m15!1m1!1s0x88913f9faac1f867:0x7d08f019f8edf98e!2m2!1d-86.5981537!2d30.4405751!3m4!1m2!1d-86.6330171!2d30.4495286!3s0x88913e5acf74f4a3:0xaf53a6d5bf24029!3m4!1m2!1d-86.9676962!2d30.5948682!3s0x8890e3e6132ad261:0x273ead299aa9f24e!1m25!1m1!1s0x8890e578113e97c9:0x7074c77463ac400!2m2!1d-87.0396881!2d30.6324149!3m4!1m2!1d-87.0470268!2d30.6257963!3s0x8890e5994735c1e1:0x5a85d676e52e31f7!3m4!1m2!1d-87.1208591!2d30.6469087!3s0x8890ee42c3e15cd5:0x95943bbe8b54c9df!3m4!1m2!1d-87.2090693!2d30.6670521!3s0x8890ed45a74669fb:0x8c766f2139f7063f!3m4!1m2!1d-87.4184279!2d30.6146963!3s0x88909a343cc92d37:0xee6a21b02acd76f2!1m5!1m1!1s0x889a74fc05792f35:0xbf2c674e29e95df1!2m2!1d-87.5835952!2d30.5451943!1m5!1m1!1s0x889a0bdf89733029:0xf6e8746970c5474c!2m2!1d-87.5972451!2d30.4141564!3e0?authuser=0&entry=ttu&g_ep=EgoyMDI2MDgxOS4wIKXMDSoASAFQAw%3D%3D

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.

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.

Listing of all of the active and honorary Sandies. The Sandies Sam E A.K.A. Sam Joined: December 1, 1980 Club Miles: 235069 2026 Sandie The Dark Prince A.K.A. Tim Joined: September 22, 2002 Club Miles: 64422 2026 Sandie Rocketman A.K.A. Lee Joined: May 22, 2005 Club Miles: 23356 Lifetime Sandie Sir Robert A.K.A. Robert Joined: September 21, 2008 Club Miles: 78347 2026 Sandie Waldo A.K.A. Bobby Joined: December 22, 2012 Club Miles: 50005 2026 Sandie Howard W A.K.A. Howard Joined: November 5, 2016 Club Miles: 4962 2026 Sandie Dennis O A.K.A. Dennis Joined: December 31, 2023 Club Miles: 3405 2026 Sandie Ken C A.K.A. Ken Joined: May 24, 2025 Club Miles: 2203 2026 Sandie the Captain A.K.A. Jerry Joined: February 29, 2004 Club Miles: 113050 Honorary Sandie Dale K A.K.A. Dale Joined: May 31, 2014 Club Miles: 0 Honorary Sandie Chief Cat Herder A.K.A. George Joined: February 12, 1981 Club Miles: 254004 2026 Sandie Animal A.K.A. Will Joined: June 22, 2003 Club Miles: 39523 Lifetime Sandie Wheet A.K.A. Fred Joined: October 15, 2005 Club Miles: 25524 Lifetime Sandie Miz Edna A.K.A. Edna Joined: December 31, 2010 Club Miles: 25785 2026 Sandie Tim M A.K.A. Tim Joined: August 31, 2013 Club Miles: 3951 2027 Sandie Ace A.K.A. Tony Joined: December 31, 2023 Club Miles: 17253 2026 Sandie Joe W A.K.A. Joe Joined: December 31, 2023 Club Miles: 7083 2026 Sandie Randy L A.K.A. Randall Joined: April 18, 2026 Club Miles: 962 2027 Sandie Brenda L A.K.A. Brenda Joined: December 31, 2010 Club Miles: 0 Honorary Sandie Wayne P A.K.A. Wayne Joined: May 31, 2014 Club Miles: 0 Honorary Sandie GQ A.K.A. Tommy Joined: December 31, 1988 Club Miles: 71376 2026 Sandie Cool Hand A.K.A. Chris Joined: August 22, 2004 Club Miles: 64086 Lifetime Sandie Judge A.K.A. Laura Joined: April 22, 2007 Club Miles: 4475 2025 Sandie Munchkin A.K.A. David Joined: December 31, 2010 Club Miles: 114764 2026 Sandie Greg L A.K.A. Greg Joined: March 16, 2015 Club Miles: 11343 2026 Sandie Annie W A.K.A. Annie Joined: December 31, 2023 Club Miles: 8125 2026 Sandie Mark S A.K.A. Mark Joined: December 31, 2023 Club Miles: 10418 2026 Sandie Misty Z A.K.A. Misty Joined: August 16, 2026 Club Miles: 239 2026 Sandie Doc Pat A.K.A. Pat Joined: December 31, 2010 Club Miles: 0 Honorary Sandie Ms. Betty A.K.A. Betty Joined: May 3, 2015 Club Miles: 0 Honorary Sandie JoeJoe A.K.A. Joe Joined: October 24, 1999 Club Miles: 220749 2026 Sandie Tina G A.K.A. Tina Joined: October 17, 2004 Club Miles: 53588 Lifetime Sandie MacRocket A.K.A. David Joined: May 26, 2007 Club Miles: 58834 2025 Sandie Sandy S A.K.A. Sandy Joined: February 16, 2014 Club Miles: 44870 2026 Sandie Jim W A.K.A. James Joined: March 10, 2015 Club Miles: 41935 2026 Sandie Dawn M A.K.A. Dawn Joined: December 31, 2023 Club Miles: 5023 2026 Sandie Wes H A.K.A. Wes Joined: December 31, 2023 Club Miles: 6482 2025 Sandie SpectreSteve A.K.A. Steve Joined: November 26, 2000 Club Miles: 127313 Honorary Sandie CarolAnn D A.K.A. CarolAnn Joined: March 6, 2011 Club Miles: 25538 Honorary Sandie

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2015 < Back Don Bell 1940 - 2015 At 73 years old, he lost his three year fight with cancer. He went peacefully at home in his own bed. Donald leaves behind his wife of 48 years; son, Ken; daughter-in-law, Kira; and grandson, Evan. After his service in the U.S. Coast Guard, Don became a HVAC Technician. He finally retired from DRS Corporation. Don loved his motorcycle and his brothers and sisters of the Sand Dollar Motorcycle Club. Don logged 32,244 miles as a Sandie and will forever be remembers by all of those fortunate enough to ride with him. Previous Next