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.

One thing about me—I pay my debts. Last night I made good on one. I rounded up last Sunday's riders because my mouth had written a check my wallet wasn't expecting to cash. A bet's a bet, so the first round at Chili's was on yours truly. I'll tell you what, I kinda liked the setup at Chili's. We were all sitting around one big square table where everybody could see everybody, hear everybody, and holler at everybody without needing a bullhorn. Now, I didn't exactly stroll into this deal on my own. I was led straight to the shearing shed by those two slick city mice, Tommy Nieft and Bobby Bennett. Me? I was just a simple country mouse who never stood a chance against those fast-talking hustlers. They reeled me in quicker than a bass hitting a June bug. I may have lost the bet, but at least I paid up like a man. Besides, good friends, cold drinks, and plenty of laughs make getting fleeced hurt a whole lot less. It was one fun night I was very glad I had my wallet emptied by those two, it was worth it Breakfast Ride Sunday 7 am GTD, no promises on dryness.

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.

Listing of all of the active and honorary Sandies. The Sandies Sam E A.K.A. Sam Joined: December 1, 1980 Club Miles: 234830 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: 49327 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: 1964 2026 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 Chief Cat Herder A.K.A. George Joined: February 12, 1981 Club Miles: 253765 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: 723 2027 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 GQ A.K.A. Tommy Joined: December 31, 1988 Club Miles: 70573 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: 11229 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: 10304 2026 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 JoeJoe A.K.A. Joe Joined: October 24, 1999 Club Miles: 220510 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: 44756 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 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

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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