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.

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.

Tony's view of the rain Some of y'all remember that wild storm Sunday. The kind where the wind didn't merely blow—it came at you sideways with a personal grudge. The rain looked downright determined to scrub the paint clean off a motorcycle, and it got so dark folks were driving with their headlights on before breakfast had settled. Naturally, the Sandies took one look at all that and concluded it was the perfect day for a ride. Mind you, we couldn't have one of these adventures where sensible people live. You know, somewhere with a café every few miles and dry coffee waiting on the stove. No, sir. We found ourselves wandering the back roads of northern Walton County, where the farms stretch clean to the horizon and the nearest shelter is generally somebody else's barn—and you're hoping they're feeling neighborly. Once you're out there, there's not much left to do but keep rolling and pray the weather gets tired before you do. Now, the Good Lord has long been rumored to keep a watchful eye on fools and Englishmen. Seeing as King Charles has never once offered to pay for my motorcycle tires, I'll leave it to you to decide which half of that arrangement described our bunch. But I'm getting ahead of myself. We started the day with our business meeting. Sixteen folks showed up, which is a mighty respectable gathering these days, and we were pleased to welcome a prospective new member into the fold. We tried not to frighten them too early. Then came the part where common sense quietly packed its bags and left the room. The weather forecast was calling for a ninety-percent chance of rain. Most folks would look at those odds and decide to stay home. Sandies looked at the same forecast, nodded thoughtfully, and said, "Reckon that's only ten percent against us. Let's ride to lunch." Tony G. and his son Lorenzo climbed into the support van. Randy and Bridget R. climbed onto their motorcycle with smiles that suggested they either possessed remarkable courage or had misplaced a healthy amount of caution. They were joined by Tommy and Bobby no strangers to Sandie Water Adventures. Sam and I also threw caution to the gods. Before long we were pointed down the highway on something resembling Dorothy's trip to Oz—only without Toto, ruby slippers, or anybody with enough sense to turn around. Lunch was at Summer's Kitchen in Florala, a place that's always been a favorite among the Sandies. If you've never enjoyed a Southern buffet, let me explain it in one word: fried. They had fried chicken worthy of a sermon, fried pork chops that could make a cardiologist weep, and banana pudding—which proves that Southern cooks don't believe any food should escape the skillet without a proper send-off. Then came banana pudding stacked with nilla wafers, because if you're already headed down the road to glory, you might as well enjoy the scenery. About the time we were finishing dessert, somebody pulled up the weather radar. Now, I've seen Jackson Pollock paintings that looked more organized. The screen was nothing but angry colors splattered every which way, and that's not the sort of artwork you want bearing down on a motorcycle ride. As we stared at it, only one line came to mind—Sheriff Buford T. Justice's famous warning from Smokey and the Bandit: "Boy... you got trouble comin'." Turns out he wasn't exaggerating. No matter which direction we aimed, the storm seemed to have already filed travel plans. Tony and Lorenzo headed south in the van while the rest of us tried to sneak around the leading edge of the weather. The weather noticed. It caught us square on New Harmony Highway. I've ridden through some respectable rainstorms over the years, but this one had ambition. The wind shoved from the side like it was trying to collect a debt. Rain came down so hard you couldn't tell where the road ended and the sky began. Gusts grabbed at the motorcycles like they intended to rearrange us into next Tuesday. Then, just when we'd begun wondering whether Noah still had the blueprints for that ark, salvation appeared. Out of the sheets of rain rose New Harmony Baptist Church. Now, if that wasn't the Lord dropping a hint, I don't know what would qualify. Sam, Randy, Bridget, and I pulled in and huddled under the porch roof while Tommy and Bobby, proving there are several recognized levels of Sandie stubbornness, decided to press on down the highway. Randy and Bridget proved they were outstanding Bike handlers this trip. As it happened, there were still folks inside the church. They couldn't have been kinder. They invited us to come in out of the storm, but seeing as we were dripping enough water to irrigate a soybean field, we thanked them kindly and stayed on the porch rather than baptize the fellowship hall. I did ask to borrow the restroom, and I have to admit the pastor looked just a touch puzzled when a soaking-wet stranger wandered in looking like he'd lost a wrestling match with the Gulf of Mexico. Before long, the sky began to brighten. The rain eased from "biblical" down to merely "Florida," and we climbed back aboard our motorcycles. Every now and then a ride reminds you that motorcycles aren't really about perfect weather. They're about good friends, good stories, and the kind of days that get funnier every time they're told. Around the Sandies, if everything goes according to plan, nobody remembers it. But let a storm chase us across the county, feed us fried chicken before trying to drown us, and park us on the porch of a country church... Well, that's the sort of Sandie ride folks will still be chuckling about long after the motorcycles are put away. Yep sitting around after a great day of riding these type of Sandie Adventures, told with great embellishment. Okay tall tales have us all laughing no matter how many times the Tale is told. Thanks Tony for the video

It just won't be the same with Doc gone PAT ( DOC) LEE

meeting next Sunday

Before we get into the cool stuff, humor here, they had 6 to 700 riders. It came off pretty uneventfully which under the circumstances was outstanding. Now for the why’s and where fore’s There are two kinds of heat in this world. One is the sort that reminds a fellow it's summertime. The other convinces him the Almighty has parked the sun about three feet over his helmet just to see what happens. This ride belonged to the second variety. I became reasonably certain my boots were fixing to fuse themselves to the pavement, and I suspect the gas tank was considering the same arrangement. Now, I will say this for Emerald Coast Harley—they had shade. Honest, dependable shade. The sort of shade that makes a man reconsider every unkind thing he has ever said about parking lots. Whoever arranged that deserves a medal, or at the very least a chair, a fan, and something served over ice. The route itself was mercifully short. That suited me just fine because the only air conditioning a motorcycle comes with is the throttle, and even that quits working the moment traffic remembers it exists. A hearty tip of the helmet goes to the Okaloosa County Sheriff's Office. They handled those intersections with such precision you'd have thought royalty—or at least someone important enough to own an air-conditioned limousine—was coming through. We hardly slowed down. The Sandies showed up Six Sandies strong, and that's a turnout any club these days can be proud of. Good company always makes a ride shorter, even when the thermometer is trying to negotiate your surrender. I couldn't help noticing there were quite a few green riders among the crowd. One gentleman, astride what appeared to be a recently adopted used motorcycle, came perilously close to discovering that brakes are not decorative accessories. He nearly introduced his front fender to another rider's rear tire. Fortunately, common sense arrived just ahead of catastrophe. It served as a useful reminder that a little practice in an empty parking lot is considerably cheaper than repairing motorcycles in a crowded one. The event itself was run as smooth as fresh pavement. Riders from all manner of clubs and organizations turned out, and everything moved along with the kind of order that only appears when somebody has done a great deal of planning before everyone else arrives. The greatest surprise, however, wasn't the motorcycles—it was the beverages. I had expected to find coolers filled with enough adult refreshments to float a fishing boat. Instead, the landscape was covered with bottles of water, sports drinks, and enough energy drinks to keep a small city awake until Tuesday. It appears the crowd unanimously decided dehydration was the only thing less appealing than the heat itself. Then there was the chatter over Open Mesh. "I've never done this before." "I'm nervous. This is my first group ride." You could hear it often enough to realize there were a fair number of first-timers in the pack. That's not a bad thing. Every experienced rider was new once. But large group rides have a way of exposing every habit a rider hasn't yet mastered. They're a mighty poor place to discover you're still negotiating peace terms with your clutch, your brakes, or your nerves. All things considered, it was a fine event. It was hot enough to fry breakfast on a gas tank and perhaps lunch on the exhaust pipes, but it was worth every sweaty mile. I'll gladly ride the next one. Though, if anyone has influence with the weather, I'd appreciate requesting the setting be changed from "surface of the sun" to something a little more civilized—perhaps merely "broil."

SATURDAY | June 27th Official Missing Parts Ride – Registration required This is the ride you don’t want to miss! We listened to your feedback, shortened the route and are actively working on more support. Registration 9:30-11:30am, Pre-Ride Meeting 11:30am, KSU 12pmp Post Ride Party with food, drinks, raffles, silent and live auctions! Missing Parts Ride After Party with Saving Abel at The Block. Doors open at 5pm, concert starts at 6pm. Must have ticket and be 21 or older. LEAVE GTD 9 am Ride together as Sandies only the best

Saturday, June 13 1915 was the day Okaloosa County was founded by taking parts of Santa Rosa and Walton county. So we spent our whole 140 today in Okaloosa county. Some truths may have missed the mark in the telling of this tale: At dawn or there about 5 Sandies left GTD to ride to a breakfast. Why would you leave a place like GTD to go somewhere for breakfast ? It’s a Sandie thing you see. Why did Sir Edmund Hillary climb Mount Everest ? cause it was there. So why do Sandies leave a breakfast, well in Sandy’s case doughnuts qualify as dinner food also. Since we have danced around this breakfast question maybe this will help. Sandies view food like Sir Edmund, always looking for more and partaking cause it’s there. Now that we established the absolute that these are Sandies it’s time to take a trip with them. First the title to this missive “140 at 110 “ cryptic but so true. The “140” refers to the fact we did the whole trip, 140 miles, all within Okaloosa county. Yes, the whole great adventure and never leaving Okaloosa County. The reference “110” is not nearly as cool, you will see the unbelievable humor here shortly. The “110 “ refers to the feels like temperature, see humor “cool”. The ride itself took in miles of canopy roads curvy canopy roads all the better. A straight road is transportation; a curvy road is entertainment. Had Breakfast at 85 North Diner/Penny’s Place, outstanding food and the service was spectacular. Our waitress saw Sam hadn’t eaten her bacon, it was too crispy for Sam. She insisted on taking it off the bill even though Sam said not necessary. That my friend is service. Great fried pork chop breakfast, oh sorry Tommy you missed it,( snicker). I humbly mention that for historical accuracy. Sandy brought the Vette and left the A/C on the whole time. That folks is hard core riding all the way let that be a lesson in tough riding. I think Sandy said at one point she had to turn it down, it was chilling her out. That Sandy is grit all the way. Tim ( The Prince of the Hidden Road) W, is a welcome addition to any journey. Tim’s take on things is funny as hell even when it’s a serious subject, it has humor. Joejoe’s new Ride is prettier the more I see it. I mean it is just a great looking ride. Todays celebrated a local historical event, it was so much better getting to ride it with friends. Oh a great meal is just the cherry on a fun Sunday. I still got it. Thanks again to JoeJoe and Sandy for the great pictures

We had a tradition going back decades of going to Burnt Corn, AL . The story of how it became a traditional Pilgramage is a long one. Leave it to suffice you will hear all about Journey and Miss Pitty and JoeJoe. Leave Sunday 8 am GTD its a 250 plus mile day, please prepare accordingly http://www.burntcorn.com/

While in Mobile that Sunday, had lunch at Morrison’s Café, yes that Morrison’s. The last one left, talk about your step back in time. Took me all the way back to being a kid and going to Pensacola to Morrison’s. It took me back to a time when the top of fine dining was a square piece of cherry jello. Sundays always included Ambrosia or shrimp in aspic, those were fine china dining. . We caught the Amtrak Mardi Gras Special from Mobile AL to New Orleans Traveling by train is a transcendent adventure. The Mardi Gras Special, hugs the Coast. Fantastic views, smooth, the side to side rhythm. It’s like seeing Americas backyards and peek into people’s lives. Through the windows rolled America in its working clothes — backyards, rusted sheds, children’s bicycles, clotheslines, old shrimp boats, and porch philosophers staring into eternity with a beer in hand. Three hours of seeing America, unvarnished the way it really is. We took Business class, sodas, snacks included nice seats. The best part on and off first. Had 5 hours to do stuff in New Orleans, in steps the whole difference. We met Darius Singleton. He promised a memorable tour, Darius delivered in bag fulls. If you ever saw a 70’s movie: “If it’s Tuesday it must be Belgium” with Ian McShane. It will give you an idea of our whirlwind dive into New Orleans. First we covered New Orleans in one day. Not possible you say? You didn’t have Darius Singleton for a guide did you? Let me tell you about Darius, One hell of an entrepreneur/salesman. Darius sees a couple of tourists waiting to cross the street. Asks are they visitors, hears an affirmative, jumps out of the Buggy and hands out business cards. See’s you standing on the street, jumps out and hands you a business card. Darius is also one heck of a guide, you will have an adventure and a history lesson all at the same time. Darius also knew escape routes the cops haven’t figured out, a talent that came in handy. Another thing I as a Cat Herder like about Darius no road rules. Darius is a firm believer it’s easier to beg forgiveness than ask permission, Wrong way on one way street, oopsie. Traffic jam, sidewalk. Across medians, up on the grass, at the Ninth Ward Memorial at the levee. He was not going to be intimidated by any ol Truck, bus etc. As a Cat Herder of ADHD Cats, I admired the hell out of Darius. Took us to the Garden District, homes start at 1.02 million, famous folks live there. John Goodman, Sandra Bullock, Anne Rice, author Vampire Diaries. But the streets are as bad as any third world countries streets. Maybe to keep the riff-raff at bay. Makes Eglin Parkway seem as smooth as a babies butt. Some strange things, at the 9th Ward memorial, paintings of life in the Ninth before the Katrina flood. Pictures were on the Levee where the failure accord, flooding the Ninth ward. There was no graffiti not a bit, everything else was fair game but not there. We visited Mari Gras World, this cavernous building full of those iconic Mardi Gras Floats. These floats make the Macy’s Thanksgiving Floats designed by Catholic school kids. Some of those Floats would scare the bebeerus out of a drunk Mardi Gras participant. Some Floats they are scary defiantly not suitable for kids or the weak of heart. It was a fun visit. Lunch as only New Orleans can make. I told Darius I would buy lunch. Darius thought that was the best thought all day. Takes us to Buffas, been at its Esplanade Ave venue since 1939. Buffas sits at the edge of The Quarter. Buffas is not a touristy spot, strictly local. You can smell the decades of old whisky and cigarette smoke imbedded in the walls. The food simply incredible, I’m given to hyperbole for sure. But the onion rings were simply incredible. I understand the red beans and rice were simply the best. Darius, of course, goes up to the bar and orders a bourbon on the rocks. "Laissez les bons temps rouler." Darius certainly weaponized it. The Postman that came in for his noon highball certainly subscribed to it. Darius took us to The Hotel Pontchartrain, very famous for being the location of “Vampire Diary’s” by Anne Rice. It is supposed to be the most haunted hotel in New Orleans. It’s famous for the view from the roof top bar. Now it’s only 11:00 am, bar not open yet. Darius never lets little things like that, slow down the Adventure. Up in the brass 1940’s elevator to the top. Closed, just the cleaning folks up there. Darius open the door and steps out on the porch. Incredible view of New Orleans. Take pictures, guy comes out and says “you can’t be here”. “Oh I’m so sorry we will get out of here right away “. Darius apologized with such smooth sincerity that for a moment I suspected the fellow might thank us for visiting. So back in the elevator and out the front door to a very bustling New Orleans, still dodging incarceration . Took us to City Park, huge place and it has Café Du Monde another version of the famous on Riverwalk. But no lines walk in and get the famous Beignets, no waiting, just good Beignets and coffee. We wind up on The Famous Blue Bridge. Darius drives right on up through the bollards. Pictures, oops, no vehicles allowed. “Sorry sir my mistake leaving right now”. Beginning to see a pattern emerging here? You can’t truly describe the wonderful trip it was. Darius made all the difference he brought the whole city to life as never before. You cannot truly describe the place because it refuses description. It is music, heat, history, whiskey, tragedy, celebration, and mischief all rolled together like dice on a crooked table. But I can say this much: the city came alive because of Darius Singleton. Without him we would have merely visited New Orleans. With him, we survived an adventure. If you ever take the train adventure include Darius. I can put you in touch. Just do not let Darius drive your car. Thank you to JoeJoe and Sandy for the great photos “Let the Good Times Roll Baby’

Randy and Bridget Lovell give them both a very hearty Sandie welcome

Thank You Moms could not have done it without you and to all The Sandie Moms

It was my great fortune to witness a gathering of the Sandies on this fine day, and I will say at the outset that seeing Tony Garcia among us again lent a certain dignity to the proceedings—though it never last long, the dignity. It was as always great to see Ace out. There exists in this world a question of some philosophical weight: how many licks it takes to reach the center of a Tootsie Pop or how many U-turns makes a Sandie Adventure. Learned men have debated it for generations. I regret to report that the Sandies, while enthusiastic, are unlikely to settle the matter, being short on philosophy and long on confusion. Our ride commenced with confidence and ended with experience—most of it belonging to me, who demonstrated a bold and innovative approach to navigation. I sailed through a four-way stop with such conviction that one might suspect the stop sign had personally offended me. Stay tuned it gets better. In short order, I performed not one, nor two, but four U-turns in an earnest attempt to regain Highway 90 from Old Bagdad Highway. It was less a route and more a wrestle with geography. By the third turn, the group had abandoned concern and taken up counting. While I was wrestling with U turns, JoeJoe and Bobby on the radio engaged in a spirited debate over the precise definition of a U-turn. Of course with any Sandie involved in an argument of such depth Joe and Bobby solved nothing at all. , not content with mere deep thinking, announced to the company that he had activated his cooling seat. This declaration, while unnecessary, was delivered with a pride that suggests it will be repeated frequently and without mercy as the summer advances. There were 7 Sandies in total, covering 145 miles under skies so agreeable they seemed to apologize for the navigation. I myself shared a mount with Sam, though it must be said that the role of pillion warmer was contested. I made an honest attempt, but found the arrangement incompatible with my admirable proportions. Sam, being of more cooperative dimensions, assumed the duty of pillion warmer. We were joined by two new riders, Randy Lovell and Bridget Lovell, who rode a fine Wing and handled it with skill enough to suggest they may yet survive future outings. Their return appearance confirms either courage or a lapse in judgment; in either case, they are most welcome. We dined in Milton at Fire and Food on Avalon Boulevard, where the food was commendable and the service kind—two qualities not always found traveling together. It shall remain on the approved list, which is no small honor. Thus concluded a day of fine weather, questionable direction, and excellent company. If wisdom was not gained, it was at least pursued—though it may have required a U-turn or four to find it.

I use the word DITTO because my description from last week pretty well sums it up.  The weather outstanding, the countryside simply beautiful. Every pecan tree ( us pronunciation) was in full swing growing new leaves then that leads  to the famous pecan ( Georgia pronunciation). Seven Sandies  did 187miles  of lovely spring roads. They only got better when the Prince of Trails ( Tim W ) took over the route back.   We had a very nice couple join us   Brigit and Randy Lovell , just moved here from Illinois. Joejoe  has a nice picture of the couple in the photos. Couple of things they didn’t run screaming into the night, said they loved the roads. Very enjoyable to ride with, Randy  is a good bike handler and Brigit  is an outstanding pillion warmer.   Ken C  joined us in Crestview a note here if you watch Tim’ s videos of the trip. You will see Ken  handling that Goldwing so smoothly. As a matter of fact everyone was just gliding on the fresh asphalt.  The videos taken from the back showing everyone gives a much better perspective to the ride. Tim  uses first class equipment and it shows.   We ate at the Wheelhouse, in Opp Al. Yes that Opp, you would never expect to find an establishment like The Wheelhouse. Especially in a small southern Alabama town. Also Opp is making progress dubious at best, they tore down the iconic Dairy Queen and built a Jacks, progress ? . Food was very good, service first class, on the list for return visit.   The Prince  took over homeward duties. Tim  did not disappoint excellent road choices. Did a few I hadn’t seen in a dogs age, all first class riding. We had a great time, with roads and spring like vistas don’t forget outstanding riding companions.

The title will unravel itself in the telling of this tale. It may be that I am in danger of repeating myself, though I hold that a good story deserves as many tellings as it can stand without collapsing. And this one, I am pleased to report, is built sturdy. It was a day so fine for riding that a man might suspect the weather had been arranged in advance for our particular benefit. The sky was of such a blue persuasion that any respectable diamond would decline comparison out of modesty. Six  of us—known in certain respectable circles as the Sandies—set out and accounted for 138 miles , though I confess the distance seemed to pass of its own accord, as if the road had taken a liking to us. Along the way, we encountered a most improbable establishment called Bigfoot Buffet, situated some miles before Brewton, AL on a country road that gave no hint of ambition. The place offered a curious union of Brazilian cookery and Southern country fare, which sounds like a disagreement on paper but proved a harmony on the plate. There was coffee of the sort one associates with Starbucks, and pastries that suggested a level of devotion rarely found so far from civilization. It was, in short, a surprise—and a most agreeable one. Not long after, we came upon a property formerly devoted to the keeping of men who had misjudged their circumstances. A place from Florida past, a road gang camp.  It was now for sale, complete with fourteen-foot fences and an enthusiasm for razor wire that had not diminished with time. It possessed dormitories, a mess hall, and a motor pool—everything required for a man who prefers his vacations with a hint of confinement. One might convert it into an Airbnb, though I suspect the previous tenants would object to the noise. The place carried an air of memory about it—none of it light—and I reckon it would take a committee of preachers, shamans, and other spiritual specialists working in shifts to persuade the shadows to vacate. Among our party was Bobby B , mounted upon a 2026 Indian Pursuit, equipped with a seat that offers both heat and coolness, thereby relieving a man of the burden of deciding what season he is in. I have ridden for many years and have grown accustomed to negotiating with the weather directly, so this arrangement strikes me as both admirable and faintly suspicious. What surprised me most was not the machinery, nor the scenery, but the conversation. We are, as a rule, a quiet assembly unless Sandy S  is present to improve matters. Yet on this occasion, despite her absence, the intercom remained lively. Joejoe  demonstrated a gift for timing that would not shame a stage performer, and even Tim W —who does not always squander his words—was in rare and generous supply of them. I want to thank Tim for his spot on advice on how to remedy a problem with my ride today. We did, however, come near to a tragedy of the smallest and most nimble variety. On a narrow country road, I perceived a blur at the edge of vision and took to the brakes at once. There appeared before me a young goat—a kid—who executed a maneuver so graceful it might have earned applause at the Bolshoi Ballet. With a spin upon its hind legs, it retreated to its mother as though nothing at all had transpired. I have, over the years, collided with creatures of various sizes—including nearly making the acquaintance of a buffalo in Land between the Lakes—yet I confess it would have troubled me greatly to harm that particular little fellow. I was, therefore, grateful for his quick thinking and better footing. All told, it was the sort of day that encourages a man to offer thanks—to the road, the machine, the company, and whatever powers see fit to arrange such agreeable circumstances. It is not every day that earns that distinction, but this one did, and without any strain at all.

You know a place is bound to be good when the line is a block long before the doors even open. That’s not advertising — that’s testimony. We arrived at Randy’s Cheeseburger in Foley just before opening time, and sure enough that line was stretched out like folks were waiting to board a lifeboat. We finally got inside and discovered a menu of uncommon simplicity and remarkable confidence. Chicken? Nope. Fish? Nope. BBQ? Nope. Salad? Not even as a joke. Cheeseburgers — that’s it. It reminded me of that old comedy routine: “Cheeseburger, cheeseburger.” If you happen to be a vegetarian, your choices are French fries and onion rings, and you are expected to reflect upon your life decisions while eating them. The drinks come in big cups, but if you want beer or wine, it comes in cans. Wine in a can. Yes sir, the future has arrived and it is aluminum. Now you might wonder how we ended up in Foley on this noble quest for cheeseburgers. Four Sandies left GTD on a morning that was cloudy, a little chilly, and just blustery enough to make you zip your jacket. Along the way we picked up an old Sandie, Howard W ., who has been traveling the country doing the Park Host thing. Good to see Howard  again — a man can only wander so long before his friends start telling stories about him. Traffic was lighter than expected, and whenever you find yourself near Foley with extra time, you naturally end up at Barber’s Marina. Now that place looks like someone took a museum, a junkyard, a history book, and a child’s imagination and shook them all together in the woods. There’s BamaHenge, a full-size Stonehenge sitting there in Alabama like it took a wrong turn somewhere near London. Then there are full-size dinosaurs hiding in the trees and Chinese warriors standing around like they’re waiting for orders that never came. And of course, the Lady in the Lake, who rises out of the water looking like she knows exactly how all this turns out but isn’t telling. JoeJoe  picture tells the Ladies story Soon enough it was time to eat, which brought us back to that line at Randy’s. We met up with Ken C . there, and he was studying the line like a man calculating whether he had enough supplies for winter. But the line moved fast, and before long we had our burgers. Now I have heard a lot of claims about food in my lifetime, and most of them were exaggerations told by hungry people. But I will say this — those burgers were every bit as good as advertised. They say there are hundreds of reviews online and every one of them is perfect. I have never seen such a thing before in my life. Usually if something is perfect, somebody on the internet will complain about the parking. But the reviews were right. That burger was something special. And any burger that puts Conecuh sausage on it is already halfway to heaven before you even take the first bite. I am not saying it was the best burger in the world — because a man should not make statements he might have to defend later — but I will say this: if that burger isn’t proof that the world is still a good place, then I don’t know what would be. With our stomachs packed so full they had begun to interfere with normal breathing and possibly navigation, we decided to stop at the Foley Train Museum so I could indulge in one of the finest hobbies ever invented by man — watching trains, particularly the small ones that behave themselves. My fellow riders did not complain about this stop, which speaks very highly of their character. It speaks even more highly when compared to Bobby B ., who generally believes any stop that does not involve eating, gasoline, or buying motorcycles, trains are an act of unnecessary delay. The model train display, however, is first class. You can stand there far longer than you intended, watching tiny trains roll through tiny towns where tiny people appear to have their lives entirely in order. There is something comforting about a world where the trains run on time and nobody is arguing about anything. I always enjoy it, and I always like to leave a donation in the jar, because anything that lets a grown man stand quietly and watch trains without being questioned is worth supporting. Now being Sandies, we naturally could not simply ride straight home like sensible citizens. . Instead, we discovered that Baldwin County 87 had been repaved. Now this kind of news may not mean much to most people, but to a motorcyclist it is the equivalent of discovering a new gold mine. Roads that were once merely fun had now become magnificent — smooth, rolling curves one after another, the kind of road that makes you believe motorcycles were invented for this exact stretch of pavement and all other roads are just practice. Sam  even asked “Can we redo 87 again”. When a Sandie voluntarily rides the same road twice in one day, you know it is something kinda special.   Really, that is how the whole day went — one fine thing after another. A good ride, a strange marina, a perfect cheeseburger, little trains, new pavement, and good friends to share it all with. Days like that are the reason we ride motorcycles in the first place. Not to get somewhere, not even to go fast, but for days when the road is good, the weather behaves, the food is memorable, and the company is better than both. Now this was how to spend 200 miles  on a Saturday. Those are the days that turn into stories, and the stories are half the reason for living. Thank You JoeJoe , again the great pictures

Bobby is the proud owner of a 2026 Indian Pursuit. When ya see Bobby thumbs up for Da Man

We finally contrived to have us a Skills Sunday, and none too soon, for the sort of ridin’ that keeps a man alive has a powerful tendency to turn to rust when the weather turns mean. All winter long them good habits sit out in the shed like an old plow, and by spring they squeak, balk, and complain. But today we fetched ’em out, oiled ’em up, and knocked the rust off proper. Eight  Sandies showed, and between the skills practice and the wanderin’ about after in pursuit of food. We tallied up 125 miles . Now, mind you, two of those souls arrived doubled-up in a shiny Corvette Stingray instead of astride steel and rubber. Who might that be, you ask? Why, Tommy N  and Sandy S, naturally—ought to have known from the sun glinting on that Vette. The curiosity of the day was this: we had more two wheels than three. I know that sounds like something’ out of a tall tale, but there they were—three really nice two wheelers to complement the two three wheelers.   Bobby B  turned up with a brand‑new, reddish 2025 Indian Pursuit—a contraption so pretty and slick it could have passed for a newborn at its christening, all wrapped in ribbons and admiration. Bobby  will seize upon any excuse known to man, and a few not yet discovered, if it leads to a ride. JoeJoe , for his part, outdid himself lay’in’ out the course—just right for both the two‑legged and the three‑legged among the machines. Bobby , havin’ a brand‑new mount under him, commenced the day in cautious baby‑step fashion; but by lunch he had shed that timidity and was ridin’ in full‑grown, non‑baby mode.   Ken Christmas  joined us on his new GoldWing, and that fellow can handle a motorcycle the way a steamboat captain handles a paddlewheel in tight water—calm and sure. Another fine handler is JoeJoe himself. You know he’s been ailing some, puny in body if not in spirit, but today worked a kind of tonic on him. It drew the old Joe  up out of the past, dusted him off, and set him on the exercise range where he was ridin’ like Joe of yore—easy, accurate, and lookin’ for the next challenge the way the my cats are always look’n for the next treat.   Speaking of treats we ate lunch at Eagles Nest at the Blackwater Golf Club. Outstanding food, the fried chicken choosers had nothing but high praise for the chicken. Southern fried chicken is easy but so very hard to get right. Well the folks at the Eagles Nest got it very right.   It was another beautiful day with the Sandies. Jackets in the morning and long sleeve shirts after lunch.   Next week is our Saturday adventure to Ralphs Cheeseburgers, simply outstanding. Thanks to Sandy and JoeJoe for the pictures

I confess right off the bat that this little account is a shameless borrowing from the notion of the Ides of March. Mr. Shakespeare may object, but as he ain’t here to complain, I will steal the reference. Five  Sandies set out and traveled 135  miles through the Southern countryside, the sort of country that makes a man believe spring was invented here first and merely exported to the rest of the world afterward. The dogwoods were showing off in white and pink, the azaleas were acting like they owned the place, and the camellias were standing around looking dignified about it all. Even the pecan trees were beginning to stir. Now the pronunciation of pecan has caused more argument among Sandies than it has any right to. Some say puh-cahn , which sounds civilized enough. But down in lower Georgia, think Bobby B,  they say pee-can , which Bobby says it’s true. Still, however a man chooses to say it, the trees looked fine and seemed satisfied with themselves. To say it was a fine day to ride a motorcycle would be like saying the Pacific Ocean is somewhat inclined toward saltiness. It is technically true, but it fails miserably to convey the scale of the matter. Riders are familiar with this sort of understatement, though sometimes it must be explained for the benefit of Sandies. JoeJoe had returned and was very nearly in his usual JoeJoe condition. He had recently paid a brief and unwelcome visit to the local emergency room. It turned out to be nothing serious, though it did provide sufficient excitement for the Sandies. Tim  paused his ongoing travel’s s long enough to ride join us. He has acquired a 2026 Can-Am Spyder Sea to Sky, which stands at the very summit of the Can-Am Spyder universe and looks as though it knows it. As Li’l Abner once observed, if your old enough or memory not averse to remember Li’l Abner, “ dang sure as pretty as a speckled pup under a cabbage leaf.” Unfortunately most of todays folks have regulated Li'l Abner to the dustbin of history. I am bound to say that on that particular day, rolling through blooming countryside with the road unwinding ahead. We found the tight width country roads just gorgeous enough to enjoy the spring greenery. We took lunch at Summers Kitchen in Florala. Keeping with the obvious Southern feel of the day. Summers Buffet took that feeling to heart, fantastic fried chicken the true Southern bird. Fried Pork chops good enough to cure any number of ailments. Not to leave out the Southern version of pure goodness, Banana pudding. All this goodness had to be washed down with sweet tea.  Mark Twain used to call Southern sweet tea “Southern Wine”. A description all Southern sweet tea’s wear proudly. Then it was on the road to keep on enjoying this beautiful Sunday. We took the long way home, the smooth tax paved roads, a joy to ride on. Today was pure fun making it so glad I started riding and with great friends. Thank you JoeJoe for the great pictures

Well now—what a day it was. Why, it was the sort of day that comes only with early spring the calendar and dares you not to grin at it. A body could scarcely keep from breaking into a chorus from  Oklahoma! —but I shall exercise to spare you from me breaking into a rousing chorus. Suffice it to say, it was a glorious day to be astride a motorcycle, with the sun minding its manners and the breeze behaving like it had been properly introduced. And speaking of motorcycles, they must have shook off their winter slumber all at once, for they were out in such numbers you’d think someone was offering free DQ., . Don’t forget today starts the Annual Pilgrimage for Riders everywhere, it’s Daytona Bike Week! Which might have stirred the long dormant juices.   As for the knitting  5 Sandies  stitched together  149 miles  of the prettiest roadway a rider could hope to see. It was a tapestry of asphalt and good humor, and every mile laid down neat as a Sunday seam. Come lunchtime, some of the Sandies joined us at  Where Y’at Seafood , a seafood establishment perched north of Navarre along Highway 85, where the food was so fine you didn’t want to stop.  Sam  wished she had a bigger stomach. Her Red Beans and Rice were that good.  The fare was outstanding—so fine it would make a preacher reconsider going to Sunday services. Having  Munchkin  and  Hele n, along with  Mark S  and  Lorna , meet us there improved the meal beyond all calculation. Good company will do that—it multiplies flavor without adding’ a single calorie.   Backing up a bit we started the day with our business meeting, as even Sandies must. Learned that  Tommy N  has gone and injured his back—an affliction that commands sympathy and a careful chair. But there was good news, too:  Tony G  made an appearance and was feeling somewhat better, which was good news. And then came the announcement that set the room to a twitter’— Tommy  is going’ to be a Grand Pop. I declare, I never thought I’d live to see the day, but here it stands in broad daylight, undeniable as sunshine. Not wishing to waste so much as a teaspoon of this glorious daylight, we set off after lunch to burn off our seafood by attacking curvy roads. On the way there, I discovered I was one road short of my intended route — which is to say I had miscalculated with confidence. This required a U-turn.  JoeJoe  was quick — eager, even — to remind me of this navigational innovation. Five miles onward we turned left onto Nelson Riley Road, a stretch best described in rider’s dialect as “technical,” which translates plainly to “abundant curves and insufficient mercy.”  JoeJoe  and  Bobby  executed a fly-by maneuver and vanished up the road like two escaping convicts with dogs after them. This seems an appropriate moment to mention  Bobby’ s new acquisition: a 2026 Indian Pursuit — a machine so fine it ought to have its own butler. I reminded him that the trade-in value of his previous ride would melt faster than an ice cream cone in July should anything unfortunate occur.  JoeJoe , who is presently awaiting delivery of a Harley CVO Street Glide Limited, received the same paternal counsel. Motorcycles, like pride, depreciate quickly when dropped. Sam  and I adopted a more leisurely pace — partly from wisdom, partly from self-preservation. Presently we came upon  JoeJoe  and  Bobby  sitting beside a sign that declared “Bridge Out.” Now I will confess something to you: there are few temptations stronger than a “Bridge Out” sign. It beckons a man the way a red flag taunts a bull. Is it truly out? Has nature reclaimed her property? Or is it a government ruse designed to discourage the unwashed and under-suspended? The imagination and conspiracy theories cause imaginations to gallop. Now you see some of the sources of my madness. But cooler judgment prevailed, and we performed yet another U-turn — which, as the chorus behind me was obliged to note, makes two for the day. A man can endure many things, but he cannot endure navigational commentary without consequence. One more U-Turn awaited us, we turned onto log lake road and missed the turn onto Broxson rd. Damn another U-turn, of which my traveling companions wasted no time in reminding me of my mistake. So the day was 149 miles , three U-turns, one missing bridge, several fine machines, excellent seafood, good friends, promising grandchildren, and a day so glorious it nearly compelled me to sing. Maybe I’ll save it for another incredible ride with friends. Join us next time, I personally invite you.

It was cold and windy—cold enough to stiffen a man’s resolve and windy enough to test it—but after missing several riding days, my spirit was in no mood for negotiation. It was a full-throated “WHOO!” kind of morning. The sun, at least, had shown up bright and handsome, as if to apologize for the rest of the weather’s behavior. I did not expect much of a turnout at GTD. In fact, I expected something between sparse and imaginary. But the world occasionally surprises a fellow when he least deserves it. There was JoeJoe , Tommy  steady as ever, and then—like an unexpected clause in a contract— Sandy S. Now Sandy arrived in her Corvette, which is already a statement. But Sandy  was wearing a motorcycle helmet while driving it. I have learned not to ask unnecessary questions in this life; the answers often require effort. I will simply note that by this method Sandy  remains alive and well on the intercom, and also remember “Wonderment” . Remember the word of the day, win a sawbuck. You may recall the two guiding words of this expedition: “Wonderment” and “Character.” They will be described later in much greater detail. We had to meet Ken C.  in Crestview, and before long there were 7 Sandies assembled —an arrangement that sounds improbable but was entirely factual. We rode 148 miles  enjoying the day, by which I mean we wrestled the wind, admired the sunshine, and pretended not to notice our fingers going numb. That wind made itself particularly known heading north. I am convinced it affected my gas mileage. Now, I am told by sober-minded individuals that this is not strictly possible. But I felt it in my soul—and more importantly, in my wallet. If a man cannot blame the wind for his fuel consumption, what comfort has he left? So I blamed it freely and felt better at once. We met Ken and traveled 81 miles  to Florala and Summers Kitchen. I am aware that common maps and lesser mathematicians would suggest a shorter distance. However, we were employing the Tim Method , which measures miles the way a fisherman measures bass—with generosity and conviction. By that system, it was 81  miles and not a foot less. Summers Kitchen is a country buffet of high moral standing. First-class pork chops, fried chicken that could mend family feuds, fish of commendable character, and all the sides a person could reasonably request without requiring a wheelbarrow. Even the dessert carried itself with distinction. The price was so reasonable it bordered on civic virtue. Good food, fine folks running the place, and fair pricing—what more can a Sandie ask for on a Sunday Adventure We headed back by the long and winding road, which is to say we chose the scenic route.. Now we can talk about those special words I asked you to remember, oh forgot them already huh.  Well, there goes your chance at a sawbuck, bucko. “Wonderment” belongs to Sandy . It is my polite term for the way she greets each day as if it has been freshly invented just for her. Some might choose a less charitable phrase—like Bat Shit Crazy—but I prefer “Wonderment.” With Sandy , every ride is a new chapter, and sometimes an entirely new book hence “Wonderment” “Character,” on the other hand, came courtesy of Tommy . We encountered a stretch of road that had clearly not benefited from the county surtax for road improvement. I confess, that is one tax I support wholeheartedly. Paving clay roads so I may enjoy them at speed seems a fair exchange. But this particular road had been overlooked. Tommy , with admirable diplomacy, referred to it as having “Character.” Thus another word enters the Sandie lexicon. And it did indeed have character—creative potholes, and opinions about suspension systems. It was less a road and more a suggestion of one. But between Wonderment and Character, sunshine and wind, good friends and better food, it turned out to be exactly the sort of day a man rides for. Cold, windy, but remember great food and company—and entirely worth it. Thank You JoeJoe for the pictures

The founder of the place for Motercyles passed away today. More details to follow