EPPdF. "Good mornin'. Are you riding that bike out there? I just rode in from Gulf Shores, saw the Georgia plate on another Harley and was wondering if that was yours?"
Dude in flannel shirt with sleeves cut off - (long pause while he stares at me as if I had just asked if it was cool for me to sodomize his mother while pouring sugar in his gas tank). "NO (you dick - implied but not stated). I don't believe in them (motorcycles) (I'm assuming he meant that he finds them to be a dangerous mode of transportation and therefore doesn't like them, as opposed to doubting their very existence visa vis, ghosts, aliens, the baby Jesus, cel phone batteries that last longer than 3 hours, etc.). I had a cousin who died on one. He went over a 90 ft. cliff outside of San Diego. He lost control on a sharp curve while riding his Ninja 750 Hellfire & Brimstone motorcycle, plowed thru a steel guard rail, sailed 75 ft. out over the Pacific Ocean, then dropped ONE HUNDRED AND NINETY SEVEN FEET to the rocks below, where the bike landed on top of him and burst into flames. The force of the explosion having completely severed all his limbs from his body and throwing them HUNDREDS of feet into the air, still burning, where again they landed with TREMENDOUS AND VIOLENT FORCE upon many barnacle-y rocks, AND THEN, rabid, amphibious, salt-water, and sea-faring badgers crawled from their watery caves and chewed on his eye-sockets and pinky-fingers until his lifeless remains were discovered by a deaf mute, who was forced to wait several weeks for a translator to happen by the broken guard rail on the side of the cliff, on a dangerous mountain road, outside of San Diego, at which time he started twitching and fidgeting and throwing his hands into the air with such an excited fury, in his vain attempt to communicate the universal sign language sign for "man on motorcycle, who has ridden off cliff, suffered violent and fiery explosion, and is currently being eaten by rodents". But the translator, fearing for his or her life, had run off to alert the authorities to the fact that there was an insane, father-raping, homicidal, and probably tax-dodging maniac, roaming the steep and treacherous mountain roads and valleys outside of San Diego, lurking by broken, steel guard rails, waiting for unsuspecting civilians, who, thru no fault of their own, could find themselves in a terrible predicament. BUT, because of an internal, bureaucratic SNAFU at the San Diego Police Department, and an inter-organizational disagreement about exactly WHO (and/or WHOM) has jurisdiction over mountain lurking, homicidal, father-raping, maniacs - the San Diego Police Department, not wanting to bear the full brunt of the financial burden of launching a full scale beach landing to "SEEK AND DESTROY" the aforementioned maniac, complete with special ops veterinarians, trained in all of the arts of both war and removing the fangs of rabid, amphibious, salt water, and sea-faring badgers, thereby clearing the beach head for the commandos who, under the cover of darkness and using air supremacy, would sneak from the frigid waters of the Pacific Ocean, up the ONE HUNDRED AND NINETY SEVEN foot cliff face, using THE BUDDY SYSTEM the entire way, and deploy explosive charges to confuse and stun the mountain lurking, father-raping, homicidal, and tax-dodging maniac, now known by the CODE NAME: MLFRHsTDM in all official, inter-departmental transcipts. BUT, between waiting on a SEAL OF APPROVAL from the president of these UNITED STATES, and the special-op's veterinarians having been previously deployed to undisclosed locations to protect innocent whales who, at that very moment, were being kicked in the face and snout by disagreeable, eye-patch-wearing, Guinness-addled, and anti-environmental contrarians, (see previous post), that my cousin's body, or the remains of which, sat on those salty rocks for nearly a year before we could collect the parts."
EPPdF, "So that's not your bike, then?"
*Note*
Actual conversation:
EPPdF: "Good mornin'. Are you riding that bike out there? I just rode in from Gulf Shores, saw the Georgia plate on another Harley and was wondering if that was yours?"
Dude wearing flannel shirt with the sleeves cut out: "NO! I don't believe in them. (terrible pause while he contemplates whether or not to kill me and throw my various and asundry parts in the bayou for the gators, or just wound me as a warning for all others who might commit such an egregious assault upon his character as asking whether or not he owned a motorcycle).
(staring with a burning hatred not seen since Plessy v Ferguson)
"My cousin was killed on his Ninja. He was a marine, stationed in San Diego; joined when he was only 16 after his parents signed the papers. He went off a cliff and down to the rocks below and it was only because of a deaf mute wandering around the beach with some sight-seeing group that had stopped to take pictures, that the body was found. Of course, the deaf mute had to wait to get back to his people so they could translate for him"
EPPdF: "So that's not your bike, then?"
DWFSWTSCO: (wondering how wide the throat of your average adult male alligator is and whether my skull would fit) "No."
*What is it about these dang people. I get the part where people on motorcycles can and do get hurt. I get the part where a large majority of the population would never get on one. I get the part where, having lost a loved one due to an accident involving a motorcycle, you might have a particularly keen dislike for motorcycles. The part that I don't get, is the part where these people love to tell their particular horror stories, with the motorcycle, and on occasion you (in this case actually me) cast as the central villain. Maybe they intend to scare you off the bike or just irritate you enough to ride away.
BTW, the female version of this is the woman who loves to go on and on about how difficult HER pregnancy was, to the woman who is currently 6 and 1/2 months pregnant and already swimming in an ocean of anxieties. "....at one point, that doctor looked at me, looked at my husband, and said, "If I'm not out in an hour tell my wife I love her and then call Big Steve at the department of agriculture. Tell him we've reached Code Tangerine. YOU GOT THAT!?! Code TANGERINE!!! It'll be a GODDAMNED MIRACLE if we make it out alive." Then he climbed thru my urethra with a roll of duct tape and a set of tea spoons from Disney World. I think he had a rusty miner's helmet for light but I can't be sure. By that time, those special brownies Gerald makes every New Years had kicked in and everything got fuzzy for a few months. I think I called little Jerry "Emperor Hirohito" until he reached kinder garden, on account of the fact that he refused to leave my uterus until the doctors got out the heavy explosives. But I'm sure YOUR delivery will just be a regular ol' piece of cake Sugar but, just in case, here's Big Steve's number........"
* "Sometimes, they're aren't enough rocks" *
Just after the sleeveless wonder left, I went for another cup of coffee and found the Actual Harley Owner inside.
EPPdF: "Good morning. Is that your bike outside? I just rode in from Gulf Shores, saw the Georgia plate on another Harley and was wondering if that was yours?"
Actual Harley Owner (50ish with thick British accent): "Yeah. I saw your Springer out there."
EPPdF: "Yeah, love that bike. Where you guys from?"
AHO: "Atlanta"
EPPdF: "Oh, Cool! Me too. "
AHO: (with an attitude that is both detached and irritated, "Yeah. That's, uh..... that's something."
EPPdF: "Well, if you get a chance, US 90 thru Biloxi is really a nice ride. Came in that way yesterday."
AHO: mumbling something British into his coffee, "yeah, will do, havammmphthhinneworleantmpaohelllmm"
EPPdF: "Ok, I'll definitely keep that in mind"
I found it really interesting, just how UN-interested AHO was in the coincedence that we had ridden from Atlanta to New Orleans, on Harleys, and ended up at the same hotel in the French Quarter.
Maybe he just needed more coffee.
*Note: Sometimes you should just stop while you're ahead. Lesson learned.
**Note: Probably not gonna do that.
All of this stands in stark contrast to the great ride and stimulating conversations I had yesterday on the ride from Gulf Shores to NOLA.
After a long, tearful goodbye involving many hugs, kisses, promises to write, be safe, and what I think might have been an incomplete, but thoughtful, reach-a-round by Joey (I love you too, Brother!!!) I road out to meet the Ft. Morgan Ferry on what Pam informed me was not, in fact, Hwy. 59, but some other road that I have completely forgotten. Sunny skies all around, just perfect for a final cruise down the beach highway and out to the fort.
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| Joey on the left of me, Joey to the right of me: here I am, Stuck in the middle with yoouuuuuuu!!! |
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| Ft. Morgan - an artistic interpretation |
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| Pam and Joey walking thru the tunnel to the inside of the fort. |
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| Inside Ft. Morgan |
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| Looking down into the fort from the battery protecting Mobile Bay. |
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| Walking the old fort wall down to the bay. |
After a final top-off on fuel and a purchase of water, a Frostie root beer, and some pork rinds (otherwise known as health food) I paid my $8 and was the first to get on the 12:30 ferry to cross Mobile Bay. Definitely the way to go.
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| Repeat picture. $8 for a motorcycle w/ a single rider |
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| crossing Mobile Bay to Dauphine Island, Alabama |
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| Extraneous ferry crossing picture. |
*did not see any torpedoes so feel free to cross the bay w/out undue anxiety.
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| It's like they ran the flags up just for lil ol' me! |
**Ditto Hamilton Watches, Lucky Jeans, Blundstone, Guinness (I can dream), etc.**
***Prepared to sell out and retire at a moment's notice!***
From Dauphine Island, you cross a 2 mile bridge back to the mainland. Nice view.
Cross the bridge and welcome back to the south, brother.
I don't think they like "my kind" round those parts. It was hot out; maybe I had "The Funk".
EPPdF: "Afternoon Ma'am. Could I get a sweet tea? Thought I'd have a sit outside on your deck if that's ok."
Lady at The Lighthouse: "Yessir. That'd be fine."
EPPdF: "Ya' know, since I'm here, do ya' have anything special for lunch?"
LaTL: (now joined by her son who works next door at the auto body shop and watched me walk in)
"Well, we had fried chicken on the lunch special but I think it's probably gone; we usually sell out by 2."
(long, awkward pause while I wait for her to either check to see if there's any chicken left or suggest an alternate item from the menu.)
(whistle amongst yourselves for a sec)
LaTL: "That'll be $2.14 fort the sweet tea mister."
EPPdF: "Well alrighty. I'll just be outside not setting things on fire. Ya'll have a nice day now, yahere!!"
A few miles later I took a left on US 90 (Mossy Pointe?) towards Pascagoula and there it was.....
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| If you need things. Or even stuff. And sometimes, Such. It's right there on US 90 outside of Pascagoula. |
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| It's Nana's Country Cookin'! |
WTF!?! Did you think that I'd ride all that way and just pass on by? "See ya' NEXT time Nana. Sorry. Not enough time now. Gotta go get S#@*Faced in N'Awlins!!!" No Sir. I pulled right in.
Glad I did. Nana was exactly what you'd expect (in all the good ways and none of the bad some of you yankee's might be thinking right now.)) Sweet
EPPdF: "Thanks Nana but I'm on the bike. I can't carry it. But thanks so much for asking."
Nana: "You need one of those little beer koozie thang-ies that hang off the handle bars."
EPPdF: long pause while I look at this sweet little old lady wearing the apron and wonder how it is she knows about putting drink holders on Harleys.
EPPdF: "I think Nana has stories up under that apron."
Nana: a little grin curling up the edges of her lips.
"Well, Nana's been around for awhile."
EPPdF: "Oh, I bet. It sounds like Nana's been around alright."
Nana: coughs up half a laugh but composes herself quickly. "Now don't you go tellin' nobody!" The grin spreads to a full on smile as Nana's eyes sparkle from their little grinny slits.
EPPdF: "It'll just be our little secret."
I sat outside in the shade by Nana's Country Cookin' and struck up a conversation with Joe, an older gentleman who fancies himself the community handy-man and even though Nana stuck her head out the door of the cafe to tell him to, "Not scare off any more customers!" (even though she was smiling the whole time) Joe and I had a great old time telling stories under the oak trees.
I didn't quite figure out where Joe lives b/c he crossed from one old house on the right side of Nana's to the old house on the left side of Nana's to flip his laundry from wash to dry.
Joe: " I hate doing laundry cuz thar ain't nuthin' to do while it's spinnin' round so I might as well sit here and agitate you for a minute ifyadontmine."
EPPdF: "I don't have a schedule and no ones waiting for me in New Orleans so I might as well keep you occupied and out of trouble with Nana; at least until it buzzes. You're on your own again after that."
I ended up there with Joe in the shade, drinking sweet tea, telling lies, and laughing my ass off for 45 minutes. Learned that he was a trombone player in high school, "to meet girls on the bus to and from the games!", that he was a Marine, a Veitnam War combat veteran (there for Tet and the spring offensive (good grief - need to check my historical facts on this one), and had been a sniper in that war, which kinda scared me b/c he's the second sniper I've met in the past couple months. Certainly, it's just a coincidence, but I'm not doing anything un-towards just in case.
*(I'd like to point out that both of the snipers that I've met are THE VERY kindest, most decentest, thoughtful, and handsomest, manly men that I recall ever having the great good fortune to meet and, GOD WILLING when I have a male child, and it's an extremely masculine and thoroughly manly child, I fully intend to name that child after these snipers that I hold as dear, close, and cherished friends.)(And if this masculine and manly child, named after these heroic and honorable gentleman, at some point, God forbid, takes up soccer (gasp!) he will be immediately stripped of his/her righteous and good manly name and be sent off to a military boarding school in the furthest reaches of the greater Burmese mountain range until such time as he proves him/herself manly enough to, once again, bear the name of these good, honest, God fearing men of men.)
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| On US 90 a few miles east of Pascagoula |
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| The Motel 6 on 90, in Pascagoula. |
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| "the Amazing" |
It was a particularly bad time for me, as the horribleness with "Hellbeast" had just started.
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| My attempts at an amicable separation were met with some degree of resistance. |
Biloxi, MS - The Ohr-O'keefe Museum of Art
Gorgeous in person. My pictures don't do it justice.
The white sand beaches and Gulf of Mexico on one side, the museum complex on the other side (of US 90 that is). Fantastic ride through Biloxi.
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| If you look very closely, you can see the sign on the door that says "Shirt and Shoes Required". |
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| Standing by the museum, looking across 90 to the gulf. |
I walked around the Ohr-O'keefe museum, snapping pictures enjoying the view for 45 minutes or so, then got geared up and back on 90.
I was just contemplating a quick stop at a place called Sharky's right on the water when I saw a couple bikes heading east in 90 (from NOLA) and decided to turn around to check road and weather conditions. I pulled into a Shell gas station, right on the gulf, on route 90, in Biloxi, Mississippi and started talking to John and Mike. Nice guys, doing there own loop around the country: Missouri to NOLA, to Tallahassee, to Myrtle Beach, to Greenville, back to Missouri.
We started talked about bikes, the road, then work, then life, and that's where it got odd.
Mike starts telling me how a few years ago he hit a real rough spot in his life. He was going thru an ugly divorce when a trusted friend, who was helping him with his business, stole most of his money, leaving him heavily in debt, AND THEN he found he had a brain tumor(!!!)
Ummmm...I'm not sure what the odds are that 2 guys riding bikes around the country, that had gone thru ugly divorces while dealing with financial troubles AND brain tumors, all at the SAME FREAKIN' TIME, would meet, by chance, at a Shell Station in Biloxi, MS but I'm fairly certain that I wouldn't put money on it.
*Note: Everything I know about gambling I learned fom Wesley Snipes; "Always bet on black."
**Not sure if that applies in this particular instance.
Life is weird/odd/funny/unpredictable/sometimes confusing, painful, heartbreaking, hilarious, and, occasionally, you sort of have to remind yourself that, maybe, just maybe, something bigger is at play here.
I stood out in the Shell parking lot for 45 minutes or so, talking to John and Mike like old friends.
It was great.
I am so glad that I'm taking this trip now, at exactly this point in my life, when I'm ready to be much more engaged and open and honest with people I meet. I'm having a good time.
I don't think that I would have been able to approach or talk to people with the same openness and have these types of conversations/interactions even a few months ago.
And, when I think about how I was supposed to leave on this little ride way back in May but had to stay and work, and that had I left on schedule then I wouldn't have met John and Mike, or Joe and Nana, and I wouldn't have stayed a week with Joey and Pam and had such a great time with them -
well, like I said, it does make a body wonder just exactly what's at play here.
Maybe I'm reading more into it than I need, but it does make me wonder......
And, when I look at these interactions, which I think I will wonder and think about for a long time, and compare them to the interactions I've had in NOLA, well that makes me wonder too.
I'm not substantially different whether I'm standing in a Shell station parking lot in Biloxi or in the Best Western French Quarter cafe getting coffee, but the interactions I've been a part of and the reactions I've gotten from people seem to be 180 degrees out of sych. I'll have to think on it some more.
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