Day 1
50 West, 27 North
Frantically mailed off things that I decided–at the last minute–not to carry: motorcycle jacket (90+ degrees for the entire route–what was I thinking?), wet weather gear (why would I ride in the rain…I’m not on a time schedule), spare clothes (too much stuff to keep clean), saddlebags (I have built in saddlebags…on my waist), guidebook (when this is over, I’m writing my own guidebook).
Finally got going at 10:30 or so. Debated Waffle House or Bob Evans for breakfast. (The proper amount of grease in my veins makes me feel at home.) Bob won. WTF!? Amazon waitress would not refill my sweet tea. When I’m famous, I will have her job. (Actually, since I’m unemployed, I need it now.) The other waitress looked like Christina Ricci with a lot more forehead (one would think that impossible, but I saw it). The place was filled with cotton tops. (Which reminds me, after having breakfast with my dad last week, the waiter brought over the check. Dad and I tussled. I won. I looked at the check. The guy gave us both senior discounts. I left this tip for him: get your eyes checked.)
Stayed on the backroads for early part of the afternoon, but that started to seem too slow. Great scenery though. Lots of motorcyclists were out–ninety percent without helmets. Future Quads of America.
Things you shouldn’t do
I75, exit 374, Café Risqué, just south of Gainesville. A sad reminder of what can go horribly wrong in the world of women who dance and the men who tip them. I decided to leave the backroads and make up some time. Then I decided that I should just pop into this place because I thought it was a place I stopped at with some friends while in college. If it’s the same place, it’s standards have declined. There was quite a bit of borderline disfigurement both on and off the stage. This next is a public service announcement: g-strings are not attractive. Ever. Not on women. Not on men. Not peeking, ever so subtly, over the waistband of your jeans as you bend over. Not ever, not ever, not ever.
“Will that be all, baby?”
That’s what the sales clerk at the bp station said when I payed for gas and a Gatorade. I love a southern accent. I always forget that Florida is the south…at least once you get to the northern part of the state. I’ve been called baby, hon and bubba enough times today to nearly wash away all memories of my northern life.
Bedtime. I have to have some energy for N’awlins.
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