White Beach

Morning

I climb out of the saddle and wipe the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. The day started out cool enough, with a nice little northeast wind. My ride south had been brisk and slightly chilled in the early light of dawn and I had the world to myself, it seemed: the birds were singing their asses off and there was the scrabbling of small animals in the undergrowth along the shoulder and the road was empty and all mine. I had planned to do my usual twenty-four mile loop that I call my daydream ride but the morning planet was so new and fresh and enticing that I turned right at my usual left hand turn and rode still further into the forest.

All these roads I use for this quiet loop were gravel or dirt  up until a year or so ago. Then, for a brief and magical break-in period they were pristine blacktop, smooth and serene and like a gift of some kind. I never saw another cyclist except once, but now I see them every time I go that way. Group rides are common and a group passed me this morning. I thought about trying to keep up but quickly abandoned the idea. I am out of shape these days and riding single speed and anyway, today was a long day of saddle time and exploration, not speed.

The morning cool has collapsed into another Florida day of heat and sweat and I shoulder my bicycle and clamber over the huge mound left by the new trench down the middle of White Beach Road.

Open Heart Surgery

What the hell happened here? This little trail was a kind of road through the woods to a place on the river the locals call White Beach. For all I know, the property was at one time owned by someone named White; but we call it White Beach because after you pedal through several hundred yards of woods, you break out into a fantastic place on the Indian River that is a football field-size expanse of glistening white sand, clusters of palm trees and a dark deep woods.

For many years (decades) this has been a bonfire and hell-raising spot. It has been a prime weekend destination for boaters looking for a place to picnic and stretch out on the sand. It is a very private property, too be sure; but that never seemed to matter until seven years ago when a big development company out of Orlando bought the place with plans to erect a nineteen story waterfront condominium tower. They immediately put up a six foot fence around the whole property and tore down the ages-old wooden gate that had long ago become more of a symbol than a barrier, replacing it with a stout steel locking gate and a big stout padlock.

With A Rebel Yell

That fence and that gate suffered all manner of vandalistic humiliation over the years as outraged locals, refusing to accept the loss of what really was a beautiful spot that had been forever wide open, alternately plowed through the chain link with four wheel drive trucks, stole and scrapped the gate for money, cut and used for a bonfire the tree the owners had felled across the road and fought authority with relish and the eternal rebel/cracker energy that makes us who (and what) we are. Meanwhile, the faceless corporation behind this little war was fighting a separate battle with the zoning board over their planned gargantuan project. A nineteen story condominium in an area where the next tallest building would have been one story tall, had there been any other buildings in the area. This was just...awful.

It was a ludicrous struggle but as usual good prevailed over evil, if a jackass multimillion dollar development corporation counts as good and frustrated village vandals should be considered evil. Yeah, the county council approved the plans for this dark tower and then the recession hit and it all became just another crazy Florida story.

It's Mine! I Mean Ours! We Mean...Business!

But for some reason, this corporation was adamant about keeping out the riff-raff and now here am I, crawling over a big pile of sand with my bike on my back, scrambling across the bottom of a four foot deep ditch down the center of the old road, then back up the other side, using one hand to steady the bike and one hand to claw my way to the top of the diggings.

'What the hell,” I muttered (out loud this time). It didn't make much sense. This beach is readily accessible by boat; what would be gained by digging this ugly gash along the old forest road? They must really want to keep us out. But why? Now NOBODY could get in there, at least not by car or truck. For a realtor to show this property (and there is a big For Sale sign out front) they would have to bring prospective buyers in by boat. But then again, this is Florida. Anything goes.

Down to the River to Pray

I lean my bicycle against a handy palmetto and brush off the sand. The day is really warming up. I walk down to the river and wade out to where it is knee deep. The place seems different. It feels different. Across the river I can see Boy Scout Cut, a place where the water rolls pretty quick on a falling tide and it is deep and cool and a place of snook and trout. The Cut leads around a big spoil island to the flats on the backside; many, many square miles of crystal clear water only inches deep and it is a place of magic. It is only inches deep and it takes a boat that can be poled or paddled to get in there and move about. It is holy and there are redfish there and roseate spoonbills and water fowl and fish hawks.

I could stand here in this water all day. I have waded here and fished here; I have come here in my old boat with my old dog when she was a puppy and let her run and learn about fire and beer and shallow water and other dogs and the joy of the shallows and chasing all manner of small fry...this was and will forever be a place of my heart. There have been ashes scattered here. This is the Indian River and this is Old White Beach.

And So...

I turn from the river and (of course) stare for a moment at my bicycle, trusty and solid and ready and waiting. Made of steel and already old when she became mine, we will be together for a long time. There are all too few constants in our lives and we lose everything we cherish sooner or later, or they lose us. But somehow, through luck good or bad (it is hard to know) I have once and for all learned and gained the bonding with something that will not die or leave for another or simply turn away. With a minimum of care and a little love there will always be a bicycle to turn to, a bicycle to ride, a bicycle to get out there on and see the world both inside and out.

The dirty work done by these new owners can stop a four-wheeler, but a man and a bicycle are a different story. I gaze around at the scene of so many good times and then I walk over to my bike. I'm not looking forward to going back over that ditch. Did I mention that I am out of shape? I take a long, wistful look around.

 Yeah.

Oh, the Dichotomy of It All

I know I will see it again, coming in by boat. But I know this, also: I make my living working for condo developers. There is a damn good chance I will one day be down here wearing a hardhat and carrying a clipboard and doing my part to take away from my beloved Florida one more Florida place.

It is painful to think about. I long ago gave up trying to reconcile my trade with my love of wild outdoor places. I am a dichotomous sonofabitch but it is a condition that I have learned to ameliorate with a little money earned and a lot of beer and rum (drunk, dranken, partook of?) and long sweaty bicycle rides; here am I : Old Tim Joe, wandering about lost and found and seeking redemption.

I shoulder my bicycle, take a deep breath, and head back over this latest scar on the earth and on my heart. The day is young, even if I am not; there is more to see and my ride home will be mostly into the wind, as usual.

I wouldn't have it any other way.

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Forgive Us Our Trespasses

#105

Single Speed Slim

Hello my friends! Spambots be damned, here am I. These tales must be told and I am the man for the job. I think the “Authentication” process will filter the little bastards out just fine and if not I will strap on all manner of hardware and special goggles and dive into the screen and hunt them down one by one, if need be...I don't want to have to do it but listen, these machines have got to be tamed.

It's All About the Jumpsuit

I was reading somewhere the other day about these little, really little robot computer dinguses that they can inject into your blood stream and then roam around doing who knows what, sending messages about your health and using little laser beams to clear arteries and kick ass on cancer cells. It sounds just handy as hell and I remember a movie called Fantastic Voyage, I think it was, and I remember how well Raquel Welch's jumpsuit fit. It was really tight and it fit just right. Man! I think I was about twelve years old when that movie came out and if I remember correctly all hell broke loose and everything went wrong that could go wrong and the only way they could get out of the guy's body was through a tear.

I wasn't that poetic when I was twelve but I am now and the idea of a teardrop being a way to safety, or a kind of path to salvation just appeals to me, somehow. I like it. Crying helps, sometimes.

Raindrops Are Fallin'

Not right now, though, I ain't cryin' and while maybe I should be, it just isn't happening. Last week I pedaled my ass up to the VA Clinic in Daytona, leaving the house at five thirty in the morning, in the dark and in a misting rain. I had a cheap little flashlight taped to the handlebars with duct tape and a blinking red taillight hanging off my saddle bag. Quite frankly, I stole the taillight from off one of the grandkid's bikes. (He won't need it for awhile because he is grounded). Predawn and cranking fast on the pedals I hit one stretch of highway that is called the Three Bridges and listen: it was DARK. I mean so damn dark that for all I knew I was about to pedal off one of the bridges and plunge into the water far, far, below. Well, ten feet below...

So dark that I couldn't use the shoulder or sidewalk, I had to stay in the lane where the feeble light of my half-assed headlight reflected off the painted highway stripe. But, oddly and unexpectedly, I had the road to myself and about thirty minutes later the sun started sneaking up over the horizon and I gotta tell ya, sunrise on a bicycle...well, I want to do it again. I want a better light system and I want to get out before sunrise more often.

The Lament of the Soggy Cyclist

As things age (I am an expert on this) they wear out. That's one of the reasons I am pedaling my bicycle the twenty miles to the VA Clinic. While I can pedal twenty miles fast like nothin', if I stand up quick or just something like climbing a ladder leaves me out of breath. So I'm getting a check up and so on. But the worn out thing I am most interested in is my rear derailleur. No, I am not speaking figuratively, although my figurative rear derailleur is important to me. I'm talking about the one on my bicycle that died on the way home from the checkup forcing me to fork over a buck-fifty for a ride home on the bus.

I Hope This Works

So...I have now put on a new chain recently donated by Roadie Ryan and converted my beloved Schwinn to a single speed. She didn't like it, at first...she spit the chain repeatedly. The skewer just couldn't hold the wheel in place. The chain was coming loose. Then I grabbed a six pack of beer and a three-sided metal file and spent a mellow hour or so filing a diagonal groove pattern onto the dropouts.  I scrounged in my old parts stash and found a heavy but hardy mountain bike skewer and I clamped the rig together and now I am blasting around in one gear all the time. It ain't bad. I seem to be going fast as hell all over the place and the bike, stripped of the cassette and the derailleur and the shifters, feels about ten pounds lighter.

It Ain't Over 'Till It's Over, Rover

But yeah, things wear out. Moving at one speed might be the key to longevity; it is hard to say. Maybe an injection of microscopic robots would be a good thing, although it sounds less than appealing. Having Raquel Welch injected into your bloodstream would probably be a boost of sorts, I suppose, but still, it ends with tears. Somebody has got to cry.

Sometimes I wish I knew what I was talking about. I have a habit of saying things that don't make sense until later on, after the shootin's done and the smoke clears and I think, “Oh... I'll be damned.”

I think you know what I mean. Meanwhile I'm living on my bike and I have a bid in place for the first construction project in six years. It is a juicy one and I have no reason to think I won't get the gig. Let's face it, I need the dough. The only reason I'm not kicked out of the Park for not paying lot rent is...well, I'm not sure why. Borrowed time, most certainly, I'm treading water. So...

It looks like the cycle is about to renew itself and I will begin again. Spambots can't stop me and if I once again have to strap on and do battle, well..I ain't dead yet.

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Rumination Place

#104