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- 11/28/2016
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American Steel - 5. Red Rose
Red Rose
I throw my patch-and-lapel-pin-covered black-leather vest over a ratty old concert T as I leave Parliament House after breakfast. The overcast sky threatens rain, but the low rolling hills north of the theme parks beckon. Flat South Florida, with its unimaginative grid pattern layout, doesn’t provide much excitement to a rider. Although all the damn snowbirds do manage to keep me alert when down there. You never know when one of those fuckers will change lanes in front of you, not bothering to look once, much less twice.
Ernesto and his husband are a great couple. A spot of real luck meeting them. Both handsome men are the type you want to spend time with―clothed! Not that the hunky Spaniard didn’t make an impression when he approached me and my bud at the pool, His muscular, furry body and smoldering good looks attracted plenty of attention and I admit I may have licked my lips once or twice. But sex is everywhere, getting laid is easy; friendship’s harder to find. Those two are quality men. I’m already looking forward to future visits at their place in Orlando and mine in Key West.
Wanting to distance myself from the concrete jungle as fast as possible, I hop on the Turnpike headed north. Florida’s Main Street ends at Wildwood where it merges with I-75. I follow the Interstate until I reach Ocala where I leave behind the sterile interstate ribbon of asphalt and switch to US Alternate 27. The expressways are designed for speed, for getting you from point A to point B quickly and safely. The smaller, older roads tend to follow the contours of the landscape in a much gentler way. They hug and climb terrain in a way which brings you closer to the experience of traveling. You embrace your surroundings and become one with it.
The grassy hills which earlier called my name are everywhere, more often than not bordered by white slat fences, keeping the animals within. This is horse country and there’s an abundance of equines around.
In time, I leave behind the urban sprawl and find myself riding through open fields and wildlife conservation areas. This part of Florida―the Big Bend―is sparsely populated and I find myself alone on the road most of the time.
Solitude’s one of the things I love about riding. The ability to get lost in my thoughts. Sometimes reliving the past, which brings both grimaces and a few smiles. More often, my thoughts are occupied by the present. About the scenery, the silly religious billboards alongside the road, the state of the environment around me, and the world at large.
Being so exposed, moving so fast, I sometimes feel like a wild animal running through the fields, chasing some sort of prey. I may not know what I’m looking for in a trip, but I know I’ll find it at the end. And anyway, it’s more about the getting to a place than the place itself.
And then there are thoughts about the future. Uncertain, and at times downright scary, but more often than not, they’re about plans. The next town, the next trip, the next adventure. The next experience, the next challenge. Those are what make getting up in the mornings worth it. What makes life worth living.
And always the thoughts about how I’m going to document today’s experiences in pictures and words. I may not write it all down, but sometimes a few words can dredge up the most magical memories. The ones I turn to when times are not as kind.
I stop for a rest and a bite to eat in Perry before heading towards Tallahassee. It’s my overnight stop before moving on and I check into a Motel 6 south of the state’s capital. No need for fancy accommodations. A clean bed and a shower with hot water is all I seek. After dinner, I google biker bars on my phone and find a joint close enough to have a couple of drinks at before calling it a night.
• • •
The first sip from my Jack and Coke brings forth a sigh of pleasure. I look around at the groups sitting at tables hearing fragments of tall tales. Nodding at the guy standing next to me at the bar, I smile. Tall, young, well-built, a mop of thick dark-copper hair gelled or moussed to make it look carefree but I can tell took time to get just right. Poser. A hard smooth chest shows through the opening of his full body riding suit; he’s unzipped to the top of his abs. Too fucking hot in Florida this time of year for the get-up. Biker wannabee.
“Hey, Fred! Get over here and settle an argument.” Fred happens to be the dude standing next to me. I watch as he ambles over to the one calling his name with moves he’s probably practiced in front of a mirror. I gulp my drink to try and stop from laughing turning around to order a refill. And that’s when I see it.
The girl sitting on the stool was half hidden while Fred stood between us. Now I can see she’s a beautiful blonde with hair cascading down her back. And there on her left shoulder, peeking through strands of spun gold and the strap of her halter top, is a perfect red rose. The lushness of the color and the intricate detail of the petals make me want to reach out and touch it. Why do we often react this way to a tattoo?
“Excuse me, miss, that’s a beautiful job the artist did on your shoulder. It looks so real I want to reach out and feel the petals. Can I ask where you had it done?” I borrow a napkin and pen from the bartender as he delivers my cocktail and jot down Kip, Brick and Tenth, and Austin, TX on it. Folding it, I stick it in my vest pocket and ask permission to take a picture. A firm nod of acquiescence and a warm smile answer me as she shakes her head to move the hair out of the way.
“What the fuck you think you’re doing?” The flash attracted Fred’s attention and he’s at my side in seconds, berating me for taking pictures of his girlfriend.
I don’t know how I stopped myself from rolling my eyes and calling him girlfriend. Instead, I explain I asked permission, that I was thinking of getting some ink and liked hers, and that he had nothing to worry about with me. “I’m gay, buddy. Your girl’s safe around me.”
Not sure why, but this seems to piss him off. Fred turns and shouts at his friends. “Guys! The dude’s queer! He’s taking pictures of my girl but I think he wants some of me. He’s a fucking fag.”
“Good for him.”
“Good for us! Less competition for the women.”
“Good for Fred, maybe he’ll get laid tonight!”
The last comment I guess is too much for Fred. The color of his face is now a match for his hair. “Fuck you, assholes!”
“Nah, Fred, if you get lucky he’ll fuck you.”
“You seen his size? Betcha he’s packing.”
“For your sake, I hope he has lube!”
“Remember to take out that stick you have up your ass before you bend over.”
The ribbing’s good natured, but brutal. It sounds to me like Fred has some image issues around the place. I try not to laugh. Fred slaps some bills on the wood counter, grabs the blonde’s hand and storms out of the place. A moment later I follow; I’m curious about what he rides. I should have guessed: the pretty boy with the perfect hair and outfit, and his trophy girl climbs aboard one of the most gorgeous crotch rockets I’ve ever seen. The BMW HP2 Sport is magnificent as it roars out of the gravel parking lot, spraying stones all over the place
I fucking hate gravel. At least he didn’t ding my scooter when he sped away. I’m wondering if he can truly handle such a magnificent beast. Oh well, not my problem. Glad I parked on the grassy strip close to the road, I go back inside to finish my drink. I’m smiling: something new to add to my journal. And I’m thinking Austin might be a good stop down the line.
Kip and the Brick and Tenth are the intellectual property of Sasha Distan and are used by permission. Kip’s story may be found here: Apprentice
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