Sweet Homecoming (Again)

At first I thought my air compressor was broken.  Rrrr, rrrr, rrrr, it could barely muster enough energy to make a sound.  But ho ho, no no!  It wasn’t the air compressor, it was the motorcycle.  Clicky, clicky.  No starty, starty.  The Ducati had failed self proclaimed Ducati test day.  It would not, could not start, it would not be charged, it could not be jumped, it would not be bumped.  (I didn't try to bump it, but it rhymes, okay?)  Given its history and my long absence, I guess I wasn’t surprised, but that doesn’t mean I had to be happy about it. There was good reason to believe it was just the battery, but, honestly, in all my life it’s never been “just the battery.”  No, not once, not ever.  Not this time, and certainly not last summer in southern Utah, when every last bit of the Ducati’s alternator insulation melted away like so much dark chocolate on a June day in my not so climate controlled house*.

Aside from celebrating the fact I was in the same locality as my motorcycles for the first time in two months, this ride was specifically designed to answer two questions.  1) Is the Ducati running? (Answer: No)   2) Can I still corner respectably?  So I went up the mountain in search of Answer 2 on the trusty old Kawasaki.  (Answer: Yes)**   Bless that bike, it’s 15 years old, has never seen the inside of a shop, is held together with more tape than a toddler’s first gift wrap job, and, last link not withstanding, runs happily every time.

Yesterday, I put a new battery in the Ducati.  Damn that M696 design team, but you actually have to pull the gas tank to do so.  It took me utterly by surprise, but when that machine gaily started, I actually burst into tears of relief. It really was just the battery!***

Ducati with Mount Lemmon hoodoos.

On the way home from today's post-op ride, I picked up enough pork shoulder to test the capacity of my top box.  I'll simmer it slowly it in a silky, shimmering, red mud bath of Eating on Two Wheels chile paste.

Good red chile paste sorcery can and does cast a hypnotically alluring magical spell.  You may even accidentally cast it upon yourself.

Colorado trip next week?****  "We are ready to go!"*****

*But, WAIT!  My house has recently become so climate controlled that I actually tempered chocolate in it earlier this week.  In May.  In Tucson.  I love my little ductless minisplit heating/cooling unit!!  What’s next, croissants in June?
**An additional question remains unanswered: Why do you need a shiny sports car to drive up Mount Lemmon at 30mph?
***So what if I jostled the lambda sensor when wrestling with the tank, such that 10 minutes into my test ride today, the engine light went on?  The real miracle here, folks, is that I could interpret the error code, knew what and where said lambda sensor was, and could re-jostle it all in the T.J.Maxx parking lot.
**** As it turns, out, we didn't go to Colorado.
*****You have to say that part aloud, in the same voice Pilot Guy uses to radio the airport tower when we've successfully completed our run up, are poised at the runway hold short lines, and are, well, ready to go!

Sweet Homecoming

The bikes are running,* the desert is blooming…

The ironwood trees are blooming like crazy this year.  Time for another ride through Ironwood Forest National Monument.

All the saguaro with full heads of blooms are impossibly out of reach. So are those whose luscious fruit, red as sin, is tantalizingly split open. The doves can reach them easily enough, though, as can the Tohono O’odham people, who use long sticks (saguaro ribs, I think) to knock them down for the noble purpose of wine making.

…and the burritos are actually pretty good***! 

How delicious to be back in the land of Sonoran tortillas, the only flour tortillas fit for human consumption. Unless you’ve been here, or make them yourselves, you simply don’t know. My deepest condolences.

Sweet Jesus, I am home!**. I'm not ashamed to admit I kinda got choked up today.

*Well the Yamaha is. Tomorrow is Ducati test day.  It (and I) are headed to CO soon.
**After two months of exile in Flatistan, where, you can see, I wasn’t exactly suffering, but still… 
***The customary taco truck was AWOL, but Horseshoe Barbecue surpassed my expectations. 

Everglades Pedal No. 2

Since I enjoyed my first two wheeled exploration of Everglades National Park so much, I expanded the idea to a 40 mile pedal trip this week, along the park’s main road to the Florida Bay.

Because nearly an entire continent separates me from my adventure toys,  I loaded up a borrowed car with a borrowed bicycle, borrowed helmet, borrowed backpack, and not borrowed lunch (garlicky lima bean hummus sandwiches*) and set out.  To buy water. Because even my Camelbak and sturdy refillable water bottles are in Arizona, and I had no faith in the flip top plastic water bottle at my disposal. Anyone who has lived in Arizona (or any desert) for more than, say, five minutes, develops a keen Desert Water Sense which is, really, a controlled form of paranoia. This is why I paid a mighty premium for Fiji brand water, because its cap and bottle look the least penetrable by any foreign object that  might be bouncing around with it in my pack.  And I bought approximately twice the amount I’d need.  It’s not possible to simply disengage one’s Desert Water Sense just because one happens to be in Florida.

The road was full of enormous colorful grasshoppers.  Either they stick to tires, or Darwin has done great work in adapting them, because I didn’t see a single squished one.

Lubber Grasshopper?

If you are, like me, not equipped to drink water on the fly, Nine Mile Pond is a good place to stop to pull your water bottle out of your backpack.  There’s no long access road that adds miles to your journey (I quickly came to understand the importance of this when rolling sans engine), and you can sit and contemplate the interesting signage.

Should I cover my bicycle with one of the provided “vulture tarps?”

 

 West Lake is even better.  Because it has shade.  And ducks instead of vandalous vultures.








Be prepared to do a bit of hill climbing.

Sweet victory at the summit!

Arriving at the Florida Bay is unexpectedly similar to arriving at the Grand Canyon.  After miles of arguably unremarkable flat and scrubby (or grassy, in this case) landscape - BAM!  There it is.  Sparkling turquoise waters speckled with green island jewels.

I really wanted this to be an amazing photo that captured what I saw and how I felt upon seeing the bay for the first time. It isn’t. And doesn't.  At all.  I’m convinced an aerial photo is the way to go.  Which is not out of the realm of possibility, as you may know.

I have actually been to this spot once before, on the back of a red motorcycle, even.  It was a Very Long Time Ago, decades before the age of my own motorcycle enlightenment.  Oh, how little did I know then!

Score one point for Desert Water Sense.  I told you so.

Precautionary Water Boil Notice for the Flamingo Visitor Center area.

The entire round trip from the Coe Visitor Center, at the park entrance, to the Flamingo Visitor Center on the Florida Bay is 76 miles. If you, like me, are only masquerading as a bicyclist for the day, you may decide that a one way trip is plenty.  If only the park had a return shuttle for us weary amateur bicyclists with our heavy bikes and packs!  It does not. So park your car at Mahogany Hammock and pedal your way to Flamingo Visitor and back.    With the Mahogany Hammock access road, your round trip will be about 40 miles.  It doesn’t quite have the glory as the 38 mile one way trip to Florida Bay, but at this point in my bicycling career it seemed prudent. 

I walked the short boardwalk at Mahogany Hammock when I arrived, victorious, back at my car.  It seemed like a good way to keep my legs from seizing up on the way home. I have to say, those first few steps weren’t pretty.  But the trees in the hammock were gorgeous!

No idea what kind of tree this is.  Anyone?

If you can manage to stumble along just a little bit longer, please do not miss the short but lively Anhinga Trail on the way out of the park.  This is the place to view wildlife, even if you do not have the energy left to photograph it.  And in the early evening, there’s plenty of action.  I saw an*** anhinga juggle a too-big fish for a surprising amount of time before ultimately losing hold of it. Plunk!  Alligators were slowly cruising across the water, occasionally slipping under the surface like sinister submarines.  An adorable baby alligator, 18 inches in length at best, was wiggling about in the dark mud, obviously up to something (what?), and I heaved a wistful sigh. Why can’t they stay cute?  A big one stealthily cranked open his (her?) jaws, and – POW!  It got itself some dinner.  I couldn’t see who was the dinner.

Speaking of eating, I did have a few food finds on the way back to Miami.

It’s a shame these folks were closed by the time I was done pedaling. It’s not often I can combine some modest wine tasting with two-wheeled touring****.  I have no idea if wine made from tropical fruit is any good, but I’d be happy to evaluate it!  Add one item to the “Next Time” list.




I was just contemplating turning around after carelessly driving past a sign reading “You’ve Seen the Gators, Now Taste ‘Em!”, when I found the “Robert is Here” fruit stand.  Of all the unusual fruits I could have chosen, I’m not sure why I got a mango.  I guess all my brain glucose had gone to my legs by that point.  Add another item to the “Next Time” list.  Still, it was exquisitely flavorful, juicy, and ripe – deliciously quenching after my day of pedaling in the tropical heat.

Now I know where to go for Mamey Sapote, as called for in my Charlie Trotter’s Desserts cookbook*****. Tastes like pumpkin cheesecake, I’m told.  I’m in.

 

  




*Because good cooks aren’t necessarily good, they just know what do to with their mistakes.  My recent inattention in the kitchen resulted in overcooked and undersalted lima beans. Blech.  Mash ‘em up with olive oil, lots of raw garlic, something spicy, and some lemon, (no tahini or even peanut butter on hand), and call yourself creative for making hummus out of dried lima beans.
**Come to think of it, I was once hit by a vulture when riding. Yes, it hit me.  Ouch.
***An anhinga?  A anhinga?  I dare you to say it aloud.  Have a drink or two, first.
****Alcohol does not pass my lips when mounted upon a motorcycle. Ever.
*****May he Rest In Peace.  He died suddenly in his home last November.  A stroke, they say.  The cookbook, incidentally, is not for the faint of heart. The desserts are all you would expect, but you’ll put in a good day’s work to make them.  Totally Worth It.

When in Rome, Grab a Paddle

One more month to go on my Flatistan Tour of Duty.  I’m going a little crazy. I miss my mountains and motorcycles.  Last week, on my day off, I threw myself onto the bed in a dramatic manner unsurpassed by any 13 year old.  I’m boooooored!  There’s nothing to dooooo here!!!  Pilot Guy suggested my sulking would be more effective if I locked my bedroom door and spent the afternoon drawing unicorns with a sparkly pen in a pink and purple spiral notebook.  “Add a rainbow or two,” he suggested.  It didn’t help.

I really, really need a Florida Friendly Activity.  So yesterday, in an emergency procedure,  I bought an inexpensive “recreational kayak.”

These are my feet, but they are not in my kayak.  This photo is from my
 pre-purchase rental trial day at Delnor-Wiggins State Park. 

Creepy mangrove trail.  I'm not looking forward to my first alligator sighting.
But I have a paddle, and I'm not afraid to use it.

Today I took her for her maiden circumnavigation around my parents’ neighborhood.

Three miles and change, I think.

I noticed a funny thing while paddling around this winding watery racetrack.  When the going got tough (read: headwind),  I unconsciously defaulted to the cornering lines I know best. So far, I corner significantly better on the Ducati than in the kayak. 

Otters, herons, ospreys, ibis, anhingas, a duck with a dozen just-in-time-for-Easter ducklings... all sorts of things to see!




There were some notable comestibles as well.  Plenty of coconuts lined the shore, which prompted me to add "hacksaw and/or hammer?" to my kayak adventure pack list. A few of them had the surprising habit of getting up, walking a few feet, and plopping into the water, at which time I reclassified them as turtles.  And there are some ducks that for all the world look like Barbary ducks, origin of magret, that succulent like-filet-mignon-but-better red meat (yes, red!) duck breast capped with a golden crust of mouthwatering, crispy, fatty skin... oh my!  I could not convince even one of those ducks on board.

But if I ever do, my kayak has little hatch in which to store my magret picnic lunch.

As you can see, my kayak is a shade of orange only a KTM rider could love.
I've no idea what species of waterfowl this specimen is.  Is it time to invest in a waterproof bird book?

Next up, the 99 miles of Wilderness Waterway in Everglades National Park?

For all you Ducati people out there, I call her “The Des-NO*.”  Get it?  I crack myself up.

*For you non-Ducati people out there, Ducatis are known for their proprietary “desmodromic” aka “desmo” valve operating system.  Get it now?  Desmo?  Des-NO? Yeah, I’m that clever.

On the Move Again

After another month's exile in the Land of Flat, and, immediately upon my return to Tucson, a two week long inexplicable back injury during which I could not rotate an eyeball without involuntarily crying out in pain, it turns out I remember enough about riding to take Li'l Burro out to lift his head high in the air and sniff the sweet acacia wafting through the spring desert air, and to investigate some cheap eats.

How nice of the MoM folks to let Li'l Burro rest amongst the tomatoes after our little jaunt through the desert.

Market on the Move is not cool in a organic, locavore sort of way, but it is supersonically cool in a reduction of food waste sort of way.  If you've not heard just how much perfectly good food is thrown away in the US and around the world, not to mention how much land and resources are used to grow that very same food, prepare to be horrified.  Market on the Move "rescues" excess or imperfect produce from produce brokers that would normally end up in a landfill, and makes it available to the public.  Sixty pounds for ten bucks!  Give some to the less fortunate in your neighborhood, or stock your own pantry.

Tomorrow: flight lesson! You do know I'm learning to fly, right?  *sigh*  There's so much I haven't told you...

Flatistan Tour of Duty* (Bears vs. Alligators: YOU decide!)

It was so still, so improbably and artistically placed, so… statuesque… that I very nearly removed my helmet and took a self-portrait with it, my lips pursed upon the sculpture’s snout**.

It blinked.





If you happen to be riding your two wheeled machine through the everglades, your front wheel won’t turn five times before you have to swerve. One, two, three…  there they lay, sunning themselves like lazy (or stealthy?) beagles right next to, or even on, the narrow stretch of asphalt.  I had the opportunity to poke any number of alligators in the eye with my naked toe*** as I rode past, had I been so inclined.  I was not.  So inclined.  Instead, I was unreasonably longing for my boots.

I’ve said it before; fear is a funny thing.  Take, for example, this recent scene: a gated community in south Florida, accessible only by vehicle RFID tag, secret handshake with a Cuban guard, or [cue ominous melody in the cello section], a canal that slithers unnoticed under the wall…  You sit, over-nourished once again by Mom’s Best, and ponder a late night run.  What, do you suppose,  does mom caution you against?  And when you are abruptly assailed in the dark by the sharp, watery bite of a well timed irrigation system, what does your mind cry out?

“BEAR!!!”

Seriously, my mom will unthinkingly garden with her back turned to the long, reptile concealing grasses at the edge of the canal (“Pffft, all they do is sleep.”), but will not walk outside after dark, lest she be attacked by a bear****.  You can decide for yourself, but I stand steadfastly, proudly, even, next to my fear of alligators over that of bears, at least in this environment.

All concern for my personal safety aside, the everglades, like so many of the places I ride through, unleash in me a rush of gratitude and humility, that I might get to experience yet another wondrous and strangely beautiful land in what feels to be such an intimate fashion.





But for the first time in my two-wheeling life, I experienced a novel celebration of the straight road. An unusual reverence for the flat road.



I was, of course, riding a bicycle.    Ding ding!

* This is The Year of the Big Commute. I'm working in AZ and FL this season.
** No kidding, I thought for sure that first one was clever national park artwork.
*** Yes, flip flops.  I’ll ‘splain in a minute.
****Okay, to be fair, there was something on the news last night about another bear attack.

Burros in the Sand

Today I had just enough time for a quick jaunt to Ironwood Forest National Monument, which, incidentally, not being staffed in the first place, isn’t affected by the government shutdown.  This time, Li’l Burro, ever curious, chose a new point of access - Manville Road.  It was a test ride of sorts, I with new pants*, he with new shoes.

Li'l Burro contemplates his cousins.

Yes, they even sang their sprightly, squeaky song for us.

Around here, grass is a photographable event.  Grainy, artsy style no extra charge.

Funny how the very moment you find yourself wallowing about in sand deep enough to make walking difficult, much less riding, or dragging your motorcycle out of it, is the same moment you realize you should be headed back home getting ready for your gig.

When I have a successful fall, I like to spring up, hands in air**, legs together, back arched, like a 15 year old gymnast – front!, left!, right! – just to emphasize the cleverness of my little trick.  Ten!

*I’d been putting off buying a pair of riding pants better suited for Li’l Burro, because I’d been hoping Olympia Moto Sports would make their X Moto suit for women.  “Are ya gonna make it for 2013?  Huh? Huh?  How ‘bout 2014?”  The answer remains a steadfast, “No.”  But since I seem to be putting my street leathers at risk in the dirt and mud, I broke down and bought a pair of Firstgear TPG Escape Pants (what a name!) on clearance.  Not quite what I wanted, but they work, and fit perfectly.  I’m pretty sure I got the last pair of size 6 in the universe.
** I totally stole Pilot Guy's moves here.  And I'm keepin' 'em.