Bike Week Buddies

After a morning of wild hog wranglin’, Uncle Bubba and the Duke rolled into Samsula, FL at the intersection of Pioneer Trail and Tomoka Farms Rd. A rent-a-cop in an orange vest flagged them by to a dusty parking area out in a field behind the Cabbage Patch Bar. The usual large crowds of Bike Week partiers were gathered around the huge fenced area in the middle of the sandy acreage. The infamous women’s coleslaw wrestling event was in full swing and unfortunately for the two weary hog wranglers, it was the super-heavyweight division goin’ at it. They surmised that the one big ol’ girl may have been wearing a bikini but it was suspect. The two didn’t hang around long; after wetting their whistle, they got back on the road and headed further east to New Smyrna Beach to have dinner at J B’s Fish Camp & Seafood. After a fine dinner—the Duke had shrimp and Bubbie had a blackened grouper sandwich—they rode up US 1 to Port Orange and then traversed the intercostal causeway over to A1A. Destination: Main St, Daytona. The Bobby Friss band was rocking Dirty Harry’s and electricity was in the air.

Bobby’s first rowdy set was over, it was about 11:30 pm. Uncle Bubba looked over at the Duke and they nodded to each other unenthusiastically that it was time to get out of the crowd and find a place to lie down. The Duke pulled the small wrinkled paper and angled it a couple times in the light to try and read the chicken scratch scribbled across the end.
“What’s that, your grocery list?” Bubbie joked.
“Naw,” said the Duke, “it the directions to the camp.”
Bubbie’s smile fell from his face.
“We gotta head back, 9 miles from the Cabbage Patch and then look for some big power lines that run over the road. It’s a half mile from there.”

The two friends had been up since 5:00 am to catch wild hogs and now they were facing a ride to a friend’s camp back down RT 415, south of Samsula. They walked back to their hawgs and layered on their leather jackets and gloves. Bubbie considered donning his chaps but it didn’t feel too cool. Big mistake. They weren’t a mile out of the city and the fog laden road was cold and damp. 25 miles later they were shivering, driving in pea soup fog, trying to look up over their heads for power lines; not an easy feat on a motorcycle. After several U-turns and double-backs, the Duke finally spotted the large wooden double gates to his friend’s property. They unlatched the chain holding the gates together and rumbled through into a dark wooded pasture. Both were a little unsure that they were in the right place, but cold and tired; they were willing to take the chance. ¾ of a mile down a sugar sand lane, mined with cow pies, deep into a wooded hammock, they found the bunkhouse.

With nothing but the bike headlights to help them see, they fumbled around to find the door, then the doorknob. Incredibly there wasn’t one and the door was locked. Armed with a cigarette lighter, the two stumbled around the shadowy corners of the structure to find another way in. Luckily there was a back door and it wasn’t locked; they ventured in. The Duke pulled out some scratchin’ paper and lit a scant torch to inspect the murky surroundings.
“Well, there’s bunks so we must be in the right place.” the Duke declares.
“It ain’t much, but I’m ready to lay down just about anywhere.” Bubbie replied.
“There’s lights. There has to be a way to turn them on.” says the Duke.
Like two archeologists searching the black bowels of an Egyptian pyramid, the two road warriors shuffle about to find the secret to turning on the lights. The Duke leads the way with is lighter and mini torch of any paper he can find to light. After a good half an hour of flipping switches and searching for a panel box, Bubbie finally concedes, “That’s it. I’m laying down. I don’t need no light on to sleep. There’ll be plenty of light in the morning when we get up.”

The two hit the bunks and within minutes they were asleep. Perhaps hours later, Bubbie suddenly woke to a rustling and over the pounding of his heart he heard a door to the cabin open. Sure that it was a bear or the owner coming into to shoot them, he snapped his head around to see if the Duke was in his bunk and could faintly that he wasn’t! He was outside relieving himself.

Early the next morning Bubbie woke to a racket that sounded like golf balls dropping on a 55 gallon drum…and he was inside the drum! He cracked opened his eyes and his tired gaze fell on the ceiling of the bunkhouse. It had a nearly flat metal roof that was nothing but rafters and sheets of shiny corrugated metal. The heavy dew from the dense fog of night was dripping off of the trees and dropping loudly onto the roof. It didn’t take long for the two to get up, pack up, get out of the drum and back on the road. Walking outside, Uncle Bubba was slightly taken aback at what the bunkhouse looked like in the daylight; it was probably better that it was pitch dark when they found it the night before.

“All I need is a cup of coffee.”
“Sounds good to me.” replied the Duke.

It was the perfect cool sunny day for a ride home. After coffee and a doughnut at the nearest gas station they rolled back across the byways home. After a safe return they laughed as they both agreed that it was the perfect trip and vowed to make it again soon, but next time with a few more friends.