It had been at the Florida, Leesburg rally early last year that I’d met a man who said he’d recently retired with a small pension and would soon be moving onto his motorcycle. I had taken this talk in stride; for I’d heard it before. Yet it had been some months later that—aboard an old BMW—he’d met up with me in Idaho and we’d spent most of a month together, 10 days of which had been touring the hot springs of those Rocky Mountains. Later, we’d hooked up on Texas too. To date, he’d been one of the happiest road-dogs I’d ever known. Well, Tom had also chosen to winter in Florida and we’d agreed to spend time together there as well.
As the road left the panhandle to begin its southward decent along Florida’s west coast, the weather began to warm. What a wonderful sensation, for I was sick of long underwear and and having my balls sucked up into the heat of my body.
I pulled into Sarasota, which sits 2/3rds down Florida’s coastline. Tom and I would rendezvous here. Soon the old Beamer showed up loaded for bear. After re-acquaintances, we hung in Sarasota and soon learned of a local motorcycle rally that would grace the town this weekend. Of course we’d attend, for the weather was now fine and time was, after all, of no concern.
Heavily loaded motorcycles, especially old ones, attract far more attention than everyday machines and a couple guys soon stopped to bullshit. Mark and Bruce both resided in the same RV park; which resided some distance into the nearby countryside. Once conversation had dug in it became apparent that we all got along pretty good. Finally Mark invited us to stay at the park. He said there was plenty of woods behind in which we could make camp. I generally like to stay closer to a town and therefore gave little credence to his offer. We did however, hang together all afternoon. It was a fun little rally and the weather was just so warm.
A few days after the rally I, having spent two months in Sarasota a previous year, was ready to leave. But where to go? As an excuse for travel I’d learned of another motorcycle rally located in Gibsonton or “Gibtown”, some short distance north. Little did I suspect what an uncommonly unique experience that place would be. Problem was that the event didn’t take place for almost two weeks. Well, Mark had sent a few texts urging us to come; so we decided to accept his offer.
Warm sunshine beat down upon our faces as the Highway gave way to smaller roads, then to tiny ones. Here thickly tangled forests of incredible green hues, the likes of which grow only in tropical places, lined either roadside. These forests often offer exotic trees of varieties I’ve seen no where else, and it was good to be among them again.
Cut into the forest, the RV park sat alone and at least ½ mile from the nearest structure. Beautiful in its construction and immaculate in its maintenance, this place was obviously an upper crusty affair. As the two rag-tag motorcycles putted slowly past the million dollar motor homes, one could not help but feel the stares of so many wealthy retirees as they scrutinized our passing.
Momentary lost, we stopped to call our host. But we’d managed to park near Bruce’s place and, hearing the Harley, he quickly showed up to make re-acquaintance. Unrefined by nature, and like myself, Bruce would probably fair better in some cheap low rent neighborhood and I wondered what he was doing here. So did he; and said as much.
We were in invited to Mark’s RV and his wife Linda offered dinner. This week we’d eat there a lot. Tonight however, the conversation carried on for hours.
So we stayed in the spectacularly green beauty of this place for a week and came to know our new friends better. Bruce had a little bike shop in a nearby storage unit and I did some motorcycle maintenance there. Back at the park our wealthy neighbors seemed to get used to our presents pretty quickly and there was no more trouble. A few even stopped by our camp to nullify their curiosity. One afternoon they even had a little party in the rec-room while Tom and I ate their grub and made ourselves at home. One night Mark and I took his truck to see a band in town. Trippy place. There was hardly a person under 60 in attendance and the vast majority of these were women. Mark thought it was funny, and I was thoroughly entertained. Did plenty of dancing that night.
It was late afternoon when the fabled “Gibtown” came into view. Although I know nothing of Gibtown’s history, I’d recently been told that carnies come from all over the country to winter here and they pretty much own the place. This seemed fascinating for I’d worked a few carnivals in those early road-years and even spoke a tiny bit of the language. Gibtown seemed a little beat up (a characteristic I kinda like) and I noted the carnival equipment, both new and old, that sat in fields and yards as we passed.
The road was tiny and at its right a long chain-link with large open gate guarded a big building and parking lot full of motorcycles. Across the street was a long field with a few motor homes standing in it. All was surrounded by thick Florida forest. Tom soon learned that camping in the field was free. I should have guessed. Carnies are, of course, road dogs like us and undoubtedly understand the need of land on which to make camp. And this event, as we’d soon learn, is organized and run completely by them. After scouting the field we set up in the far back against a treeline that would block the annoying breeze blowing from nearby Tampa Bay.
Upon the long wall I noted scores of pictures depicting scenes of ancient caravels, their people, and events. There was also a plaque and from it I derived that this building was built and owned by and for, carnival people. It seemed they are a unique entity unto themselves.
Running into a few vendors I already knew, we spent time bullshitting then went to watch the band for a while before ultimately wondering off to bed.
Having noted that this rally offered Harley demo rides I talked Tom the “BMW guy” into taking one by stating that these things are free and they’d even buy the gas. We both tried out brand new full dressers. At the ride’s conclusion the salesman asked, “How’d you like it?” I answered, “Very nice. No rattles, great brakes, and I love the big engine and extra gear. But you know, there’s one thing that all motorcycles have in common…they do exactly the same thing: get on here, go there, dismount. Except mine does it without payments.”
Just inside the building’s second entrance stood a hamburger stand with three carnies working. A thought dawned, and I figured these road people must certainly have one. So I asked the burger flipper, “You guys got a shower here?” “Sure,” he replied while pointing, “Around that corner.” It was there of course, so I used it.
Tom’s GPS was useless as I pulled tiny back roads from the map, and the road grew ever warmer with every mile left behind. With the security of all our possessions aboard these motorcycles, a few bucks in our pockets, and only the unknown country ahead as company, there was not much to think about on this beautiful day and my mind soon settled into the quiet state of wonder that all relaxed, long distance riders are apt to enjoy often.
