12th Annual Florida Keys Cycle Ride

The grounds of my motel--Popp's, located on MM 95 of US 1. A pleasure sponges' paradise of palms, hammocks, and sunshine nestled on the Gulf of Mexico. Essentially this became Hdqtrs. You can see the PinF in the background in fromt of casita #8 next to his trusty steed--the V Strom 1000.

PinF, strategizing intently his next move in the Keys; careful to think each move methodically if not lazily. This shot was taken just prior to cracking open an ice cold Corona.

Again, the view from casita #8 as the suns sets over the Gulf of Mexico. Impossible to appreciate in this photo would be the smooth sounds eminating from the I-Pod speakers complimented by my Johnnie Walker Black and soda, not to mention the wafting odors of my grill.

Naturally Mystic

Has it really been one month?

Wow. PinF's life has undergone some changes in that time, both professionally and personally- hence my hiatus status. Still, moments, people, and thoughts register everyday and are stored as "potential blogs".

A month ago I changed jobs, releasing me from the daily drudgery of office life in exchange for the autonomy of an outside sales job. Florida, unlike northern states, offers as diverse a dichotomy of people and cultures as one is likely to find in America. A virtual paella of cultures, languages, regions, and lifestyles; all of which create a refreshing mix of new experiences daily when out and about doing my job. My territory extends literally from the ocean to the lake. My knowledge of Florida's interior regions has always been limited, at least until I began covering these areas.

So yesterday I left the familiar environs of my seaside existence and headed off into the "glades", and incredibly flat, sun scorched patch of life situated in and around Lake Okeechobee. The route is a long road carved through centuries old sugar cane fields, the topography is flatter than flat. The people are an incredible mix of Afro/Latino-Caribbean descendants whose forefather's probably cultivated the very same crops in colonial held Carribean islands as slaves. It's in their blood. The profoundness of nothing but sugar cane for as far as the eye can see is akin to the wheat belt of the mid west, it's stunningly beautiful, yet starkly surreal. One condition of cane cultivation is the annual burning of the stalks of last years crops and then tilling the rich ashy soil over for this years'. The closest I can describe in words would be Kuwait after the first Gulf war--fields on fire, smoke billowing-an almost hellish site.

The people of these areas are a hearty mix of hard working and less than prosperous stock for the most part. And although their economic wealth is limited, it is enhanced by their rich cultural wealth. Indian reservations of past Seminole warriors dot the landscape--though now, ironically wealthy from gambling. It was here that PinF found himself recently, in one of the most interesting convergences of fate he's experienced in some years. Proving yet again, that there really is a purpose, plan, and reason for every life and person, the trick is always found in the lesson. Either in having the ability to recognize and draw it out of the experience-; or by recognizing the signs of the lesson and being able to absorb and learn from them. Yesterday was just such a day.

When PinF is operating out west, he often holds a distinctive empathetic advantage. In my life I have eaten from the plate of wealth, and I have shared from the cup of poverty--literally. Having enjoyed the trappings of extreme wealth and privilege, I've also had the better opportunity and some would argue "luxury", of traveling to countries and sharing with people of far less material wealth yet somehow possessing far greater spiritual wealth. Of course when I speak with people in these areas they have no way of knowing that the white guy with a tie has seen their realities, much less understands their hardships. Yet that's where the ability to truly communicate comes into play, in that I mean communicating through experiences and knowledge of certain peoples stark and often poor realities. Being able to speak to someone not as a superior, but rather as a contemporary is one of life's finest and most equalizing skills.

So yesterday under the scorching plains of the Florida glades a hundred miles away in distance and more like a million in reality, PinF made just such a connection. I was sipping a bottle of water outside a convenience store pondering my next appointment when up came one of those people whose entry into your life you know holds something. I first saw the snowy white beard. Then the dark chocolate skin, and finally the Jamaican flag air freshener dangling from the rear view mirror. He bounded from his dusty pick-up with a smile as white as beach sand. His hands were gnarled from years of work, his body chiseled and lean. Greeting me with the typical Jamaican manner of "yes I", we immediately found in each other something worth more than just a hello. He asked what man in a tie was doing out in these parts? I explained I was covering the western edges of my sales territory, I asked from what parish he was from in JA. He told me he was "country", I saw his name was Hylton from his work shirt.

We spoke as if we were meant to meet, with an ease and familiarity and purpose we discussed JA., the muddy politics of cheating, and what we all seek--happiness, health, and a safe place to raise kids. We immediately moved to music, he was impressed with my Jamaican musical knowledge and was still trying to figure this white guy with a tie. He told me he had gotten away from reggae since he left his homeland 30 years ago, telling me that he makes no connection to the artists, sounds and message in today's music. We talked about the old school--Studio One, the Wailing Wailers, Joseph Hill, he let out a "..bombaclot mon..." The he told me he was 58 and that he listens to something different, and asked me to come up to his truck where he reached in turned the key and let blare the country music of Charlie pride-the first black man of country music. Again I was knowledgeable of this too, as my father was a country music fan, so we talked old school country too, Johnny Cash, Merle Haggard and others.

Here we both were, two completely different souls, of equally different lots in life, yet we connected on a level that is often not found even amongst family members. Laughing, handshaking, and truly enjoying the moment under the hot sun in the middle of Florida's countryside. Hylton spoke of Marcus Garvey's prophecies of equality, and equity for the black man in this century and how he derived the goodness of that message in the wholesome values of country music. I could see where he was coming from, and for that moment, different as we were by birth, color, and culture we were as alike as two brothers. Hylton spoke of his gratitude for the life he's lead and asked me how many children and what ages I thought he had? I said three-- in their 20's? He said 6, ranging from his 6 month old baby girl to his 23 year old son. He told me he was 58 and truly blessed. I couldn't find one shred in his spirit to suggest otherwise.

Hylton and I said our farewells after a while, each happy in the friend that we each had made. As I started my car, my Cd player let out the sweet rhythm of "Natural Mystic", from the 1977 gem of an album, Exodus by Bob Marley. I quickly ejected the CD, and went to Hylton's car, and through his window I told him I had something for him. "Irie mon...one love" was his response. I told Hylton, that no Jamaican man no matter how much he loves country music, should be without his roots. He popped in the CD and was visibly taken back 31 years to his youth in Jamaica, and he thanked me profusely telling me he was going to go home, hold his baby girl on the porch and listen to the Exodus album straight through...as he pulled he away I could see the pearly white grin and I heard him let out another "bombaclot Mon!!" as he did....