Bike Week -- Born to be Mi-i-ild!

About once a month, usually on a sunny Saturday, Exec Chef Heatherann and I like to get away from the Cafe and head to the beach.  We usually go to Daytona Beach because it's a little closer to Ocala than the Gulf, and because it's friendlier to the cafe's sous chef and official watchdog, Snickerdoodle. She gets to sit at the picnic table at a beachside park and watch the surf along with us. The crash of waves and call of the seagulls soothes all three of us after a busy week. 

Granted, Snicky doesn't need much soothing to start with.  She's about as mellow as her Uncle Jack, from whom we adopted her.  But she still enjoys the trip.

So, a couple of weeks ago, we got our motor runnin' and headed out on the highway, State Road 4o to be exact.  The road runs in a nearly straight line from Ocala all the way to Ormond Beach, just north of Daytona. With Snicky the Wonder Pup (all 10 pounds) seatbelted in the back seat of the Jetta, away we went.

Very soon, before we were out of town, we realized we weren't headed to Daytona on just any Saturday.  No, this was the first Saturday of BIKE WEEK.

For those reading in the hinterlands of Kentucky and Wisconsin (you know who you are), Bike Week is a February ritual that draws thousands of riders to Daytona for a celebration of all things motorcycle. It's an extravaganza of chrome, leather and gasoline, all set to the soundtrack of that unique Harley-Davidson "potato-potato" V-twin engine sound.

Sure, some riders indulge in the stereotypical biker pursuits of sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll. But for others, it's a chance to show off the latest Ducati, an Italian superbike that is the two-wheeled equivalent of a Ferrari.  Gleaming custom choppers bearing DayGlo colors and chrome bright enough to blind a 747 pilot flying overhead sit in parking lots or cruise A1A.  Older riders come in from the north on Honda Gold Wings, and everybody mingles just fine.

And the people come in just as many shapes and sizes as the bikes.  Tattoos and piercings abound. From lithe and lean to well, like the the rest of us, you see the whole spectrum.

The bikes were plentiful along State Road 40, the main route from I-75 east to Daytona. Once we got to A1A and turned south, we joined a parade of sorts, our hopelessly mundane little Jetta swallowed in a swarm of two-wheeled wonders. Hey, at least it's black  -- leather jacket black, at that. So I'd like to think we weren't totally unhip.  Then again, I've always had a gift for self-delusion. I thought that pastel blue tux I rented for the senior dance in high school looked cool, too.

Of course we did what any self-respecting non-bikers would do in such circumstances.  We turned off the a/c, opened the sunroof, dropped the windows and soaked in the sights, sounds and smells. Definitely wakes up the senses.

We got to the beach about 15 minutes later, ears buzzing from the sound of a thousand or so gleaming cylinders.  We had lunch, and Heatherann and I read.  Snicky explored the area (on a lead, so not too far.)  The Atlantic Ocean, and the gulls and pelicans overhead, had the desired effect. Snicky dozed. I dozed. She snored. I didn't (Note to Exec Chef:  It's my blog so I get to call it the way I saw it.)

When we headed back north, we again joined the parade, and started to get into the spirit of things.  Snicky saw several dogs riding in sidecars and decided she wants one of her own.  Heatherann took note of the fashion trends, particularly of one young woman wearing a leather miniskirt, fishnet stockings and boots.  I took note of the fashion trends, particularly of one young woman wearing a leather mini ... er, never mind.

Rolling up the street,  once again surrounded by bikes, the VRRRM-VRRRM roar of V-twins echoed off the streetside condos.  And I decided what the heck, let's be part of this.

So I pushed in the clutch and blipped the throttle.  The Jetta responded from the depths of its German-engineered, Mexico-built four cylinder heart:

Bzzzzzzz!

Sort of like a rabid Cuisinart.

Like a mosquito in a hurricane, it went unheard.  The bikers didn't hear it.  The crowds lining the streets didn't hear it. Heatherann, riding shotgun, didn't hear it.

But Snicky and I, ah, we heard.  That Bzzzzz! went straight to the core of our rebellious gypsy rock 'n' roll souls.  My inner Elvis Costello (circa 1978). Her inner Pink (circa 2006). 

And we both know what we have to do.

So when the time is right -- i.e., when Exec Chef/Snickermommy-o is out of the house -- we're gonna go for it.  We'll head straight to the dealer.  The Jetta has to stay, but the 15-year-old Volvo will be history, traded in on something more fitting our rebel ways.

But I don't know if those Vespa scooters come with sidecars and training wheels.