Waking up to a bright but windy day, we set sail for the Conch Republic. I noticed that Biscayne National Park was close by, so we made a quick detour so I could collect one more National Parks Passport Stamp. Our route took us right past the Homestead Racetrack, holding the final round of the NASCAR Nextel Cup championship. We sped by row after row of motor homes sporting madly flapping flags of their favorite race car drivers.

I’m not exactly sure why, but seeing the NASCAR circus once again brought back a long forgotten memory. Maybe it was the smell of race fuel, or the sound, that wonderful roar of a racecar at full throttle. In a past life, about a hundred years ago I when was an eager, young, wet-behind-the-ears television production tadpole, my dream was to work on racing broadcasts. Through luck, lies and plain old stubbornness, I managed to finagle my way on to a NASCAR TV crew, in a position called field A2. My job was to run cable for miles through sewers to connect a series of microphones set up around the track, then spend the rest of the work week driving my golf cart back and forth from the TV truck to those microphones, trying to figure out why they didn’t work. Sounds worse than it was, in fact, it was one of the best times of my life. Someday I’ll have to write a blog about those good old days. Ahh… memories. Anyway, the specific memory triggered by the site of those huge flags anchored to the large land yachts involved Pocono International Raceway in Pennsylvania.

Typically, the TNN TV crew traveled to the track on Thursday to start setting up for Sunday’s big race. The hardcore tail gaiters in their gigantic land yachts usually arrived in force later that day. One particularly brilliant individual arrived extremely late, probably around one AM, and probably not extremely sober. Instead of doing the sensible thing and waiting until morning to erect his giant flagpole, the guy decided he had to pledge allegiance to Jeff Gordon’s 24 car before he blacked out from all the Coors Lights he drained on his drive to the track. So, he got out his pole, attached it to the back of his camper, and proudly hoisted the flag fifty feet in the air, directly into the high voltage lines overhead. Needless to say, Jeff Gordon lost a fan that day.

To celebrate the Ford 400 race at Homestead, the track we drove right past without stopping to work, I proudly flew a Dale Earnhardt flag for the rest of the day, making sure to keep it away from power lines.

It felt good to motor past the track. Biscayne National Park consists of a few islands accessible only by a boat that runs on Sundays. There is also snorkeling available, as well as a light house tour, also running on Sunday. I quickly stamped my book and we were on our way.

Route 1, the only road leading Key West is just like every other road in Florida, a mostly straight line. The Overseas Highway consists of a series of bridges linking the chain of islands together. It is listed as one of the top five scenic drives in the country, and has the added distinction of being one of the end (or beginning) points of Route 1.

It’s also pretty slow going, and while the lower half of the highway was quite scenic, we all found the ride to be dull, almost sleep inducing.

One of the two most interesting things to me on the road is the bridge where the famous chase scene from the movie True Lies was filmed. The original Seven Mile Bridge, damaged by a hurricane in 1935 sits unused next to the current bridge. The old, abandoned bridge became a perfect movie set for the climactic ‘escape from Key West scene in the movie. A very young looking Governor Ahhhnold Schwarzenegger swoops down in a helicopter and heroically saves Jamie Lee Curtis just moments before a fighter jet fires missiles at the limo she’s held captive in, destroying a section of the bridge. At least that’s how I remember the scene, it’s been a while since I’ve seen the movie. But the old bridge, with the center section still missing, is unmistakable.

Also unmistakable, just a few miles further on that same bridge, was a full-sized tree somehow magically growing from the sidewalk. It’s amazing because there is no dirt anywhere to be seen on the bridge, just ocean in all directions.

The only other thing on Route 1 that alleviated the road’s monotony, at least for a few minutes, is Perky’s bat tower. In 1912, Richter Perky, a developer with more money than sense, decided that Lower Sugarloaf Key would be a perfect place for an exclusive resort, except for the mosquito problem. He decided the best thing to do about the problem would to be to import bats to eat all the mosquitoes. Perky ordered a thousand bats from New Jersey and built a tower to house them in. The bats spent exactly one day in Percy’s tower, and never returned. Perky’s resort opened in 1939 and due to the unchecked mosquito infestation closed for good in 1940.

Shadows growing longer, we hit the road for the final seventeen mile slog to the end of the road.

Finally arriving on Key West, we asked at the front desk what was best to see. The Sunset celebration at Mallory Square was the unanimous answer. We quickly parked our bikes and rushed to the party. From 4:30 to sun set, Mallory Square was alive with a carnival-like atmosphere. Street performers and music, and something called a ‘Bladder Buster Beer’ which I can attest is an accurate name. We stood with a crowd and watched as the sun transformed from bright white to golden orange.

Behind me a guy was talking to his friend, saying, “It’s so great to see all these people out here, all gathered to watch an event that has happened millions and millions of times in this planet’s history. It’s so ordinary, the sun setting, yet look at all the people standing here to celebrate it.”

We all applauded as the last sliver of bright red sun sank beneath the horizon.

Then the guy said to his friend. “Wow. That was great. Now let’s go get drunk.”

Didn’t sound like such a bad idea to me either, so we made our way to a Duval Street landmark, the Hog’s Breath Saloon for another bladder buster.

Two guys were on the tiny stage playing all manner of stringed instruments. The guy on the right played mostly acoustic guitar, while the other guy alternated between an electric violin, a mandolin, and his own acoustic guitar. He was so talented I bet he could pick up a tennis racquet and hammer out a tune.

We sat at the bar and enjoyed the band while debating how to spend our evening in Key West. The guy sitting next to Fiona started chatting with her, and pretty soon he was acting as our unofficial Key West tour guide. “At ten, the Sauce Boss is playing at Margaritaville. He’s a chef by trade, and a great blues guitarist. Twice a year he plays down here, and I never miss it. During his show, he makes a huge pot of gumbo on stage, then at the end of the show, he passes it out to everybody.”

Gumbo and blues? That and a few more Bladder Busters sounded like the recipe for a perfect evening.

The Sauce Boss experience lived up to our expectations, mixing good cooking with great blues music. The guy was a complete maniac, playing his steel guitar in the audience, chasing women around, and of course cooking a huge pot of gumbo too.

The Sauce Boss wailed on the guitar.

He jammed on the washboard.

He hammered on the gumbo pot.

He and the drummer did a duet on the booze bottles behind the bar.

During one of his many dramatic guitar flourishes, the Sauce Boss borke his wireless microphone. Abi, who deals with exactly this type of problem weekly with the WWE, jumped up, figured out what went wrong, and saved the show.

The gumbo was excellent, the Sauce Boss was a complete madman and excellent showman. The night was highly entertaining. Best of all, no bladders were officially busted, though a few got a workout during the night. By the end of our night, the freaks of Key West were out in force, and we enjoyed their strangeness as we headed back to the hotel.

To quote Dr Seuss’ excellent book One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish, “Today is gone, today was fun. Tomorrow is another one. Every day from here to there, funny things are everywhere.”

On to The End

Author: frenchy