Crocodiles Crossing

I'm a feral dog, famished from not eating for several hours, and I'm strapped to a black rocket ship that's eating the concrete and asphalt of Florida's Overseas Highway 1 at an alarming rate, nearly twice the posted speed limit of 55 MPH. This is a two-lane highway divided by a concrete barrier, painted a faded hue of sea foam and auto agony; on either side of the road are wire fences, ostensibly to keep the crocs from gaining ill-gotten access onto the road.

At triple digit speed, I'm focused - myopically - on the coming 400 yards of road but I will glance at any traffic sign when presented. That's when I see it, "Crocodiles Crossing".

Is this real?

What am I supposed to do with this information?

Why would a croc be on the road?

To cross if for food? Sex? A better residence on Cross Key?

I realize it doesn't matter why sometimes there's just 'cause. It's irrelevant to the situation at hand.

I can only hope it's a small croc, fast enough to get out of my way but by the looks of the barrier and the narrowness of the lane, it's unlikely that it'll be able to veer from the motorcycle careening towards it.

Worse yet, what if it isn't a croc? What if it's a 'gator? A toothy, vicious, prehistoric omnivore with a nasty temper, ready to stand its ground. Those bastards can grow to thirteen feet, the length of an SUV, with the whip-tail strength to sever the spine of one of the endangered Key Deer.

That guy isn't running. I can only hope to catch him with the tires across his snout before it's fully opened, when he's at his weakest, vulnerable, unable to catch any part of the bike or me with his powerful jaws.

Either way, I'm going for a ride. I'll have to hold on, steer into the crazed animal, try not to flip.

At this speed, or even 55 MPH, it wouldn't matter. There would be blood, mine and the beast's.

I bear down. I need to eat.

That was a couple days ago, of course, on my way down to Key West, but somewhat indicative of my experience with Florida. I managed to find the islands of blue among the sea of red in this conservative state and I enjoyed all of it, the whole ride, even the rain today, as I left, later than I had hoped, 7:30 AM, towards Gainesville. But which Gainesville?

I stopped at Volusia Motorsports, in Smyrna Beach, to have the oil changed in my motorcycle and to plan my route.

Depending on the weather, I'd either bank the three-and-a-half hours I'd already ridden plus one-ish more and hang-out in Gainesville, Florida, by way of Daytona Beach, but only if it were overcast or raining. If so, I'd head over to Ron Jon's before ambling to the Florida Gainesville.

If the day were clear, which it turned out to be, then I'd invest another 7.5 hours of riding time and burn towards the Georgia Gainesville.

I felt great, my back fully recovered from the 50CC, the weather blue, sunny, lovely. The decision was made. It was time to stop lazing around. It was time to leave Florida.