Good Morning, refuge – ees,

I write this from the Biergarten on the corner of US 98.  TK, the proprietor of the “Corner on 98” was kind enough to offer the “Garten” to me as a camp site. “It has a burn barrel and everything,” he said, pointing out one of its amenities.

My stay in the ”Garten” was great.  There’s a plug back there for my laptop and phone, big shady umbrellas (bearing the name of America’s oldest brewery) and giant, wooden wire spools for tables.  There’s even a speker that comes from the jukebox inside.  It pipes up randomly, belting out a Patsy Cline or Lynyrd Skynyrd number.  “Crazy” and “Freebird” are popular. 

As are Harley-Davidsons.  The ‘Corner on 98” is a watering hole for iron horses.  Their riders come out to garden to pay me a visit from time to time.  TK has told them of my work and of the trail.  They sit down across the table from me, their leathers creaking in the cool way that leathers do.  They have pony tails, some pretty long. And beards.  And tattoos.  No sissy tribal drivel for these guys, either.  Their ink is of daggers and scooters and spider webs and of women freed from the bounds of conventional modesty. 

The skin of their faces and hands are fashioned from a leather/Kevlar polymer that can withstand the impact of bugs and fists with equal ease.  Many are veterans of the Vietnam War.  Many of them have a taste for a cold beer.  Of such things is brotherhood made.

In every case, they’d take a seat across from me and size me up.  Some would light up a smoke with a Zippo that has its own holster. Then they’d mutter some thing about it being “a nice day for a motorcycle ride and a cold beer.” I’d agree and then reply that “there are a lot of days like that.”

At that point they’d look me square in the eye and say “I know a lot people think you’re stupid for walking like you are, but I want you to know that I admire the hell out of what you’re doing.”

I’d thank them.  They’d nod, extend to me a hand the size of a baseball glove and then amble back inside.  You can’t beat biker hospitality for its bare bones honesty and its unwavering focus on hydration. 

What’s the connection, I thought to myself, between backpacker and biker.  I concluded that the connection stems from the feeling of freedom we both enjoy when nothing but trail or road is stretched out before us.  It is then that the possibilities for adventure seem as infinite as the friends we’ve yet to meet are waiting for us just around the next bend. 

And so it goes.  Bi-pedal shovel-headed cheers from the Florida Trail, Mike