Bust out of the office early last Friday (like 9am early) and take the 2wheeled time/space compression device out for a full day loop along the “old Florida” coastal run that Hwy 98 and 30A represent.  Prissy, manufactured communities like Seaside, Rosemary Beach, Alys Beach are fun stop-offs, Grayton Beach a little more authentic, and Destin has become a necessary evil along the way.  Sweeping through some of the St. Joe land and communities gives a quick read on how Florida real estate is doing right now.  Past Panama City Beach and avoidance of its spring break, “dude my thong smells funny” crowds, and into the more rural reaches headed east on 98.

  Mexico Beach first, always a quiet beach town, then into Port St. Joe, a town searching for its identity since the closure of its largest employer, a paper mill, and the abrupt implosion of speculative real estate purchases by wannabes from Atlanta and Nashville.  Great early Mexican lunch at Peppers in the old downtown stretch of Pt. St. Joe, then on toward Apalachicola, probably the most authentic north Florida fishing/maritime town still in action.  Active waterfront with a legitimate mix of oystermen, shrimpers and charter boats.  If I was my own biggest client, I could disappear into Apalach and be happy.   A walk around to let the circulation return and a short rest on the front porch of the historic Gibson Inn, as the R1100S and my riding buddy's SV650 tick and snap as they cool down in the coastal breeze. Crank up with 1100 c.c. of horizontally opposed aggression moving further east, and bounce off the rev limiter a time or two on the long causeway/bridge connecting Apalach to Eastpoint.  Suicidal pelicans make that stretch a thrill, the roadway annointed with several losers of the sheetmetal joust in quiet repose, their feathers waving in supplicative surrender to the passing victors.   Eastpoint, home to more working oyster boats than can be imagined, smells of a vibrant mollusk-based economy.  St. George Island, another long causeway and bridge, lay to the south, but that retreat remains safe from Germanic motorized advance that day.   East of Eastpoint (James Dean, where are you?) the two lanes of 98 have come under assault from hurricanes over the last several seasons.  Sweeping curves with the gentle waves of the Gulf mere feet from your throttle hand are punctuated by frequent "one lane road ahead" flashing signs, marking the ongoing rebuilding efforts.  The glacial pace of the stacked up traffic must needs be remedied by trips to the redline in 2nd and 3rd betwixt the curves as we put the retirees (prospects?) from Michigan and Ohio behind us, and soon our pace has regained our interest and full attention.  I offer the metal of my footpeg feelers as a willing sacrifice to the kindly Gods of Traction as the sweepers take us into the pines, then back out to the glint of the sun on the warming Gulf of Mexico.   Popping over a high bridge and into Carabelle, another town that some time has forgotten.  Fishing, talking about fishing, getting ready to go fishing, and the Dollar General Store dominate life and times in Carabelle.  Onward and eastward, as the sun begins tracing our shadows more ahead of us than behind.   Ochlocknee Bay flashes like an infinite pool of tiny mirrors under us as we crest yet another long, tall bridge and make the turn north, Panacea our next cure-all destination, and then into Tallahassee and the harsh embrace of civilization.  A rest and re-hydration stop at Ted's Montana Grill on Capital Circle, and my riding buddy and I (he also an AGE refugee, but having chosen the path of Jones) lay waste the problems currently facing western culture as our discussion weaves its way down a path over which most of us on this board have trod.    Ted Turner provides a more than pleasing libation and setting for such pontification, but Friday night traffic leaving Tallahassee is unpleasant at best, so we set our Dunlops on a course toward the setting sun and finish the day in a trudge westward on I10, Hwy. 12, Hwy. 20, and further west to those points called home.  Friday night baseball watching the next generation, dinner with the gorgeous wife (still looking like the SEC cheerleader that caught my eye over 20 years ago), and the knowledge that this is still America, and that we are, indeed, blessed by God to have the opportunities we have.   That's a happy place.   Plus, I checked my run Sat. am at the office and had a $3,700 day while I was out.  Trails are "a good thing."

Nice Beemer… almost want to take out another mil Term and hit the road on a two wheeler myself. Maybe a trip south with four doors around me will do for now.

  It's been a couple of years since I was south of 10 in that neck of the woods. Definitely the last stretch of the "real" Florida coast. A long weekend starting at the Hibiscus House sounds like a good surprise for her on our upcoming 15th. Anniversary. Then east from there...who knows.   Thanks for the vision...

[quote=2wheeledbeemer]Bust out of the office early last Friday (like 9am early) and take the 2wheeled time/space compression device out for a full day loop along the “old Florida” coastal run that Hwy 98 and 30A represent.  Prissy, manufactured communities like Seaside, Rosemary Beach, Alys Beach are fun stop-offs, Grayton Beach a little more authentic, and Destin has become a necessary evil along the way.  Sweeping through some of the St. Joe land and communities gives a quick read on how Florida real estate is doing right now.  Past Panama City Beach and avoidance of its spring break, “dude my thong smells funny” crowds, and into the more rural reaches headed east on 98.

  Mexico Beach first, always a quiet beach town, then into Port St. Joe, a town searching for its identity since the closure of its largest employer, a paper mill, and the abrupt implosion of speculative real estate purchases by wannabes from Atlanta and Nashville.  Great early Mexican lunch at Peppers in the old downtown stretch of Pt. St. Joe, then on toward Apalachicola, probably the most authentic north Florida fishing/maritime town still in action.  Active waterfront with a legitimate mix of oystermen, shrimpers and charter boats.  If I was my own biggest client, I could disappear into Apalach and be happy.   A walk around to let the circulation return and a short rest on the front porch of the historic Gibson Inn, as the R1100S and my riding buddy's SV650 tick and snap as they cool down in the coastal breeze. Crank up with 1100 c.c. of horizontally opposed aggression moving further east, and bounce off the rev limiter a time or two on the long causeway/bridge connecting Apalach to Eastpoint.  Suicidal pelicans make that stretch a thrill, the roadway annointed with several losers of the sheetmetal joust in quiet repose, their feathers waving in supplicative surrender to the passing victors.   Eastpoint, home to more working oyster boats than can be imagined, smells of a vibrant mollusk-based economy.  St. George Island, another long causeway and bridge, lay to the south, but that retreat remains safe from Germanic motorized advance that day.   East of Eastpoint (James Dean, where are you?) the two lanes of 98 have come under assault from hurricanes over the last several seasons.  Sweeping curves with the gentle waves of the Gulf mere feet from your throttle hand are punctuated by frequent "one lane road ahead" flashing signs, marking the ongoing rebuilding efforts.  The glacial pace of the stacked up traffic must needs be remedied by trips to the redline in 2nd and 3rd betwixt the curves as we put the retirees (prospects?) from Michigan and Ohio behind us, and soon our pace has regained our interest and full attention.  I offer the metal of my footpeg feelers as a willing sacrifice to the kindly Gods of Traction as the sweepers take us into the pines, then back out to the glint of the sun on the warming Gulf of Mexico.   Popping over a high bridge and into Carabelle, another town that some time has forgotten.  Fishing, talking about fishing, getting ready to go fishing, and the Dollar General Store dominate life and times in Carabelle.  Onward and eastward, as the sun begins tracing our shadows more ahead of us than behind.   Ochlocknee Bay flashes like an infinite pool of tiny mirrors under us as we crest yet another long, tall bridge and make the turn north, Panacea our next cure-all destination, and then into Tallahassee and the harsh embrace of civilization.  A rest and re-hydration stop at Ted's Montana Grill on Capitol Circle, and my riding buddy and I (he also an AGE refugee, but having chosen the path of Jones) lay waste the problems currently facing western culture as our discussion weaves its way down a path over which most of us on this board have trod.    Ted Turner provides a more than pleasing libation and setting for such pontification, but Friday night traffic leaving Tallahassee is unpleasant at best, so we set our Dunlops on a course toward the setting sun and finish the day in a trudge westward on I10, Hwy. 12, Hwy. 20, and further west to those points called home.  Friday night baseball watching the next generation, dinner with the gorgeous wife (still looking like the SEC cheerleader that caught my eye over 20 years ago), and the knowledge that this is still America, and that we are, indeed, blessed by God to have the opportunities we have.   That's a happy place.   Plus, I checked my run Sat. am at the office and had a $3,700 day while I was out.  Trails are "a good thing."[/quote]       Very nice, very well written.  Felt like I was almost there.  "But the Southern girls with the way they talk, they really knock me out when I'm down there."    Thanks for sharing 2wheeledbeemer!