ON THE BACK OF THE CARD:
Pulling out of the driveway, Charlie Bonaventure Alligator is only a few turns from Alligator Alley, a strip of flat highway running, essentially, from one coast of Florida to the other. He meets Honey on Recreation Road, right at the nexus of the Alley, and they head on their way. On separate motorcycles, this ride isn’t about chatter, it is about communion. Alligator Alley offers a long stretch of got-thinkin’-to-do or got-no-thinkin’-to-do open road, with mile upon mile right through the thick of the Everglades: water, tall grasses, sky. Occasionally a summer storm will sneak up, but passes as quickly as it came. Then back to water, tall grasses, sky. The pair rides for hours. Not to get anywhere, and not to get away from anywhere. Just to be. To enjoy moments of almost meditative nothingness.
Charlie's motorcycle is a prized, mint, well-ridden 1914 v-twin, still charged with the power of ingenuity and passion. He spends his mornings tuning up and polishing his affectionately named “Andytown Ambler”, a nod to a town eradicated by the oft misguided collective want for faster, bigger, newer. While some might call his bike old, he sees it as tried and true, taking him wherever he chooses to go. And that is the middle of nowhere. The amazing thing about Alligator Alley is that the middle of nowhere has a way of keeping Charlie in the moment, right there in the now/here.