The North Florida and South Georgia area around Tallahassee is renowned for its canopy roads. Those black stretches of pavement with Spanish moss-laden live oaks lining both sides, whose branches stretch over and cover the roadway. Sunlight filters through the growth and shadows dance all around you as you travel these lanes. I’m not a religious man, I don’t believe in an all-powerful god, but while riding through my atheism is put to the test. These narrow country roadways always remind me of old Gothic cathedrals with their soaring ceiling and stained glass windows.

The sun’s rising when I mount my Ultra Classic, coloring the few cloud on the horizon in shades of pink and orange. After a quiet night, I’m up early, heading out for a pre-breakfast ride. Wispy tendrils of mist weave themselves through the undergrowth surrounding me. They should be gone soon, when the heat of the day melts them away. Mockingbirds trill as the rumble of my bike disturbs their morning. The intrusion isn’t appreciated, more than once one of those pesky critters has dived at me in what I’ve been told is territorial protectionism.

My stomach grumbles and I turn south, find a diner and stop to eat. I watch as the server slots orange halves into a bulky contraption until the glass under the spout is full of liquid sunshine. I pop my morning cocktail of pills into my mouth―the ones keeping me alive when so many of my contemporaries back in Key West lost the battle to AIDS―chasing them with a healthy gulp of juice.

I love shit-on-a-shingle and I think I’ve hit the jackpot in this joint. The biscuits are soft and flaky and the sausage gravy’s thick and rich. If I keep eating the way I have this past week I’ll have to do a little more cardio work. Can’t ruin the hard work I put in at the gym back home after my fiftieth birthday. I’ve got the abs and I plan to keep them for a few more years; before I allow myself to get fat and not give a shit what anyone thinks. Not that I care too much about that right now anyway. But I’ll own up to a touch of vanity.

For those of us born on that tiny speck of land called Key West, the allure of the sea’s ingrained within our soul. A Conch feels the pull of the sea and right now I hear it loud and clear. I heed the call. Eschewing the speed of I-10, the Big Bend Scenic byway is my choice out of Tallahassee.

Route 319 skirts the Apalachicola National Forest until it merges with Route 98 on the edge of the Gulf of Mexico. I can smell the salt air and it’s a tonic. I draw energy from being so close to water. Traveling west, along the edge of Apalachicola Bay, I make a mental note to have some of their famed oysters before I leave the state.

Time and distance are inconsequential as I roll through a multitude of small towns. It’s going to take me most of the day to reach my destination but as I’ve said before: it’s just as much about the getting there as about the there. This is a different Florida than the one I was born in. Forestry and fisheries have been the staples of the economy in this part of the state for years. Fruits of the land and fruits of the sea defined these enclaves while the rest of the peninsula thrived on tourism and agriculture. Both industries up here have faltered in recent years and so-called progress has creeped in.

The town of Seaside is one of those intrusions. A planned community built on the shores of the Gulf, at least it isn’t one of those cookie cutter development which have sprouted all over Florida. Made famous in the movie The Truman Show, each building is different, streets radiating from the center of the village are pedestrian friendly, and instead of recreating northern cities, it evokes the charm of small southern towns. I park the bike in front of the Post Office and stroll to a collection of food trucks parked along the road for a bite to eat. The fish tacos are outstanding and the locals who greet me are friendly. I’ll be coming back to explore.

It’s been a long day on the saddle when I stop at one of the many chain hotels in Pensacola. Tired, in need of a shower and something to eat, I barely make it through a late breakfast-type meal at Waffle House next door, before stumbling back to the room. I’m in bed watching TV by nine and as I fall asleep I decide to spend a couple of nights in the area. Time to recharge the batteries by dipping my tired body in the water. I’ll be at the beach tomorrow.

• • •

“Dude, is that your Harley parked next to my rat?”

About to suck down the delicious looking slimy critter in front of me, I stop before it reaches my lips. I turn my head slightly to look at the man standing next to me and nod my head. I slurp the oyster down and discard the shell atop the mound of shaved ice on the platter resting on the wooden bar surface with the dull sheen from years-old lacquer. Swallowing, I find my voice.

“Yeah, cool ride, brother. An Indian, right? What year?”

“Forty-six, mind if I join you? The waves suck today so might as well start drinking early.”

I motion with a hand towards the stool next to mine and smile, inviting him to sit. The guy’s a dead ringer for a surfer. I’m guessing somewhere in his mid-forties, shaggy blonde hair, scruffy tanned face. And the body’s pretty good. He’s wearing board shorts and an open Hawaiian shirt with clashing wild graphics. Mostly smooth but there’s a sprinkling of hairs on his hard chest and a barely visible trail traveling down the middle of his stomach. No defined abs, there’s a softness to his mid-section I’m certain covers a strong core. His arms and legs look powerful.

“Is that contraption on the side a board rack?”

“Designed it myself,” he replies sounding proud of the achievement. “It’s removable, so I can attach a saddle bag when I’m not hitting the beach. So what’s a gay boy from Key West doing in the Redneck Riviera?”

One Eyed Sam’s a Pensacola Beach oyster bar much like those in any beach town on the state's panhandle. The wall behind the serving area is covered with dollar bills containing messages written in permanent black marker. At the far end of the bar, someone is ceaselessly shucking bivalves. This is the kind of place which attracts tourists and locals alike. I’m now on guard in case the guy’s a basher. “Slumming. How’d you figure me out and is that gonna be a problem?”

“Nah, I’m a cocksucker myself.” His good-natured chuckle and open-hand slap to my back make me relax. “The Conch Republic and HRC equality logo stickers gave you away.”

“Then let me buy you a beer, us fellow fags gotta stick together.” I squeeze a lime over another oyster, add a drop or two of Tabasco and suck it down. Taking a second look at the man, I realize I’m horny as shit. It’s been a week since the kid in Wilton Manors and my balls are full.

“Sure thing, Daddy. I’ll buy the next round. And I wouldn’t mind getting stuck together, it’d be hot to run my fingers through the white fur on your chest while I nail you. I’m George and I’m a top. Wanna get fucked?”

I just about choke on my beer. “You always this direct with strangers?”

“Nah, but you’re hot, I already know you’re gay, you’re not a meth-head since you have all your teeth, and that’s not very common around here. After twenty years in the Air Force, having lived through the don’t ask, don’t tell bullshit, I find life’s too short to be coy. You only live once and I’ve decided I’m going to enjoy myself now that I’m retired.”

“You were a fly-boy?”

“Mechanic. How do you think I’m able to keep that Chief running? I know it looks like crap all rusty and shit and you can see the chewing gum and duct tape holding it together, but wait ’til you hear the engine. The baby purrs, dude.”

I know Pensacola Beach is considered the birthplace of surfing on Florida's Gulf Coast. The first surfers were guys from the Pensacola Naval Air Station during the late '50s and early '60s who had been formerly stationed in Hawaii or California. While the military continues to pervade most parts of the Panhandle, the surf scene has matured into its own identity, as those original GIs passed the stoke along to the local community.

“You said you retired, what do you do these days? Work as a mechanic?”

“Nah, dude, the only wrenching I do these days is on my ride and those of some friends. I’m an apprentice chef at the best steak joint in town and most of my free time’s spent riding waves or riding my bike. Say, how ’bout I treat you to dinner at the restaurant tonight? After, we can go to my apartment or your hotel room and I’ll feed you some more beef.”

Guess it’s my lucky day. I’m getting treated to surf and turf served two ways: oysters for lunch and steak for dinner. And then, a hunky surfer with a slab of meat between his legs for dessert. I think I’m going to enjoy the bottom bunk tonight.