Article And Photos By: Scooter Tramp Scotty
Originally Published In The May 2015 Issue Of Cycle Source Magazine
It was just after New Year’s when New Orleans finally turned cold. It would prove an uncommonly brutal winter over most of the U.S. this year. For two decades I’d spent these frozen months all over the southern states and had learned beyond doubt that southern Florida is the only stateside place that offers summertime temperatures all winter long. This was the destination now. As the back roads across southern Mississippi, Alabama, then the Florida panhandle opened up I peaked from the great pile of laundry worn upon my body against the intense cold, to watch the spectacular beauty of landscape ahead. It had been at the Florida, Leesburg rally early last year that I’d met a man who said he’d recently retired with a small pension and would soon be moving onto his motorcycle. I had taken this talk in stride; for I’d heard it before. Yet it had been some months later that—aboard an old BMW—he’d met up with me in Idaho and we’d spent most of a month together, 10 days of which had been touring the hot springs of those Rocky Mountains. Later, we’d hooked up on Texas too. To date, he’d been one of the happiest road-dogs I’d ever known. Well, Tom had also chosen to winter in Florida and we’d agreed to spend time together there as well.
As the road left the panhandle to begin its southward decent along Florida’s west coast, the weather began to warm. What a wonderful sensation, for I was sick of long underwear and having my balls sucked up into the heat of my body. I pulled into Sarasota where Tom and I would rendezvous. Soon the old Beamer showed up loaded for bear. After re-acquaintances, we hung in Sarasota and soon learned of a local motorcycle rally that would grace the town this weekend. Of course we’d attend, for the weather was now fine and time was, after all, of no concern. Sarasota’s an uncommonly wealthy area and its quaint and downtown is lined with restaurants, cigar shops, and a plethora of other winter time tourist businesses nestled amid the many fine art galleries. Today however, this street was also filled to capacity with motorcycles. After grabbing a cigar we returned to our bikes to smoke, and see what happened next. Heavily loaded motorcycles, especially old ones, attract far more attention than everyday machines and a couple guys soon stopped to bullshit. Mark and Bruce both resided in the same RV Park; which was some distance into the nearby countryside. Once conversation had dug in it became apparent that we all got along pretty good. Finally Mark invited us to stay at the park. He said there was plenty of woods behind in which we could make camp. I generally like to stay closer to a town and therefore gave little credence to his offer. We did however, hang together all afternoon. It was a fun little rally and the weather was warm.
A few days after the rally I, having spent two months in Sarasota a previous year, was ready to leave. But where to go? As an excuse for travel I’d learned of another motorcycle rally located in Gibsonton or “Gibtown”, some short distance north. Little did I suspect what an uncommonly unique experience that place would be. Problem was that the event didn’t take place for almost two weeks. Well, Mark had sent a few texts urging us to come; so we decided to accept his offer. * W a r m sunshine beat down upon our faces as the Highway gave way to smaller roads, then to tiny ones. Here, thickly tangled forests of incredible green hues, the likes of which grow only in tropical places, lined either roadside. These forests often offer exotic trees of varieties I’ve seen nowhere else, and it was good to be among them again. Cut into the forest, the RV Park sat alone and at least ½ mile from the nearest structure. Beautiful in its construction and immaculate in its maintenance, this place was obviously an upper crust affair. As the two rag-tag motorcycles putted slowly past the million dollar motor homes, one could not help but feel the stares of so many wealthy retirees as they scrutinized our passing.
Momentarily lost, we stopped to call our host. But we’d managed to park near Bruce’s place and, hearing the Harley, he quickly showed up. Unrefined by nature, and like myself, Bruce would probably fair better in some cheap low rent neighborhood and I wondered what he was doing here. So did he; and said as much. Mark soon showed up riding a funky three wheeled bicycle. He said we wouldn’t be allowed to sleep in the woods but, since he’d been so adamant about inviting us, he’d work something out. It was about this time that two authority figures showed up to find out what a couple of murdercycles and hippie riders were doing in their fine establishment. A debate soon ensued on weather we’d be allowed to stay in the park at all. I didn’t like it. Stating that I’d be back shortly, I jumped on Betsy and headed off to locate a trouble free spot we could call home. It didn’t take long. Upon my return Mark informed me that everything was cool now and he’d actually paid our rent for a week. Well okay then…we made camp. We were in invited to Mark’s RV and his wife Linda offered dinner. This week we’d eat there a lot. Tonight however, the conversation carried on for hours
So we stayed in the spectacularly green beauty of this place for a week and came to know our new friends better. Bruce had a little bike shop in a nearby storage unit where I did some motorcycle maintenance. Back at the park our wealthy neighbors seemed to get used to our presence pretty quickly and there was no more trouble. A few even stopped by our camp to nullify their curiosity. One afternoon they even had a little party in the rec-room while Tom and I ate their grub and made ourselves at home. One night Mark and I took his truck to see a band in town. Trippy place. There was hardly a person under 60 in attendance and the vast majority of these were women. Mark thought it was funny, and I was thoroughly entertained and did plenty of dancing that night. Eventually the day came to leave, with the bikes again loaded, we said goodbye. It was late afternoon when the fabled “Gibtown” came into view. Although I know nothing of Gibtown’s history, I’d recently been told that carnies come from all over the country to winter here and they pretty much own the place. This seemed fascinating for I’d worked a few carnivals in those early roadyears and even spoke a tiny bit of the language. Gibtown seemed a little beat up (a characteristic I kinda like) and I noted the carnival equipment, both new and old, that sat in fields and yards as we passed.
The road was tiny and at its right a chain-link fence with a large open gate guarded a big building and parking lot full of motorcycles. Across the street was a long field with a few motor homes standing in it. Tom soon learned that camping in the field was free. I should have guessed. Carnies are, of course, road dogs like us and undoubtedly understand the need of land on which to make camp. And this event, as we’d soon learn, is organized and run completely by them. After scouting the field we set up in the far back against a tree line that would block the annoying breeze blowing in from nearby Tampa Bay. After making camp, both bikes were soon sitting in the lot before the huge single story rally building. We ambled in. It was a nice setup with all the vending tents inside. In another large room carnies, who are often easily identified by the rough road worn look many carry, were selling food from behind a cafeteria style counter. Crowds of bikers were everywhere. Upon the long wall I noted scores of pictures depicting scenes of ancient carnivals, their people, and events. There was also a plaque and from it I derived that this building was built and owned by and for carnival people. It seemed they are a unique entity unto themselves.
Running into a few vendors I already knew, we spent time bullshitting then went to watch the band for a while before ultimately wondering off to bed. Having noted that this rally offered Harley demo rides I talked Tom the “BMW guy” into taking one by stating that these things are free and they’d even buy the gas. We both tried out brand new full dressers. At the ride’s conclusion the salesman asked, “How’d you like it?” I answered, “Very nice. No rattles, great brakes, and I love the big engine and extra gear. But you know, there’s one thing that all motorcycles have in common… they do exactly the same thing: get on here, go there, and dismount. Except mine does it without payments.” I’d been prolonging arrival in Florida’s far south because once there we’d be trapped between the cold north and southern ocean for months to come. But it grew colder now. This winter’s final destination would be the island of Key West; for it is by far the warmest land in the country. Everyone knows that even a short Key West vacation is quite expensive and on the internet there’d been comments as to where we’d stay in a place where so little land exists and the rent of it is astronomical. Some did not believe it could be done while others, having followed my unorthodox travels for some time, were simply curious as to how we’d pull it off. Tom’s GPS was useless as I pulled tiny back roads from the map, and the road grew ever warmer with every mile left behind. With the security of all our possessions aboard these motorcycles, a few bucks in our pockets, and only the unknown country ahead as company, there was not much to think about on this beautiful day and my mind soon settled into the quiet state of wonder that all relaxed, long distance riders are apt to enjoy often. Would life in the islands be an easy and welcoming experience? We were about to find out… Scooter Tramp Scotty
