Who says you can’t find exciting roads amongst Florida’s flat terrain?
“Deals Gap: 11 Miles – 318 Curves.” This is a popular saying about that famously twisty, treacherous stretch of Tennessee asphalt aptly dubbed a bikers’ heaven. I think of this phrase, and the long worn-out T-shirt it was printed on, as I begin to plan my next two-wheeled adventure in Florida’s Ocala National Forest. I think to myself, “Florida: 318 miles – 11 curves,” chuckling at my clever little turn of phrase and wishing I could put that on a T-shirt before this ride.
Flat terrain, no curves, roads crammed with traffic, elderly people driving way too slowly – all this comes to mind when I think of Florida. But today I’ll leave behind Florida’s clogged arteries, endless traffic lights, and masses queued up at the latest Disney attraction, and instead I’ll take in Florida’s natural, rather than artificial, wonders. Who knows? Maybe I’ll even find a curve or two along the way.
My ride is a 2012 Triumph Scrambler – a retro bike for a retro rider. For a moment I fondly recall a time when I was a young man and motocross was called “scrambles.” Road bikes with high pipes were the dual sports of the day. Today I’ll experience the Ocala National Forest, which turns out to be phenomenal in a way that even the magic of Disney could never capture.
Established in 1908 and spanning more than 975 square kilometres, Ocala is the country’s second-largest national forest, and the oldest east of the Mississippi. The city of Ocala lies in the eastern region, built on the site of Ocale or Ocali, a 16th-century native Timucua village. The name means “fair land” or “big hammock.” The latter fittingly describes the bowl shape of the area, often referred to as “America’s great sand dune,” separating the Gulf of Mexico from the Atlantic and surrounding the Everglades. Belowground, a honeycomb of limestone caves forms a massive, mostly unseen body of water amounting to millions of gallons, fed by rain. This water resurfaces here and there as artesian springs, roiling up from the earth’s crevices to form lagoons of stunningly clear, blue water that appear as suddenly as they vanish. The forest is peppered with these; hence, nearly every town’s name includes the word “Springs.”
It’s 9:00 a.m. when I step into the sunlight, everything I need stowed in the backpack strapped snugly at my shoulders. I survey my beautiful ride – its masculine air achieved by a simple, sturdy design: a no-frills black leather seat, but no trunk or saddlebags; handlebars inclining the rider into an aggressive forward position; a matte khaki-green tank that sets off a bold, black frame; chrome high pipes and universal tires. I’ll soon learn that it rides as it looks, when it refuses to back down on the forest’s many dirt roads. With a touch of the starter, the 270-degree crankshaft spins into a deep rumble that sends tremors through me. I close my eyes as a tangle of memories unfurls briefly, and it’s 1966 again – the time of Bonnevilles and Jack Pines, when Triumph and BSA ruled and when names like Nixon, Aldana, Palmgren and Rayborn were at the tip of so many tongues. When I was a dashing, young rising star living by a simple pattern of passion and pleasure: ride like hell, take first place, celebrate copiously, repeat. Ah, those were the days indeed.
The dismaying realization that if it’s 1966 again, I’d have to forego the use of modern technology – aka my GPS – and navigate old-school style jerks me back into the present, at once making me glad for modern conveniences and mournful for yesteryear. I rejoin reality, in which I rely on the instant availability of driving directions beamed directly to me from outer space, only to realize that today I’d be roughing it with just those obsolete things called maps and my defunct memory.
I navigate off the interstate onto SR17 and ride Volusia County’s sleepy country roads – mostly smooth, flat and mundane terrain smattered with slight, gentle slopes, with the occasional cattle ranch and patches of loblolly pines spiking upward from the lush green forest floor. The hamlet of Pierson proclaims itself the “Fern Capital of the World,” an odd place indeed for hundreds of acres of shade-loving plants to be grown and then shipped all over the world. To protect them from the hot Florida sun, the ferns are covered in black netting held up by stout posts, sheathing the vast fields into seas of dark, rolling fabric.
North of Seville, I pass a sign reading “Welcome to Bike Friendly Putnam County” and roll on into Crescent City, apparently named with great expectations, as it is merely a village. Turning west, I follow the placid curves of SR308, which eventually develops more defined and sweeping bows and arcs that the Triumph, true to form, handles expertly while leaning well over. I’m finally able to enjoy the integrity of this machine.
Spanish moss sways wistfully in the live oaks along the highway as I sail along in the warm breeze of this 27°C day, carving the corners on perfect pavement and feeling at ease. I reach SR309 and follow a sign for the Fort Gates Ferry. I’m glad for these universal tires as I turn onto the dirt road leading to the river. The bike twitches on the soft surface and I play it a bit, trying to slide in the corners. On this surface, the Scrambler is a sweetheart.
I have been looking forward to riding the Fort Gates Ferry, the oldest operating ferry in Florida. With the St. Johns River almost a kilometre wide here and the detour around it 65 km long, I can see why the ferry exists. This river runs over 480 km through central Florida, at one point five km wide, and flows northward; an oddity in itself. The St. Johns finally comes into view. I was amused at the sight of the ferry, which was a powerboat connected to the side of a tiny barge that might carry two cars at most. I park, dismount, and invoke conversation with a local who is killing time at a picnic table, only to learn that the ferry doesn’t run on Tuesdays – and today is Tuesday – making me wish I’d done my homework.
With another day left to explore, I don’t need to rush as I backtrack along my route. The weather is so pleasant I decide to take SR44 east to Daytona, where I wander about for a few hours before heading back to Orlando.
Wednesday arrives, sunny and warm. I again head north, but this time on SR19 along the west side of the St. Johns River. Shortly after the exit at Altoona, I see a sign warning of black bears, followed by another telling me that this is the Black Bear Scenic Byway. With my camera slung around my neck, I’m ready should a Kodak moment happen. Unfortunately, it does not happen today.
Crossing SR40, the scenery tells a story of a past forest fire that denuded hundreds of acres. I lean into some gentle sweepers and then crest a knoll that reveals a grand view of a thick palmetto forest with oddly singed palms standing like lonely sentinels.
I’m soon at Salt Springs, my northernmost destination, and finally get to test the Triumph’s universal tires. I approach a sign that says, “Fort Gates Ferry seven miles” where I hang a right—and it’s a sandy dirt road all the way. As soon as I’m over the first knoll, I at last discover where Florida hides its curvy roads.
Cut through the forest many years ago, the road follows the path of least resistance. I think to myself how much one misses when restricted to just asphalt riding. I gaze left and right, seeking that opportune moment when a Florida black bear will appear, just long enough for me to capture a picture. I’m at 100 km/h when I hit a soft sandy section and the bike begins to shake its head. I roll on a bit more to lighten the front end, but at 110 km/h it still wants to shake, and I just go with it. Having professionally ridden motocross bikes with the same issue, I have little fear.
The 11 km to the ferry goes by far too quickly, and the river soon comes into view. The ferry is on the east side when I arrive on the west bank. I relax for a short while in the serene silence on the riverside while I contemplate the $10 ferry fee, or the 11 km return trip to Salt Springs on the road just travelled and so fresh in my memory. I decide to run the curves more aggressively and see how the Scrambler performs when crossed up. It doesn’t disappoint.
Heading south through thickets of lush palmetto, I follow a short paved road that takes me to Silver Glen Springs. A pathway leads me past palms and live oaks draped with the curly tendrils of greenish-grey Spanish moss that reaches to the water. A few people enjoy the crystal clear and constant warmth of its always-22-degree spring water as it gushes forth from below. I wonder how many tourists know of places like this.
A few miles south, SR445 takes me on a pleasantly curvy trek over the hills rolling eastward. I park at Alexander Springs and walk along a paved pathway towards the water, where families are picnicking along a spring-fed body of water, its entire surface bubbling lazily and gently as water pushes upward from the deep limestone aquifers below. It is at once awesome and peaceful, a truly beautiful natural wonder. Scuba divers and swimmers glide about and hover in the warm water despite signs warning them to beware of alligators, which also on occasion enjoy a swim in this lagoon.
When I reluctantly leave this tranquil place, I begin retracing my steps southward to Orlando. Along the way, I have time to reflect and I realize, first, that nostalgia can be good for the soul. Being a rider from that era, riding a retro bike, and traversing roads with little traffic almost made it feel like it was 1965 again, and I consider how much I have enjoyed the reminiscences brought about by this trip. Second, being able to take in Florida’s distinct natural splendour here in the Ocala National Forest, far from the push-and-shove world of the crowded cities and suburbs most of us inhabit, has provided a much needed rest for my spirit and the chance to renew my appreciation of nature and the particular beauty of Florida. Although it’s not as enthrallingly hairy as Deals Gap, the Sunshine State does in fact offer more curves and paths, paved and unpaved, than I expected, as well as spectacular scenery – you just have to look a little harder for them.
