Road Captain

Wesley Chapel, FL, USA

Just another image, converted to a painting, of the Crimson Ride. 

Other

The Crimson Ride, a la Impasto Impressionism with Photorealistic Detail

The Goldwing was always a distant dream for me. I've wanted one since the early 90s, but life had its way of keeping it just out of reach. That was until November 2025, when I walked into the dealership early one Saturday morning and saw her smack dab in the middle of the showroom floor. Finally… right time, right place, right financial picture, no one around to say “no”. No excuses. Kismet. Serendipity. Divine intervention… who knows? She’s mine now, and I have every intention to ride as far and as often as I can for as long as I can

The Goldwing was always a distant dream for me. I've wanted one since the early 90s, but life had its way of keeping it just out of reach. That was until November 2025, when I walked into the dealership early one Saturday morning and saw her smack dab in the middle of the showroom floor. Finally… right time, right place, right financial picture, no one around to say “no”. No excuses. Kismet. Serendipity. Divine intervention… who knows? She’s mine now, and I have every intention to ride as far and as often as I can for as long as I can. 

The Crimson Ride

Goldwing Bravo

Rubbernecker

Pit Stop Pro

Short Stack

Lake Okeechobee Loop

florida

I got off to a slow start Saturday morning.

Not just slow. Molasses slow.

You know that scene where the old guy sits on the edge of the bed staring into the middle distance while dramatic music plays and the audience wonders whether he’s contemplating the meaning of life or simply trying to remember why he sat up?

Yeah. Kinda like that.

Nevertheless, I eventually became operational and was Oscar-Mike at 0630 under clear skies, relatively cool temperatures, and enough Florida humidity to realize the shower I'd taken 20 minutes earlier was nothing more than a waste of good water.

The route north was exactly what I’d hoped for.

I headed through the Richloam Wildlife Management Area on State Road 471 toward Tarrytown, picked up FL-50 East, eventually turned north on FL-19, then east on FL-448 before Dora Drive carried me right into Mount Dora.

And for once, the ride was peacefully uneventful.

No biblical thunderstorms.

No mechanical drama.

And nobody tried to kill me with a Nissan.

Just me, the Crimson Ride, Little Al, and miles of quiet Florida backroads.

I stopped only twice along the way for pictures—once at Arnold Brothers Park in Groveland and again at the Howey Mansion in Howey-in-the-Hills.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Fun fact: William J. Howey wasn’t just the citrus tycoon behind Howey-in-the-Hills—he was also a two-time Republican candidate for governor of Florida, running in 1928 and 1932. He built his fortune developing massive citrus groves and used that success to essentially create an entire town around his agricultural empire. His Mediterranean Revival mansion, completed in 1927, had 20 rooms and became one of Central Florida’s showpieces during the height of the Florida land boom.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I also slow-rolled through Tavares—the Seaplane Capitol of the World—while the city was still rubbing the sleep out of its eyes. There’s something I like about riding through a town before everybody wakes up. No traffic. No crowds. No frantic people trying to get somewhere five minutes ago.

Just streets, buildings, morning light, and the occasional homeless guy wondering why some fat fool on a giant red motorcycle is creeping through town at walking speed.

Eventually, I rolled into Mount Dora and stopped at the Mount Dora Cafe for breakfast. These days, “breakfast” has become something of an optimistic term. I ordered a cup of coffee, bacon, and sausage links. That sounds reasonable until you remember that following surgery, my stomach is approximately the size of a golf ball. The waitress eventually noticed that I had barely touched anything and came over looking concerned that I didn’t like the food.

“…Everything okay?” she asked.

“Oh, yeah. It’s delicious.”

Then I had to explain that the problem wasn’t the food. The problem was that my internal food-storage facility had recently undergone significant downsizing which requires that I eat small and slow.

Very slow.

Still, I left more than half the meat on the plate, along with almost an entire cup of coffee from which I may have taken three or four sips. Somewhere, my younger self—the man who once regarded an all-you-can-eat buffet as a personal challenge—is deeply disappointed in me.

From there I rode into the popular shopping district along North Donnelly Street.

Along the way, I passed the famous “Starry Night House,” painted in swirling Van Gogh-inspired colors that are difficult to miss unless you happen to be driving with your eyes closed. I rode through downtown first, found a parking spot, secured the bike, and spent the next couple of hours wandering around Mount Dora on foot.

And despite being surrounded by shops specifically designed to separate tourists from their money, I demonstrated remarkable financial discipline. My major purchases consisted of a snack and an iced coffee from the Village Coffeehouse—also known as the Mount Dora Confectionary.

There I met Maria, who served up the coffee and, as it turns out, shares my last name. Naturally, this required investigation. We didn’t break out Ancestry.com or start diagramming family trees on napkins, but we discussed the possibility that somewhere back through the generations, we might be distant cousins.

Or not.

Either way, I gained a new follower.

And unlike the breakfast coffee, I finished this one.

So, I was properly caffeinated and ready for the next phase of the mission:

Find something weird.

Every town worth visiting has some sort of roadside oddity hiding somewhere.

Mount Dora had the usual suspects.

There was a rooster.

Of course there was a rooster.

Everybody has a giant rooster.

There were also alligator sculptures scattered around town because Florida apparently requires every municipality to maintain a minimum quota of decorative reptiles.

But then I found it.

The Volkswagen Beetle Spider.

Paydirt!

And it was only a few blocks away.

Located at 222 N. Highland Street, at the corner of East 3rd Avenue, the thing sits outside Adrenaline Bike Works—a flat-black Volkswagen Beetle mounted atop eight long black legs like some mutant German arachnid dreamed up after a particularly troubling Oktoberfest.

Naturally, I had to photograph it.

It was around noon but nobody was around, which made things even better.

I pulled the Gold Wing underneath the spider, parked, dismounted, and started taking pictures from different angles.

Little Al remained sitting on the motorcycle directly beneath the enormous Volkswagen spider. I’m not entirely certain he appreciated that decision. But sacrifices must occasionally be made for art.

Everything was going beautifully. Right up until I stepped into a hole. The grass was thick enough that I never saw it. One moment I was composing photographs like an accomplished professional. The next moment I was headed toward planet Earth. I landed on my right knee.

Injuries: 0.

Humiliation Level: 10.

I immediately stood up and looked around. Nobody saw it.

Revised Humiliation Level: 1.5.

Not zero.

I was still pissed.

But once again, the Goldwing Bravo Safety Department is pleased to report that no personnel, motorcycles, or stuffed elephants were harmed in the production of this adventure.

Eventually, it was time to point the front wheel toward home.

The return trip was pleasant, although by then the Florida heat had begun doing what Florida heat does best: Attempting to cook me inside my riding gear.

I needed hydration and a few minutes of air conditioning, so I stopped at the AMB Outpost in Mascotte. From the road, it looked interesting. Inside, however, my attention span lasted approximately one minute. Nothing against the place. It just didn’t grab me. So I stepped back outside. That’s when I noticed the business next door had two old McCormick Farmall tractors sitting out front. Now those caught my attention.

My dad owned three old Farmalls over the years, and seeing them brought back memories of him tinkering with the things, keeping those ancient machines alive through some combination of mechanical knowledge, stubbornness, spare parts, and language not generally found in factory service manuals.

So naturally, I photographed the tractors.

Maybe the heat was finally getting to me. Here I was—a grown man wandering around Florida taking pictures of old tractors. Then again, that’s kind of the whole point of these rides.

You never really know what’s going to make you stop…

Sometimes it’s a historic mansion.

Sometimes it’s a sunrise.

Sometimes it’s a strange building.

Sometimes it’s an eight-legged Volkswagen Beetle.

And sometimes it’s two old tractors that unexpectedly remind you of your father.

I climbed back aboard and continued home.

For once, the rain kept its distance. I could see a thunderhead building off to the west, but it was far enough away that I didn’t give it much thought.

I rolled into the driveway shortly after 1400.

Bike parked. 

Gear off.

Showered and cool.

Mission complete.

I retired to the sofa, kicked back in the recliner, and promptly participated in one of humanity’s greatest inventions: the afternoon nap.

Mount Dora is a cool little city.

Good roads to get there.

Plenty to photograph.

Good coffee.

Interesting people.

Walkable downtown.

And, most importantly, a Volkswagen Beetle sitting on eight giant spider legs for no apparent reason.

I’ll go back.

…one day.

~GWB


Every road has a story...
D. Brian Morris
"Goldwing Bravo"
©2026-09-14

https://youtu.be/FTJC-de36QA
https://youtu.be/56_x3pFhLnI

Mt Dora, FL 32757, USA

Richloam Wildlife Management Area

Arnold Brothers Park

The Howey Mansion

Dora Cafe

Tavares

222 N Highland St, Mt Dora, FL 32757, USA

Mount Dora Confectionary

AMB Outpost

Circle K

Mount Dora & Spider Beetles

Last Wednesday, I was suddenly struck by one of those bright ideas that occasionally wanders into my head without adult supervision: I’d leave Friday afternoon, ride down to Okeechobee, spend the night, get up bright and early Saturday, ride all the way around Lake Okeechobee, spend another night, then head home before sun-up Sunday morning.

Simple. Elegant. A solid plan.

So I popped open the Hilton Honors app, booked myself two nights at the Hampton Inn, and just like that, the weekend was set.

Now, let’s talk about the one thing I did not do – check the weather.

But, c’mon. This is Florida. I already knew it was going to rain somewhere.

I just didn’t realize “somewhere” apparently meant everywhere I intended to ride.

DAY 1 — Southbound and slightly submerged.

Friday finally arrived, and I was all a-twitter about getting on the bike and heading south. By then, of course, I’d checked the weather and discovered there was about a 100-percent chance I was going to get wet.

Very wet. (sigh) …I s’pose that’s why they make rain gear.

I rolled out around 2:00 p.m., and the Storm Radar app was already showing huge cells stretching from south of Zephyrhills toward Plant City.

Fine.

I geared up and moved south. And holy cow, did I underestimate how much water could fall out of one thunderstorm in less than thirty minutes.

I got drenched.

Not damp.

Not “a little soggy.”

Drenched.

I had two cameras running and, for a brief moment, thought I might capture some spectacular footage of me bravely charging through a Florida monsoon.

Nope.

The rain was so heavy that the video showed almost nothing except the little light on the back of my helmet. So much for cinematic glory.

Fortunately, things eased up once I got south of Plant City, and the long process of drying myself out began. I had wisely put on the rain jacket. I had somewhat less-wisely neglected the rain pants, so from about the thighs down, I was basically a human ShamWow.

Ahead of me, enormous thunderstorm cells stretched across the horizon from east to west. I could see dark curtains of torrential rain dropping from several of them in the distance. The only ones I really cared about were the cells moving southwest to northeast. Those were the boogers.

And for the next couple of hours, the ride became one long game of meteorological chess. I had already ridden through one monster cell. Now I just needed to stay ahead of the other three. The first passed safely west of me as I approached Lake Wales. Not so much as a sprinkle.

Excellent.

Then I hit the long eastbound stretch of Route 60 along the northern edge of Kissimmee Prairie Preserve. That’s when Cell Number Two stepped into the ring. I estimated it was about twenty miles away and moving northeast directly toward my route. I figured if I could get east of it before reaching Yeehaw Junction and turning south onto US-441, I could miss the worst of it.

The race was on.

As I continued southeast along Route 60, the wind started hammering me from the south.

Hard.

At times, I was literally holding the Goldwing in a constant starboard lean just to compensate for the wind trying to shove me toward port and into oncoming traffic.

That seemed like something worth avoiding.

Then it started raining.

Again.

This was the leading edge of the storm—wind-driven rain blowing nearly sideways right-to-left across the highway.

Fortunately, compared to the Biblical downpour I had ridden through earlier, this one was relatively tame. 

More importantly, I was winning the race.

I managed to slip east of the main body of the cell before reaching US-441, and the wind eventually pushed the storm farther north. By the time I rolled into Yeehaw Junction, it wasn’t raining at all.

Perfect timing.

Because I needed fuel. For the motorcycle... and for me.

I topped off the tank, ate some highly nutritious gas-station junk food, and got back underway.

That’s when Cell Number Three entered the picture. And this one had positioned itself directly across my route to Okeechobee. There was no practical way around it, so I did something unusual.

I slowed down.

I could see the storm moving east-northeast quickly, so I figured if I simply gave it enough time, it would cross the highway ahead of me and I could sneak in behind it. The speed limit bounced between 45 and 60. I ran mostly 40 to 50 and pulled off whenever traffic came up behind me. Traffic was sparse, so it wasn’t much of an issue. And it worked. A few sprinkles here and there, but nothing serious.

I slipped into Okeechobee behind the storm and pulled beneath the covered entrance of the Hampton Inn somewhere around 5:30 or 6:00.

I wasn’t really watching the clock anymore.

I had more pressing priorities.

Shower.

Dry clothes.

Food.

And conveniently enough, sitting directly in front of the hotel was an Applebee’s. (They practically shared the same parking lot.)

Perfect.

Dinner acquired.

Mission complete.

Bedtime would be early.

DAY 2 — The Okeechobee Loop

This ride had been sitting on my bucket list for a long time. 

Lake Okeechobee is the largest freshwater lake in Florida and the second-largest natural freshwater lake contained entirely within the contiguous United States.

The loop from my hotel and back was about 123 miles.

And I was pumped.

There was another incentive, too.

Completing the loop would earn me the Okeechobee Loop patch on BikerGeo.com, a social platform built specifically for motorcycle riders.

That patch was one of only two Florida patches I still needed.

The other? …the Emerald Coast.

More to follow on that one. Soon.

Naturally, I was awake before dawn.

Oscar Mike at 0615.

I headed toward the western side of the lake because I wanted to be looking east across the water when the sun came up. If everything worked out, I might catch something spectacular. And the gods of two wheels smiled upon me. Near Lakeport, I found the Sam Griffin Scenic Tower.

Perfect.

Thunderheads were already building along the eastern horizon, and the sun was fighting its way through them. I pulled out the GoPro Mission 1 and captured some wide-angle views. They were beautiful. Then I grabbed the Nikon Zf and mounted the 105mm Macro. That turned out to be the right call. Even zoomed in, I was far enough away that the distant cloud line still formed a broad panorama.

The clouds were thick, but scattered openings allowed the sun to peek through in places. The whole scene had an almost otherworldly feel to it. Through the heavier clouds, the sun glowed a deep reddish-orange. And immediately, the photographer part of my brain started working. I already knew what I could do with that image later.

A little careful Photoshop work... And that one might become something special.

As I left the tower, I spotted several buzzards perched along the roofline and fence rails. Naturally, my brain immediately replaced the bright Florida morning behind them with a full moon and the Milky Way. Because apparently I can no longer simply take a photograph. Everything has to become a “project.”

Still...

I think I can make those work.

The Southern Shore

With the sun up and the road clear, it was time to move.

I rolled around the southern edge of Lake Okeechobee through Moore Haven, Clewiston, South Bay, and Belle Glade, then started working my way north along the eastern side toward Pahokee.

That’s where things got interesting. At the Pahokee Marina, I met Megan.

The alligator slayer.

She and her crew had just come back from a gator hunt.

Their catch?

An eleven-foot monster.

Well, of course I interviewed her.

You don’t casually stumble across somebody who just hauled an eleven-foot alligator out of Lake Okeechobee and say:

“Neat.”

Then ride away.

Megan walked me through the whole process—the little hook, the big hook, the ropes...

...and the bang stick.

That last one gets your attention.

She explained that she had applied several times for an alligator-harvest permit before finally being selected. Florida uses a lottery-style system for many of the available permits, and successful applicants are allowed to harvest two gators. This eleven-footer was her first.

Impressive.

Also slightly terrifying.

But mostly impressive.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Fun fact: Florida’s alligator hunt is a tightly controlled lottery-style program, and each successful permit holder gets tags for two gators. So just getting the chance to legally go hunt one already requires a little luck.

And if you’re picturing somebody hauling in an 11-foot swamp dinosaur and retiring on the proceeds… not exactly.

Sold whole, an 11-footer might only bring a few hundred bucks to a processor. Megan, however, planned to do it the smarter way: keep the head, have the meat processed, and turn the hide into things like boots, belts, purses, jackets, and other leather goods.

That’s where the real value starts to add up. Between the meat, the trophy head, and finished alligator-hide products, the total value can climb into the thousands.

So, apparently the financial lesson here is simple: Never sell your dinosaur wholesale.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

From there, the ride up the eastern shoreline was wonderfully quiet. Very little traffic. Just open road, lake country, and the Goldwing humming along. Eventually, I stopped at J&S Fish Camp to hydrate.

The food truck hadn’t arrived yet, so lunch was off the table. But Tina, the bartender, fixed me up with an ice-cold bottle of water and a tall cup filled with ice. At that moment, that might as well have been filet mignon. The company was good. The water was cold. And I s’pose that’s all I really needed.

I finished the loop and rolled back into the Hampton Inn before noon.

Mission accomplished.

One Okeechobee Loop.

123 miles.

And one more BikerGeo patch checked off the list.

After a quick shower, I wandered across the parking lot for lunch.

Applebee’s again.

Not because I lack imagination. But because there was a massive thunderstorm rolling toward Okeechobee, and Applebee’s was approximately the distance I was willing to sprint if necessary.

I finished eating and made it back to the hotel just before the sky opened up.

Perfect timing.

Again.

It had been a good day.

A very good day.

DAY 3 — Homeward Bound

Sunday morning, I woke up around 5:30. No alarm. Because apparently my body has decided sleeping past sunrise is a character flaw.

I was on the road by 6:20.

I stopped briefly along US-441 to photograph the sunrise over a dude ranch, but otherwise I took the most direct route home. There were storms to beat.

This is, after all... FLORIDA!

But there was another reason I wanted to get back. While I was stranded in my hotel room Saturday afternoon waiting for the thunderstorms to clear, I made a happy mistake – I opened Facebook Marketplace. There, innocently sitting among the lawnmowers, furniture, questionable boats, and partially disassembled project cars...

...was a 1975 Honda Gold Wing for sale in Tampa.

Now, for those who don’t know, 1975 was the first production year of the Honda Gold Wing.

And you already know that mine is a 2025 Gold Wing 50th Anniversary Edition.

Fifty years apart.

First year.

Fiftieth year.

And just to make matters worse...

They were the same color.

Well. There ya’ have it!

That seemed like the sort of thing the universe might be trying to tell me.

So I messaged the seller and made an offer.

He accepted.

And suddenly I had a mission.

Get home.

Go see a man about a motorcycle.

Fortunately, the weather gave me a break, and I was home by 10 am.

Around noon, I met Antonio, confirmed that the 1975 Gold Wing was indeed real and handed him the money...

...and just like that – bookend motorcycles.

More to follow on that.

All said and done, I rode through a monsoon, raced three thunderstorms across central Florida, watched the sun rise over Lake Okeechobee, completed the 123-mile loop, earned another riding patch, photographed buzzards, interviewed a woman who kills eleven-foot alligators like swatting flies, drank ice-cold water at a fish camp, and accidentally bought a fifty-one-year-old motorcycle.

Not bad for Labor Day weekend.

Not bad at all.
~GWB

Every road has a story...
D. Brian Morris
"Goldwing Bravo"
©2026-09-08

https://youtu.be/yXGJE1GbGEE
https://youtu.be/k79yK5aLn9g

J&S Fish Camp

South Bay, FL 33493, USA

Clewiston, FL 33440, USA

Belle Glade, FL, USA

Hampton Inn Okeechobee - Lake Okeechobee

Sam Griffin Scenic Tower

Lakeport, FL 33471, USA

Moore Haven, FL 33471, USA

Pahokee Marina

Day 2 - The Lake Okeechobee Loop

31780 Spruce Crk Cir, Wesley Chapel, FL 33543, USA

The Okeechobee Loop - Labor Day Weekend Well Spent

Wednesday night, August 26, I finally made it to the 2-Wheels, 1-Love Bike Night at The Krates in Wesley Chapel.

I say finally because I’ve had this thing on my calendar for months, but for whatever reasons kept popping up -- had to listen to paint dry, watch grass grow, or laze around on the sofa naked eating Cheetos -- I never went.

Tonight, however, would be different. THIS TIME... I went. And I’m glad I did.

If you love motorcycles and enjoy hanging around other people who suffer from the same incurable two-wheeled affliction, you ought to hit one of these events every now and then. The Krates are practically built for it: food, drinks, a stage, a live DJ playing surprisingly decent music, and motorcycles everywhere you look.

Basically, group therapy with horsepower.

At one point, I met the photographer from Fran Haasch’s law firm, who kindly offered to give me a few pointers on improving my photography.

That made me smile.

We both had a pretty good laugh after I mentioned that I got my first camera when I was six, later studied commercial photography at the Portfolio Center in Atlanta, have taught photography classes to more than 100 people over the years, and eventually owned an advertising agency in North Alabama where I served more than 300 clients in five years and my photography was literally distributed around the world.

But hey… I’m not proud. You got a tip? I’m listening.

Later, I met Edwin and his “Mike Jordan” Suzuki — and that thing was absolutely gorgeous. I grabbed a few shots of Edwin with the bike. A couple of them turned out pretty well. You can be the judge of that. We exchanged numbers, shook hands, and parted ways as new friends. Hoping to see him again next month.

And really, that’s what nights like this are about.

Sure, the bikes bring everybody together. But it’s the conversations, the stories, and the people you meet along the way that make it worth showing up.

And unless something urgent comes up -- like maybe a fresh bag of unattended Cheetos -- I’ll probably be there too.
~GWB

Every road has a story...
D. Brian Morris
GoldwingBravo
(C) 2026-09-01

https://youtu.be/p2JJ6Gmzp1Q


Krate at the Grove

Bike Night at The Krates, Wesley Chapel, FL

I woke up Saturday morning at 0400. Not intentionally, mind you. My eyes just opened, my brain reported for duty, and apparently that was that.

I tossed.

I turned.

I stared into the darkness.

At 0430, I finally reached the only reasonable conclusion available to a grown man who owns a motorcycle:

“…screw it. I’m up.”

Oscar Mike at 0520.

And man, it was a beautiful morning.

Seventy-four degrees. Dry. Nary a cloud in the sky. The kind of Florida morning that makes you wonder why anybody complains about living here.

Of course, that was before the sun came up and reminded everybody who’s really in charge. But for the moment, life was good. I fired up the Crimson Ride, rolled out, and almost immediately the bike had a little message for me: low front tire pressure.

Well, heck... and I was feelin’ so good about the day.

Fortunately, Circle K is nearby, so I pulled in to top it off. And that’s when I discovered that apparently oxygen has become a luxury commodity.

THREE DOLLARS!

Yes, that’s right three American dollars…

For air.

Air.

Not purified air. Not artisanal air. Not air lovingly harvested at dawn from the Swiss Alps and imported in tiny crystal bottles. Not rarefied air brought forth from the lungs of royal virgins.

Nope.

Just regular old neighborhood air.

The same air that was currently surrounding me in quantities approaching infinity.

Three dollars.

But the good news is, I’m not bitter.

No sir. Not me.

I’ve got things to do. Places to be. People to see. I certainly don’t have time to hold a grudge against some giant corporate conglomerate for charging me three friggin’ dollars to operate a machine whose sole purpose is to take the air that is already RIGHT THERE and push it into my tire.

Nope.

Not bitter.

At all.

$3.00.

Humph.

For air.

Anyway… Where was I?

Oh yeah. Places to be…

My destination for the day was Lake Wales. This would actually be my second trip down there. The first time, I met up with the guys from our Ramblin’ Wings of Florida chapter of the Goldwing Touring Association. That was more of a group ride, though, so I really didn’t have an opportunity to poke around town the way I normally do.

But I took notes. Mental ones, anyway.

Lake Wales had struck me as one of those places with enough old Florida character tucked around the corners to warrant a proper Goldwing Bravo investigation.

So, I headed south.

The problem was, Lake Wales really isn’t that far away. Even taking the long way around, it’s only about an hour and a half from home, and my primary destination—the Lake Wales History Museum—wasn’t going to be open until 10 am.

Thus began the delicate art of intentionally getting somewhere slowly.

I took back roads. I made detours. I stopped. I took pictures.

I probably could have walked part of the way and still gotten there too early.

Eventually, around 0730 or so, I rolled into Lake Wales.

Still early.

Very early.

So I wandered.

I made my way over to Lake Wailes.

Yes.

Lake Wailes.

The town is Lake Wales.

The lake is Lake Wailes.

Why?

I have absolutely no idea.

Sometimes you just have to accept that Florida is gonna Florida.

I cruised around the lake for a while, stopped here and there, and grabbed a few photos as the morning started waking up.

Eventually, I decided breakfast might consume another useful chunk of time, so I wandered over to the Lake Wales Family Restaurant.

Nothing fancy. Just a little breakfast, a little sitting around, a little more strategic time-killing, and eventually I figured I had stalled long enough to head back toward the museum.

The Lake Wales History Museum occupies the town’s old railroad depot.
And it looks exactly like the sort of place Goldwing Bravo is supposed to find.

Small.

Old.

Quaint.

Local.

Interesting.

Out back were old rail cars and vintage fire trucks, which naturally meant I spent a while wandering around with a camera before ever making it through the front door.

Apparently, the museum’s new curator, Tish, had seen me arrive.
She stepped outside and announced that they had some “mighty fine air-conditioning” inside.

By this point, the Florida sun had clocked in for work, and I was an easy sell.

Air-conditioning is still free for now, apparently.

Inside, the museum was “small-town perfect.” Old photographs. Local history. Citrus memorabilia. Railroad history. Artifacts from generations of people who had lived, worked, farmed, built businesses, raised families, and generally gone about the business of creating a town.

And then there was the film – a glorious little piece of 1960s-era optimism explaining just how wonderful it was to live and work in beautiful Lake Wales. It appeared to be some sort of promotional film designed to convince people to pack up the family, move to Florida, and seek their fortune in the citrus industry. And it was magnificent.

Bright futures!

Good jobs!

Beautiful weather!

Oranges everywhere!

Watching it today was funny because the presentation was so relentlessly sincere. Nobody was winking at the camera. Nobody was being ironic. These folks genuinely wanted you to know that Lake Wales was where the future was happening.

And somewhere along the way, Donald Duck Orange Juice made an appearance. 

Donald Duck Orange Juice… Now there’s a brand I hadn’t thought about in years. Whatever happened to that stuff? 

For a moment, I could practically hear the sound of an old metal can opener punching two triangular holes into the top.

~~~~~~~~~~
Fun Fact: Donald Duck Orange Juice wasn’t just some random brand I remembered from childhood. It actually came from the same Lake Wales citrus cooperative that eventually became Florida’s Natural. Donald had been hawking their orange juice since 1940—and for years, his mug was even painted on the big water tank at the Lake Wales plant. They finally took him down in 1998 when Citrus World became Florida’s Natural.
So apparently Donald didn’t disappear. He just got downsized by corporate.
~~~~~~~~~~

But I digress…

After touring the museum, I spent a little more time piddling around town and absorbing about as much citrus history as one man can reasonably handle in a morning.

Lake Wales was built around it.

You can still feel it there.

The groves.

The old businesses.

The packing houses.

The names.

The history.

There’s an entire chapter of Florida history tied to oranges, grapefruit, railroads, and the people who figured out how to grow all that stuff in ridiculous quantities and ship it north to people scraping ice off their windshields.

For a brief moment, I even considered riding over to Florida’s Natural and filling out a job application. Who knows? Maybe they need an aging motorcycle-riding photographer with a questionable attitude and strong opinions about compressed air pricing.

Probably not.

So, I did the next best thing.

I went to Bob Evans for a quick bite of lunch. By then, though, the temperature was climbing rapidly, and the familiar Florida thunderheads were starting to build in the distance.

Ah.

There it is.

The afternoon race.

Motorcycle versus thunderstorm.

A cherished Florida tradition.

I pointed the Crimson Ride toward home and throttled up.

The ride back was thankfully uneventful.

Hot, yes. But fortunately dry.

The big storms stayed somewhere else, and I managed to get home without having to break out the rain gear or test exactly how waterproof all those cameras really are.

By 1400, I was showered, planted firmly in the recliner, and beginning that peculiar afternoon doze that occurs after several hours on a motorcycle.
The bike was home. The cameras were full. I’d explored another little piece of Florida. I’d met somebody new. Learned a little history. Eaten twice. And beaten the rain.

All was right with the world.

Well, almost…

Three friggin’ dollars.

For air?

Seriously, Circle K… com’on man.
~GWB

Every road has a story...
D. Brian Morris
"Goldwing Bravo"
©2026-08-31

https://youtu.be/kr2t8pgMVhQ

Lake Wales Family Restaurant.

Lake Wales History Museum

Bob Evans

Lake Wailes Park

Lake Wales, Citrus Groves, and Three-Dollar Air

Daily Grind

Oscar Mike at 0745.

Yes, you read that right… 0745.

Practically the middle of the day by Goldwing Bravo standards.

But this wasn't going to be one of those 300-mile, leave-before-the-roosters-have-cleared-their-throats kind of rides. Hillsborough River State Park is only about 13 miles from home, and the gates don't open until 0800, so there seemed little point in getting up at the crack of dawn just so I could arrive early and sit outside a locked gate.

I slept in. …relatively speaking.

The motorcycle wasn't really the main event today. The mission was photography. I wanted to get out on a trail, slow down, and see how much of Florida's natural world I could capture through a lens. 

For once, I exercised remarkable restraint and mounted only two cameras on the bike. I know… I'm as surprised as you are. The ride was so short that there wasn't much point in rigging up like a NASA telemetry platform. The "real" photography would begin once I arrived.

I rolled into Hillsborough River State Park shortly after 0800, paid the four bucks, and headed inside.

This was my second visit. I'd stopped here briefly on the way home from one of my earlier rides and liked what I saw enough to know I wanted to come back when I wasn't merely passing through. In fact, I've already made reservations to camp here in November, when Florida theoretically remembers that autumn is supposed to exist and the nights are cooler.

So, I'll be back.

Today was also a reconnaissance mission. Even though I’ve already made my reservations, I wanted to double-check the campground and make sure my site choice was a good one. The website images do not do justice to the grounds, and there were other things I needed to recon… 

Shade.

Trees.

Privacy.

Distance to the facilities.

Likelihood of waking up with an alligator serving as my tent's new porch decoration.

You know… Camping stuff.

Satisfied that November's accommodations looked promising, I parked near one of the trailheads, stowed everything I didn't need, and converted myself from motorcycle rider to wandering camera geek.

The Nikon Zf got the 105mm macro lens and became my primary camera. I set it to aperture priority so I could quickly control depth of field depending on whatever caught my attention. And mounted to the Nikon's SmallRig cage was my GoPro Mission One Pro, serving as my wide-angle shooter.

The arrangement admittedly looks a little Frankenstein-ish, but it works.

I've been extremely impressed with the GoPro's 50-megapixel images, particularly its corner-to-corner sharpness. Between it and the Nikon, I figured I could shoot just about anything I encountered without constantly changing lenses or digging through bags.

Equipment ready.

I ventured into the forest.

The trail wandered through lush, swampy Florida woodland along the Hillsborough River, rising and falling slightly as it passed through palmettos, cypress, oak, and thick subtropical vegetation. And I took my time.

That's really the whole point of a photo walk. You're not trying to get somewhere, so much as you are trying to notice things.

A leaf.

A texture.

Light hitting the side of a tree.

Something moving where maybe it shouldn’t.

Somewhere along the trail, I heard the unmistakable snort of a boar in the brush.

I stopped.

Camera up.

Breath held.

Ready…

Not because photographing an irritated Florida wild boar at close range is necessarily a good idea, mind you, but if the little bastard was going to charge me, I at least wanted the autofocus locked on.

Priorities!

Fortunately, he apparently had somewhere else to be. I never saw him.

And I was perfectly okay with that.

Mostly.

Wildlife: 1. Photographer: 0.

I had hoped the park would offer up a little more wildlife than it ultimately did.

At one point I spotted a turtle, which promptly ducked its head under the water the moment I became photographically interested in it.

Thanks, buddy.

I did find one particularly interesting subject: a brilliant red wasp perched on a leaf. I'd never seen one that color before, and he was cooperative enough to sit still while I got a pretty cool shot.

Otherwise?

Butkis.

No deer.

No cooperative birds.

No alligator lumbering dramatically across the trail.

Nothing remotely resembling the buffet of wildlife I once photographed at Circle B Bar Reserve south of Lakeland, where you can’t throw a rock without irritating an alligator or some kind of waterfowl.

Not that I recommend throwing rocks at either.

Still, that's photography. Sometimes Mother Nature rolls out the red carpet. Sometimes she tells everybody you brought a camera, and they hide.

The trail wasn't completely deserted.

I crossed paths with several other hikers, stopped to chat here and there, and made a few new acquaintances along the way. Naturally, I attempted to convert them into Goldwing Bravo followers.

One of them was Dan, a talented sketch artist who was out doing his own version of exactly what I was doing—walking through the woods and paying attention. We talked for a bit, exchanged Instagram accounts, followed one another, and continued on our respective journeys. 

Photography, sketching, motorcycles... doesn't really matter.

Creative people tend to recognize one another in the wild.

~~~~~~~~~~

Oh, here’s a fun fact: Florida Has Rapids. 

Who Knew?

Here's something I didn't know until I started digging into the park's history afterward:

Hillsborough River State Park contains natural Class II river rapids—and according to the Florida Park Service, it's one of only two places in the entire state where you'll find them. 

Rapids.

In Florida. …the state where a highway overpass qualifies as a “mountain.”

The park itself dates back to the 1930s, when the Civilian Conservation Corps developed the area surrounding the rapids during the Great Depression. Several structures in the park, including its suspension bridge, still reflect that original CCC rustic architecture. 

I got a cool pic of that, too.

But there is considerably more hiding in these woods than I managed to capture.

All the more reason to come back.

~~~~~~~~~~

By the time I made it back to the bike, I'd walked 2.56 miles.

Not exactly the Appalachian Trail. But far enough in the dog days of Florida heat for an old man with a bad back.

I packed everything away, climbed back aboard the Crimson Ride and made the short trip home.

By noon, I was showered, comfortable and going through photographs.

Mission accomplished.

And somewhere during that walk, something else happened…

I remembered how much I missed doing this.

It had been a long time since I'd simply walked a nature trail with a camera. The last real outing like this was Circle B Bar Reserve sometime last year.

But there was a time when I did it constantly.

When I was a kid, I'd grab a camera and wander around taking pictures of anything that caught my eye. There didn't have to be a destination. There wasn't a content schedule. Nobody cared about algorithms, followers, engagement, or whether something would make a good reel or go viral.

I'd just “go”.

…and take pictures.

Hundreds of them. …thousands.

Somewhere along the way, apparently, I'd forgotten how much I enjoyed that.

This little walk totally reminded me.

No, I didn't photograph an alligator.

Didn't get the boar.

And I’m pretty sure the turtle gave me the finger before it disappeared underwater.

Wildlife participation in general was apparently optional.

But I came home with a handful of photographs I liked, met some interesting people, walked a couple of miles through the woods, and spent a morning doing something I absolutely love.

I was happy.

Decision made: It won't be that long before I do it again.

Every road does have a story. Sometimes you just have to walk a little ways to find it.

~GWB

Ramble on, my friends. Ramble on...
D. Brian Morris
"Goldwing Bravo"
©2026-08-23
https://youtu.be/6DgppwGlmAc?si=0jl2Q3HUzeHzPNXw