Subject to codes and inspections specific to tribal regulatory bodies.
Over drinks, there was some discussion of the integrity of the galvanized bands adhering the roof structure to the body posts. That's what happens between a couple of construction-oriented bikers. They can hyper-analyze movie effects to the point of hilarity, too. Something about an electric nail gun, framing nails and projectile distance.
The Old Key Lime House. The rum runners were frosty. The beer was cold. The place is huge. There was a hefty handful of bikers. We found a huggie - good luck. I got a tank top. That's our dog on the sign at the motorcycle entrance.
(I was going to leave that out ... I am both compelled and obsessed.)
We rode on. Refer to the saga in the "about the Black Mambas" below.
The only rain was on our way north on A1A headed to the Key Lime. We stopped under the portico of a little gas station, bought one can of heineken and a cola. Wiped the bikes down and talked with three other shelter-seekers who were on their way back to Wellington. There was a row of white plastic lawn chairs along the window wall and little table with an ashtray. It was the kind of place that you could run as a second career after you retire.
Next ride, I'll bring the camera. I think that's in my job description as "Websnake."
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