- December 20, 2024
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Nothing makes me hate driving more than Bike Week.
BY EMILY BLACKWOOD | STAFF WRITER
I woke up Saturday morning to the sound of a familiar rumble.
Confused, I jumped out of bed and ran through my apartment, checking if any appliances were about to explode, or maybe if there was a mild earthquake, or any other reasonable explanation. When I made my way outside, I saw one of my neighbors sitting on his motorcycle, preparing for a long ride.
This was it. Bike Week was here.
Now I'm not against bikes or biker gangs or leather. I'm all for everyone having the chance to express themselves no matter how overheated or sweaty the garments of that expression make you.
Personally, I'm just not a fan of being a Bike Week bystander. The symptoms of this condition include but are not limited to loud noises everywhere, overly crowded sports bars and waiting 20 minutes for gas, food and open bathrooms.
My paranoia also skyrockets during this week because I'm so terrified of hitting a motorcyclist. My unsavory driving record, paired with the thousands of people trying to get past me and onto the "open road," is surely a recipe for disaster.
This mindset of mine causes me to drive extra slow and take extra, extra precautions when it comes to switching lanes and making U-turns. The result is a lot of middle fingers and mean commentary.
One gentlemen yelled something along the lines of "Too slow for Sunday!" Of course his muffler was at a volume level equal to sitting directly in front of speakers at a rock show, so I'm not 100% sure if that's what he said. But the hand gesture that followed made it quite clear he wasn't in the business of getting friendly with the locals.
So in order to avoid any more of these encounters, I tried to escape the bikes. Noble, I know.
I invited my friend Lauren to come out to St. Augustine with me. We could drink some fancy wine, take selfies with Johnny Depp at the wax museum and, best of all, not get yelled at by angry men in leather vests. There was also a Celtic Festival going on, and there is really nothing I love more than a man in a kilt.
We embarked from my place around 2 p.m., thinking we could make it to our destination before 3 p.m. Being the excellent navigator that I am, I made the decision to take the scenic drive down A1A instead of I-95 where all the biker traffic would obviously be. It only took about three miles into our road trip for me to realize I was horribly wrong.
Most of the way, we traveled a roaring 10 mph due to traffic. And the silver Honda Accord in front of me really enjoyed the ritual of randomly stopping in the middle of the road without warning (another symptom of Bike Week). There were frequent horror-movie like screams coming from my passenger and I, as bikers would start weaving in and out of traffic without warning.
We didn't get to St. Augustine until 4 p.m., with bikers shadowing us the entire way. Not only did my escape plan take a million and a half years to execute, it didn't even work.
Bikers were all over the historic little town, even at the Celtic Festival.
