So anyway. One of their number (Clay Owen), besides having a BMW much newer than mine, owns one of those holes in the water into which he pours money. It's a nice 35 to 38-foot (depending on how you measure and who's asking) single-masted sailboat. He invited me to stop by and pay him a visit, so I did. He keeps it in Oxford, MD, a little more than an hour from Annapolis by motorcycle through nice green eastern shore countryside. Apparently he doesn't read this blog, or he would have seen reports on my ride summer before last; he asked whether he was too far away for me. With a wrong turn that took me to St. Michaels—a worthy side trip itself—I got there in just under two hours.
Here's a picture of his boat. This is a stereo view. If you cross your eyes so the pictures superimpose, the middle image is 3-dimensional.
His wife, Leslie, made that green rain cover over the aft part of the boat herself, by the way, and she makes impressive rope mats for Christmas presents. See 38 photos of the boat and the area here.
We ate at the local sports bar, where I had a fairly good buffalo burger, got to watch the Preakness—a lot of hoo-ha over a two-minute horse race, and met two young ladies, who, when they found I knew MC riders in PA asked if I knew a guy named Jack. They asked me to send him their picture.
I took back roads there, and a little ferry across the bay going back ($6.00). Sorry, no pictures of the ride (I was busy ahem riding). Take my word for it, Rt 622, essentially parallel to Hwy 50, is pleasant. The roads, the boat, and the hospitality were worth the trip.
4 comments:
Dear Rogers:
Long time... No see. I picked up your teaser for the "sordid tale" on the Mac-Pac list and hastened over here, prepared to be thoroughly entertained by a story about fast women, loud motorcycles, and tough -talking guys.
All I can say Rogers is that your idea of a sordid tale and mine are two entirely different things. And when I read "sailboat," I was expectimg some sort of topless cruise on the easten shore. I am cordially inviting you to join Bregstein and myself on our next "performance artist run," on which we will ride from strip joint to strip joint, looking to see which place has the best clam strips.
Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad
Twisted Roads
Rogers:
Don't believe Riepe....nobody I know does! The best clam strips are always at home; however, do join us when we make a run of Eastern Shore Gentlemen's Clubs, where impeccable manners, soft music, and dollar bills flow like flotsam, jetsum, and shitsum in a sewage treatment plant.
Who are the babes?!?!
Well, Dan, the babes are two young ladies that happened to be walking by as we headed back to the boat after dinner. I have no idea who they are, and will probably never see them again, but they were agreeable to letting me take their picture when I told them it was for my motorcycle club. Good thing I'm old and grey. If I had been young and handsome like Jack, they probably would have either slapped me for my forwardness or stuck their noses in the air and strutted away. As it was, my host just rolled his eyes at my chutzpah.
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