It makes life an inconvenience.
There's no lazy Saturday trips to the mall.
No running errands. No visiting my friends from school who lived to the north.
Traffic is a nightmare - as it if isn't bad enough in a town where a third of the population is over the age of 65.
Sobriety checkpoints at the Pub wanting to check my provisional license after curfew.
Men with mullets and skullcaps. Chunky women in skin-tight chaps.
Halifax and Bert Fish's ERs overflowing with road rash and collision injuries.
The smell of beer and barbecue. The constant roar and clack of Harleys.
Rednecks, RV parks established on vacant lots, kiddie pools and Daisy Dukes.
Black shirts, tobacco smoke, Sin City making its way onto our otherwise calm island.
Now that I'm not in Florida, I kind of miss these weeks.
They made a rhythm in my life. Race week meant spring break was coming up. Bike Week fell on my birthday. The roar of motors and the smell of pumpkin spice lattes was how I knew Halloween was approaching. I remember being a small child and my parents doing some spring cleaning, the windows open and the Daytona 500 playing in the background. It always annoyed me, both the cleaning and the monotonous rumbling of the engines, but it is a very comforting thing to me now.
Now it's time to establish my own traditions, new rhythms, and continue to find comfort in the things that remind me of home.
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