"Team Enema, this is your 20 minute call"

I got to Deland late on Friday afternoon, dropped the car and trailer at Gille Dutrisac's house, and headed over to the DZ. The plan for the rest of the month is to use Gilles driveway as a place to leave whichever vehicle we're not using as we skydive and party about Florida. The Shamrock Showdown 4-way Competition was in full swing and all the best teams in North America were there, including Evolution, the Canadian National Team. The look on Michel Lemay's face when I ran up to him to say hello and shake his hand with all my gear on while on my way to a plane was priceless! The last time he'd seen me I was lying on my back in a hospital bed in Montreal with a broken neck and couldn't even get the cap off a water bottle on my own. I intended to spend the evening drinking beer and getting caught up with Gilles before heading down to visit with a friend in Sarasota for the rest of the weekend, but I got roped into agreeing to do some Sequential Skydives with Guy Wright so I wound up returning to the airport Saturday morning.

My skydives went well, we were doing 4 and 5 point 26 ways. The only problem was when I opened low on jump number 3, turned around, and found myself off the end of the active runway precisely where a plane would be passing through on takeoff. I was staring straight down the runway at a Cessna sitting at the other end with it's prop turning. I don't know if he saw me or not and I wasn't about to take a chance and quickly spiraled down out of his way. One aircraft accident is plenty for me.

There was a team from Argentina there for the competition, and I don't know how their name was spelled or should have been pronounced, but when it came over the P.A. it sounded like "Enema". "Team Enema, this is your 20 minute call, Team Enema, 20 minute call." All day long every hour or so the cycle would  begin with all the teams getting 4 or 5 warnings over the P.A. of their boarding time, and every hour or so all the laughter, guffaws, and cheap toilet humor would start all over again.

Daytona Beach is 20 minutes away down International Speedway Drive, and Sunday is the last day of bike week. Everywhere within a hundred miles is overrun with bikes and trikes of every size, type, style, and description, but since this is America, there is a definite preponderance of Harleys. (or as George B. puts it "The - potato, potato, potato, potato, - riders" because of the sound their engines make.) Not a single rider on one is wearing a helmet, and most of them are dressed in jeans and t-shirts with the sleeves torn off to better display their tattoos. I'll admit I often feel hot and over dressed wearing my full face helmet and all my protective ballistic gear while riding, but I sure feel safe. I've ridden in a T shirt and jeans, and aside from feeling like I'm riding naked, having the wind constantly beating on exposed skin gets tiresome pretty quickly, but those guys sure do look cool!

It's also St. Patricks Day. I rode through Daytona Beach and up Highway A1A along the coast, every parking lot was jammed with bikes, and cops were everywhere. Every restaurant, bar, hotel, and even church had a sign up saying something along the lines of "Bikers Welcome".

 Beachfront bar just outside Daytona Beach

And it would seem that an invasion of motorcycles is not the only problem facing the Daytona Beach Police Department