Biking in Fort Ogden

When I lived in Port Charlotte, I was very much into biking (the kind without an engine). I would often bike to Fort Ogden, spend some time relaxing there, then bike back. All in all, it was a mostly pleasant 35-mile tour. I say "mostly" because there were a few portions that were a little white-knuckle. The longest of these was the ride on County Road 769 (King's Highway for you locals). It led out northeast from Port Charlotte into [what was then] a less-populated area. Trailer parks here and there, eventually giving way to ranches, farms and a fish camp or two (769 roughly parallels the Peace River). On the west side of 769 were a set of disused railroad tracks, once traveled by the Seaboard Coast Line railroad. Though there weren’t that many cars on the road, they traveled at pretty good speed, and there was little or no shoulder to the road, so the ride could be unnerving at times.
Once I got to the bustling metropolis of Platt (home to the Peace River water treatment plant, a two-building community college extension, and little else), I would turn right onto 761. After a few miles, 761 dead-ended into US 17. Just a few miles north on 17 is Fort Ogden.

At the time, there were a few houses and farms, an old railroad depot, a church or two, and a handful of stores. Other than the Toy Maker, the one I remember best was a small general store. The store was a great place to stop for a drink before the trek home, and more often than not, I’d spend a bit of time shooting the breeze with the owner.

I’ll always remember one afternoon at the store. I had just finished drinking a Coke that I bought. I know, drinking a Coke isn’t the wisest thing to do after (and before) a bike ride, but this was real Coke – not the high fructose corn syrup they peddle today, and certainly not the much-ballyhooed-but-still-terrible-tasting “New Coke.” I was topping off my tires with some air, when I hear what sounded like an army of motorcycles rumbling up I-17. It wasn’t an army, just a dozen big Harleys, each one driven by a large, intimidating man in a leather jacket. As the riders drew closer, I saw they were pony-tailed, tattooed, bearded, and big. I was a scrawny 18-year old, and felt even scrawnier when these huge guys came rolling in to the parking lot. They weren’t wearing helmets (against the law at the time), and they looked like some pretty bad actors (long hair, scraggly beards, fu-manchu mustaches…you get the idea). I fumbled with my bike pump, and got ready to hop on the saddle and pedal away. Of course, at that moment, one dismounted and started to amble over. It would be clichéd to say he was the biggest, but it would also be a lie. At least two of his cohorts were larger, but he was the size of a house, so I didn’t see his size difference as terribly important at the time. He came to within a foot of me, then put a hand on my shoulder, and said:
"Take it easy, little brother. We’re bikers for Jesus."

Thank God.