My favorite weekend in Florida, the Tar Ball Run. A gathering of builders and riders alike, Odd ball machines typically  built in garages, coming out for a weekend of riding and talking shit.

I’d been watching it all go down through the internet as the first three years went down. I was working so close even, just couldn’t get the time off. After a change in jobs I found myself living in Orlando with weekends off. No one I knew wanted to go so I said fuck it and left solo. It forever changed me, not sure for the best, but I came out of the woods that weekend knowing my dreams were indeed fucked. Id make no money doing what I loved, but Id be rich in stinky drunk friends.


Now on its 7th year, the boys brought it back to its origins down in the Everglades. A swamp that covers a majority of the southern tip of Florida and home to some unspeakable shit. Notably mosquitoes that’ll take your ass away if you’re not careful and panthers. Ask Brooklyn Sal, the dude saw panthers non stop, I heard.

Rich is the man, walks with a cane and rides miles like a demon. So awesome to see him out and about.

Showing up a day late, we opted to just meet everyone down in the keys for a late lunch and beers. Going from just a few of us making it south to heading for camp with what felt like 50 bikes was a blast. Some bikes older than the riders themselves and some participants old enough to be most of our parents. It’s an unlikely family coming together for a weekend of pure fun.
Saturday night was host to the “dreaded raffle and awards party.” By this time it all got a little blurry, but the tent was set with shine and beer flowing. The bit I do remember, two guys won cutest couple, I got a how to mig weld DVD and some lady was front and center with none stop eye rolling comments.

 Then Sunday morning hits ya like a freight train and you find your Honda on a picnic table with dicks and other homoerotic scribbles all over it. A push and a shuv,  she was back on the ground. Puking and packing we gathered up, checked over the bikes as we got ready for the 250 miles home.  No Irish good byes here, we did our rounds. Another year in the books.