Out There

Pax Trax in Bunnell -- 'Best track in Florida'

2009-08-11T16:11:28Z

The calm of a summer morning, still cool from the previous night's thunderstorms, is broken only by the sound of an occasional truck rumbling down US 1 and the faint whine of Japanese motorcycles. The whine gets louder for a moment as, in the distance beyond a ryegrass-blanketed earth embankment, a pair of motorcycles arc through the air, their mud-spattered reds, yellows and chromes momentarily vivid against the blue summer sky.

]]>
Click here to see Pax Trax Photo Gallery

It's a typical Saturday at Pax Trax Motocross Park in Bunnell, where some of the best-known motocross riders in the world have been known to share track-time with developing riders from all over Florida.

Robert Paxia founded Pax Trax in 1995. With help from Bike Week and similar events, the track draws thousands of tourists from all over the world along with a lot of regulars from Central Florida who come to learn on its peewee and intermediate tracks or to train and race on the full-sized track.

"This is probably the best track in Florida," says Mike McGlashen. He and John Lynch, both from Palm Coast, sat in the grandstand overlooking the main track. Both had obviously just finished a ride--they were covered in mud. They'd get onto the track another time or two before the day was out.

Motocross involves racing all-terrain vehicles on a closed track with banked turns, jumpable hills and other challenging features. Mid-morning on this particular Saturday, six or eight bikes are on the main track and a dozen or more riders rest in the shade or hose the mud off their bikes and gear.

"There aren't many tracks at this level in Florida," McGlashen says. "It's a challenge--beginners can ride it, but pros also come here."

Some of the top pro motocross riders have signed the cinderblock wall outside the snack bar, including Travis Pastrana, who is among the best-known riders in the world, along with Matt Goerke, a rider from DeLand who is now a top-ranked pro. Ashley Fiolek first rode at Pax Trax when she was 9 years old, Paxia says. At age 18, the profoundly deaf rider is now considered the number one women rider in the country.

Ashley Fiolek Video

"Even if you just watch a little motocross on TV, you know who Pastrana is," says Tracey Lucky, who sat in the grandstands watching her husband ride. The couple lives in Apopka, where they run a personal training studio.

Motocross is a highly athletic sport, Lucky says. "People will say, 'Oh, you ride motorcycles--that's not really a sport.' But you have to be in really good shape," she says. "My husband and I train athletes, and motocross is very demanding."

"It's the most physical thing I've ever done," McGlashen agrees. "I can go out and run five miles, and I lift. But if I can do a solid 20 minutes here I'm doing good."

Despite appearances--airborne motorcycles and bikes slinging mud as they careen around curves--motocross can as safe as many other sports, says Lucky, whose 18-year-old son also rides.

"My brother raced motocross, and I had a motorcycle before I had a bicycle, in my family," she says. "So I know enough I don't worry about it. You hold your breath a little when they fall, but they get back up and it's fine."

The family has only had one motocross-related trip to the emergency room, she says. "My husband fell and got a concussion, but we came back the next week," Lucky says. "You can get hurt in most sports--football, baseball, whatever. Here, as long as they ride safe, we're okay."

"As long as you can make it out of here on your own, it's been a good day," McGlashen adds, laughing. "Really, as long as you don't ride over your head, you're fine."

"The guys that get hurt bad are usually trying stuff they shouldn't be doing," adds Kyle Farnell. Now age 26, Farnell started riding at 8 years old, when his father, a pro motocross racer, introduced him to the sport. He went on to win the Loretta Lynn Amateur Motocross Finals.

Motocross "is a blast," says Farnell, who teaches motocross at Pax Trax. "Once you learn how to handle the motorcycle and start progressing--like the first time you jump a double--the rush you get from that is such a natural high--it's addictive."

Pax Trax Motocross Park is at 2529 N. State St. (US 1), Bunnell. Hours of operation vary. For more information, visit their website at paxtraxmx.com or phone (386) 437-7191.

Adventure man gets spooky

2009-07-09T13:57:57Z

Six people sit at a round dining table in a shotgun-barrel-shaped room, completely dark except for the cold phosphorescence of a glow stick and a few other glow-in-the-dark items. Each rests his or her fingertips on the table edge, trying to maintain contact with whatever spirit from the other side has chosen to visit.

The table - or the spirit within - had attempted through a series of spins and raps to communicate with my wife. The medium leading this séance, Victor Vogenitz, tried to help her identify the spirit in the table.

"I sense a pain in the head - a really bad one," he said, touching his left temple. "Did you know someone who got shot in the head or something?"

That helped with the ID. My wife's grandmother died from bone cancer - in the skull.
]]>
Suddenly, a conical tin trumpet that rested on a small side table fell. Everyone jumped about a foot.

"That was her," Vogenitz said. "She was confirming what I just said."

Everyone loves a good spooky story - especially if they're in it. Perhaps that's what attracts so many people to Cassadaga, a picturesque little town abutting Lake Helen that has one of the most fascinating and unusual histories in Florida.

Much of the unincorporated community sits on land owned by the Southern Cassadaga Spiritualist Camp Meeting Association. George Colby, a trance medium from upstate New York who traveled around the country giving readings and conducting séances, donated the land to the association in 1894.

Colby didn't work alone. He had help from spirits, including an Indian spirit named Seneca who, the story goes, encouraged him to visit Florida.

"Seneca told him to come to the third spring," says Vogenitz, a self-described séance specialist. Colby came south by riverboat, bypassing DeLeon Springs and debarking at Blue Springs Landing in Orange City before heading east through the palmetto scrub and pinewoods, where he found a seep - like a spring, but less springy - where he homesteaded about 70 acres.

Vogenitz and his wife, Esther Vogenitz, hold séances at the Colby Temple, a 1923 building that serves at the spiritual heart of this Spiritualist community. For decades, the séance room was closed to the public, Vogenitz says. However, Spiritualism and Cassadaga's mediums draws visitors - and film crews - from all over the world, so the policy relaxed in recent years.

The Ann Stevens House, a bed & breakfast in nearby Lake Helen, offers a "séance package." The B&B had arranged for me to join a séance that was scheduled at the behest of Mary Cabrera and Isabel Gonzalez, who had come from Miami for a séance after seeing a television show about Cassadaga.

Vogenitz appeared nothing like the old B-movie version of a medium - no turban, no pointed beard, no piercing eyes, no fake European accent. He wore cargo shorts and an outdoorsy-looking sports shirt.

Before we went into the séance room, he told us what to expect. Spirits rarely speak through trumpets suspended in midair, as they did during the Fox sisters' day, he says.

"They don't need to," Vogenitz says. "They have cell phones."

Apparently, he explained, spirits call people from the unknown, then don't say anything.

And to think I thought that was just bad service.

However, we might experience some good old-fashioned table-tipping, Vogenitz said. If especially energetic spirits came to visit, we might hear footsteps, or even a disembodied voice coming from thin air.

I must have looked skeptical.

"Skepticism is healthy," Vogenitz said.

I was happy to hear that.

"But usually, it's the skeptics that really get blown away," he added.

"A séance is rarely scary," Esther Vogenitz added. More often, they're emotionally warm and fuzzy. The couple recounted a recent encounter between a family and their deceased matriarch. "Everyone in the room had the tissues out," Esther Vogenitz said.

However, there was one scary part of doing a séance, Victor Vogenitz warned: "I'm going to want you to sing."

"The spirits need energy," he explained. "And the human voice has energy," which they apparently can use to make themselves manifest.

Suitably forewarned, we headed for the séance room. As we sat at the table, I noticed it was on casters.

After a prayer or two, we began to sing a hymn. Most of us didn't know the words, so after that train wreck, Vogenitz chose simpler fare, and we sang countless verses of "She'll Be Comin' Round the Mountain." I was afraid we would have to sing "99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall," but - Lo and Behold! - the table began to spin.

At least I think I was supposed to assume it was spinning. It looked like maybe Vogenitz was turning it.

Suddenly, it lurched toward me, spinning and rapping. A chill passed up and down my spine - perhaps because I felt "a presence." Or maybe I just saw the others looking expectantly at me, and I realized I would soon have to have a conversation with a table.

My mind went blank, except for one thought: If I were a spirit, why would want to communicate by moving a table around?

Nevertheless, I did my best to talk to the most likely dead relative. Despite helpful encouragement from Vogenitz and the others, however, I didn't get much useful from it.

The table finally gave up on me. Another spirit began moving it inexorably toward the ladies from Miami, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

I have a guiding philosophy: It ain't an adventure if you can't die doing it. As the spirits chose their next victim, I wondered if anyone had ever been crushed to death by a possessed table during a séance.

Seances are available from the Ann Stevens House in Lake Helen at annstevenshouse.com, or by phone at 386-228-0310, and through the Southern Cassadaga Spiritualist Camp Meeting Association. A list is available at their Web site, cassadaga.org.

Adventure Man Goes Ridin'

2009-07-01T15:29:19Z

I sat astride Cody, trying to get comfortable in the saddle. As I tried to will my hips to relax, I wished I had been taking yoga classes more seriously.

I imagined the tolerant, toffee-colored half quarter horse/half Arabian wished I had been eating fewer pepperoni pizzas.

"Well, he is more used to carrying little kids," said Hope Rosenthal, owner of Marcody Ranch. "But he's fine."
]]>
Lately, I had been dreaming of riding horseback on the beach or exploring the equestrian trails that transverse Volusia and Flagler Counties. However, I had painful memories of the special soreness that arises from a long ride without proper preparation. I felt it would be good to slowly break in my backside before riding off into the sunset. Rosenthal agreed to get me started.

I arrived at Marcody Ranch, near Samsula, early on a weekday. Lucy, the world's happiest dog, greeted me at the gate and escorted me into the barn where Rosenthal introduced me to Cody, the "Cody" half of "Marcody."

Rosenthal adopted Lucy from a shelter. She is apparently part border collie - her mission in life is to herd the horses.

Lucy watched patiently as Rosenthal handed me the currycomb and the brush and showed me how to rid Cody's coat of stray dirt. Learning to ride is more than a matter of figuring out how to get into the saddle then manage to not fall off, she explained.

"You learn more than just riding," she says. "It's about love, care, responsibility - and respect for this very large creature" that, if it wanted to, could kick your teeth out. So yes, learning to ride also involves learning how to be safe around horses, which is largely a matter of mindfulness and empathy.

"You have to always be aware of the horse," she says. "Horses are very emotional, very sensitive."

Perhaps that's what draws many of the students, she suggests. While we might think of horses in terms of cowboys, today's typical riding student is female. "I have 50 students, and probably 47 of them are female," Rosenthal says. About 80 percent started riding as children, typically around age 5 or 6.

A few minutes later, I helped saddle Cody, climbed onto his back, then sat there worrying if I was about to make a fool of myself by failing at a sport dominated by 5 ½-year-old girls.

After a few instructions - the basics on steering and stopping a 1,000-pound animal - Rosenthal mounted Ice, a beautiful black half-quarter horse, and bade me follow her on a tour of the ranch.

Lucy loped along beside us as we rode and talked about riding. Rosenthal has been in the horse business "one way or another for 15 years," she says. She and her husband started the Marcody ranch three years ago.

"This had been a longtime dream of mine," she said. "But I lived in Long Island, so it was out of reach. It would be very hard to do this there, with the land prices."

Currently, 17 horses live at the ranch, including Rosenthal's own horses and some boarders.

"Owning a horse is like adopting a pet," she says. "You need to be prepared to take care of it for the rest of its life. And they live 25 to 30 years."

As I settled into Cody's four-gait rhythm, I started dreaming of owning a horse, or at least having regular access to one I could take for rides along local equestrian trails. There are places nearby one can ride in relative wilderness, even camping overnight from horseback.

Horses are very expensive. However, leasing is an option, Rosenthal says. For about $200 per month, one can lease a horse, so it's available to ride. That includes feed, boarding, vet bills and all. She continues to own and use the horse for riding lessons, but it's available when the lessor wants to go for a ride.

Most of her students learn to ride so they can compete in the ring, Rosenthal says, although some just want to get fit.

"It's really whole body," she says. I agreed. After less than an hour on Cody, I was already starting to feel like my every muscle had been run through a wringer.

"And we just walked around," Rosenthal says. "When you do more advanced riding, you really use some muscles - it'll sure get you fit."

For more information, contact Marcody Ranch at marcodyranch.com, or phone 386-424-0123.

Santore & Sons

2009-06-26T13:32:25Z

By Morris Sullivan

Every Fourth of July, all over the U. S., little cardboard cannons fire their projectiles into the night sky where they blossom into bright colors and dramatic shapes.

In cities like Port Orange, Lake Helen, DeLand, Ormond Beach and two dozen or so other cities in Florida and elsewhere, those fantastic fireworks come courtesy of a 127-year-old family firm headquartered in our own back yard.
]]>
On a typical workday, Marci Engelhardt and Tabatha Wendling stand at their workstation at the Santore & Sons fireworks factory. Each woman assembles carefully measured amounts of explosive black powder, along with "stars" and "comets," into black cardboard mortars.

"It's a fun job, because you get to do different things every day," Engelhardt says. "But you have to be so meticulous. You have to check yourself every step of the way - just so someone can blow it up."

The recipe for success in a competitive fireworks industry calls for equal parts innovation and quality control, says Anthony Santore Jr. At age 33, the fourth-generation fireworks maker and his uncle, Ralph Santore Jr., head up the Bunnell fireworks factory, Santore & Sons.

They also run a sister company, Fireworks by Santore, that typically handles the Fourth of July shows in St. Augustine, Flagler Beach, Port Orange, Ormond Beach, Lake Helen and two dozen or so other communities in Florida and elsewhere.

Santore & Sons was founded in 1890 by Santore's great-grandfather, August Santore, who brought the business to Florida in 1974.

At its Bunnell plant, the company manufactures fireworks for ballparks, theme parks, and sports events to be used throughout the United States, Japan, Europe, Australia and beyond.

At three facilities - the main plant in Bunnell, a storage facility in Osteen, and another factory in DeLand -- workers turn out non-explosive components like the paper mortar parts.

There are only four other fireworks manufacturers of its kind in the country.

"We're very fortunate to be near Sea World, Disney and all those theme parks," Anthony Santore says.

In recent decades, the factory began specializing in low-flight and close proximity fireworks, the kind of effects that stay on the ground or fly up only 350 feet or less for use in theme park and stage settings.

Many of the company's products are designed exclusively for clients. For example, a theme park might ask for what looks like hundreds of candles floating on the water. "They don't want to see that show up somewhere else," Santore says.

And marketing departments for sports teams often request effects that burn in very specific colors, like the Jacksonville Jaguars' teal and gold, for example.

Not everything the company sells is a typical "bombs bursting in air" product, he adds.

For example, there's the "gerb," which emits a plume of silver sparks and is a popular effect for stage shows. "We can even use cold-spark technology," he says. That way, they can be used onstage in rock shows and similar settings. "With the cold sparks, they won't burn the performer," Santore says.

The company is also known for confetti effects and propane flames, which can shoot up to 40 feet high. Santore collaborates with another company on laser effects that bounce on fields of smoke. "We've had to evolve a lot in the last five years," Santore says. "Now there's almost nothing we won't do."

Most of today's fireworks are more like cannons than rockets, he explains, with projectiles fired from a cardboard mortar. Santore's shells are almost all ignited electrically.

Different oxidizers and fuels create different burn times, explosions and colors like magenta, cyan, tangerine and teal.

The company has several designers on staff, most working on location. Santore & Sons helped develop special software used to design and choreograph displays. A designer can lay out a show, tweak timing and effects, choreograph explosions to music, and make changes with the theme park's production manager looking on.

"They can actually see what the show's going to look like on their computer," Anthony Santore says. Then the designer can e-mail it to the factory, he says, where the production team can start filling the order.

Most people assume the company is busy one or two days a year, Santore says. But manufacturing, design and development are all-year processes and there's never a lull. From Memorial Day to Labor Day, the staff is "insanely busy," says Santore, preparing for Independence Day events and supplying smaller theme parks with pyrotechnic products.

Once July 4 has passed, the company begins gearing up for NASCAR's racing season and New Year celebrations. Once that has passed, they're busily stocking the bigger theme parks with their fireworks.

"We've been in business since 1890, so we've done a lot of shows," Santore says. "The ones that stand out in my mind were special situations - like the 2001 Pepsi 400," which Dale Ernhardt Jr. won only months after his father's death in that year's Daytona 500.

"But the best things is when you get to be in a crowd of 15,000 people and hear their responses," he says. "Especially on July 4, which is so emotionally charged anyway. That's the best part of the business."

The Ormond Beach YMCA Tri-Y Triathlon: Not just another day at the beach

2009-06-22T17:48:51Z

A hazy film of thin clouds hung over the eastern horizon. The sun occasionally peeked through, a thin white disk floating a few degrees above a gray sea. I stood ankle-deep in the Atlantic Ocean, the bathwater-warm surf lapping around my ankles, surrounded by 150 or so triathletes, most of them a lot younger- and faster-looking than me.

A thought flickered across my consciousness: "What the heck am I doing here?"

I quickly shoved that thought aside. I'd put in several months of training, so now all I had left to do was swim a quarter-mile, bike 10 miles and run three. Then I could say I'd finished the 6th Annual Ormond Beach YMCA Tri-Y Triathlon.

I did a lot of triathlons during my late 20s and early 30s, but that was 20 years and a serious knee injury ago. This time around, I got some coaching--Debbie Tillman brought me up to speed on triathlon training while Ruth Thompson helped me improve my swimming technique.

An account of the training program appears in Sunday's Your Health magazine, which went to press before the event--the race was originally planned for Memorial Day weekend but was rescheduled for Father's Day because of flooding on the bike course.

"Tapering" is perhaps the best part of triathlon training--for a week or 10 days before a race, workouts are shorter and focus on intensity, not endurance. Thompson assigned me two pool workouts for the week before the race.

"With distance swimming, you just concentrate on speed the last week," she explained. "Do 100 (meters) to warm up, eight 50s, a 400, and another 100 to cool down."

"You will not gain any fitness this week, so don't do too much," Tillman added. "This is where you let the body rest and take in all the training that has built up. So cut down on volume, but keep some of the intensity--five or six bursts of speed in the middle of the workout is all you need."

She also counseled me on prerace nutrition. Two hours before the race I should eat some easily digestible carbohydrates and a small amount of protein. I should make it a point to drink lots of water the day before the race and on race-day morning. She suggested I try an energy-booster like GU gels, then use one just before the race and another while on the bike.

Finally, Tillman suggested I set up a transition area like I would on race day, laying out a towel with my bike shoes and helmet, running shoes and anything else I'd need, and practicing the transitions.

Thus prepared, I dutifully donned my bright yellow swim cap, secured my goggles and took my place in the surf. On cue from the official starter, I thrashed through the waves until it was deep enough to start swimming toward the first buoy.

It was the perfect day for a summer triathlon, with a calm ocean. Near-record heat might have slowed the field a little bit, but it didn't prevent 44-year-old John Dodd of Ormond Beach from winning the USA Triathlon-sanctioned event.

Dodd finished in just under 55 minutes--54:56, to be exact--completing the quarter-mile swim in 9:14, the 10-mile bike in 24:18 and the 3-mile run in 20:01, with 1:24 spent in transitions. Paul Rice (51, Daytona Beach, 55:17) and Todd Graff (45, Ormond Beach, 55:20) finished second and third respectively.

The female overall champion, Mallory Dunn (25, Daytona Beach) finished in 56:41, with swim/bike/run split times of 9:02, 26:34 and 18:56, with 2:11 in transitions. Colleen Nicoulin (35, Port Orange, 1:01:26) and Lauren Leffler (24, Ormond Beach, 1:01:26) finished second and third.

I was a bit slower, but that's okay. After about 16 minutes in the ocean, I ran up the Granada Boulevard ramp and across A1A to the transition area where my bike and other necessities waited.

The Tri-Y bike course was beautiful. I rode north through one of the city's nicest riverfront neighborhoods before cutting across the barrier island to head back down Oceanshore Boulevard, with its unobstructed view of the dunes and the ocean beyond. However, I was too preoccupied with keeping a competitor in my sights to enjoy it.

I had practiced the bike/run "brick," so my legs only felt a little bit like they were made out of concrete when I started the run, and they loosened up fairly quickly. I had already drunk the contents of my water bottle while on the bike (and probably a quart of the Atlantic Ocean during the swim), but the day was heating up. I took the water offered at the aid stations situated approximately every mile along the course and tried to ignore the aching in my bad knee.

There's a funny thing that has always happened to me during the last stretch of a race--no matter how tired I'm feeling, during that last 100 yards or so my pace quickens involuntarily, as if I'm being drawn by some mysterious power toward the goal.

After almost 1-3/4 hours, the finish line came into view. True to form, a tingle ran up my spine, the effects of an endorphin-and-adrenalin cocktail. I felt the "kick," my legs taking over, my head just going along for the ride.

"Oh, yeah," I thought. "That's what the heck I'm doing here."

For more on preparing for the Ormond Beach YMCA Tri-Y Triathlon, see "Training for a Triathlon" in Your Health magazine, distributed in subscription copies of the June 28 Daytona Beach News-Journal.

Being Richard Petty

2009-06-19T16:03:17Z

By MORRIS SULLIVAN

There are a few things every guy - and yes, some women - should do at least once in their lifetime. Driving a 600-horsepower NASCAR-style racecar around the 31-degree banked turns of the Daytona International Speedway belongs on that list.

Thanks to Richard Petty, any schmo with a few hundred disposable dollars can drive a racecar at the world's most famous speedway. The Richard Petty Driving Experience gives real people a chance to experience the thrill of driving a racecar - albeit in somewhat safer circumstances than those experienced by real NASCAR drivers.

]]>
Of course, we wouldn't be driving at speeds up to 200 mph, shoulder-to-shoulder and bumper-to-bumper with each other. The other 23 guys and I - and one woman - perspiring in our polyester racing suits would max out at less than 150 mph. And we'd be out there three at a time, spaced fairly evenly around the 2.5-mile oval.

First, we had to learn a few things about driving a racecar. Our training began in the media room, where we watched a video starring Richard and Kyle Petty, and Nicholas Cage, for some reason. The video seemed mainly designed to encourage us to pay attention to our instructors, each of whom had a NASCAR-appropriate name like Rusty or A. J.

Once out in the pits, instructor T. J. Lyons pointed out the difficulty involved in getting into a car that doesn't have doors, then explained the various harnesses and other safety equipment.

"The first thing you'll notice when you get in the car is there's no steering wheel," Lyons said. "You're going to need one of those."

A steering wheel is a liability when one's sole means of ingress and egress is by way of the car's window opening, he explained. He showed us how the steering wheel pops on and off using a little spring-loaded collar, so if we needed to get out of the car - if it caught on fire, for example - we could remove it.

Lyons then explained how to get out of the complicated-looking restraining devices, including a seatbelt, shoulder harnesses, and Hans device, a restraint that keeps ones helmet - and thus head and neck - from leaving the car during a crash.

I wondered if I'd remember any of this stuff if my car caught fire. I decided to focus on learning the location of the fire extinguisher.

Once on the track, Lyons added, our instructors and crew could only communicate with us via flag and hand signals. For instance, a rolled-up green flag waving in a circle means "go faster." I would see that one later.

We returned to our makeshift waiting area, a bank of folding chairs beneath a tent. The pit coordinator called out, "Gentlemen, start your engines," and the equivalent of several thousand horses rumbled to life. "The Race is On" blared from the speakers as our instructors sped out for a few test laps around the track.

I relaxed for a while, watching people drive really fast in circles and struck up a conversation with the one woman, Melissa Burnette from New Jersey, who was there to realize a lifelong dream.

"I'm no newcomer to NASCAR," she said. "But this is my first time driving. I can't wait."

Merrit Island resident Steve Charpentier was among the first few groups of drivers. He had done similar programs elsewhere, he said. He felt this operation was more thorough about safety than others, but still gave a great ride.

Charpentier had paid extra to go for a "ride-along," sitting alongside an instructor for a few laps around the track before going it alone.

"I think that makes it easier," he said. "He takes it into the curves at about 6,000 RPM, which is around 165 mph."

"That does a lot for your confidence," he added. "You're only going about 4,000 RPM, which is probably about 145. If the car will hold the turn at 165, you know you'll be okay going a little slower."

I noticed love bugs floating above the track. I wondered what a 145-mph impact did to a love bug.

The crew offered me a chance to go on a ride-along, too, and I took them up on the offer. It had the opposite effect on me - about the time we hit the first banked turn, I had a critical "What the heck was I thinking?" moment.

That feeling didn't subside until I watched Burnette happily climb into a racecar and rumble away. If she could do it, I could, I thought. Besides, I drive to work every morning. Even at less than half the speed, it's probably more dangerous on US 92, surrounded by yahoos yakking on cell phones, putting on makeup, and eating Egg McMuffins. Soon, I was strapped into a racecar with my hands on the wheel and foot on the clutch.

There's a strange phenomenon that occurs in times of total commitment to a task, when all mental activity stops except that which is absolutely essential. It happened as I eased off the clutch and followed my instructor, A. J. Supan, onto the track.

About 1 ½ laps later, G-forces pushed me into my seat as I steered into a banked curve, and the mental dialogue finally returned. I noticed I was having fun - a lot of it.

I kept having fun for the remainder of my eight laps - speeding through the curves, trying to hug the high side on the straightaway, enjoying the rush of speed and the feel of the magnificent machinery I guided around the tri-oval.

All too soon, the checkered flag waved and I followed my instructor back into the pit area, where Burnette had just wriggled out of her jump suit. Was it as good for you as it was for me? I asked.

"Absolutely," she answered. "Let's do that again."

I was willing, but it was time to return to the media center, where we collected our lap times and our official certificates of completion. My top speed was 139. I felt pretty smug.

Burnette sat in the row in front of me.

"I was faster than I thought," she said. I looked over her shoulder. Her top speed was 145.

The Richard Petty Driving Experience has ride-along and driving programs at the Daytona International Speedway and at the Walt Disney World Speedway in Orlando. For more information, phone 1-800-BE-PETTY or visit their Web site at 1800bepetty.com.

Adventure Man Goes Parasailing

2009-06-12T13:50:16Z

Having read everything from Shakespeare to Steinbeck and written millions of words, one might imagine my first whoosh skyward on a parasail would have inspired a few eloquent phrases.

Alas, all I could manage was "Wow! That was cool."

Early one crisp morning, as spring breakers still slept off the damage of the night before, I arrived at the Silver Beach ramp where Daytona Beach Parasail had set up shop. I watched the surf roll in. The waves broke close to the sand, suggesting calm offshore waters.

On the beach sat a pair of big inflatable boats. They looked tough and practical, like something Jacques Cousteau might have kept handy. As the sun warmed the sand, the crew launched the inflatables. Offshore, colorful parachutes blossomed from the sterns of three "winch boats" that cruised slowly along the horizon.

A small crowd began to gather, signing up for the chance to dangle from a parachute at the end of a 2,000-foot rope.

]]> "2,000 feet is the highest in the world," says Matt Dvorak, who owns and operates Daytona Beach Parasail.

"Some states won't let you go that high," he says. "And no one anywhere goes any higher."

Dvorak has run a parasailing operation in Daytona Beach for eight years. When he started, he ran it with help from his wife and one captain. Now he has between 30 and 40 employees and launches from four different spots up and down the beach between Mason Ave. and the Hawaiian Inn.

Getting from the beach to the winch boat is part of the adventure. Once we get the high sign, the photographer and I wade into the surf, trying to keep cameras and notepads dry. The inflatable's engine is running, keeping it lurching forward against the surf as I flop like a hooked mackerel over the side.

I manage to right myself for the trip offshore, where we rendezvous with the winch boat. The boat can't stop, or the 'chute will drop into the water. So Indiana Jones-like, we would climb from one moving boat into another.

A few days earlier, another writer in my department did me the favor of showing me old AP stories about parasailing tragedies. As I stumbled onto the winch boat, I thought about the more gruesome accidents - a man dangling by his foot from a runaway parasail while he crashed through construction sites and slammed into cars, for instance. I noticed the faint metallic taste of adrenaline and cursed my coworker under my breath.

Then I reminded myself: It's not an adventure if you can't die doing it.

However, Dvorak assures me, he and his captains go to great lengths to insure safety. The captains make the call when not to fly. "I don't second-guess them," Dvorak says. "If they say weather's bad and they're not flying, then they're not flying."

Once we were all settled, first mate Luke Gillies strapped Cathi Hoefler and her children, 13-year-old Annie and 15-year-old Joey, into harnesses. Captain John Toney watched and gave some helpful advice, cautioning one rider to adjust his harness, which was wrapped strangely around one leg.

"You want to be careful about that," Toney says. "Or you'll get a 2,000-foot wedgie. That's a whole other ride."

They sat on the stern as Toney throttled forward then let the line feed out. I watched as the line hit the 800-foot mark, 1,000 feet, and finally 2,000 feet.

Depending on the wind, the line goes out at a 35 to 55 degree angle, meaning the parasail actually goes about half as high as the line is long. At 1,000 feet in the air, the Hoeflers looked pretty comfortable.

They were positively glowing as they returned to the boat. They agree the ride was exciting.

"But it's amazing how calm it is," adds Cathi Hoefler. "I felt more adrenaline on the boat getting out here."

A few more groups of two and three people flew, and finally it was our turn. Gillies helped me into my harness and had me sit down while he hooked me onto the parachute. The boat picked up speed, Toney released the line, and I felt myself gently but firmly lifted off the boat's stern.

The boat got smaller and smaller as I rose above the condos, then higher and higher. Soon, I could see the Speedway in the distance far beyond the line of cars and sunbathers on the beach.

I knew what Hoefler had meant. Once in the air, there was no adrenaline rush at all. I sat comfortably in the sky while the world turned below. I felt positively seraphic.

Back on the boat, I sat down across from Jill and Joey Monk, a couple from Las Vegas who had flown right before I did. They were still radiant from their ride. I wondered if I looked the same.

"How'd you like it?" Jill Monk asks.

I had a hard time finding the words.

"Wow," I finally manage. "It was cool."

She smiled knowingly in reply. "That's exactly what we said."

For more information, contact Daytona Parasailing at daytonaparasailing.com or phone (386) 547-6067.

Camping Hontoon Island

2009-06-04T17:15:08Z

There are still places on earth where one can camp in the untamed wilderness with nothing over his head but the milky way and nothing to break the midnight silence but the whispering breeze, the plaintive call of a whip-poor-will, and the far away cry of a lonesome coyote.

Hontoon Island State Park is not one of those places. Considering it's only a few miles from downtown DeLand, however, it's not a bad place to go for a little tete-a-tete with nature. We often take our dog, Faust, to hike the nature trail there.

Faust is a willful animal. Out of fear that he'd spend the night barking at every night sound or chewing through the fabric trying to go outside and play with the raccoons, we have never taken him camping.

]]> However, my wife/photographer and I still wanted to fit in one more expedition before warm weather stirred up the bugs. Why not just go to Hontoon Island? I said. It would be a good place to take the dog for a test run.

Thus we found ourselves spending a February Saturday night sleeping in a tent with a dog.

Hontoon Island is a largely undeveloped 1,650-acre park separated from the mainland by the St. Johns River and tributaries with names like Dead River and Snake Creek. It is only accessible by boat, but a ferry operates between the island and the parking lot.

At various times before it became a state park in 1967, the island held a pioneer homestead, a boat yard, and dock for commercial fishing boats. Several hundred years ago, it was a favorite hangout of Native Americans, probably Myacan, who left behind a mountain of snail shells rising 30 feet above a cypress swamp on the west side of the island.

A 1 ½-mile nature trail runs from near the boat landing to the peak of the midden mound. Another several miles of trails runs to Snake Creek Landing, Oak Tree Landing, and Bear Landing.

"You can bike most of them," says park ranger Bill Wells. "But I find walking is the best way to see the island. You see a lot more at a slower pace."

Wells lives with his wife on a houseboat docked at the park. Two other rangers live in houses on the island.

"The island really about nature," Wells says. "We have a small playground and a little general store, but otherwise, it's very basic. Scenery and nature about sums it up."

The campsites and cabins are grouped together about a quarter-mile up an unpaved road from the visitor center. Wells helped us load our gear into the back of a van and drove us to our campsite. Unfortunately, a half-dozen or more tents and three or four cabins were visible from our site, spoiling any illusion of seclusion.

We set up camp and quickly got away from the mini-city that had sprung up in the campground.

The small island contains a startling variety of terrain, flora and fauna. Alligators and manatees are often seen in the river, and countless birds wading in the marshes. Deer and other wildlife inhabit the pine flatwoods, palm and oak hammocks, and cypress swamps.

We decided to avoid the weekend crowds on the nature trail and explore the less-traveled roads that lead to Bear and Snake Creek Landings. We hiked until we had absorbed a satisfying amount of wild scenery and worked up an appetite, then returned to camp to start making dinner.

Each campsite and cabin has a fire ring. Campers are not allowed to collect wood (or anything else, including artifacts) but can buy firewood from the rangers. We'd paid five bucks for a night's worth of well-seasoned logs.

I am not one of those guys who can start a fire with a chunk of flint, a penknife and some pocket lint; it takes me two butane lighters and a recycling bin full of old newspaper. However, I've discovered a shortcut--I cheat.

Kingsford (and probably other companies) make one of the best things ever invented- "just light the bag" charcoal. We'd brought two bags along. I lit one and soon had burgers grilling. Once dinner was cooked, making a cozy campfire was a simple matter of stacking a few logs teepee style over the still-hot coals and letting nature take its course.

Darkness descended on the island, and the creatures of the night began to stir. In the distance, a barred owl called out. Another one, closer by, gave his chilling reply. Raccoons and other nocturnal mammals rustled softly in the deep shadows.

After an afternoon of setting up camp and hiking, even the dog was dog-tired. We headed head for our cozy tent, hoping for a good night's sleep.

"Between 10 and 11, we like it to quiet down in the camp," Wells had said. Apparently, lots of campers had missed that memo. All around us, campfire conversations grew louder and louder. In the distance, techno music played from a portable stereo; elsewhere, someone strummed an acoustic guitar.

The din subsided around midnight. Soon, we began to discover the down side of camping close to the restrooms. All night long, campers trekked back and forth past our tent on their way to the latrine. Faust dutifully growled at each.

I finally slept for a few hours, but woke at first light. The dog stirred and wagged his tail hopefully. He probably needed to go for a walk.

We headed down to the river. In the early morning shade, scraps of ragged fog dangled from the palmetto scrub. The first rays of sunlight and a sprinkling of dew gilded the tops of distant cypress trees. It was dead quiet except for the occasional twitter of an early bird and the soft snuffling Faust made as his nose explored the trailside undergrowth.

The dog and I sat on the quiet riverbank, taking in the scenery. Rough night aside, the trip had been a great success, I decided. We had explored an old favorite place from a new angle, and the dog had proven to be a fine camping companion.

Back in camp, all remained still--the other campers slept peacefully. I considered loudly rendering a few off-key verses of "Kumbaya."

I thought better of it as I cut the plastic away from a tube of breakfast sausage.

Revenge is a dish best served cold, they say. But breakfast is best served hot. I lit another bag of charcoal.

Adventure Man Gets Wet on a Jet

2009-05-28T16:51:35Z

By Morris Sullivan

When it comes to adventure, here's my philosophy: It ain't an adventure unless you risk death, dismemberment, or serious discomfort.

Normally, I would not consider a boat tour of the Halifax River between a seafood restaurant and the Ponce Inlet lighthouse an adventure. However, Webster's Collegiate Dictionary defines "adventure" as the encountering of danger, a daring, hazardous undertaking, or an unusual, stirring experience.

But I thought a jet boat tour of the Halifax River might at least qualify as an unusual, stirring experience. Captain Bill Mullican assured me his jet boat gave a wild ride.

]]> "It's hard to describe what we do in words," says Mullican, who co-owns Daytona Beach Jet Boats. "This is for people who want to have fun and have a little adventure - to get wet and get a little adrenaline rush."

Mullican and his partner, Vonnie Visser, went for a jet boat ride in Key West a couple of years ago, he explains. "We thought it was a lot of fun," he says. "That gave us the idea to buy one."

As luck would have it, a Daytona Beach parasail rider owned a jet boat he wanted to sell, so Mullican and Visser took it off his hands. That was in May 2007. Since then, the company has taken about 500 intrepid adventurers skimming along the surface of the Halifax.

The boat was made in the U.S. but was designed in New Zealand, where jet boats are used to take tourists on thrill rides in shallow rivers. "They use them the same places they go whitewater rafting," Mullican explains. "They'll run in very shallow water, and they're very maneuverable."

"The prop is internal," he adds. "So they're manatee- and dolphin-friendly." They also happen to be the only boats made that will spin 360 degrees on their axis.

In New Zealand, one can actually ride the same kind of jet boat on the River Andiun and see three "actual 'Lord of the Rings' film locations," or ride a jet boat to the base of "majestic" Huka Falls.

However, a half-hour jet boat ride in New Zealand costs about 95 New Zealand Dollars - about U.S. $73 - plus a couple thousand bucks airfare. It would not include views of majestic waterfalls or "Lord of the Rings" locations, but my ride on the Halifax River would last 30 to 40 minutes and cost $30.

I met Mullican at the Aunt Catfish boat dock (the boat now departs from Inlet Harbor in Ponce Inlet). Mullican's partner, Vonnie Visser, picks up passengers at area resorts and shuttles them to the point of departure. She soon showed up with a couple from St. Petersburg and four guys from Pittsburgh. "We usually need a minimum of four people to go out, now that gas is so expensive," Visser says as everyone got fitted for life jackets and signed liability waivers.

I took the liability waiver requirement to be a good sign - that meant there was at least a slight risk of death, dismemberment or serious discomfort.

We boarded the boat, and Mullican ran through the safety procedures. "Keep both hands on the rails when we're running at high speed," he begins. "The boat will go 30 mph or more."

We started out moving slowly through the manatee zone toward the main channel, then picked up speed and turned south. The boat seemed to slide around on top of the water, almost as if becoming airborne.

Local rules and regs don't permit running at top speed, but Mullican kept ride exciting by heading toward a channel marker and cutting away at the last second, just to give everyone a chance to feel the g-forces as the boat banked sharply.

Occasionally, he would twirl a finger overhead to warn us we were about to go into a spin, then send the boat twirling in a tight circle. Of course, this also involved sending plumes of spray over the gunwales and onto the passengers. All seven of us would giggle uncontrollably every time.

Mullican occasionally stopped the boat and let it drift while he pointed out interesting landmarks and gave us a chance to unclench our hands from the railing and catch our breath. We turned around near the Ponce Inlet lighthouse. With the wind to our backs, the ride was smoother and drier. However, the captain took several opportunities to jump other boats' wakes and occasionally reminded us the boat could spin.

As we re-entered the manatee zone back in Port Orange, I scanned the passengers for any sign of death or dismemberment. There was none. I had an earful of cold saltwater on my port side, however, which I hoped might cause some discomfort on the drive home.

Visser greeted us on the dock. "How was it?" she asked.

The passengers answered her with wet, salty grins.

"An unusual, stirring experience," I answered. "An unusual, stirring experience."

Powerlifting with the strongest man in the world

2009-05-13T19:06:56Z

George Strait's on the boombox, and a haze of chalk dust and Biofreeze hangs in the air.

A squat rack dominates a wall of the one-car garage, surrounded by a weight bench, leg press, and other miscellaneous equipment slotted into the room like chunks of a heavy-metal jigsaw puzzle. Heavy steel plates rattle in off-key syncopation to the country music, underscoring Jim McCarty's chant:

"Down...down...downdowndowndown...UP!
"Down...down...downdowndowndown...UP!"

McCarty, aka Superman of the Century, crouches beside me, urging me to squat "below parallel." In powerlifting competition, the crease of the lifter's hip has to be lower than the top of the knee. I lived for 53 years without that information--yet here I am with more than 2/3 of my body weight lying across my shoulders, struggling to get down, down, down, down and down, and then back up.

In the late 1990s, Powerlifting USA magazine put McCarty's name at the top of a list of athletes who had set records in both Olympic weightlifting and powerlifting during the century--thus the "superman" title.

He started out in 1974, competing as a 93-pound teenager in Olympic lifting. Now 48 years old and weighing in at 185 pounds, he coaches everyone from athletes hoping to get an edge to boomers looking to lose weight. When I met him last year, I was working out, but not getting stronger. I asked for his advice, and that's how I ended up in his garage training for a powerlifting meet.

McCarty immediately started overhauling my workout routine and techniques. Bench pressing, I kept my wrists too straight and turned my elbows out--adjusting that brought more muscles into the lift. And I had been taught to lower and raise the weights slowly--McCarty wanted me to "explode" through each movement to build the shorter, fast-twitch muscle fibers needed for heavy lifting.

At 53, I didn't expect to gain much strength. But many people give up on their bodies long before their bodies are ready to give out, McCarty explains.

"With good training, you can keep increasing strength for a long time," he says. "A man age 45 to 55 is at his strongest. I trained a guy who when we started, could hardly get out of his car. But after two years, at age 81, he could deadlift 300 pounds."

After a few months, I started breaking personal records I had set in my 20s. My flexibility also improved. Because of knee and back problems from an old accident, I could barely squat below waist level at first, but to my surprise, my squats went deeper every week.

McCarty knows a lot about recovering from injuries. He was hit by a truck in 2003 and spent three days in a coma and another 12 days in intensive care. A year later, a stomach disorder sent him back to the hospital. Both times, doctors told him he wouldn't lift weights again. Both times, he went on to set world records.

"At the beginning, I didn't think we had any hope of getting you able to powerlift, because of your knee injury," McCarty says. But you've increased the flexibility in your legs a lot--plus added about 4 inches to your thighs."

"I'm putting together a team to go to a meet in Georgia," he said. "Want to compete? You'll have fun."

I have a new mantra: "You're going to be a little sore from that workout."

In powerlifting, competitors squat, bench press and deadlift. The winner is the one with the highest combined total. McCarty explained that we would lift in an "old school"-style American Powerlifting Committee meet with a "raw" division, meaning we would compete without the supportive Kevlar clothing some lifters use to add pounds to their lifts--and of course we would compete without performance-enhancing drugs.

"I like that much better," McCarty says. "It's not about whether you can afford a $500 suit that makes the lift for you, and it's not about ruining your health with steroids. It's just the lifter against the weight."

When he started competing, McCarty explains, virtually all weightlifters and powerlifters routinely took steroids--at the time, there was little information about their negative effects.

"We were getting them from the doctors, from the Olympic training center and everything," McCarty says. "Now people know how bad they are for you, but they still take them. I've had several friends die at 55 and younger, and I've had some health problems I think were probably from steroids."

We moved away from "remedial" work to focus on the power lifts. I counted 13 sets of bench presses one workout. I stopped counting sets after that. Muscle soreness became a lifestyle. Steroid-deprived though I was, my strength gains continued--I'd fail to make a 200-lb. deadlift one week, then easily make a 235-pound lift the next.

Powerlifting isn't necessarily the best way to build general strength, McCarty says. "It's great if you want to be a powerlifter," he says. "And some of the movements are good if you just want to stay strong throughout your life."

"For good quality of life, all you need is 45 minutes to an hour three days a week of weight training, plus cardio and a good nutritional program," McCarty says. "If you want to compete in a sport, that's a little different--find a coach that can help you attain your highest ability."

"One of the most useless things you can do is sit on a bunch of machines four or five days a week," he adds. "I've been in gyms all over the world, and probably 85 percent of people aren't working out properly."

There were some really big guys at the Moose Lodge in Buford, Ga., some of whom would lift the equivalent of a 1964 Volkswagen.

Taking my turn in the erstwhile warm-up room, I felt like a 198-pound weakling while bigger, younger guys did multiple 200-pound-plus squats to get ready for the real thing.

During the course of the day, however, I completed 8 out of 10 attempts. My three bests for the day totaled more than 600 pounds--a lot less than a Volkswagen but more than a deluxe refrigerator. But even though it was my weakest lift, I was happiest about the squat--a month earlier, we worried I might not manage a legal squat with an empty bar.

After I finished my last lift, I sat in the audience smelling of Biofreeze, my hands still caked with chalk and my legs still covered in baby powder, which is used to keep the deadlift from hanging up on the thighs.

I had won my class and even set a record--accomplishments perhaps made less remarkable by the fact I was the first and only 53-year-old, 198-pound male to lift in the federation's raw division. Those who follow will no doubt thank me for setting the bar so low.

I watched the weights go up as the big guys took their turns and reflected on the day. After all my years of striving, I had finally found the key to winning: get the best coach you can find, train hard, and be in a class by yourself.

For more information about powerlifting, visit the American Powerlifting Committee at americanpowerliftingcommittee-usa.com or visit Jim McCarty's website, supermanofthecentury.com.

Adventure Man in the Globe of Death

2009-03-16T13:02:54Z

I thought the Cole Bros. Circus marketing guy was kidding when he offered to shoot me out of a cannon. I know I was kidding when I agreed. To my chagrin, I got an email from circus v. p. Renee Storey offering to set up a cannonball training session for me.

"We promise not to kill you," Storey said. "The old saw, 'There's no such thing as bad publicity' does not apply to a company that fosters the death and dismemberment of an esteemed journalist."

However, Storey offered an alternative--instead of getting shot from a cannon, perhaps I'd prefer to get acquainted with the Globe of Death. Thus did I arrive at the Cole Bros. Circus winter quarters to test my aptitude for genuine dare-deviltry.

A few miles west of downtown DeLand--amid a conglomeration of grandstands, trapezes and the portable homes of circus clowns and aerialists, ticket-takers and popcorn-hawkers--stood exactly one sizable truck-mounted cannon and exactly one ThunderDrome Moto-Globe of Death.

Also known as the Ball of Steel and other combinations of words evoking roundness and mayhem, the Globe of Death is a metal mesh orb big enough to hold a handful of motorcyclists zooming centrifugally around its interior on Japanese dirt bikes.

Brazilian daredevil Andrey Mediros would train me. Rather than a peppy Honda, however, I would start on a banged up one-speed department store bicycle. I climbed a steep ramp and ducked through the small opening into the Globe of Death, then Mediros took a few demonstration spins before letting me mount the bike.

"Relax - you're not going to fall," he said, holding me up by the shoulder.

I fell over.

My pride was bruised, but I was otherwise unharmed. Mediros gripped my shoulder again as I attempted a tight circle inside the globe. The bike seemed to have a mind of its own, but after a little fumbling and stumbling, I managed a few circles close to the base. Whenever I felt like I was getting the knack, I would spin out of control. As I began to feel the strain of nerves, exertion and frustration, I got a reprieve--the new human cannonball had arrived, and Mediros had to help him practice.

I took a break to watch cannonball training, but I wasn't finished with the globe of death. I again climbed the ramp and ducked through the opening. This time, I shared the sphere with Rafael Miranda, who sat on a Honda revving its engine as the door closed and locked behind me.

I stood at the very bottom of the globe and felt it beginning to rock back and forth as Miranda sped in ever-faster orbits above and around me.

At almost 20-feet high overall, including its base, the Globe of Death looks pretty big from the grandstands. Its 14-foot diameter seems pretty small from the inside--impossibly small when there's a motorcycle going 30-40 mph inside it. I could see the three sections of the globe's 8,000-pound structure separate from the strain of the motorcycle against its interior.

I was terrified. Miranda intensified the experience by riding one-handed, reaching up let the other hand circle inches from my head. I felt like a canary in a cage--in a cage with a fast, hungry predator. I was afraid to breathe. I tried to reach through the soles of my shoes to grip the steel floor with my toes.

Thankfully, Miranda's bike soon came to an abrupt halt and he let me out of the cage. I took a deep breath and tried not to bump my head as I ducked out the door. My knees wobbled as I started down the ramp, but by the time I reached terra firma, my heart rate had stabilized.

A few days later, I watched Miranda and Mediros perform in the renamed Sphere of Danger. In their brightly colored show costumes, they almost looked like they were having fun. But I felt a little surge of adrenaline just watching them.

I wondered: Had they been inside the metal globe so many times it had become mundane? Or perhaps they embodied what British Prime Minister Harold Wilson meant when he said, "Courage is the art of being the only one who knows you're scared to death."

Adventure Man is a regular feature in Code RED magazine, in the News-Journal April 4.

Roller Derby --Sintral Florida Derby Demons roll into a new season

2009-03-13T13:46:08Z

They whip around an oval track hell on wheels in ripped teal stockings smashing into each other falling knees-first/hips-first/face-first onto the hard concrete floor sliding smeared red lipstick/bleared blue eye-shadow/blurred black eye-liner into the suicide seats with folding chairs cheering fans arms akimbo flying.

This is roller derby. This is not the banked-track, fake-fight, carefully-choreographed 1960s roller derby that came on late-night TV after the rasslin' was over. This is real-deal, hometown girls-next-door-gone-bad roller derby. This is something like if the Sex Pistols had been American women on roller skates, but with more muscle, nerve and guts.

Sintral Florida Derby Demons formed last year from the remnants of the Florida Rollergirls and quickly set out to trounce all challengers nervy enough to show up for bouts at their home rink in DeLand. The 2009 roller derby season began this month; the first home bout is Saturday, a double-header featuring the SFDD Demons A-team vs. Ft. Myers Derby Girls and the SFDD Sinners B-team vs. the Broward County Derby Grrls.

Today's roller derby is a fast-paced sport dominated by tattooed, punk-edged women who favor the torn-fishnets look and who probably didn't play softball in high school. They wear self-designed anything-but-uniform uniforms and call themselves by "derby names" that match their personalities - Killa Thug, Little Arson Annie or Kung Pow Kitty, for instance.

Truth told, I'd as soon watch paint dry as watch NFL football or NASCAR. By the end of my first Sintral Florida Derby Demons bout, however, I had become a die-hard roller derby fan. So an hour before the doors opened, I had jostled my way past the fans who were already lined up outside DeLand Skating Center with their folding chairs, waiting to spend 10 bucks apiece for the privilege of watching some of Volusia County's fastest, toughest women finish their season undefeated.

Inside, the hometown roller derby team and their supporters had set up for the bout, marking the evening's killing field on the floor with black plastic tape. Then they had warmed up, booty-dancing on skates to Run-DMC's "Tricky" until Linnzi Young, AKA Daytona Beotch, led them off to the side for stretches.

Young captains the 22 or so Derby Demons and heads up the team's operating board. Standing a head taller than most of her teammates, she's easy to spot among the pack of skaters in her hot pink helmet and long, pink-streaked blonde braids.

As the fans streamed in, the Derby Demons had clowned around, faux-fondling each other for the cameras and high-fiving those who set up their folding chairs on the rink floor. Now, however, the Derby Demons were engrossed in the serious business of battling the Palm City Punishers from Fort Myers.

Roller derby rules are relatively uncomplicated. Each game has three 20-minute periods, each broken into a series of "jams." Four members of each team - three blockers and a pivot - skate in a pack. A jam begins when a referee blows a whistle to get the pack moving, then blows it again to signal the teams' fifth members - the jammers - to come from behind.

The jammer's job is to maneuver to the front of the pack, then zip around the track and try to lap it. A point is scored each time a jammer laps a member of the opposing team. Of course, the blockers try to prevent with body checks and any other legally available means. Elbowing, tripping, and other illegal ploys send a skater to the penalty box - locally known as the Sin Bin.

One of the Demons' star jammers, Little A, is an 18-year-old with a knack for moving through the pack like grease through a goose. In her last jam of the first period, the crowd rises to its feet as Little A does a flying leap over a fallen opponent then shrugs off a hard shoulder block to score four points before lapping the pack and doing it again. That jam leaves the Derby Demons ahead 40-20 at the end of the first period.

During the break between periods, I chat with Ivy Foust, who founded the Florida Rollergirls, a "mother" team that evolved into the Derby Demons. "In high school, I didn't fit in with other girls, really," Foust explains. "I had a good time on roller skates, though. So when roller derby revived a few years ago, it seemed like a natural outlet."

The team's fan base originally trended toward college-age people and friends of team members, she says. "But I notice they're getting more older people now," she says. "A lot of people have finally figured out it's a really enjoyable sport to watch, and they're just coming to have a good time."

Second period goes about like the first until less than a minute from the end, when Little A falls hard and several other skaters fall on top of her. Young flies across the rink, hovering over her while the medic checks her out. The captain and the crowd breathe a collective sigh of relief as Little A rises to her feet. The score is now 91 to 29.

The game ends with the Derby Demons ahead of the Punishers by a margin of more than 120 points. Afterward, Young and other team members return the rink to its normal day-to-day state, then head to OB's, a local biker bar, for the after-party, where Little A, alias Alyssha Littlefield, relaxes and nurses a soda.

She turned 18 in January. "I've been skating since I was 3, hockey and speed skating," she says. "I've been with the team for more than two years, but I was too young to compete."
Her second-period fall "hurt a lot at first," she says. She calls my attention to her belt, a black leather number with metal studs. "I landed on my belt," she explains.

Young sits down to talk to me. There were 349 tickets sold to the game, she says. "Our first game, we only had 150 people, so it's growing a lot," she says. "The community is becoming very supportive."

It costs a lot to keep the team rolling - being a Derby Demon costs each team member $35 per month in dues. Most of that money goes to rent the rink for practices. "Then we have to buy skates, pads and all that stuff," Young says. "So it's nice to have whatever help we can get."

Roller derby is not as accepted in the South as it is out west, where the revival started several years ago. "A lot of people down here still think it's like WWF," Young says. "But we are true athletes - we sacrifice our bodies for this sport."

The Palm City Punishers had played well, she says, but the previous weekend's game against the Bradentucky Bombers had been rougher. She points to a still-sore spot on her ribcage.

"I kept getting elbowed - one of my ribs came loose and was floating around," she says. "Every time I'd start through the pack again I'd be thinking, 'Please don't hit me in the ribs again.'"

"Tomorrow, I'm going to be hurting. I'll probably stay in bed all day watching TV with the heating pad," she adds. "But I feel good right now - there's still a lot of adrenaline left in my system, so I don't feel the pain yet."

SFDD Home Bouts are at the DeLand Skating Center, 1799 N. Spring Garden Ave., DeLand. The SFDD Demons are the Sintral Florida Derby Demons A-Team. The SFDD Sinners are the B-Team.

March 21: SFDD Demons vs. Ft. Myers Derby Girls; SFDD Sinners vs. Broward County Derby GRRLS B-Team

April 18: SFDD Demons vs. Molly Rogers Rollergirls; SFDD Sinners vs. Greater Jacksonville Roller Derby

May 16: SFDD Demons vs. Burn City Rollers; SFDD Sinners vs. TBA

June 20: SFDD Demons vs. TBA; SFDD Sinners vs. Soul City Sirens

July 18: SFDD Demons vs. Broward County Derby Girls; SFDD Sinners vs. Panama City Roller Derby

August 15: SFDD Demons vs. Cape Fear Rollergirls; SFDD Sinners vs. Beach Brawl Sk8r Dolls.

September 19: SFDD Demons vs. Biloxi Roller Derby; SFDD Sinners vs. Gainesville Roller Rebels

For a complete schedule with out-of-town games, visit myspace.com/sintralfloridaderbydemons.

Gents' clubs rock during Bike Week

2009-02-25T17:48:36Z

Ava sat beside me at the bar, her spike-heeled pumps straddling my barstool, semi-enclosing me in a triangle of long, leather-chaps-clad legs. The exotic dancer had skin the color of a mocha latte and a full-lipped come-hither smile set in a face that could launch a thousand ships--or at least kick-start a bunch of motorcycles.

As Bike Week drew near, she and her blonde-bombshell counterpart, Kitty (both preferred to use stage names) were anxious to get a lot of bikers' engines revving. Both dance at Pin-Ups, a DeLand gentlemen's club where the coming of Bike Week is as welcome as Mother's Day to a florist.

Event weeks, of course, are a chance to make up for slow times. "But I love Bike Week," Ava says. "I get to meet a bunch of different people, and we have a lot of different events."

With its crowds and nonstop party atmosphere, "Bike Week is crazy," Kitty says--"hard work, but a lot of fun."

"We do everything we can to keep the party going," Ava adds. "We'll do girl-on-girl shows, run around doing body shots, get them to join in a sing-along, shoot pool, introduce them around--whatever we can to make people feel at home."

When the house is packed, a good entertainer works a little harder to make sure everyone gets enough attention, Kitty adds. "When I go on stage, I'll dance slower," she says. "I make sure to make eye contact--there are a lot of small people skills that can make people comfortable and make someone feel special."

All the clubs do whatever they can to bring in the crowds, and Pin-Ups is no exception. The club recently added a package store, for instance, and has live bands during Bike Week playing classic rock.

"Everybody has a bike wash, and we'll have one, too," says manager Darin Campbell. "And guys eventually get hungry, so we set up a barbecue stand out front."

"Bikers come from all walks of life--it's not just one type of person, and we get folks from all over the world," Campbell adds. "Of course, we do everything we can to make them feel welcome."

The area has about 10 gents' clubs, including two in DeLand and several in east Volusia. During a typical weekend, each club will have between 20 and 100 girls on duty. Sean Bishop, who handles marketing at Lollipops in Daytona Beach, says that number will double during Bike Week.

"We'll sometimes have 200 girls working on weekends," Bishop says. "There are a lot that travel the circuit, only doing special events. They come from all over the country--and all the way to Canada."

Ava and Kitty, however, are locals. At 35, Ava is a veteran exotic entertainer. She holds two college degrees, but the nightclub job allows her the flexibility to spend time "being a mommy," she says. Kitty got into the act after serving four years in the Marines.

Being good at what she does takes more than good looks, Ava says. "You have to have a personality," she says. "My job is really to make sure everyone has a great time."

Their main role, Kitty says, is to help customers "live out a fantasy."

"It's an escape, for the customer," she says. "When we come here, it's our job to not have problems. So you can have a bad day, then you can come here and find a beautiful girl that wants to listen to your problems."

"She's a sympathetic ear," she adds. "And she happens to be half naked."

This story first appeared in the Bike Week Biker Guide.

Photos by Michelle Sullivan: Kitty poses on a pole in the VIP Champagne Room at Pin-Ups, DeLand; Ava and Kitty touch up their makeup in the dressing room during a break.

Adventure Racing in Tomoka State Park

2009-02-17T15:26:00Z

With two legs still to go in the race through Tomoka State Park, I had already capsized my kayak, destroyed my cell phone and chased fire ants out of my shoes.

For the life of me, I couldn't figure out how I got fire ants in my shoes while kayaking, but there was no time to think about that now. As quickly as possible, I checked in at the transition area, tucked my map into the driest spot I could find in my fanny pack and jogged off down a sandy road toward (I hoped) the first checkpoint on the "trekking" portion of the Tomoka Lighter Knot adventure race.

In its current form, adventure racing is a relatively new sport. Born a few years after the first Hawaii Ironman made triathlons trendy, typical adventure races combine paddling, off-road biking and trail running. Some toss in rock climbing, swimming or even hang-gliding, as well.

There is no marked course - individuals and teams use a compass and map that is distributed at the beginning of the race to navigate a series of checkpoints. I had decided to do this particular race because, along with the six-hour Elite race, there would be a more doable three-hour Sport race. Since I'd be a team of one I wanted to be on fairly familiar ground - I knew I couldn't get too lost at Tomoka State Park.

Ormond Beach resident John Sheriff designed the Tomoka course. Sheriff and his daughter are regulars on the local adventure race circuit. For example, they had recently completed a nighttime adventure race that started somewhere between Orlando and Titusville.

"We did the sport race, which started at 7," Sheriff says. "We paddled on the St. Johns, then came back and did the biking and hiking on trails. It was neat being on the St. Johns at dusk - we started seeing quite a few alligators."

Adventure races lasting longer than a day usually require competitors to have a support crew to help with gear and supplies, Sheriff says. He and his daughter crewed for a team in last year's Primal Quest, the sport's highest-profile event.

"We had a little popup camper and van," he says. "They'd come in, eat, bandage their feet, maybe go in and sleep two or three hours, then head out again."

Adventure racing is gradually edging toward the mainstream, says Greg Owens, who runs Pangea Adventure Racing, organizer of several local races including the Tomoka Lighter Knot and the 30-hour Atlantic Coast Conquest which passes through Volusia County in April.

"A lot of people want to try adventure racing, but they're not sure how to get into it and they're intimidated by the long events," Owens says. "So we're trying to have more races that work as an introductory vehicle."

With 2-4 miles of trekking, 6-10 miles of off-road biking and 2-4 miles of padding, sport races are tough enough to attract athletes who want a challenge but are still within reach of less-than-superhuman folks like me.

Many of those entering the sport come from orienteering, competitive paddling and the like, says 64-year-old Lake Mary resident Jack Cash, who started out swimming competitively and entered his first adventure race in the mid-1990s. "I did a 6-hour race in Miami," he says. "We were Team Clueless - and boy, were we clueless."

"You get a lot of runners and triathletes who want to do something a little different, so they start adventure racing," Cash says. "It's challenging, but because you have to use your head, it's less physical and more mental."

To prepare for adventure racing, I cross-trained triathlon-style, biking into the West Volusia back country, paddling the St. Johns River and Tomoka Basin and jogging on roads and trails with my dogs. I discovered moving my workouts into the woods made long training sessions much more enjoyable.

Fire ants and flooded cell phones aside, the race itself turned out to be a lot of fun. Besides taking me down hidden trails and to the top of Indian mounds, the race forced me to learn a new skill - navigation with map and compass. Each control point successfully reached was in itself a little victory.

Awards went to the top three finishers overall in each race. Cash, racing under the team name "Adipose Man," came in third overall in the Sport race. First place went to the Goat Getters, who finished in 1:42. Besides dumping my kayak, I made some other mistakes and finished in just over three hours.

I'm sure, however, that if I hadn't had to backtrack and hunt for the map I'd dropped on the road during the bike portion and had to backtrack again to pick up the passport I'd dropped elsewhere on the trail, I'd at least have edged out both teams of 10-year-old girls.

That's okay - I learned a lot this first race. I'm sure I'll smoke 'em next year.

"Adventure Racing in Tomoka State Park" originally appeared in the News-Journal's Your Health magazine on Feb. 15.

Soaring with the Eagles over Pierson

2008-12-17T19:16:25Z

Over the wind noise and the drone from the airplane in front of us, I heard Greg Shugg's voice from behind me.

"See that little yellow ball in front of you, by your left hand?" Shugg asked. "Grab that and give it a pull."
I did as I was told. Suddenly everything changed - the world slowed down and got quiet as our sailplane seemed to sit still in the sky for a moment before gently listing to the right. Our ride into the sky, a Piper Pawnee, banked hard to the left and zoomed back toward terra firma.

We were free, floating slowly through the air 2,300 feet above Pierson in a plane with no engine.

I had gone to the Pierson Municipal Airport to fly with the Eagle Sport Aviation Club, a nonprofit organization made up of recreational aviation enthusiasts. Shugg had invited me to try a flight in the club's new Schleicher ASK-21 sailplane.

"It's the only one of its kind in Florida," Shugg told me. "It can go hundreds of miles and stay aloft for hours."

Glider flying - soaring - got its start as a sport in Germany after World War I. The sport involves towing a lightweight, engineless airplane behind a powered aircraft. Once at altitude, the sailplane is released to glide back to the ground. It's a "huge" sport in Europe and Australia, Shugg says, and is a growing sport in the U.S.

"It's pure flying at its best," Shugg says. "A lot of our members are commercial pilots - they do this because it's just a lot of fun."

The Eagles own three gliders--the ASK-21, another two-seat trainer, and a single-seater--along with the Piper Pawnee. Sarah Ferraro, a club member who was recently tapped to fly F-16s for the Air National Guard, towed us to altitude in the former crop-sprayer. It's a good choice for glider-towing, she says, because it can carry a lot of weight for its size and can come down in a hurry, saving time and fuel between glider launches.

It takes only 1.8 gallons of fuel to get a glider up to altitude. "So this is a very green sport," Shugg says. "Considering we can fly hundreds of miles, that's pretty good gas mileage."

Before we flew, Shugg gave me a quick introduction to the glider's controls and instrumentation. With the exception of the little yellow ball, the controls are much like those on a small airplane. Instrumentation is minimal, with an altimeter, airspeed indicator, variometer (rate-of-climb indicator), and a G-meter.

To get airborne, we were hooked to the end of a line and towed down the grass runway. Designed for maximum lift and minimum drag, the glider left the ground a moment before the powered airplane. The Pawnee flies faster than the sailplane glides, thus the "sitting in the air" feeling and near-silence when we first broke loose.

The 800-pound sailplane has a 34-to-one glide ratio, meaning that if we started out at 5,280 feet we could glide gently to the ground 34 miles away. However, a glider can remain aloft by taking advantage of thermals, columns of rising air.

"If you can find lift, you can replenish the altitude you've lost," Shugg explains. "We descend at about 150-200 feet per minute, so we look for air that's rising faster than that."

The easy way to find a thermal is to look beneath cumulus clouds, the cottony clouds that form when warm, moist air rises until it hits cool air. I flew on a "blue" day, one with few clouds in the sky.

"A sunny day with some cumulus clouds is ideal - you know you'll have lift on those days," Shugg says. "On a blue day like this one, you have to look harder. You look for birds circling, or maybe another sailplane that's already found one."

We spotted another glider and a large bird circling in a thermal and joined them to spiral around the cone of rising air. The bird turned out to be a bald eagle. He tipped a wing and banked toward us, giving us a cursory once-over before drifting away in a lazy circle. I suddenly understood what it meant to soar.

After riding the thermal to 2,500 feet, we coasted away for a look at Lake George, then came back to rise again to altitude again before gliding off to circle Seville. After almost 40 minutes in the air, Shugg brought us softly back to the grass runway in Pierson.

We could have stayed up longer and gone farther - the North American distance record is more than 1,200 miles. On a good day with plenty of cumulus clouds, Shugg has glided from thermal to thermal all the way to Tampa Bay and back.

"That's a lot of fun," he says. "Once you've done something like that, you never look at the clouds the same way again."

People interested in soaring and other forms of recreational aviation can try it out with an introductory flight from Eagle Sport Aviation club. For more information, visit the club's website at eaglesport.org, or visit the club at the Pierson Municipal Airport on U.S. 17 just north of Pierson.

Someone from the club is at the airport virtually every weekend unless it's raining or too overcast, says club member Greg Shugg. Citrus Soaring Club also operates from the Pierson Municipal Airport and has glider rides available.