Ward, an Orlando-based freelancer, hadn’t visited Daytona Beach since the days of her high school spring breaks. But she reverted with ease to her beachgirl ways.

BLAST FROM THE PAST
When I got the assignment to cover Daytona Beach, I welcomed the chance to see how the town had changed in the decade and a half since my hormone-fueled spring break days. Approaching the beach from Main Street, I turned onto A1A (Florida’s oceanfront main drag) and spotted the Salty Dog Surf Shop. Boom. Instant flashback to a salty-locked surfer boy named Donovan who’d sold me a braided bracelet and captured my heart one winter when I’d come down from snowy Virginia. The flirtation was fleeting—that was the snail-mail era, and Donovan wasn’t much of an interstate pen pal. But those Daytona days of my youth—relishing Florida’s fabulous weather and carefree lifestyle—are probably what led me to settle in the Sunshine State years later.

PLEASURE CRUISING
I went to report the story in early January and experienced the kind of perfect Florida winter weather that makes Northerners consider relocating: warm enough to stroll the beach in a bathing suit, but with a fresh bite to the water that kept this Florida girl from a swim. I spent the morning biking along the sand with a friend, soaking up the bright pink hotels and the rusty ice cream trucks ringing good tidings of frozen treats. Driving south along A1A that afternoon, we chuckled at some only-in-Florida sights—a drive-in church where worshippers attend Sunday services in their parked cars; a miniature golf course luring customers to have their photos snapped with live gators. Later, our ride north to the quiet community of Ormond Beach took us along the Halifax River, past cute bungalows and peaceful parks. Then we headed south for sunset drinks in Ponce Inlet. At Down the Hatch, a ramshackle riverfront restaurant, we slurped oysters and watched dolphins gliding through the shallows of the Intracoastal Waterway.

BIKER GIRL
Going on a lead from my editor, Barbara Peck, I popped into ROAR Motorcycles, a custom bike shop for women riders, run by pint-sized motorcycle maven Kathleen Steele Tolleson. Peck met Tolleson in New York City last year, and thought she’d be a good contact for my story. As Tolleson showed me around the shop, explaining how her bikes are built to meet women’s riding needs, an unfamiliar feeling welled up inside me. The bikes were so beautiful, with their detailed paint jobs, and wide leather saddles that seemed to beckon my very tush. Tolleson was describing the mineral-based cosmetic line she’d created for women bikers, saying, “Women should be able to ride and not have their faces look like the leather on their seats,” when she noticed my interest straying. “Go ahead, try it out,” she said with a knowing look, inviting me to swing a leg over the saddle of a particularly pretty motorcycle. She then showed me how to lean forward to nudge the bike off its stand. I felt a whoosh of power as I took command of the machine. I could do this! I could be a biker girl! Granted, the key was nowhere near the ignition. But it was as close to a Daytona Beach biker moment as I’ve ever come.

NOTE: Information may have changed since publication. Please confirm key details before planning your trip.